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wholoveseggs · 2 months

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Crimson Frost {Part One}

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

Part One

You are to be wed to Niklaus of the Mikaelson clan, but when tragedy strikes and blood is shed in the snowy night, the true strength of family bonds and the power of love are put to the ultimate test.

♡♡ I'm back with another series, one I've wanted to write for a long time. This series explores the lives of the Mikaelsons as ordinary individuals in the Viking era, told from the reader's perspective but also Niklaus's. ♡♡

6k words - Warnings: Viking AU where the Mikaelsons are completely human (no magic, werewolves, vampires... etc) lots of death and violence, sprinkle of norse mythology... no smut in this part, {Spoiler: it will be eventually reader x Elijah}

{Part Two} {Part Three} {Part Four}

"Gerda! Come help me with these flowers," you yelled from the back garden. You were gathering the best wildflowers you could find to make a wreath to wear for the feast that evening. It was still winter, but it had been mild for almost a whole moon, bringing the wildflowers early.

"Coming systir!" she replied. Gerda came out into the garden a few moments later, carrying a basket full of wildflowers and a smile on her face. "These will look so lovely in your hair tonight," she said holding up a bunch of lavender. "I'm sure Niklaus will be so happy to see you."

You blushed slightly at her words. Niklaus.

Your mother had told you that the feast tonight was to announce your marriage to the young Mikaelson. Your family was thrilled, having you marry one of the sons of the Karl increased your family's standing among the clan. However, you were still nervous. You had grown up with Niklaus, he was kind and had a sweet smile, but he was also quite wild and battle hungry. He had just returned from his first raiding voyage to the coast of the English lands, and the stories of his bravery were spreading.

“I'm sure he will, but he is not my betrothed yet," you said as you put some more flowers in your basket.

"That does not mean that he will not be soon, and you will have to kiss him eventually," Gerda replied.

"Gerda!" You threw a bunch of flowers at her. "Do not be so improper."

"Sorry systir," Gerda said laughing. "It's just exciting, you are getting married to a Mikaelson!"

"Let us hope that the gods smile on our union," you said, picking up your basket of flowers.

Gerda had only seen eleven summers yet she was eager to grow up, while you were less than eager. Your betrothal had been a long time coming and it was a good match for your family, but you didn't have the same excitement as your sister. You felt unprepared to be a wife.

You saw Niklaus coming over with his little brother Henrik and a small smile crossed your face.

You looked up at Niklaus. "Hello, Niklaus."

"My dear," Niklaus greeted, bowing his head. "You look beautiful as ever."

"Thank you," you replied.

Henrik stood beside his brother. "Nik, you promised we could spar today!"

"Henrik, patience," Niklaus said, placing a hand on his younger brother's shoulder. "How about you go with Gerda, she can watch while you practice."

"Come on Gerda, let's go," Henrik said excitedly, taking her hand and pulling her over to the field.

"Your brother seems enthusiastic," you remarked.

"It's what he was born to do," Niklaus said, watching his brother and your sister run off.

"They would make a good match, your Gerda and my Henrik," he suggested.

"Oh yes, Gerda is very fond of Henrik," you agreed. "But they are both so young, it's a bit too early to make a decision such as that."

"Of course, I would not wish to rush them," Niklaus said. "Besides, you are the one I'm here for today."

You looked away, a slight blush appearing on your cheeks. He was a true charmer and had seen many battles even at his young age, the ladies in the village loved him and were always fighting over his attention. But the truth was you didn't feel anything when you looked at him. There was no spark or tingle of love the way it was described in the fables, just a friendship that you wished would turn into something more.

But it was an honor for your family, to be marrying into such a noble household. And it wasn't like he was ugly, or cruel. He was a good man and would no doubt make a fine husband.

"I think it will be an early spring, with all of these flowers in bloom," Niklaus said, reaching down and picking a blue wildflower and handing it to you.

"I do too," you replied, smiling and putting the flower in your hair.

"Nik, I thought you were sparring with me!" Henrik yelled, trying to gain the attention of his older brother

"Very well!" He responded, giving you a wink before running after his little brother, he picked up Gerda and gave her a spin, making her laugh.

You laughed at the sight and watched the three of them. Niklaus, Henrik, and Gerda. Playing around and having fun, but soon the time would come for them to grow up, and you feared what that would bring.

The sound of laughter and music filled the longhouse, you were sitting on a bench between your mother and father, enjoying the feast.

Henrik and Gerda were dancing and playing near the fire, laughing and smiling. They had been inseparable all day, both excited about the wedding to come.

Your eyes found Niklaus, sitting on the other side of the longhouse, chatting with his older brothers, Finn and Elijah.

Your engagement was to be announced tonight, in front of the whole clan, but you had already heard the news. You were going to be Niklaus' wife, and the next lady of the Mikaelson clan.

But you would be lying if you said that the thought didn't fill you with dread. You didn't feel ready to be a wife.

You saw beautiful Rebekah, Niklaus's sister, dancing with her friends. Her long blonde hair in a thick braid with ribbons and flowers. She was laughing and having a good time, while you sat alone and tried to hide how nervous you were.

She came over and took your hand. "Come dance,”

You smiled and joined her, spinning and twirling around.

"I've heard the news, congratulations," she said. "My brother is a very lucky man."

"Thank you," you replied.

Rebekah pulled you in close. "Soon you will be with child and I'll have a little niece or nephew to dote on," she said, her hand moving down to touch your belly.

You laughed, a blush spreading across your cheeks. "Yes, that is my hope."

"Well, the sooner the better," Rebekah replied. "Nik is getting antsy."

"What do you mean?" You asked.

"There has been word that the Blackthorne clan has been moving in this direction," she said. "Nik's been preparing for a battle, he says he will not let them pass our borders."

"I see," you replied. The Blackthorne clan were known to be ruthless and merciless. Their leader, a man named Einar, was notorious for his brutal raids and pillaging. It had been said that he once slaughtered an entire village just because they refused to give him one of their daughters.

"My father doesn't think they will make a move, but Niklaus is worried," Rebekah said. She gave you a searching look, "He lusts for war and glory."

You frowned, looking at her. "What if he's right? What if they attack? What will happen to us?"

"Don't worry sweet girl, you are apart of my family now, and the Mikaelsons will protect you," Rebekah promised.

As the night went on you feasted and danced with the people of the village. There was food and drink for everyone, and the mood was jovial.

You saw your father sitting next to Mikael, they were deep in conversation and your father was nodding along with whatever the elder Mikaelson was saying.

Mikael suddenly stood, raising his mug and the room fell silent.

"Tonight, we celebrate the engagement of my son Niklaus to the daughter of Erik," Mikael announced, looking over at the two of you.

"To a bright future, may they have many sons to lead us into battle and may their union bring great fortune to both families."

The clan erupted into cheers, banging on the table and lifting their mugs.

"A toast, to Niklaus and his bride!" Mikael called.

Everyone raised their mugs, cheering for the couple. Niklaus approached you and wrapped his arms around you. “It seems the gods have finally smiled upon us," he whispered.

You nodded and smiled at him, trying not to let him see the uncertainty in your eyes. He kissed your cheek and danced with you, the feast continuing on.

As the night wore on, you sat by yourself, watching the dancing and laughter. Rebekah and her friends were talking, Henrik and Gerda were still spinning around, and Niklaus was deep in conversation with Elijah.

Your parents had left, they were a bit older and didn't stay up late like the others. You wanted to leave as well, but Gerda was having so much fun, you didn't want to cut her night short.

Kol came over, sitting down beside you. "You should be out there having fun, not sulking here all alone."

"I'm not sulking," you replied.

"Yes you are," Kol said, grabbing a piece of bread from the table and stuffing it in his mouth. The two of you had grown up together, and he always knew when something was wrong.

"Well, the whole marriage thing has been weighing heavily on my mind," you confessed.

"Oh, come on, Nik's a fine warrior," Kol remarked. "My brother has always been taken with you, he will make a good husband... I think," he teased.

You laughed a bit, pushing him gently. "I know, I know, but I just wish to wait a bit longer. It seems like this has all happened so quickly."

Kol put his arm around you. "You will come to love him, and even if you don't, I am sure the bedding will be enjoyable."

"Kol, stop it!" You giggled, shoving him away.

He grinned and took another piece of bread, "You go home and rest, I'll watch Gerda."

"Are you sure?" You asked.

"Positive," he said. "You are both family now, I will protect her as if she were my own blood."

"Thank you, Kol," you replied, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "I will see you tomorrow."

You made your way out of the longhouse and back towards your home, the cold night air filling your lungs, you breathed out a plume of heat into the chilly air, perhaps winter was not quite done yet. As you walked you thought about Niklaus, he had been so kind and thoughtful lately, he was a good man, you had no reason not to marry him.

You were pulled from your thoughts by the sound of rustling in the bushes, you paused and listened. It was probably just a fox or some other woodland creature, but something didn't feel right.

Suddenly, you were knocked to the ground, a man pinning you down.

"Don't scream," he hissed.

You struggled beneath him, trying to push him off. He smelled of mead and sweat, his face was covered in dirt, his teeth rotted and bloody.

He pressed a blade to your throat, you stopped moving and let out a gasp.

"Do not fight, and I won't hurt you," the man growled.

He had black hair and was wearing a thick fur cloak, his body pressed against yours as he held you down. He pulled at your dress, ripping the fabric and exposing your skin.

"No!" You cried, struggling against him.

He moved his hand up and grabbed your face, his fingers digging into your jaw.

"You are a pretty one, will fetch a good price," he said, running his hand down your body and touching you roughly.

You heard the sound of a horn blowing, signaling a raid. Panic coursed through you.

The Blackthornes had come.

The man was distracted momentarily by the sound and you took the opportunity to grab a rock and smash it against his head. He grunted and fell back, letting you go. You scrambled away and stood up, running to your home.

You heard the shouts of the villagers as they prepared for battle, the sounds of swords clashing and people dying.

As you ran, you saw a group of warriors, led by Einar Blackthorne, storming through the village, killing and setting everything on fire. By the time you got to your house, it was in flames.

Your parents were nowhere to be seen and your heart dropped. You picked up the wood axe sitting on a stump and broke down the door, the heat and smoke burning your lungs.

"Faðir!" You shouted, coughing and looking around. "Móðir!"

"Y/N," a voice called. You saw your mother, kneeling on the floor and holding her hands over her chest.

"Móðir!" You cried, rushing over to her. "What happened, are you alright?"

"Dóttir," she said, reaching out to you, her breathing was labored and her hands were covered in blood.

Your father lay next to her, a wound in his stomach and a pool of blood surrounding him.

"Faðir," you gasped, looking at his lifeless body.

"Gerda," your mother croaked, clutching at your dress. "Go get Gerda,"

"I will," you assured her. "But first I must get you out of here."

You tried to help her stand, but her breathing became ragged and her eyes fluttered closed.

"Móðir?" You said, shaking her.

She didn't respond and her head slumped forward, her body limp in your arms.

"Móðir!" You screamed, tears streaming down your cheeks.

The smoke grew thicker, and the fire was getting closer. The wood beams above cracking and falling.

You laid her down gently, the smoke stinging your eyes, the heat of the flames singeing your hair and burning your skin.

You stumbled through the flames, making your way out of the house, you coughed and sputtered, trying to breathe in the clean air. Your village was engulfed in chaos and flames, you could see the invaders killing and stealing, their cries echoing through the night.

"Gerda," you whispered, trying to catch your breath.

A figure appeared in the darkness, a man wielding a sword, his body covered in blood and his face masked by the smoke. He was wearing the Blackthorne colors of gray and red. You raised your axe and struck him down, the blade slicing through his neck. Rage and adrenaline coursed through you, the fury of Tyr fueling you as you continued on, searching for Gerda.

Your family, your clan, your home had been destroyed. Everything you loved was burning, but you were determined to find your baby sister.

Your ran back to the longhouse, it was in flames, the heat radiating off of the building.

"Gerda!" You screamed out for her, trying to find her in the chaos.

You could hear the sound of fighting and screams, the smell of burning wood and blood filled the air.

Suddenly, a man emerged from the smoke, the same one who tried to rape you earlier, you raised your axe again, ready to strike.

But the man grabbed the blade, stopping the swing mid-air and pulling it from your grasp. He smirked and grabbed you by the hair, throwing you to the ground. You looked up at the longhouse, the place where you had spent so many nights with the Mikaelson family, the place where Gerda and Henrik were.

"You will make a good prize," he growled, running his hands over your body.

"No!" You screamed, thrashing around and he laughed and pinned you down, his hands tearing at your dress.

You could hear the cries of the villagers as they fought for their lives, the screams of the children and the clash of steel.

A hand grabbed the back of your attacker's neck and he was ripped away from you, you gasped, scrambling back. You watched the men fight viciously, exchanging blows.

Your savior was wearing the Mikaelson colors of green and blue, and you realized it was Niklaus.

You stood and grabbed your axe, raising it and attacking other raiders as they tried to approach, giving Niklaus the advantage.

"Y/n! systir!" You heard the sound of your name being called and you looked up, seeing Gerda and Henrik being hauled off by the raiders.

"Gerda!" You shouted, running after them.

You couldn't reach them, another raider jumped in front of you, swinging his sword. You ducked and avoided his blow, swinging your axe and catching him in the side.

He fell to the ground and you kept running, chasing after the raiders and your sister. You ran as fast as you could, dodging the raiders who were trying to stop you. But it was no use, they caught you and dragged you back.

Snow was starting to fall, and you could feel the cold biting at your skin. Two raiders had you by the arms, dragging you along the cold ground, you knew it wouldn't be long before you saw Valhalla. They threw you onto the back of a horse, the cold metal of a knife pressed to your throat.

"Don't struggle or we'll throw you into the fire," the man behind you growled.

You kicked him hard, and he struck you across the face, but you didn't care. Your family was dead, your home was gone, and Gerda was being taken away.

Suddenly, the men on the horse yelled, and the knife was pulled from your throat. You looked up to see a figure in armor, holding a Mikaelson shield in one hand and a sword in the other.

He struck down the Raiders, their bodies falling to the ground. You were disoriented from the blow, unable to see who had come to your rescue.

The figure grabbed the reins of the horse, and the beast whinnied, bucking wildly. He pulled you against him, the metal of his armor cold against your skin.

"Shhhh," he whispered, trying to calm the horse.

You recognized the voice, it was Elijah, Niklaus’ elder brother.

"We have to get out of here, can you ride?" He asked.

You nodded and he handed you the reins. You could see the bodies of the raiders scattered around, and the sounds of the battle were beginning to fade. Snow and ash fell from the sky, and the scent of death hung in the air.

"Come on," Elijah said, pulling himself up behind you.

He wrapped his arm around you, taking the reins back. "I will take you somewhere safe," he promised.

"What about your family? They took Gerda and Henrik," you asked, tears stinging your eyes.

The horse took off, galloping through the woods and away from the destruction. You looked back, seeing the flames and smoke rising into the night sky, and you wondered if Gerda was still alive.

"I saw Niklaus going after them, we have to hope he can save them," Elijah replied.

You held onto the horse tightly, the wind and sleet whipping against your face. The snow falling heavier now, the trees bare and the branches covered in a layer of ice.

Elijah's voice cut through the cold, "I know a place we can shelter from this storm,"

The wind howled and the snow fell heavily, obscuring your vision. You could barely see a thing, but you trusted Elijah.

You didn't know how long you'd been riding, but eventually, Elijah stopped the horse and helped you down.

He brushed away some snow to reveal a small cabin built into a overhang of rock. He tied the horse to a post under the eaves of the structure and opened the door, motioning for you to enter.

"It's not much, but it will keep us warm," he said.

The cabin was made of logs and stones, and there was a fireplace in the center. You shivered, your body numb from the cold.

Elijah started a fire with some wood that was already stacked inside the cabin, and soon the room was filled with warmth and light.

You sat on a bench, the flames from the fireplace flickering, casting shadows on the walls. Elijah sat beside you, and you could see the exhaustion and sorrow in his eyes.

"What of the rest of your family? Your parents? Rebekah? Kol? Finn?" You asked.

Elijah let out a sigh, "my parents and Finn were killed, I lost Kol and Rebekah, I don't know where they are or if they're even alive,"

He turned to look at you, his dark eyes full of sadness. "What about your parents?"

You looked away, a lump forming in your throat. "Dead as well."

You tried to stop the tears, to be strong, but the thought of your mother and father, and all those people, gone, was too much to bear. You buried your face in your hands and sobbed, the grief washing over you like a tidal wave.

Elijah placed his cloak around you and got up to stoke the fire. He added more wood, and the flames crackled and popped.

He sat back down and you moved closer, resting your head on his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you. You were both tired and hurt, and you knew that this might be the last night you ever spent alive. You were both silent for a moment, the weight of the night's events heavy on your minds.

"I am sorry about your family," Elijah whispered.

"As I am sorry about yours," you replied, looking up at him.

This was the first time you ever really spoke to him, as children you were always running around with Kol and Rebekah. Elijah was the stern older brother, the one who was always scolding you for being reckless. But now, he seemed so different.

He placed his hand on your cheek, his thumb gently wiping away the tears that were rolling down your cheeks.

"We will find them, and send every single one of those Blackthornes straight to Hel,"

Niklaus was smiling as he feasted and celebrated his engagement. The scent of meat and ale mingled with the smell of pine and fire, the flickering candles casting a warm glow on the room.

He sat with his brother, Elijah, watching as the members of the clan drank and danced. The atmosphere was festive, and everyone seemed to be having a good time, Niklaus loved a good party, especially one that was about him.

"Isn't she a beauty, brother?" He remarked, watching you from across the table.

"She will be a fine wife for you," Elijah replied, sipping his mead.

"Do you think she will let me bed her before the wedding? I do wish to know what pleasures await me," he grinned.

"Niklaus," Elijah sighed, "You cannot speak of your betrothed in such a manner, have some respect."

"Relax brother, it is just the two of us," he shrugged.

"Still, a woman's virtue is not a subject to be jested about,"

"Oh come on, 'Lijah, I'm only joking. Even the gods would agree that the wedding cannot come soon enough." He said, taking a sip of his mead.

The men were sitting around the table, feasting and drinking. Niklaus watched his little brother Henrik playing with Gerda, they were dancing and spinning in circles.

"I'm surprised Kol is not joining in on the festivities," Niklaus said, nodding to where Kol was sitting alone at the end of the table.

"He's been moody lately," Elijah remarked. "His courting of the Blackthorne girl did not go well, he returned with an arrow in his thigh."

"He was lucky to come back at all," Niklaus muttered. "Father won't listen to reason when it comes to the Blackthornes."

"What would you have him do Niklaus? Wage a war we cannot win?" Elijah replied, his eyes flickering over to where you were talking to some of the women.

"This is how I see it. We either bring the fight to the Blackthornes or wait for them to bring the fight to us," Niklaus stated.

"You two talk of politics like wise old men," Finn piped up. "But you're nothing more than fools, unprepared for battle. The Blackthornes are a mighty clan, and if we were to attack, we would lose everything we've built here."

"When have you seen battle Finn? When you put your trousers on in the morning? Or when you wipe your ass?" Niklaus laughed, grinning at Finn maliciously.

Finn rolled his eyes and ignored the insult, "This is a peaceful village. The only bloodshed we've seen is at the hands of wolves and bears. Father is right to avoid conflict."

"I stopped listening after you said 'father is right', that means nothing to me," Niklaus remarked, downing his drink.

"Well, then I shall take my leave and continue this conversation with someone who actually has the capacity to understand it," Finn huffed, getting up from his seat.

Elijah shook his head, "He does have a point Niklaus. War is not something we can take lightly, the consequences could be dire."

Niklaus watched as Finn went over to you and offered his hand, no doubt asking you for a dance. He watched as you politely rejected Finn. He smiled to himself, you really were the perfect wife.

"We can't avoid the Blackthornes forever. Eventually, we will have to make a move," Niklaus stated.

"Not today, Niklaus, not tonight. Tonight is a night of celebration," Elijah said. "You cannot lust after war on the night of your engagement."

"Fine," Niklaus sighed. "We will discuss this tomorrow,"

"Very well," Elijah agreed.

"I'll hold you to that," Niklaus said, downing the rest of his mead, he watched as you danced with Rebekah, he loved the way you smiled and laughed.

He felt a sense of peace and happiness, knowing that soon, you would be his wife. He looked to his father, who raised his mug and toasted to the union, a gesture that surprised Niklaus, but also put him at ease.

The music began to play, and the men started dancing with their wives. He came over to you, and told you how the gods were smiling down at your union. You looked so beautiful, and he could barely take his eyes off of you.

He danced with you for a while, before Elijah approached and asked for a private word. The brothers found a quiet corner, away from the crowds and music.

"What is it?" He asked.

"I've gotten word from a scout that the Blackthornes are near. Their numbers are great, and they are preparing to attack," Elijah informed him.

"When will they be here?" Niklaus asked, his mind already racing with possible scenarios and outcomes.

"On the morrow, if the scouts are correct," Elijah replied, his voice tense.

"Then we must prepare. I'll rally the men, and we'll set a trap. We'll lead the Blackthornes into the woods, and ambush them," Niklaus said, his eyes flashing with excitement.

"Father has it well in hand, enjoy the celebrations Niklaus," Elijah said. "And be careful not to drink too much, I will need your help in the morning."

Niklaus nodded, but couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that had settled in the pit of his stomach. He glanced over to where you were sitting, chatting and laughing with Kol. You were so happy and carefree, and he wanted to protect that, even if it meant risking his life.

Niklaus spent the rest of the evening drinking and dancing, trying to push aside his worries. You left not long after, and he went to follow, but Kol stopped him, "Let her be Niklaus. She's tired, and I'm sure she has a lot on her mind."

He begrudgingly agreed and stayed, dancing with Henrik on his shoulders as Gerda did on Kol's. It was late, and he could feel the effects of the mead and ale taking hold.

"Off to bed now little Henrik. I'll walk you home sweet Gerda," Kol said softly, setting her down and kissing her cheek.

Suddenly the sound of a horn rang through the night air, and they froze, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

"To arms!" Mikael shouted, his voice echoing through the longhouse.

The room erupted into chaos, the men rushing to grab their weapons and armor. Niklaus laughed, rushing to grab his sword, "So much for a peaceful night!"

He grabbed his shield and rushed outside, joining the fray of battle.

The smell of blood and sweat filled his nostrils as he swung his sword, cutting down raider after raider. Glory and honor filled his heart as he fought, but the thought of you was never far from his mind.

He had promised you that he would keep you safe, and he intended to keep that promise. Your father was old and you had no brothers to defend you, tonight it was his duty. He headed towards your home, but stopped at the sound of his sister screaming, he turned to see Finn swinging wildly at Einar Blackthorne.

His eldest brother was standing in front of Rebekah, she was holding a sword with shaking hands.

"Finn, don't!" Rebekah pleaded, watching him try to fight Einar, but it was an uneven match, Einar struck Finn across the torso with his axe and he crumpled to the ground.

Rebekah fell to her knees at his side, "No! Finn, no!" She cried, clutching to his body.

Einar grabbed Rebekah by the hair and dragged her away.

Niklaus roared and chased after them, but was cut off by a group of raiders, and he slashed and hacked his way through them, searching for where his sister had been taken in the chaos.

Kol was fighting nearby, the young warrior was up against a beast of a man, he stabbed Kol in the arm and he collapsed to the ground.

He heard the sounds of Kol's screams, the boy was fighting for his life. The sight of Kol, bloody and beaten, snapped something inside Niklaus.

He ran towards the man who had stabbed his brother, his eyes full of rage and fury. The man was large and strong, but Niklaus was faster, he plunged his sword into the man's chest and twisted, watching as the life drained from his eyes.

Niklaus could almost hear the drum beats of war, as though the gates of Valhalla had opened, and his ancestors were cheering him on.

The scent of blood and death was thick in the air, and the sounds of clashing metal and screams filled the night. The ground was covered in the bodies of the dead and wounded, and the snow was stained crimson.

He pulled Kol to his feet, and saw Elijah fighting off a group of raiders, his movements a blur as he sliced and cut.

"I can't find Rebekah, they've taken her!" Niklaus cried out.

"We will find her, brother. I promise," Elijah replied, his gaze fierce and determined.

Niklaus could see the fires from the longhouse, the smoke rising into the sky. His family's home was burning, and the village was being pillaged and raided.

Elijah pulled his younger brothers into an embrace, his hands on their shoulders, "our father and mother have been stuck down, I could not save them,"

"Finn?" Kol asked, his eyes darting around, looking for the eldest brother.

"Gone," Niklaus replied.

The three brothers looked at each other, the weight of their losses settling over them. Elijah pulled his younger brothers into an embrace, their foreheads touching.

"I will find Rebekah, I promise. Niklaus, find Y/N, get her to safety," Elijah instructed.

"But brother-" Niklaus began.

"Now!" Elijah roared.

Niklaus and Kol exchanged a glance and nodded, and Elijah took off in one direction.

Niklaus and Kol began to search the village, but all they found were the bodies of their people, dead and dying.

The sound of your screams caught Niklaus' attention, and he rushed towards the noise, Kol close behind.

They found you, being held by a raider, he was ripping at your clothes, and you were fighting him with all your might.

Kol saw Rebekah being loaded onto a cart and he rushed after it.

Niklaus' vision turned red, and he charged at the raider, pulling him off of you and tackling him to the ground. His blood was boiling, and he couldn't stop his rage.

He slammed his fist into the raider's face, again and again. The sound of bones crunching and the taste of blood filled his senses. He attacked him like a rabid beast and he watched you get to your feet and lunge at another raider, cutting him down with just a wood axe. He smiled and laughed at the sight, the goddess Freja possessed you, beautiful and deadly.

He heard the sounds of Gerda's screams and watched you chase after her. He went to follow but was knocked over by a blow to the head.

He rolled over, the world spinning around him. He tried to stand, but he stumbled and his vision blurred. It was like everything was moving in slow motion, and silence fell.

He saw you being dragged away, kicking and screaming. He saw Kol, fighting a few paces away, his movements becoming slower and sloppier as his wounds took their toll. But he had saved Rebekah, she was helping him stay upright, the two of them fighting back to back.

He saw a raider raise his axe to strike Kol, and he saw Rebekah push him out of the way. Blood burst from her face as the blade made contact. She fell to the ground, clutching her head.

It was as if Thor himself had struck him with lightning, he forced himself to stand, roaring with pure rage. He grabbed a spear from the ground. He hurled it, watching as it impaled the raider, a look of surprise and pain on his face as he fell to the ground, dead.

Niklaus rushed towards his siblings, grabbing them and dragging them to their feet.

"Go!" He shouted, picking up Rebekah and dragging her towards the tree line, Kol close behind.

He looked back, trying to see you, but you were gone.

They stumbled into the woods, the sounds of the raid fading into the distance.

"Where's Elijah? Henrik, Gerda, Y/n?" Kol asked, panic in his voice.

Niklaus didn't reply, the weight of his sister and the wound in his side making it difficult to breathe.

"Niklaus, where are they?" Kol repeated.

"I- I don't know," Niklaus panted, stumbling over a branch.

The trees loomed above them, the darkness of the forest threatening to swallow them whole.

They continued to run, the sounds of the battle growing distant.

"We will find them. But first we must get Rebekah to a healer, she will die if we do not," Niklaus stated, his voice low and determined.

"We can't just leave them," Kol protested, his voice cracking.

"You don't think I know that!" Niklaus yelled, louder and angrier than he meant to.

Kol was quiet, the only sounds were their labored breathing and the crunching of leaves beneath their feet.

They walked for what felt like an eternity, the pain in Niklaus' side growing worse with every step. The rapidly falling snow making it hard to see.

Niklaus could hear Kol sniffling and muttering to himself, his younger brother was barely holding on.

He was struggling too, the guilt and pain eating away at him.

He had failed you.

{Part Two} {Part Three} {Part Four}

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euphoricfilter · 1 year

Note

Ddlg/bunny hybrid/vampire - Jin? Or namjoon maybe? “Careful bunny, your to little for that”

lavender lemonade:

pairing: vampire! namjoon x bunny hybrid! reader

genre: fluff || non-idol au || established relationship || 19th century au || hybrid au || vampire au

summary: you love spring and namjoon loves you.

word count: 1.1k

tags/ warnings: fluff, blood, dd/lg themes, 19th century vampire lover namjoon who’s obsessed with his pretty bunny love, suggestive content

notes: prompt from this drabble game!! and yes i did look up if lemonade existed in the 19th century :’)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Spring had always been your favourite, watching the world bloom flowers of every colour; where the air smelt sweeter, and the sun kissed your cheeks warm of a morning, peeking through holes in clouds and gaps in the leaves of trees, while butterflies fluttered their delicate wings and birds glide on a soft breeze over the hills.

You liked spring because Namjoon would take you away for a season, having been cooped up for three of them in a year, his planned trips to a small cottage in the wildflower field had soon become your favourite. And maybe it was because it was just the two of you, no maids tittering about how handsome their master was, nor any sour looking etiquette teachers that simply didn’t like you for the fact you we’re betrothed to Namjoon, a vampire of all things.

Where the whole world was seemingly against your relationship with him, though he never seemed to take much notice of the gossip that echoed down the halls like ghosts were whispering secrets to any passer-by.

With his position as duke in high society he doubted many people would ever truly speak up against his relationship with you, warnings of men that had mysteriously disappeared after objecting your engagement enough of a threat, that no one had stepped forward to stop Namjoon’s impending marriage with you.

The controversy stemmed from him being part of the vampiric population; small but ever growing. Sub-human as society had deemed them, your kind even lesser known about than his.

But as much as the rest of the high society wanted to banish him and yourself from the country, he’d established his own dukedom, built himself up from the ashes; a roaring flame that took and took and took until the royals feared what his next move would be, simply letting him live among them to placate the rage they knew simmered underneath his skin.

And you often worried the hearsay of him being associated with the devil, perhaps moulded by a witch, awful awful rumours about vampires being spread across lands far from your own, though your worry only seemed to sink Namjoon further into the abyss of loving you, where he’d sunk so deep, he could no longer see the light, no longer grasp onto any surface to bring him out of this new world. One where he was solely consumed by your very existence.

Spring was Namjoon’s favourite because it was yours, whatever you loved he loved too. His precious little bunny, where he planned to serve you the world on a platter encrusted with diamonds, even if it meant he had to commit treason, overthrowing the king and taking the crown as his prize, a shiny little gift to keep your eyes shimmering like the stars you cherished.

He adored your very existence, worshipped the ground you stood on, body ever so delicate he made sure you never had to lift a finger if he knew it were to bring any damage.

He brought you to the flower field every spring, made sure he had gardeners working all year round just for this moment. He often paints a picture of your face in his mind, never letting other lowly painter to stare at your precious face for too long; for that was his job, having you sit for hours as brush meets page and then your face hung on every blank wall of the estate.

You always spend the spring together; he leaves work behind and every waking hour he dedicates to you.

The first night at the cottage is always the same, with you laid over Namjoon’s lap as he plays the piano; your legs hanging off the edge of the bench, where a stray cat would often slip through an open window and tickle your toes with its little button nose before settling over your chest.

With those silent sleepy moment before bed when Namjoon’s lips skim over your wrist, pointed canines barely brushing over your skin until you’re muffling a whine behind your free hand when his teeth sink into you. As much of a claim on you as it is his meal, mark never truly healing before he’s sinking his fangs back into your pretty skin.

Every morning Namjoon would brush your hair, always careful of your bunny ears before fluffing out your tail and dressing you in frilly dresses with frilly socks and bows in your hair and around your cotton tail; calling you his pretty doll before he’s carrying you into the kitchen, sitting you on the counter as he feeds you little pieces of bread dipped in honey. Lips sticky and kiss deliciously sweet, always teasing with his tongue and impatient fingers that flitter over delicate skin, under skirts and over places no one else will ever see nor ever get a glimpse of.

He sits on a chair under a tree while you lay on the grass, fragile fingers making matching daisy chain crowns and rings made of even smaller flowers; you like to pretend you’re already married, giggling when he presses kisses to each and every one of your fingertips before he’s pushing the dainty flower ring onto your finger, and asking once again if you’ll tie your soul to his for the rest of eternity.

He particularly enjoys feeding you fresh fruit of an afternoon, thumb brushing over sun-kissed cheeks and watching as you lick the sweet juice from the pads of his fingers. Maybe indulging you with his thumb pressing down on your tongue, feeling you hollow your cheeks as he reads you a novel as the sky blends from bright blue to burnt oranges and lilacs.

“Careful bunny, you’re too little for that” his fingers grasp your wrist, other hand plucking the small garden scissors from your fingers, “Let me do it for you” he brushes your hair behind your ear.

Your fingers fiddle with the lacy trim of your skirt, watching Namjoon brush gentle fingers over flimsy petals, you hum when he touches over a flower you’re particularly fond of, watching as he snips the stem, handing it to you ready for the bouquets you planned to put in vases around the cottage.

You sneeze, sound akin to a squeak when you press a flower too close to your nose, pollen ticklish until you’re giggling, hands holding onto Namjoon’s bulging biceps, so you don’t tip over.

“You’ll give yourself a headache small thing, here” he plucks a piece of lavender from the soil, rubbing the corolla between his fingers.

You watch as he brings them up to your nose, and he watches as it twitches in interest, “We should make lavender lemonade” your voice barely above a whisper, soft, carried by the warm spring breeze.

Lavender fingertips brush against your cheek, and you feel the silky residue cling to your skin, “Cute” a deep laugh rumbles from Namjoon’s chest, smile wide enough that his dimples show.

Your eyes flutter closed when he leans forward, kiss pressed over the lavender tinge on your cheek, “Lavender lemonade sounds delicious, my love”

🌼 thank you for reading!! feedback is always encouraged <3

permanent taglist: @m1sss1mp @supernoonanyc

#bts fanfic #bts #bts fic #namjoon imagine #namjoon fluff #bts fluff #namjoon fanfic #namjoon x reader #bts au fanfic #bts au #bts non idol au #bts vampire au #bts hybrid x reader #bts hybrid fic #bts smut #bts au fic

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fanficapologist · 5 days

Text

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Seventy-Six

In the late afternoon, just outside of Harrenhall, a small lavender field bloomed in all its glory. The air was infused with the delicate fragrance of lavender, carried by a gentle breeze that rustled through the rows of purple blooms. Bees buzzed lazily from flower to flower, collecting nectar as the sun cast a warm golden hue over the scene. The lavender plants stood tall and proud, their slender stems adorned with clusters of vibrant purple flowers that swayed gracefully in the breeze. Each bloom seemed to dance in the sunlight, their petals glistening with dewdrops from the morning's light rain.

As Maera walked with Ser Arryk through the flowers, the late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the scene, illuminating the rows of purple blooms. With a basket in hand, they strolled leisurely along the fragrant pathways, surrounded by the soothing scent of lavender. Just an hour before, Maera had visited Maester Cain to check on her pregnancy, relieved to hear that all was progressing as it should. The Maester had assured her that the babe was growing steadily and that there were no signs of complications.

He had recommended using lavender oil for its soothing properties and to promote relaxation, which had led Maera to decide on a walk to the lavender field. Wandering among the flowers, Maera plucked a few stems of lavender, carefully placing them in her basket whilst chatting animatedly to her protector about the morning’s meeting.

"You should have seen her face," she chuckled to the knight, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Not a single soul in the room supported her idea of sending me back to the capital."

Ser Arryk's smile mirrored Maera's joy as he listened to her recount the events. "Would it be too bold of me to suggest that the Prince has finally grown a pair?" he quipped sarcastically, his tone teasing.

Maera gasped in mock astonishment, playing along with the banter. "Why, yes, Ser, I do believe it would be," she replied with exaggerated surprise, a playful glint in her eyes.

"Then I shall refrain from saying it," Ser Arryk declared with a laugh, the sound echoing through the tranquil surroundings as the two shared a moment of lighthearted camaraderie.

As Maera bent down to pick another stem of lavender, she was interrupted by Ser Arryk's voice, his tone suddenly serious. "Princess," he uttered, his gaze fixed on something across the field.

Puzzled, Maera straightened up, her hand instinctively resting on her growing bump as she followed her protector's gaze. Across the field, she spotted Alys amidst the blossoms, her figure hunched over as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Good, Maera thought. For all the pain and suffering the witch had caused, finally it was being reflected back to her. And yet… the Princess was unsure if it was due to her own pregnant state, or concern for the child within Alys’s womb, but something compelled her to go over to her.

With Ser Arryk close by her side, she called out to the weeping witch, her firm voice cutting through the somber air. "Do not cry so, Alys," she urged, her steps careful as she navigated through the fragrant lavender blooms. "It is not good for the child."

When Maera finally reached Alys's side, she observed the tears upon the witch's reddened face, her gaze drifting down to the prominent swell of Alys's pregnancy bump beneath her faded green dress. Despite her emotional state, Alys offered a quiet acknowledgment of Maera's presence with a subdued "Princess."

Sensing the tension in the air, Maera broke the awkward silence, her tone both empathetic and assertive. "You're upset because of the meeting this morning," she observed, her words carrying a subtle hint of triumph. "The Lords and my husband would never have supported your idea. My place is by my husband's side, and that will never change."

Although it may have been somewhat cruel to confront Alys so directly, Maera knew it was necessary to assert her position. However, when Alys remained silent in response, Maera sighed softly, her expression softening with a hint of compassion. "How are you faring? The child, I mean," she inquired, gesturing delicately towards Alys's swollen stomach, her concern genuine despite their strained relationship.

The witch wiped her eyes on her sleeve before offering a subdued reply, her voice tinged with weariness. "The Maester says a few more weeks, then he will be here."

Maera couldn't help but roll her eyes at Alys's insistence on referring to her unborn child as a "he," knowing full well that such knowledge couldn't possibly be accurate. The delusion stemming from Alys's supposed prophecies frustrated Maera to no end. The witch then attempted to stand but struggled due to her advanced pregnancy. Maera glanced at Ser Arryk, his hazel eyes staring back at her as they exchanged a knowing look. Despite her reservations, Maera nodded, and the knight stepped forward, offering his arm to help the heavily pregnant witch to her feet.

As Alys rose to her feet, she gestured towards the field of lavender surrounding them, her voice carrying a tone of authority. "The lavender will help you ward off any infections and prepare you for the pain of labor," she advised Maera, her hand instinctively moving to her own swollen belly. "At this stage, the plant is also known to induce labor. At least it did for my other children."

Maera and Alys began to walk side by side among the fragrant flowers, Ser Arryk steadfastly at Maera's side. Despite the unusual camaraderie between the women for the moment, there lingered an unspoken tension between the princess and her protector, both sharing suspicions about the witch's intentions, even in her current state of distress.

As they walked through the lavender field, Maera couldn’t help but inhale deeply, the scent of lavender reminding her of the birthing rituals her stepmothers performed using the flowers. Memories of Rain House flooded her mind—the stormy weather, the laughter of her younger siblings echoing through the halls. Despite the turmoil of war, Maera longed for the comfort of her family’s home. She made a silent vow to visit them once the conflict had ended, curious to see how her younger siblings would react to her dragon companion.

Lost in her thoughts, Maera momentarily forgot about Alys's presence beside her until she re-focused on their conversation. It occurred to her that Alys had been a wet-nurse, but she hadn't made the connection that the woman was also a mother herself. Alys didn't strike Maera as a maternal figure, so she found herself curious about her companion's experience with motherhood.

In an effort to ease the awkward atmosphere, Maera initiated conversation. "How many children do you have?" she inquired, her voice softening with genuine curiosity.

A note of sadness crept into Alys's reply as she spoke of her past. "I had four," she confessed, her gaze momentarily clouded with sorrow. "But none of them lived. Each were stillborn."

The weight of Alys's words hung heavily in the air, stifling further conversation. It was Alys who eventually broke the silence, her voice tinged with a hint of bitterness. "You are most fortunate, Princess," she remarked sadly.

Maera's response was swift, her frustration evident in her retort. "Fortunate?" she scoffed, her head shaking in disbelief. "I am here walking with my husband's whore, who is also carrying his child. How is that fortunate?" Her words dripped with bitterness as she grappled with the complex emotions swirling within her.

"You are high-born," Alys declared, her demeanor unwavering despite Maera's evident disdain. "Your child will receive the best care and live a healthy life." Maera remained silent as the witch pressed on, her tone taking on a softer, more contemplative quality. "Your status gives you power, Princess," she insisted, her gaze steady as she met Maera's eyes.

With a resigned sigh, Maera admitted, "It is a gilded cage," her hand drifting instinctively to her pregnancy bump as the child within stirred.

As they walked, Alys came to a sudden halt, causing Maera to pause and regard her with curiosity. "Low-born women have little options, particularly bastards," Alys explained, her words tinged with a hint of bitterness. "You do not have to sell your body or talents to gain some semblance of power. It is born within you."

This was true- low-born women had few prospects in life, often at the mercy of their circumstances. And though Alys spoke of lack of power, her words struck a chord with Maera, but in a different way than perhaps intended.

Despite her highborn status, Maera had felt utterly powerless in the face of Alys’s manipulation and promise of prophecy. The witch’s influence, bolstered by her supposed visions, had cast a shadow over Maera’s life, leaving her feeling vulnerable and disregarded by her own husband. It was a bitter realization that even those with privilege could be at the mercy of those who wielded power in subtler ways.

While she could understand the challenges Alys had faced, she refused to let the witch’s victimhood diminish her judgment of Alys’s character. The resentment and mistrust Maera harbored for Alys ran deep, and no amount of sympathy for her past could erase the harm she had caused.

"I have never felt more powerless in my life than being here," Maera sneered, her frustration palpable.

Alys chuckled softly, her laughter tinged with a hint of irony. "You wish to talk of powerlessness?" she retorted, her gaze unwavering. "I came to be because a Lord of House Strong raped my mother." Maera blinked in surprise at Alys's revelation, her resolve faltering slightly in the face of the witch's vulnerability. Yet Alys pressed on, her voice filled with quiet determination. "My children came to be because the Lords of House Strong forced themselves upon me too.”

The Princess froze, that familiar sense of dread gnawing at her insides. It was a sensation she knew all too well—the icy grip of fear that tightened her chest and sent shivers down her spine. Memories of her own encounter with Aegon came flooding back, vivid and unwelcome—the crushing weight of Aegon's strength as he pinned her down, the sound of her own desperate pleas falling on deaf ears, and the overwhelming sense of powerlessness that had consumed her.

Glancing at Ser Arryk, Maera was reminded of the pivotal role he had played in her life. It was his intervention that had saved her from a fate she dared not imagine. The witch’s declaration hit home and Maera began to struggle to maintain her composure, her fingers nervously tracing the edge of her cloak as she listened to Alys’s anguished confession.

"But that was not the worst of it," Alys continued, her voice thick with emotion. "After losing each of my babies, I was forced to feed the nobles' children," Alys revealed, her tone heavy with anguish. "You cannot imagine the pain. How your body cries out for its child while you provide their milk to a stranger in your arms!"

The story Alys painted was too difficult to even think about. The love Maera already felt for her unborn child surged within her, and the thought of losing that child whilst having to care for another was crushing. Despite her loathing of the witch , Maera couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the woman before her.

The intensity of her own pregnancy had perhaps softened her resolve, allowing her to recognise that they both had something in common- they loved their children. Tears threatened to spill from Maera's eyes as she struggled to maintain her composure, her lips pressed tightly together in a silent show of strength.

Rubbing her stomach tenderly, the witch continued, her voice trembling with raw emotion. "The Gods promised me a child one day, a child of great importance. And here he is, almost ready to be born." Her gaze locked with Maera's, burning with a fierce intensity. "But the Gods' path is being desecrated, and I fear I will lose another child."

"Enough," the Princess interjected firmly, her voice cutting through the emotional turmoil.

Maera was no monster. The struggles and hardships Alys had endured were undeniable, and it was clear that she had fought tooth and nail to ascend to her current position of power. Maera couldn’t help but sympathize with the pain and desperation that must have driven Alys’s actions. The child in her belly was innocent as well, and had not asked for any of this. The babe was probably like a beacon of hope to the witch, her chance to a mother once again.

However, Maera also recognized the inherent danger in Alys’s lack of attachment to what was happening around her. With nothing left to lose, Alys posed a significant threat, capable of unpredictable and potentially destructive behavior. And as dreadful as everything Alys had been through must have been, it did not excuse what she had done and the choices she made.

And though moved by Alys’s story, Maera remained steadfast in her determination to assert her own position of authority, not only for herself but also for the sake of her trueborn child. She couldn’t afford to appear weak or vulnerable, especially in the face of someone as unpredictable as a witch.

"Your child is a bastard, nothing will change that. My husband will not legitimize them, nor give them the dragon egg we found." Alys swallowed a sob, her features contorted in a mixture of grief and resignation. Maera let out a heavy sigh, her own heart weighed down by the weight of the conversation. "But your child will be provided for, and never go hungry or sick," she promised, her voice softening with empathy as she placed a comforting hand on Alys's arm. "I swear this to you." The witch did not reply, instead sniffling and nodding in response, acknowledging the Princess’s vow to her.

As Alys and Maera reached the end of the lavender field, the tension between them lingered in the air, but there was a newfound complexity to their dynamic. Alys offered a small curtsy before they parted ways, leaving behind a sense of unresolved tension mingled with a hint of mutual understanding. Walking with her basket of lavender and Ser Arryk by her side, Maera found herself reflecting on her conversation with Alys. Despite the lingering tension, Maera couldn't deny that she now had a deeper insight into what drove the witch's actions, and to comprehend the motivations of one’s enemy was a valuable insight.

On that quiet night at Harrenhall, the castle seemed to hold its breath, enveloped in a serene stillness that draped over the ancient stone walls like a comforting blanket. The moon hung high in the sky, its soft silver light filtering through the windows to cast gentle patterns on the polished floors. Within the chambers, the air was hushed, disturbed only by the faint crackle of the dwindling hearth and the occasional rustle of fabric as the night breeze whispered through the curtains. Shadows danced silently across the walls, painting fleeting images that seemed to sway with the rhythm of the night.

Nestled against her husband’s chest, Maera’s breathing was slow and steady, her features softened in the gentle glow of the moonlight filtering through the window. Aemond’s arm draped around her, offering both warmth and security, as if he were a steadfast shield against the uncertainties of the world. Beneath the surface, the child in Maera’s belly seemed to rest as well, its movements gentle and subdued, lulled by the soothing rhythm of its mother's heartbeat. In that moment, all was calm and still, as if the world itself had paused to catch its breath.

As the peaceful silence of the night enveloped the chamber, it was abruptly shattered by a sudden commotion echoing from the corridor outside. The tranquil atmosphere was shattered by the clamor of men shouting, the sharp sound of blades being unsheathed, and the resounding banging against the heavy wooden door.

Aemond's senses sharpened in an instant, his instincts roused by the unexpected disturbance. With a jolt, he sat bolt upright in bed, his movements swift and decisive. The sudden motion startled Maera awake, her eyes snapping open in alarm as she grasped the gravity of the situation. In the dim light of the chamber, Aemond's hand darted beneath the bed, fingers closing around the hilt of his sword with practiced ease. With a determined grip, he withdrew the weapon, the glint of steel reflecting the urgency etched on his features.

Wide-eyed and alert, Maera shifted closer to Aemond, her heart pounding in her chest as they both fixed their gaze on the door, anticipation mounting with each passing second. The sound of running footsteps drawing nearer only served to heighten the tension, their presence an ominous harbinger of the danger lurking just beyond the threshold.

With a thunderous crash, the door burst open, sending Maera's heart into a frantic rhythm as she braced herself for whatever threat awaited on the other side. Relief washed over her as she recognized Ser Arryk's familiar figure entering the chamber, his presence momentarily easing the tension coiled within her.

“My apologies my Prince, Princess. But we have a situation.”

Her breath caught in her throat as Maera listened intently to Ser Arryk's words, the gravity of the situation dawning upon her with each passing moment. The panic etched on the knight's face and the urgency in his voice shattered the fleeting sense of relief, signaling that something was gravely amiss.

Without hesitation, Aemond sprang into action, his movements swift and purposeful as he hastily donned his tunic, pants, and boots. With sword in hand, he wasted no time in leaving the room, his departure leaving Maera with a sense of helplessness as she watched him vanish into the darkness beyond.

Restless and unsettled, Maera found herself unable to find solace in sleep after the harrowing interruption to their peaceful night. With a heavy sigh, she slipped out of bed, the soft fabric of her nightgown enveloping her as she moved with a sense of urgency. Pulling on her black robe for warmth, she made her way to the hearth, drawn to the comforting glow of the dwindling flames.

With a furrowed brow, Maera tended to the fire, adding more wood to stoke the flames and bring renewed warmth to the room. As the crackling fire grew brighter, Maera settled into a chair before the hearth, her thoughts consumed by the tumultuous events unfolding outside their door. Anxiety gnawed at her insides as she contemplated the cause of the commotion that had shattered the tranquility of their night. The uncertainty weighed heavily on her mind, fueling a sense of unease that refused to be quelled by the flickering flames before her.

Maera’s gaze drifted to the iron pot nestled next to the flames, cradling the large black and green dragon egg above the hot coals. The sight of the egg, bathed in the warm glow of the fire, stirred a mix of hope and trepidation within her heart. She pondered the uncertain fate of the egg as half of them never hatch, she reminded herself, a sobering reality that tempered her optimism.

Alys’s vision of Aemond’s future son as a dragon rider lingered in her mind, casting a shadow of doubt over the true meaning behind the prophecy. Why would Alys’s child, this supposed son, be the great rider of a dragon? The ambiguity of the vision only added to the uncertainty surrounding their situation. A sense of dread crept over Maera as she contemplated the tangled web of fate and prophecy that seemed to entwine their lives. With Alys’s impending childbirth looming on the horizon, she knew the complexities of their situation would only intensify in the days to come.

“Ooof!”

A sudden sharp kick from the child in her stomach jolted her out of her reverie. She gasped, hand instinctively flying to her belly, before a smile spread across her face as she remembered the source of the sensation. The child’s movements were becoming more pronounced, and Maera couldn’t help but marvel at the tiny feet that seemed to press against her skin from within.

Beneath the fabric of her nightgown, the outline of the child’s movements was visible, a gentle swell indicating each kick. Maera tenderly stroked the spot where the child made its presence known.

“It’s ok. We’re ok,” she whispered, unsure if she was trying to calm the unborn babe, herself, or both. Her gaze shifted to the door, her heart heavy with worry and anticipation. With each passing moment, the uncertainty of the situation outside weighed heavily on her mind.

After some time, the Prince returned, his face etched with rage, causing Maera’s heart to clench with concern. Reacting instinctively, she rose from her chair and moved to his side, reaching out to grasp his arms as he held hers. Their connection was palpable, a silent reassurance amidst the tumultuous emotions swirling around them.

“What has happened?” she inquired softly, her voice laced with apprehension.

Aemond’s jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with restrained anger. “When you patrolled today, did you see anything out of the ordinary along the border?” he questioned, his tone clipped with urgency.

Maera furrowed her brow in concentration, mentally retracing her steps from earlier. She remembered the tranquility of the Riverlands beneath them as they flew, Ēbrion seemingly at ease without any signs of imminent danger or threats. She remembered the lush green trees, towering mountains and the cloudy sky. On the ground, she remembered tiny dots, which she assumed were people, going about their day. Families travelling, or merchants transporting goods, just as usual.

"No, nothing out of the ordinary," she replied, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

Aemond nodded curtly before pulling away from Maera's touch, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames in the hearth. "More of my cunt sister's rats," he muttered under his breath, his words heavy with disdain.

Sensing her husband's agitation, Maera's nerves heightened, her hand instinctively drifting to her pregnant belly. "Aemond, what is going on?" she pressed, her voice trembling with worry.

The Prince turned to face her, his features hardened with resolve. "Men have broken into Harrenhall, planning to assassinate us," he revealed, his tone low and ominous.

Her heart stopped. Fear gripped Maera’s heart like icy tendrils as the gravity of the situation sank in. Men had dared to threaten her husband's life, her own life and by extension, their child's. In that moment, fear and protective instinct surged within Maera. Her own safety took a backseat as her maternal instincts roared to life.

She felt an overwhelming sense of dread for her child's well-being, a fierce determination to shield their unborn babe from harm at any cost. The gravity of the situation sank in, and she swallowed hard, struggling to find her voice amidst the chaos of her thoughts.

"It seems my uncle prefers dishonorable schemes rather than an honest death on the battlefield," Aemond growled bitterly, his fists clenched at his sides as he looked into the flames of the hearth.

With a fierce gleam in her emerald eyes, Maera confronted her husband, her voice laced with tenacity. "Where are they now?" she demanded, her tone sharp and commanding.

Aemond's expression darkened, bitterness coloring his words as he responded, "The guards are escorting them down to the dungeons," he explained, his gaze fixated on the dancing flames before him. "They will be dealt with on the morrow.”

Her resolve unwavering, Maera shook her head adamantly, her determination shining through. "No," she declared firmly, her voice cutting through the tense atmosphere. Aemond snapped his head up to look at her, confusion etched across his sharp face.

Summoning her strength, Maera closed the distance between them, her gaze never wavering. "Order everyone to wake. We will deal with them now. Together," she commanded, her voice unwavering.

Aemond's gaze softened as he looked at his wife, a silent understanding passing between them. He reached out, gently tucking a stray strand of her dark brown hair behind her ear before his hand came to rest on her pregnant belly. With a nod of agreement, he turned and strode purposefully out of the room. As her husband departed, Maera rang for her maid, her mind already racing with plans and preparations for what lay ahead.

At the hour of the bat, the once-quiet halls of Harrenhall were abruptly filled with the clamor of hurried footsteps and anxious voices. Every inhabitant, roused from their slumber, was summoned to the main hall by urgent decree, the echo of worried chatter reverberating off the cold, stone walls.

In the flickering light cast by the hearth, a large table was hastily brought forth and positioned at the center of the hall. Seated around it were the members of the war council, their faces drawn with tension and anticipation. At the head of the table sat Maera and Aemond, both clad in resplendent attire of black leather, their expressions stern and unwavering.

The attention of the room was fixed upon the three figures bound in chains, positioned in the middle of the hall under the watchful gaze of armed guards. These men, their faces masked by shadows, were the would-be assassins who had dared to threaten the lives of the Prince and Princess. Despite their predicament, they maintained an air of defiance, their eyes meeting those of Maera and Aemond with a mixture of fear and resentment.

Rising from his seat at the end of the table, the man who had supported Maera in a number of council meetings, Lord Unwin Peake, addressed the assembled crowd with authority. "My Lords and Ladies, people of Harrenhall," he began, his voice carrying across the hall. "There has been a threat to the lives of our Prince and Princess."

With measured steps, Lord Unwin moved to stand beside the first man, kneeling and isolated from the others. He pointed accusatorily. "This man broke into the castle a few hours ago, with the intent of assassination," he declared, his words echoing in the hushed hall.

Then, gesturing towards the two men shackled together, Lord Unwin continued, his voice unwavering. "And these two were waiting for his return on the other side of the Gods Eye, prepared to assist the would-be killer in his escape."

The room erupted into a cacophony of gasps and murmurs as Maera's gaze swept over the trio of assailants, her expression a mix of anger and disbelief. As the clamor subsided, the Lord of House Butterwell rose from his seat, his voice laced with skepticism. "How do we know this was their intention?" he challenged, his words met with murmurs of agreement from some of the onlookers.

It was then that Ser Arryk, the stalwart knight, stepped forward, holding up a small scroll for all to see. The crowd fell silent as they awaited his revelation, tension hanging thick in the air. Ser Arryk presented the parchment to Aemond, who accepted it with a tight grip, his expression darkening with each passing moment. "A written order, in Prince Daemon’s own handwriting. I know it well," Ser Arryk declared loudly, his voice cutting through the tense atmosphere of the room.

Aemond's gaze remained fixed on the scroll as he silently read its contents, his breath quickening with each passing word. Maera, sensing his distress, leaned in closer, her voice laced with concern. "What does it say?" she asked, her eyes searching his face for answers. When he didn't respond, she pressed further, her tone growing more urgent. "Aemond?"

Ignoring her, Aemond pushed the scroll away, his jaw clenched with barely contained rage. Without a word to her, he moved to address the assassins, but before he could speak, Maera rose from her seat with a determined expression. The scrape of her chair against the floor echoed through the hall as she reached for the scroll, her hands shaking slightly with emotion.

Unfurling the scroll, Maera read its contents aloud, her voice steady despite the horror of the words she spoke. "An eye for an eye, a son for a son," she began, the weight of each syllable hanging heavy in the air. “Carve…” She stopped, the words catching in her throat at the sheer brutality of what she was revealing. She paused briefly, looking around the room. If there were any traitors amongst them that could support the people who wrote the order, Maera hoped the Gods would deliver justice.

Gathering her composure, she cleared her throat before forging ahead, her voice ringing out with authority. "Carve the babe from his whore wife’s belly so that he may feel a fraction of the anguish our rightful Queen felt when Prince Lucerys was taken from her- Daemon Targaryen, King consort."

The hall erupted in a cacophony of outrage and disbelief, the shock and horror evident on the faces of those gathered. Guards rushed to contain the chaos, grappling with onlookers who attempted to reach the assassins, their shouts and cries filling the air with tension and unrest. Seated amidst the chaos, Maera watched with a mixture of satisfaction and apprehension, knowing that the revelation of the scroll had unleashed a storm that would have far-reaching consequences.

Aemond then stood from his chair, tall and imposing, and the room fell silent. “I shall feed them to Vhagar and Ēbrion myself,” he proclaimed, his voice resonating with determination. As the crowd erupted in cheering, Aemond strode confidently around the table, his words ringing out. "Let these traitors experience firsthand the power of dragons."

Maera sat motionless, her gaze fixed ahead as a numbing sensation washed over her, a stark contrast to the heightened emotions that had gripped her moments before. Amidst the gruesome details outlined in the scroll and the chilling realization of the peril she had narrowly escaped, she found herself overwhelmed.

She watched as the guards attempted to pull the three men away, their faces twisted in fear. In the midst of her turmoil, Maera’s attention was drawn to one of the two men who would aid in the escape of the assassin, his desperate gaze locking with hers. He appeared no older than herself, with short auburn hair and pleading blue eyes. It struck her deeply that this man, a stranger to her, had conspired to end her life.

As the guards began to drag him away by his chains, the young man called to her. "I plead mercy, Princess," he cried out, desperation evident in his voice.

Aemond's expression darkened as he approached the man, seizing him by the hair and forcing him to meet his gaze. "Mercy? And what makes you think you deserve that, hmm?" he growled, his voice dripping with contempt.

Despite Aemond's intimidating presence, the young man managed to divert his gaze to Maera once more. "I am wed to your sister Wynnifrid," he confessed, his voice trembling with fear.

The Prince glanced at Maera, who was now alert and staring right back at the red-haired man. Wynni. Gods, Wynni. A thousand memories of her little sister stirred in her head, memories of a sister she had not seen nor heard from in what felt like an eternity. Reacting on impulse, Maera raised her arm to halt the guards from dragging the men away.

The room fell into an eerie silence as Maera left her seat, a determined yet composed figure amidst the tension. With measured steps, she navigated around the lengthy table, her demeanor exuding an air of regal poise. Despite the turmoil roiling within her, Maera maintained an emotionless facade, her hand resting protectively on her swollen belly as she advanced.

As Maera approached the assailants, her presence commanded attention. The onlookers watched in muted anticipation, their eyes fixed on the unfolding scene. Without a word, Maera halted before the man who had called out to her, her gaze piercing yet inscrutable.

The one-eyed Prince forcefully threw the man on the floor before Maera, the sound of the chains binding him clinking as they hit the stone floor. Aemond’s expression was resolute, his features etched with disdain for those who had threatened his family. Standing by his wife's side, Aemond stood as a formidable presence, a silent sentinel guarding Maera against any further harm.

"You are Lord Tarly," Maera stated evenly, her voice betraying no emotion.

The young man, now identified as Alan Tarly, nodded, his eyes pleading for clemency. "Please, I beg you. Release me, I will tell you everything I know," he implored, his voice tinged with desperation.

Maera stood over the man, her mind swirling with conflicting emotions. Doubt gnawed at her, questioning the authenticity of his claims. Was this a desperate attempt to elicit sympathy? A ruse to manipulate her emotions? Yet, beneath the layers of suspicion, a flicker of longing emerged—the longing for her sister.

Ser Adrian Tarbeck's voice cut through the tension in the hall, his accusation directed at Lord Alan Tarly. "Your House has just turned cloak, have you not? Why should we believe a word you say?" he challenged, his tone laced with skepticism.

Lord Alan Tarly's voice quivered as ignored the comment and looked up at Maera, his revelation catching her off guard. "Wynni is with child," he muttered, his words sending a shock through her.

The revelation struck Maera like a blow to the chest. Wynni, pregnant? The realization pierced her heart, stirring a tumult of anguish and regret. She hadn’t heard from her sister in ages, hadn’t known if Wynni’s marriage was one of happiness or sorrow. And now, to learn that Wynni was to become a mother, it was a revelation too overwhelming to comprehend.

The Princess took a deep breath to steady herself as she saw the man kneeling before her shaking his head. "I should never have agreed to be part of this plot. Never. I thought I was doing right by my House," he confessed, tears welling in his blue eyes.

Aemond scoffed with disdain, his voice laced with mockery as he addressed the assembled crowd. "Doing right by your House," he muttered, shaking his head in disgust. "Behold, my Lords, what Rhaenyra will do to take power."

Maera fixed her gaze on Lord Alan, her expression steely as she urged him to speak. "Start talking," she demanded, her patience wearing thin. Leaning closer to him, she delivered a warning in a low voice. "I am a lot less desperate than you are in this moment."

Lord Alan hesitated, casting nervous glances around the room before finally speaking up for all to hear. "The Queen has enlisted the help of Targaryen bastards, promising knighthood and wealth when the war is over," he revealed, prompting exchanged glances between Maera and Aemond. "She will use them to fly the riderless dragons and win the throne.”

As news of Rhaenyra’s plan sank in, Aemond's expression darkened, his frown etched deep upon his face. With a heavy heart, he stepped away from Maera, his mind undoubtedly consumed by the implications of this newfound knowledge.

Maera's gaze followed her husband, sensing the weight of his thoughts. The numbers didn't lie—while the Greens boasted five dragons, including the formidable Vhagar and Ēbrion, the Blacks had six, albeit mostly juveniles. Yet, even in their youth, these dragons possessed formidable power.

The realization hit Maera like a thunderbolt. She knew all too well the strength of the dragons. There were many known wild dragons on Dragonstone, but also many unknown in the dragonmount, just like Ēbrion. If Rhaenyra had acquired additional riders and dragons, it would tip the scales of the war irreversibly in her favour.

“You cannot win this war,” Lord Alan stated with desperation. But it fell on deaf ears as Maera clenched her jaw, her eyes flashing with resolve. She turned to Aemond, seeking strength and solidarity in their shared determination.

With a steely gaze, Maera spoke softly but firmly to her husband, her words resonating with unwavering conviction. “Morghon ondoso zaldrīzes tolī adere.” Death by dragon is too quick.

Aemond’s expression hardened at his wife’s words, a silent agreement passing between them. He moved to once again stand beside her, his presence a reassuring anchor amidst the chaos unfolding around them.

Turning his attention to the other two assailants, Aemond issued a harsh decree, his voice cutting through the air with authority. “Those two are to be hung, drawn, and quartered. Let their bodies serve as a warning to all who dare defy House Targaryen and its rightful King.”

The condemned men protested vehemently as they were dragged away, their cries echoing through the hall in vain. Aemond glanced at Maera, searching her face in order to get a glimpse at what she was thinking they should do with her supposed brother-in-law.

The Princess bent down again, her gaze softening momentarily as she addressed Lord Alan, her concern for her sister evident in her voice. "Is my sister well?"

Lord Alan nodded eagerly, relief flooding his features. "Very much so, Princess. She is looking forward to becoming a mother," he assured her.

A small smile tugged at Maera's lips as she acknowledged the reassurance. "Thank you, good-brother," she said, her gratitude evident in her tone. With a solemn nod towards her husband, Maera stepped back, her hand instinctively resting on her swollen stomach, a silent reminder of the life growing within her.

Her green eyes remained fixed on Aemond as he unsheathed his dagger, a glint of steel in the dim light of the hall. In one swift motion, he cut the man's throat, crimson blood spurting forth in a gruesome display. The sound of the body hitting the stone floor echoed through the hall, a grim punctuation to the grim act.

Notes: this was a big chapter so I’ve split it. Alys’s death is coming, don’t fucking worry 🤣 gotta get that lore in though. So chapter seventy-eight we will see the last of the witch. You guys can wait till then it’ll be worth it 😉 also I will not be taking questions about the assassination attempt and if this had anything to do with Alys, I would like to watch you all debate each other in the comments 😏

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

#maera wylde #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #aemond fanfiction #chapters #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #house targaryen #house wylde #hotd helaena #aemond fanfic #aemond fic #house of the dragon season 2 #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen fanfiction

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brisquad-unit-4402 · 1 year

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how i like to describe luxiem's eyes

here's another warmup i did before requests that'll hopefully explain why i write the same description often. just what i always think of whenever i see them

tags: fluff, drabble, gender neutral reader

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

🖋 Ike Eveland

He holds a shattered bottle weathered through time, dulled underwater as sand scratches along the glass, the same color as his hair when the tide ebbs. Bottle-green returns to the sea, droplets along the frosted finish that sparkle like the ocean itself where the sun rises and sets. Seaglass produced from pressure only to become its own unique jewel among others.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🦁 Luca Kaneshiro

His cologne is straightforwardly green, but the subtle lavender note is one you realize when he glances at you. Petals bounce through the way he can't hide anything whenever you meet his eye, hinted through with the blades of grass and pitch-purple veins through the flowers as they unravel in small buds.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🦊 Mysta Rias

There is liveliness you can't begin to pin down, like cotton candy and parasols and painted beach houses all in a line. He's summer all in one. Sunlight peeks through rain clouds when he bristles, but strawberry fields flood his world when he squints, a smile like pearls under candy-blue raspberry.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

👟 Shu Yamino

His gaze is almost alien. When it gets dark it glows blacklight, illuminated by spirit, bright as the soul underneath. Gem tones and the fire between the facets glide through a purple so vast that he's a galaxy himself, planets woven between the fabric and the constellations across.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

👹 Vox Akuma

Temptation lurks in those white gold eyes, but how could you resist? It's genuine, pale like jewelry and just as luxurious. Promises of sweetened honey draws you closer and the crisp chains of color lures you in. It's only when he becomes burning coal that you realize you're caught in his trap, and peachened rubies await as he looks down at you.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

#ike eveland x reader #luca kaneshiro x reader #mysta rias x reader #shu yamino x reader #vox akuma x reader #luxiem x reader #luxiem #ike eveland #luca kaneshiro #mysta rias #shu yamino #vox akuma #nijisanji en #nijisanji x reader #luiem headcanons #luxiem fluff #4402 writes #surely one day i'll finish a request ty for your patience even though i keep thanking you for it! almost done w/ one of the event reqs wooo

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lunavenefica · 2 years

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⛤Kitchen Witchcraft-Lavender⛤

Lavender is one of the most popular ingredients in the craft, whose scent eliminates tension, strengthens intuition, improves dreams and protects against evil spirits.

This plant is ruled by the planet Mercury, the element of air and the sign of Gemini.

Among the Romans, lavender was added to bath water and served as a symbol of abundance on the table.

Due to its magical properties, lavender has been used in many rituals and spells since ancient times.

This plant has a great influence in cleaning the negative energy of space from evil forces.

The essential oils of this magical plant are widely used to strengthen the nervous system and in periods when human energy is weak.

Lavender oil is used to clean spaces, especially if there are frequent conflicts and arguments.

It is believed that all evil escapes from the smell of this plant.

Lavender oil should be added to the bath if the person has a sudden drop in energy or weakness. Lavender is most often used fresh.

Lavender magic

⛤Cleansing Spell:

Take an odd number of lavender sprigs and pour hot water on them.

When it cools down, use the water to wash your face and say

“This curse I’ve banished from my face

and sent back.”

⛤To fulfill a wish:

Take twelve dry sprigs of lavender, grind them and keep the powder in a closed box.

Then take a candle and sprinkle some dry lavender on it.

It is believed that the wish will be fulfilled.

⛤Other facts:

It is believed that if a girl wants to attract love into her life, she should wear a small twig in her suit.

This plant is considered a magnet for attracting the opposite sex and improving the financial situation.

Lavender should be kept in the corner of the closet because it will protect against all evil influences and negative forces.

This plant is widely used in the field of homeopathy. It is believed that it has the strongest magical powers if it is collected during the full moon.

It is used to treat bruises, relieve anxiety and relieve stress.

In folk medicine, it is used against stomach pain and problems with the intestines, as well as treating the kidneys.

Witchfully Yours,

⛤Isidora⛤

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saltofmercury · 1 year

Text

Horangi

Summary: You meet Horangi

A/N: This was supposed to be in response to that GIF I've been wet over the past weekend but instead I wrote this shit?

"Horangi"

It was such a long week. Never ending emails, traffic, and meetings you had been a part of. Rain had been plummeting down all week. This made you upset. What should’ve been a 15 minute drive became a 30 minute drive to work. The rain caused fear among other drivers. You enjoyed the rain at home, at peace, not gliding in the wetness of outside. Where you could stay dry, and admire how the water fell from the sky.

Your car approached the house at the top of the hill, his driveway collecting water, and excitedly pouring down the curb of the sidewalk. His window to the living room had the curtains pulled back, the candles you had lit this morning still on. Everything else was blurred due to the water.

Setting the car in park, you grabbed the umbrella in your backseat, your work backpack, and began to trudge up the driveway to his house. Cold wind hit, you fumbled with the keys, the water still spraying up above– down towards your umbrella, causing your backpack to slide off your shoulder. You dropped the keys in front of you, where the welcome mat had been thoroughly soaked with water. Fingers squished down on the mat, you shoved up the keys swiftly into the lock, and pushed yourself in.

Small chatter and laughter down the hall was cut short. You stepped in the house, the smell of lavender – your candles– hit you. Hearing his footsteps pick up as you set down the backpack near the door.

“Babe?” The door in the hallway opened, a figure walked, (ran) towards you. Hands smothered your face and brought you close. His body was warm, his fingers soft around your cheeks, as his tongue hungrily opened your mouth.

You moaned a bit into the kiss. It was your favorite welcome home.

“Is it over? The week is finally over?” König mumbled into your mouth in-between kisses. You nodded, eyes closed, you breathed him in, god he was so lucky he stayed home. He was worried after seeing a car accident on Tuesday that you might need to be driven to work, you rejected his offers feeling bad that he could be leaving soon at any moment, allowing him to stay home.

He grabbed at your backpack and hung it up on a rack, followed by your drenched raincoat. You always seemed to make things complicated.

“Why didn’t you just park in the driveway? Or even the garage? I could’ve moved my gym weights..” Looking over at your exhausted face, he felt bad that he could’ve done one thing that just made your day easier.

“It’s okay,” you hated feeling like you were prying yourself into his life or house. It was his house, with some small additions of you scattered everywhere. It was never “our” home, probably because you felt like maybe being attached to someone with a job so insane like his would be hard for you, or maybe because he never really made an attempt to call himself yours.

“So good news,” he began, leading you to the couch. He took over the side he usually lay on, and pulled you on top of him.

“MY fantasy football team is winning!” Peering up at him, you rolled your eyes and laughed.

“Oh are they?”

“Yes, you know, it took forever for Horangi to really grasp football, but my god the man is a genius at picking players.”

You side eye him, still unable to comprehend the whole concept of a fake league. Shit, the whole idea of football was still hard to understand. You tried your hardest to understand it the many MANY times you sat with him on Sunday’s, as he explained it to you, his patience never thinning out over the same questions you asked.

For you, it was much more fun to see him. The way he admired the players walking in, how they ran out onto the field, the passes and plays König called before the refs, or would call and then a ref would call something different.

“OFFSIDES?” he said as he stood up in disbelief. Hands both on his hips, as he trudged up and down the living room. “It’s stupid call schatz, very very stupid.” As his open hand waved in the air.

You climbed up off of him, walking over to the fridge to grab a drink.

“Horangi and you still meeting up tonight?”

“Of course, we have our weekly meeting for Sunday’s game.”

Horangi and König always met up a couple times online to discuss fantasy leagues or to play games. You busied yourself doing laundry, catching up on shows, or being on your phone knowing he was immersed with his long time friend.

There was very little you knew of Horangi. You knew he was on the team with König, they were instant friends like König said. Horangi just had his back. He was a very loyal man to König.

You sometimes saw him online, but never heard his voice. When you brought König a snack or water during his time in his game room, Horangi would mention things to König through the headset that would make him blush, then telling him to shut up. You figured it was about you, so you just waved politely and Horangi would wiggle his eyebrows and twiddle his fingers.

You tried to stop yourself from asking, but it was too late.

“How come, I’ve never met Horangi?”

König, pausing his game on his phone, looked over at you and walked over.

“You’ve met Horangi plenty of times,” he began.

“I’ve only really waved at him König, I don’t think he knows my name.”

“Of course he knows your name, I told him.” He was leaning against the kitchen island, his fingers tracing the edge of it. He looked at you, then confessed, with pink hues on his cheeks –

“I tell him a lot about you actually,”

You chewed on your lip, feeling a little better he brought this up, but you weren't satiated.

“Do you? I do feel that’s different than meeting a person.”

“I guess I didn’t really think about it,” he spoke quietly, a little ashamed and sad that he hadn’t properly introduced you two. The two of you were significant in his life, apart from his family back home. He did wonder why the thought never crossed his mind.

“Okay,” he said again, “Horangi is going on a small vacation next month, however he said he would stop by to see me, you guys can meet then.”

You beamed, “wait really, just like that? I thought I would at least hear his voice on the computer first,”

König rolled his eyes and stood up, “I give you so much, and you want so little schatz,” he smiled, pinching his index and thumb together. “We can start there.”

The month had rolled by, before you knew it, the day had come that Horangi was staying a couple days in the city you guys were in. König suggested having dinner at his house.

You chewed on your thumbnail, standing in front of your side of the closet, unsure of what to wear. God, have you ever been more nervous just to meet a friend?

König had stepped out of the shower, towel draped around his bottom half, as he dried his hair with another.

“You okay?” he said, his skin still pink from the hot shower.

“Yes,” you mumbled, sure that you were going to get distracted if you stared to your right. You had a lot of thoughts bubbling in your head, the less distractions the better.

He came up behind you, he still smelled of sandalwood and vanilla, smiling at you in the mirror.

“Are you… getting nervous?” he grinned so widely. The whites of his teeth showed, one corner of his mouth curved.

“Um, maybe a little,”

“What happened to–’I want to meet your friends’?” He teased you.

He wasn’t one to talk, especially when he smelled like your body wash straight from the shower.

“Well, there used to be one mercenary under this roof, now it's two...” you caught his eyesight in the mirror, he laughed.

“Guess you better watch what you say then?” He smirked, grabbed your chin and tilted your head towards his.

You both finished getting ready, as you went down to check on the dinner you had been preparing.

The doorbell rang, and König went out to grab it. He smiled his way to the door, excitement jumping inside him.

The door opened, and you heard Horangi’s voice. “Shit man, very nice place you got here.” König had reached out towards him, then picked him up. Cracking his back, eliciting a gruff sound from Horangi.

“Fuck! you could’ve warned me you damn gorilla!” He spoke, as König laughed out loud.

“Come in!” He was so happy, his voice had changed a bit.

You were still in the kitchen nervously folding the dish towels when you heard the small exchange from them in the hallway.

“So you’ve got a yeonin huh? That’s what's been keeping you from missions?”

König spoke in German, you were unable to understand what he replied to him. Once they had rounded their way to the kitchen, Horangi had been smiling at the response König gave him.

You made the first move toward them,

“Hi! It’s so nice to meet you.” mentally embarrassed for how your voice raised a little higher.

“Hiya, nice to meet you,” he held his hand out. He was such a gentleman, he was smaller than König, but taller than you. He was dressed in all black, with some light orange tennis shoes. His hair was combed back neatly, and he had his dog tags sparkling around his neck. He instantly gave you the impression of the son of a mobster, the way his face was so serious, but looked so young.

König eyed you looking at Horangi up and down, smiling at how you were taken back on meeting someone from his world. He could see in your eyes how you were filled with questions, your eyes taking in his friend.

“.. schatz?” he said quietly, and Horangi laughed. “What's for dinner?”

Horangi was a drinker, as König had mentioned, but perhaps out of politeness, he strayed back from drinking too much. You on the other hand had already felt tipsy. König watched you as you slowly became intoxicated, liquid courage replacing the nerves you had.

Horangi had been narrating his latest mission, a mission you discovered König did not accept, making it difficult for Horangi to find a partner he trusted.

“Man,” he shook his head, sipping on the red wine you served him an hour ago. “Nobody has my back out there like you do.” He pointed his finger at König. He had told them that Hutch was explaining to them how to enter the house they needed to get into, his new partner for this job, Roz, was making it difficult for them to get into.

“Fuckin Roz,” König exclaimed, “I swear she’s so reckless, blowing shit up then blaming her teammate for the mess…” “You remember the mission in South America?”

‘I might have blown up 3 cars,” they both said at the same time, impersonating her.

Horangi’s eyes had filled with sadness, clearing missing his partner in the field. He looked at you, then that feeling went away. It sort of made him happy König was not out there.

Horangi had always teased König “swear you and I are going to end up together,” when they stayed up until dawn on missions. König would laugh and tell him “who’s the wife –you or me?” Horangi laughed harder saying “it's me, I am the wife, because you’re so crazy out there, and that leaves me nervous.” Both of them laughed at each other.

It was a genuine friendship, they had each other’s backs, and told each other everything.

He would tell Horangi about the bullies at school, then how he enlisted out of fear of being ridiculed like this his entire life, then enjoyed the dirty work of it all, even leaving the military to join KorTac where the dirty work wasn’t looked down upon.

Horangi loved the guy, but he knew there was always some emptiness to König though, like he longed for a partner, but couldn’t put himself out there due to his job, or social anxiety.

He looked at you, how your body positioned itself near König, how your hand rubbed König’s leg, how König snuck glances at you every couple of minutes, or smiled at you when you spoke.

He asked,

“How’d you two meet?” then sipped his wine again.

Your eyes widened, and you blushed, “At the grocery store.”

“Ran into me with your cart…” König corrected you. “I was shopping for produce late at night, remember Horangi, and that night someone hit me with their cart!”

“As if someone could knock you down.” you answered back, clearly never living down how you two first met.

“So this is shopping cart person?” Horangi had said, then his eyes widened at how bad that sounded, quickly explaining himself.

“König uh, told me about someone staring at him in the produce section, is what I meant.”

You quickly changed the subject, avoiding his comment.

“What’s König like? How did you guys meet?”

Horangi raised an eyebrow at you, then looked at König for an OK.

“You ever know about the time we were ambushed? In Russia?” Horangi leaned back into his chair. He begins telling the story, then pausing to look at König,

“This psycho runs out of the god damn building, throws a grenade at the group, while diving to stab one of their people.”

You looked shocked, this was an extent of what you knew König to be inside the four walls of his home.

“One time I tell you, our building we were in had been falling apart, this guy Mr. Jason Bourne, decides to run off and jump onto the other building, holding a shotgun.”

König sheepishly replied “It was faster to capture the enemy this way.”

“And he fuckin’ makes it!” “Of course with my help shootin’ people down.”

You leaned into the table, waiting for more from Horangi.

Horangi, lured you in. “Remember when we got that bastard from the human trafficking ring?”

König’s smile had faded, a bit unsure if you were going to be okay with what followed.

“So this piece of shit guy, we were after for like months. Kept finding his hostages, setting them free, but couldn't find the asshole. König finds the piece of shit hiding in an abandoned barn.”

“He was shaking, I was tired of playing cat and mouse.” König said seriously.

“All I hear in the coms is crying, begging, to please let him go.” “Our orders were to bring in dead or alive.”

Horangi looked at you, your head cocked to the side, inviting him to continue.

“By the time I got there, König had the guys guts spilling out of him.”

You gasped, making eye contact with König. Both of them laughed, maliciously and playfully.

“I’m just fucking with you, we brought the guy in, he’s serving time in hell.”

König looked at Horangi, thankful he had slightly changed the ending, and then at you, unsure if you were ready for the truth

“Let’s head outside. I’m sweating..”

Horangi continued sharing stories of them out of the field, König interjecting a couple times to tell him “that’s not how I remembered it exactly,” then retelling the story exactly how it was.

You weren’t sure if you were surprised by him or scared, König was so different from what you were used to. The Sunday football guy, the man who teased you and embarrassed you in public, or who had whispered his childhood past to you in the late hours of the night. You just couldn’t believe this was him outside of your bubble together.

König excused himself to go to the bathroom. Horangi put out his cigarette and came over to you.

“You.. uh… not bothered by the comment earlier right?”

You blushed, “No not at all, just um, curious as to what he is outside of here.”

Horangi nodded his head, looking like he was going to miss an opportunity, he spoke,

“I’m just glad you make him happy.. I’m glad he found his partner.”

Maybe it was the alcohol, but you felt sad. König was your person, and as much as he didn’t say it, the evidence was clear. “I love this guy, and I hope you love him the way I do.”

König came out, seeing how Horangi and your knees touched. He hoped Horangi didn’t try to pull his “tiger moves” on you.

“Come here schatz,” he sat next to you, bringing your couch blanket, “I’ll start a bonfire.”

Horangi looked at you and smiled, his friend was really into you.

“Becareful with this guy… fuckin' pyromanic. Have I told you about how he set a jungle on fire?”

#könig #könig x reader #call of duty #könig x horangi #konig call of duty #konig x reader #könig mw2 #cod horangi #könig x you #cod könig #könig cod

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ikayblythe · 8 months

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reIterators

A new biological vessel, created by iterator Where Seas Meet Skies, to give their kin a chance to live free of the prisons that are their own bodies.

A revamp of this post.

The above images feature Wave Function Collapse, one of the many "children" of WSMS from the beginnings of the reiteration project. The first generation of reiterators were all glorified clones and remain somewhat connected in a loose hive mind with the Ascending Spire, as "beta versions" before WSMS deemed it safe enough to begin with other iterators.

Reiterators are biological avatars based upon iterator DNA, with the genes of humans and scavengers to fill in the holes. This resulted in an overall human-like appearance, though with more scav-like proportions. Reiterators also have more scav-like faces, with spiracles in place of a nose and triple-split mandibles.

Wave Function Collapse, along with Songs of Lavender, form the Courier sect—a network of purposed messenger envoys and their reiterator trainers designed as an underground alternative to the global broadcast network to support the growing carnalist movement among iterators. Most messages can be sent unsupervised via an envoy, though more important deliveries, such as an iterator's complete system scans, require a Courier's guidance to ensure the safety of the cargo. Waves works as WSMS's eyes in this field, being able to directly interact and convince ailing superstructures to reiterate.

#digital art #artwork #rain world #art #artists on tumblr #rw ancients #digital illustration #rainworld #original art #rw #rw sunshower #rw reiterator #wave function collapse #where seas meet skies #another reminder that i call rw ancients humans

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hlficlibrary · 9 months

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HL Fic Library 🟠 1980's Fics

Remember to leave kudos and a comment on the fics you enjoyed to show your appreciation! You can find the library's other recs here.

⭐ We Were Such Fools by kiddle / @bluejeanlouis (M, 98k)

Rule #1: The Rewind Machine cannot be used to change the past, only to experience it. History will reset itself to the original timeline every 24 hours.

On his fiftieth birthday, two things are consuming Harry’s mind: what he’s going to make the kids for dinner tonight, and the fact that his marriage is crumbling at his feet.

So, when his best friend gifts him the trip of a lifetime, Harry chooses to venture off to the summer that set his life on its course—all the way back in 1987, California.

It only took him one summer to fall in love with his husband the first time around. How hard could starting all over really be?

⭐ modern love by prettyoddnjh (T, 72k)

It's August 9th, 1985. "Shout" by Tears for Fears is the top song on the Billboard charts, Back to the Future has been the #1 film in the country for five weeks straight, and Harry has just moved to what he thinks is probably the shittiest town in the Midwest.

Louis has been wasting away in East Chicago for over five years, Harry is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to him, and both of them are hiding a dangerous secret from their best friend: they're, like, totally sprung on each other.

⭐ The World Turned Upside Down by dogslpdi / @dogsliampaynedoesntinstagram (E, 71k)

In September 1984, Harry Styles starts at Manchester Polytechnic with two goals: to take pictures and to join the Lesbian and Gay Society. He’s never paid much attention to the news, but everyone he meets in Manchester supports the miners. He realises how right they are when he meets Louis Tomlinson, a striking miner who flirts with him. A month later they are both at the founding meeting of Manchester Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners, trying to bring down the government. Through letters and visits they build a relationship, in a world very much not of their own choosing.

Manchester and Doncaster in the 1980s are grim, hopeful and alive. Niall is president of the Young Labour club, Nick Grimshaw is in love with the singer of an up and coming band, Fizzy wants to know more about the women of Greenham Common and Harry and Louis are brave.

A Lesbians and Gays Support the Miners/Pride AU.

⭐ Among Lavender Fields by @homosociallyyours (E, 70k)

At twenty-one, Louis Tomlinson is more than ready to shed the girl next door image that's been with her since her entry into film in her childhood, but with a mother and father steeped in Hollywood tradition it's felt impossible. Meanwhile, Harry Styles is a young, struggling musician new to London, friendless yet eager for the next phase of her life to begin.

When French director Marie Coutard casts the two of them in her film, it's a chance for both to break away from the people they've been. Together, they struggle through an acting process that's new and unfamiliar for both of them, learning more than they could've imagined about themselves along the way. As they spend long days picking lavender and long nights sharing the things they've never been able to tell anyone else, their love blooms.

Will the flower fade, or will the love they make among lavender fields be one they carry with them to the end?

⭐ HL 80s nyc verse (series) by superglass (M, 51k)

He expects his usual warm welcome from Sue, always drying off a glass or cleaning the taps with a dirty rag. Instead, to his shock, a man is behind the bar, pouring a Whiskey Sour for a regular Harry always sees at this time of night. He’s no doubt his age; he can tell by the smoothness of his skin, the muscles in his biceps, the way his hair is swept back in a style not unlike a young James Dean, exemplifying the cut of his cheekbones and the sharpness at his jaw.

As he approaches the bar, quietly since he’s not wearing his shoes, he blurts it out— “Where’s Sue? Is she alright? She’s not dead, is she?”

The barkeep, wide-eyed at first but quickly growing amused, smiles at him, eyeing his dress, tousled wet hair and smudged makeup with a curl in his lip. “Darling,” he says, completely ignoring his question, “a leather jacket with a dress like that? Are you mad?”

or In the midst of the AIDS crisis, Harry meets Louis after coming home from a drag ball. 80s NYC au.

⭐ what this world is about by isntrio / @bloubird (E, 34k)

An eighties American high school AU; there are first times, football games, and feelings.

Alternatively titled: the beginning.

⭐ What Happened to 'Never Say Die'? by kiddle / @bluejeanlouis (T, 28k)

The ‘80s were one of the best decades to be a teenager in America. Just ask anyone who's seen a John Hughes movie. Louis would beg to differ. At least today he would, while he was stuck cleaning out his family's basement - part of his grounding after a senior prank gone wrong. But when he finds a box containing details of the biggest unsolved crime in Luna Hills, he and his friends decide to sneak out for one last adventure before they're all off to college. That is, as long as the mayor, who also happens to be Louis' mother, doesn't stop them before they discover the truth.

Or, a coming of age American AU inspired by classic ‘80s movies like The Goonies and Stand By Me where everyone has a secret and no one wants to get caught.

⭐ Never Meant to Be So Bad to You by harriblou (M, 27k)

Louis hated Harry and his stupid confidence and his handsome face and his deep voice and his stupid jeans and his stupid smile and his stupid existence. He hated Harry, always had and always will. They’d never gotten along and Louis wasn’t sure how it started, but he knows that Harry was put onto this earth to bug the hell out of Louis. Being trapped inside of an arcade with him was hell and it hadn't been a full minute.

or the 80's Arcade AU that no one asked for about how louis and harry hate each other (not really) and have an intense rivalry over video games. featuring liam niall and zayn as the friends who help them sort themselves out.

⭐ Lean On My Shoulder (I See Myself With You) by Jennifer_Kaid / @poetsreprieve (E, 19k)

Speaking of the views, there was someone on his balcony. The sun was still setting, making this person look even more ethereal. They seemed to be at content at being alone. Harry watched as they watered the plants, they certainly didn't look like they were amongst the help.

Curiosity got the best of him and he decided to invade this stranger's quiet time; the Prince could be selfish sometimes.

"When you love something, you help them grow."

⭐ enter exit (enter) by @louisandthealien (M, 17k)

When he’s finally in the hotel, crammed into the tiny phone booth, all he can do is stare at the faded paper sign glaring down at him from the wall.

1 Minute = 11.82 USD Mexico --> United States

He has less than a minute to break his boyfriend’s heart, and it’s going to cost him twelve bucks to do it.

There’s sand under his fingernails as he dials the number.

⭐ after hours by @muldxr (E, 16k)

Harry moves like lightning as he slides the books off the shelves into the open, waiting abyss of his bag. Then, as Louis clears the other end of the exhibit just as quickly, he moves on to the display case next to it and the one after that. One flimsy book practically flies open as he picks it up, the paper held together by feeble strings on the spine. He leaves it behind. Not worth selling.

Or, a crime au set in 1980s Chicago.

⭐ honey, honey by resurrectdead / @artxghoul (E, 13k)

It just feels weird to not be able to tell his own mum about how nervous yet over the fucking moon happy he is right now, because this tape isn’t for neither Niall nor Liam. It’s for, well.It’s for Harry bloody Styles. The boy that makes his insides feel like sunshine.

Or: It’s 1988, and Louis has to make a mixtape for Harry

⭐ Haunting Beauty by 4ureyesonly28 / @evilovesyou (G, 6k)

It’s 1988. Harry has just finished his first year of teaching English and looks forward to a relaxed break. Louis is a poltergeist and has different plans for Harry’s summer.

⭐ the sound of my heart needs the sound of another heart by momentofclarity / @gaycousinlarry (G, 2k)

In the summer of '83, Louis is fifteen years old and in love.

⭐ Glad to be Gay by Stria / @nooradeservedbetter (T, 2k)

It's the same old story all over the world When a boy meets a boy and a girl meets a girl We all come together cos we're happy to say It's a natural fact that it's good to be gay

[Or, it's the 80s. Harry and Louis are together.]

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transboyhalo · 2 months

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Tried a tiny bit of creative writing about q!Bad's death uh-

Warnings: Death, graphic descriptions of a corpse, slight gore

I can't stop thinking about Bad's corpse in that flower field.

He died surrounded by lavender- a flower said to symbolize serenity and tranquility among other things. It's a bit ironic, considering how he spent his last minutes.

Do you think he'd be the perfect picture of serenity, eyes glazed over with the fear and pain he felt when shouting for his son's life? Would the elements have spared him three days in, too afraid to disturb such tranquility that is present in an arm outstretched to reach for a person that isn't there? An attempt to save another?

In the golden hours of the morning he's never looked so angelic, with sunlight casting a rejuvenating glow on his rotting figure. Maggots slowly worm their way through the blue ichor that casts the entire left side of his head. Heaven itself would hide in shame if they gazed upon him now.

The scent of lavender overpowers the scent of decay as the people close to him walk past, calling out his name and searching for any sign of his whereabouts.

They're pulled away moments before they'd have stumbled across him. They continue looking, time and time again with worry clouding their hearts and anxiety in their nerves. Where could he be? Beloved uncle, friend, father?

No matter the relation, they breathe in the scent of lavender, and their mind begins to ease.

The corpse rotting in the flower field is undiscovered for yet another day.

#tw death #text #badboyhalo #qsmp

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lombax-lombardi · 2 months

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happy belated valentines???

U H H H H YEAH

#my art #maddi does art #self insert #self ship #OC: Madilyn Elisa Gingerline #ship: treasuries and violet highlights #ship: riding free among lavender fields

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taviamoth · 8 days

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🚨 Euro-Mediterranean Human Rights Monitor:

—

The involvement of technology and social media companies in causing the killing of civilians by "israel" in the Gaza Strip necessitates an immediate investigation.

These companies should be held accountable and liable if their complicity or failure to exercise due diligence in preventing access to and exploitation of their users’ private information is proven, obligating them to ensure their services are not misused in war zones and that they protect user privacy.

"Israel" uses various technology systems supported by artificial intelligence, such as Gospel, Fire Factory, Lavender, and Where’s Daddy, all operating within a system aimed at monitoring Palestinians illegally and tracking their movements.

These systems function to identify and designate suspected individuals as legitimate targets, based mostly on shared characteristics and patterns rather than specific locations or personal information.

The accuracy of the information provided by these systems is rarely verified by the occupation army, despite a known large margin of error due to the nature of these systems' inability to provide updated information.

The Lavender system, heavily used by the occupation army to identify suspects in Gaza before targeting them, is based on probability logic, a hallmark of machine learning algorithms.

"Israeli" military and intelligence sources have admitted to attacking potential targets without consideration for the principle of proportionality and collateral damage, with suspicions that the Lavender system relies on tracking social media accounts among its sources.

Recently, "israel's" collaboration with Google was revealed, including several technological projects, among them Project Nimbus which provides the occupation army with technology that facilitates intensified surveillance and data collection on Palestinians illegally.

The occupation army also uses Google's facial recognition feature in photos to monitor Palestinian civilians in the Gaza Strip and to compile an "assassination list," collecting a vast amount of images related to the October 7th operation.

The Euro-Mediterranean field team has collected testimonies from Palestinian civilians directly targeted in Israeli military attacks following their activities on social media sites, without any involvement in military actions.

The potential complicity of companies like Google and Meta and other technology and social media firms in the violations and crimes committed by "israel" breaches international law rules and the companies' declared commitment to human rights.

No social network should provide this kind of private information about its users and actually participate in the mass genocide conducted by "israel" against Palestinian civilians in Gaza, which demands an international investigation providing guarantees for accountability and justice for the victims.

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cheesewedge · 8 months

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A Stranger's Keepsake (18+)

Summary: Arthur runs into a strange man on the way back to camp. A strange man with photos of a woman in his tent...a very familiar woman.

Word Count: 4,387

Tags: blood and gore, graphic depictions of violence, stalking, arthur x original female character, established relationship

A/N: This was inspired by the encounter you have with that giant creep who stalks poor Charlotte.

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

The crisp Heartlands night nips at Arthur’s fingers on his way back to camp, crickets his only company among silver fields laid out in every direction. A buck’s head slaps against his horse’s rear. Two turkeys dangle from either side of his saddlebag. He picked raspberry bushes clean for Maria, dozens of them wrapped in his bandana and tucked in his satchel with the fresh herbs she asked for.

He yawns. Horseshoe Overlook isn’t much farther but he isn’t in any hurry to return. The simple hunting trip was as good an excuse as any to free himself from camp, and while his mare gently trots down the dirt road, the solitude nearly coaxes his eyes shut.

“Evenin’, friend!”

Arthur’s hooded eyelids flutter open. He frowns, looks around. Atop a nearby hill, a man stands alone with campfire smoke billowing to the stars.

“Er, hey there.”

“You look like you could use a break. Y’ came at a good time, fire’s nice and warm.”

“Nah, ‘m alright, partner.”

“Aw, come on now, friend. Saw you was real tired. I got some coffee brewin’ here.”

A sigh. He looks around again. “Sure, why not?” He steers his horse up to the man’s tent.

A smile blooms on the stranger’s face when Arthur dismounts. “Have a seat. Plenty of room by the fire in case you need ta rest those weary legs. I know how hard it is for a travellin’ man.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Arthur pours coffee black as the night around them. He sits on a crate by the fireside and observes the stranger. He stands tall even though he isn’t. There’s a button popped open over his stomach. Suspenders work to keep his trousers level with the doughy folds of his hips. A bowler hat doesn’t disguise where the hair stops.

The man smiles again. “Coffee’s nice and fresh. Just made that pot but lord knows I’ll need more to see this night through.”

“Is that right?”

“Yessir.” He pops open a lock box to retrieve a pair of binoculars.

Arthur’s eyes flick to the man’s tent. It isn’t the tattered canvas he notes, or its impressive size. It’s not the empty cans and bottles littered all over the grass, the man’s filthy bedroll — it’s the photos. String after string dangle from the canvas, each pinched between the teeth of a clothespin. The lantern below them illuminates the figure of a woman in every one.

“Norman, by the way,” the man says and reaches out his arm.

“Arthur.” He swallows Norman’s hand when he shakes it. “What’s all that there?”

“Oh. I just… I like to see her. Makes me feel like she’s here with me.”

“That your wife?”

“One day, friend.”

Arthur quirks a brow and rises from his seat. Cans clatter at his feet, every step bringing the lavender fields of Big Valley, the mountain range of the Heartlands, further into focus. His vision blurs. The strand bobs up and down in an aggressive ripple when he plucks a photo off the line.

“Whoa, careful there. Took me a while to get all these. Ain’t she a beauty?”

Arthur’s lungs burn from the breath he holds. On the bank of the Dakota River Maria sits with her face tilted towards the clouds.

“Spotted her a few weeks back. No idea where an angel like that came from, but that there’s my future wife. Mark my words.”

Arthur doesn’t speak. All he can do is stare at the photo. At Maria’s long curls that tumble down her back while she rests by the fire, a gingham blanket sprawled out beneath her. Norman continues to leer at the picture and Arthur’s gaze flits to the rest of them. Maria braids Ophelia’s mane in one. Cooks a slab of meat in another. He gawks at picture after picture of her wringing out her clothes, riding down the road, asleep in her bedroll.

“Always see her in and around here. Tried to talk to her once in Valentine. Saw her comin’ outta the saloon with a feller’d had a big scar on his face. Told her she was just about the prettiest thing I ever seen.” Norman stops to rub the back of his neck with a faraway smile. “...She smiled at me. Thanked me. Felt real good to know she liked me too. I tried to get her back into the saloon with me but the feller she was with pulled them along. Nasty piece a’ work. Real controllin’ type.”

Arthur spots a photograph above Norman’s bedroll. Hidden in a cluster of trees Maria sits with her journal in her lap, boots kicked off to the side of her blanket. She rests with her knees tucked to her chest, her slender calves on display and her sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He bends a knee to yank the photo off the line.

“That there’s one of my favourites. She usually gets all undressed just before bed but I seen her a few times like that. It’s like she knew I was watchin’. Almost grabbed her right there.”

Arthur rises like a long dormant god. He doesn’t know what change in him Norman notices first but Norman notices something because his smile cracks.

In the light of the fire he notices Arthur clutching the photo so hard that his fingernail is white. He clears his throat. “T-tell you what, friend. Can see ya like that one. W-why don’t you have it? H-had the shop print up a few of those anyhow. So, uh, you keep it, friend. I should really get goin’.”

For a moment neither move.

The wilderness is filled with song, crickets and turkeys in chorus for miles, yet Arthur still hears the man swallow as he raises his hands to his waist and takes a step back, his eyes filled with a sort of confused betrayal that almost makes him childlike when he packs away his utensils, bends over the fire to retrieve his mug and dump the remaining coffee into the grass. He looks up.

“T-there anythin’ else I can do for you, friend?”

Blood splatters onto half the photographs, remnants of brain and skull sprayed out like shrapnel. Arthur stands with his finger on the trigger, the barrel of a volcanic pistol pointed at Norman’s face. He snarls and holsters his gun.

He snatches the corpse by the collar, no mind paid to the slop that seeps out of his head, and rifles through his coat. Forty cents and a tin of cover lotion is all there is until Arthur reaches into his breast pocket. Another photograph. Maria rinses her face with water from the river, her shirt hung over Ophelia’s rear, in nothing but a camisole and black trousers with a rip on the knee. Arthur flips the picture. Scribbled text indicates when and where Norman saw her, the dates tracing back a week. The film sticks to his fingers. He shoves Norman to the dirt.

He kicks through the discarded bottles and rips down every photo to throw into the fire. Only after the paper curls and disintegrates does he loot through the rest of Norman’s camp, bread chunks and mangled pelts not worth the hassle. He mounts his horse and snaps the reins all the way back to Horseshoe Overlook.

His legs throb by the time he reaches camp and gallops through the trees up to the horses, tossing the reins over the post next to Ophelia. He brings his leg over the saddle and drops to the grass with dinner bubbling up his throat.

Arthur hangs his head and grabs a wild carrot from his satchel, a slight tremble in his hand while his mare nibbles the snack. He closes his eyes. The stem disappears into his horse’s mouth just as Maria’s telltale laugh rings out across camp and he whips his head toward the noise.

She’s one of the only stragglers left with Mr. Pearson, John, and Uncle by the fire, the four of them bundled under pelts with bottles of beer in their hands. She’s stripped down to her chemise, a sign she’s headed to bed soon. Curls twist and spill from her hair bun onto that red wool coat she refuses to replace. Firelight glimmers on her face. He watches her.

John cracks a joke that sends the four of them into a fit of laughter. Maria weakly swats at him. He fends her off with one arm and a wide smile and Arthur swears she calls John disgusting. John says something again and Maria breaks out in laughter brighter than the fire.

They need to go somewhere. He doesn’t know where they need to go but as her laugh chimes out again all he knows is that they need to go somewhere.

Arthur gathers the spoils of his trip and crosses camp, dropping the carcasses beside Pearson’s tent.

“Good job, Mr. Morgan,” Pearson says from the campfire.

“You’re comin’ in late,” John adds.

Maria smiles when she sees him and takes a sip from her bottle. “You get into any trouble, cowboy? There’s blood on you.”

“Oh, I-I jus’ ran into some folk.”

“And now they’re dead?” she asks with a smirk.

“Ol’ Arthur Morgan!” Uncle bellows from his chair. “Where does all that anger come from?”

He ignores the question. “Ran into an interestin’ lead,” he tells Maria. “Might be worth lookin’ at. A stage ‘sposed to be runnin’ through here.”

“Jesus, another one?” she asks. “We’ve robbed just about half of ‘em at this point. You think someone would catch on.”

“Let’s hope not,” John says and Maria grins, clinking her bottle against his.

“S’ comin’ through Strawberry in the mornin’. Should get movin’ now if we wanna catch it.”

Maria throws her head back. “Ugh. But then I have to get dressed and it’s so late and now I have to—” she places a hand on John’s shoulder to lift herself up, “—spend time with you.”

The men chuckle, Arthur included, and she smiles at him before disappearing into her tent. “Gimme a minute,” she calls from behind the canvas.

Arthur isn’t far behind when he walks into his own, just beside hers. He twists the lantern on his night table to life, a dull glow illuminating the blood on his fingers and something wet and red on the toe of his boot.

His clothes stink of rusted iron and when he sheds his shirt and coat he sees just how much of Norman he brought back with him. He kicks them to the side of his clothing trunk. Changes into a fresh pair of everything. He reaches into his satchel and by the time Maria pokes her head in, Arthur has his canteen tilted, water spilling all over his hands and into a dirty puddle at his feet.

“Hey, you.”

He scrubs his hands over his face and wipes them dry on his pants. “Hey there.”

Maria waits in a white button up shirt over a camisole. Black trousers with a rip on the knee. Arthur looks at her.

“What?”

“N-no. ‘S nothin’.

She looks down at her outfit. “Do I look okay?”

“Y’ look beautiful. Come on. Let’s go ‘fore it gets any later.”

Arthur makes his way to the horses without a word of goodbye to the men, though Maria wishes them all goodnight before catching up to him.

“So, where are we going?”

“Ain’t far. Can stay in Strawberry for the night.”

There’s a smile in her voice. “Yeah, I bet…”

“Ain’t nothin’ like that,” he says with a smirk. “Just wanna get chu outta here.”

“And here I thought there was a stage coming.”

“There is.”

“Mm-hm.” Maria hoists herself onto Ophelia. “Well, whatever your plans are, I do need to be back by tomorrow. It’s my turn to help in camp so I’m afraid I’ll be stuck here all day.”

He mounts his horse, scans the area. “Okay,” he says. “Good.”

They pass through the swell of trees and onto the road embossed with hoof prints and wagon tracks, camp not even out of sight before he narrows his eyes at any shadow in the forest, jerks his head to any animal in his periphery.

Maria’s stirrup clinks against his and she looks over with a grin. “Hey,” she says with a playful shove to his arm. “Move over.”

Arthur glances down. “‘M-’m sorry.”

“You wanna hop in my saddle too?”

He chuckles. “Said I was sorry.”

“I know, sweetheart, I’m only teasing you.” Arthur cranes his head back to glare at something she doesn’t see. “You sure you’re okay? You seem…I don’t know.”

He turns back to the road. “Naw, ‘m fine. What chu get up to today?”

Maria frowns. “...Nothing too exciting. I went shopping for supplies with Lenny and then made a stop in the general store. Though, I will have you know that I almost bought a new coat to replace my beautiful red one you hate so much. And then I didn’t.”

“Ha. Aw, come on, never said I hated it. It looks good on y’. S’ just seen better days.”

“Haven’t we all, Mister Morgan.”

‘So…y-y’ain’t run into any trouble when you was out?”

“Like what?”

“I don’ know. Anythin’. Jus’ wanna make sure you didn’t see anyone or run into any problems.”

“No, my love. I was perfectly safe.” She reaches across the space between them, squeezes his hand, and pulls back. “Did you run into trouble when you were out?”

There’s a grin on her face when he looks at her. He rubs the back of his neck. “I-well, to be honest, I ran into a feller comin’ home. He was just outside a’ camp. Too close outside a’ camp. Ain’t got no idea how long he was sittin’ there. Bastard’s been here ‘least a week from what I saw. But he—”

Arthur stops cold in the road.

“W-what’s wrong?”

A figure looms in the distance and he squints to get a better look. They’re unmoving, a quick appraisal proof of their slender legs and broad shoulders. They stand stiff and defiant, like they’re ready for something. He nods towards them. “There.”

She bends forward. “Arthur, I don't think there’s anything there.”

“Wait here.”

“Arth—”

“Shh. Jus’ wait here.”

The shadow waits, unperturbed. Arthur doesn’t see a gun belt or bandolier as he nears closer, no barrel poking out from behind their back. Stars dust the sky like salt from a shaker but their light can only hint at what’s in front of him. He draws his repeater.

“‘Y got a problem, buddy?”

They remain still.

Arthur cocks the hammer. “I said, y’ got a problem?”

He trots towards the figure until it’s in full view, a cold wavelet of relief and shame trickling through him. He blinks. Two splintered planks of wood point in either direction, nails bent and rusted in their foreheads. Valentine this way. Emerald Ranch that way. He lowers his gun.

Ophelia snorts as Maria trots up next to him. She watches him gawk at the street sign and runs the back of her finger down his cheek. “Hey. What’s going on with you?”

His ears burn when he slings the repeater behind him. “‘M sorry. Jus’...thought I saw somethin’.”

“No, that’s okay. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Y-you’re starting to scare me a bit.”

He reaches over and places a hand on her thigh. “‘M sorry, sweetheart. I ain’t mean to scare y’. Let’s just keep goin’, okay? Please.”

“Arthur, are we in danger?”

“No. No, y’ain’t in danger no more.”

He tries to move his hand off her leg but Maria grabs his wrist. “What does that mean?”

“N-nothin’. S’over now. Come on, let’s go. I don’t want chu campin’ out here.”

“No. You tell me what that means.”

Arthur sighs and hangs his head. “Please, jus’ come wit’ me. I promise to y’ I’ll tell y’ everythin’ once we get to Strawberry, okay? But let’s get goin’.”

Maria hasn’t loosened her vice grip on his wrist, her eyes wide with a kind of fear Arthur hates being responsible for. She watches him, waiting for an explanation, her gaze darting over him like maybe the answer is in the scars on his face. He places his hand over hers until the sting of nails in his skin at long last subsides.

“‘M sorry.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Will y’...? R-ride with me.”

“I am riding with you.”

“Naw. With me. Feel a whole lot better with you behind me.”

The confession brings out a sad, bemused smile. “...You promise to tell me what the hell’s going on when we get there?”

Arthur smirks and crosses his finger over his heart, and she rolls her eyes though her smile gets a little bigger. “Move over then.”

The remainder of their journey is blessedly filled with her voice, Maria answering every one of Arthur’s prompts. Tell me more ‘bout your day. Naw, all of it. I like listenin’ to you talk. That’s good. Charles and I went huntin’ too once a little while ago. Bison. Micah ain’t givin’ you any more grief is he? Y’ sure y’ain’t run into any trouble? Y’ comfortable back there? Sweet girl, you fallin’ asleep?

She’s halfway there by the time they make it into Strawberry, a quiet, drowsy mumble her only response when Arthur announces their arrival. “Come on, darlin.’ Let’s get chu inside.”

He helps Maria down and she leans against the hitching posts to watch him tether their mares, a tired smile gifted to him when he takes her hand to guide them inside. He holds on as they speak to the hotel clerk, clutches her fingers tighter on their way up the stairs, and when they make it into their room the first thing he does is bolt the door shut.

Maria hums on her way to the dresser, her head craned to every new detail of a room they’ve stayed in before. Arthur notices too. The fresh leaves that sprout from a vase on the bedside table. The change in sheets, lily white with an intricate black pattern that makes them look fancier than they are. A stain in the carpet is gone.

She drops onto the bed. “So, are you finally gonna tell me what’s—”

He crosses the room to the closet beside their bed and yanks open the door. Hangers clatter against each other, rushed to one side of the rod, then the other, before he shuts the door. A sheer curtain of lace hangs down to the floorboards over their window, burgundy drapes pinned back in front of it. He tugs the ropes and the thick cloth tumbles down like the end of a stage show.

“What are you—?”

He roots through his satchel and she can hear the clink of metal. He pulls out his little tin mug, a spoon, cursing under his breath until he locates a fork.

“Arthur?”

He walks over to the vanity and opens one of its slender drawers. He sticks the head of the fork inside and closes the drawer over the tines, his hand pressed firmly against the wood to keep it shut. Maria watches him, listens to him grunt and push down on the handle as if pumping water, and when he pulls it out of the drawer again the fork’s head is a capital C, the tines hooked like claws.

“Arthur?”

Back and forth back and forth he bends the metal until the head snaps off. He unlocks the door to their room and sticks the crooked fork head in the latch and closes the door again. She’s off the bed when he slides the broken handle through the tines. He tries to open the door. Jiggles the knob. Every time, the fork quivers but doesn’t break. He sighs and twists the lock below the doorknob too.

“Arthur, look at me.”

She’s behind him when he turns around, arms crossed over her chest and a look of worry he hardly sees anymore. Her boot tap tap taps on the floorboard. “You promised.”

“I know.”

“And you’re scaring the shit out of me.”

“Yeah, I know that too. ‘M sorry, sweetheart, I really am. Here, come with me.”

He takes her by the hand and leads her back to the bed, his eyes on the carpet throughout the entire story. How he was comin’ home and how he found the man and how naw, he seemed fine at first until he saw all the goddamn photos, some of ‘em taken in broad daylight and some of ‘em taken when she was sleepin’ and how he tore down every one of ‘em before comin’ to get her. He tells her all about how short he was and how he kinda reminded him of them things outside a church or big buildin’, yeah, a gargoyle, tha’s it, and how he was fat and bald and probably ain’t never fired a gun in his life.

Maria’s hand is limp by the time he finishes, her eyes lost to the wallpaper. She swallows. “A-and…” She tries to find the words but all she does is take a long and laboured inhale. Arthur shimmies out of his coat to wrap her in, his large hand running up and down her arm.

“How many were there? Photos. H-how many did he take?”

Arthur sighs. “‘Bout a dozen I reckon.”

“Jesus Christ. I…I am so goddamn stupid.”

“Hey, now—”

“How in the hell did I not notice something like that? He was following me around for a week, a week, Arthur, and he took all those goddamn photos and I didn’t—”

Arthur cups the side of her face and draws her head to his lips. “This ain’t your fault,” he says into her hair. “Y’ didn’t do anythin’ wrong. There’s a lotta sick folk out there and there ain’t no sense tryin’ to make heads or tails of it. And it ain’t your fault when they set their sights on y’.” He kisses her head again. “‘M sorry I didn’t see the bastard sooner. ‘S my job to keep y’ safe and I…I didn’t.”

She faces him. “How could you have known?”

“I don’t know.”

“Arthur, if I can’t blame me, you can’t blame you.”

He exhales. “Alright.”

They sit there, tangled in each other’s arms without a word. Maria wraps her fist around his fingers and kisses his knuckles, reaching into his lap to rest her other hand on his. He smiles.

“Thank you, Arthur. For bringing me here and for just…I love you.” Another kiss to his knuckles. “I love you so much.”

“I know, sweetheart. Me too. More than anythin’, I do.”

“Are you okay?”

“Sure. Ain’t about me.”

“Arthur.”

He looks at her. With those big brown doe eyes and those long dark curls and that glorious golden skin of hers. “I’m jus’...I’m jus’ so goddamn afraid of somethin’ terrible happenin’ to y’.”

“Might be an occupational hazard I’m afraid,” she whispers.

He presses his forehead to hers. “That ain’t funny.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Arthur, I—whenever you go out on a job, whenever you head into town, whenever someone so much as looks at you funny I’m always so goddamn scared that something bad’s going to happen.” She runs her thumb across the scar on his chin. “It’s been a long time since I’ve loved someone as much as I love you…” Her voice trails off, a fine glaze over her eyes when she drops them to her lap. “A long time since I’ve lost someone I love as much as you, too. And I…I don’t have it in me to survive that again.”

“Sweet girl. Yer talkin’s if y’ already lost me.”

“Some days I’m terrified I will,” she whispers.

His calloused finger rests under her chin and lifts her face to his. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere. And I ain’t lettin’ you go anywhere neither.”

“We keep each other safe.”

“I love you.”

“I know. Me too.”

He tilts her lips to his. The kiss is short, timid, and when she pulls away with a blush on her cheeks it reminds him of their first. He smiles.

“Well, cowboy. Guess we better get to sleep so we can catch that stage.”

“You know damn well there ain’t a stage.”

She laughs. “I do.”

“Still. That don’t mean we gotta head back right away. Maybe it came late,” he says, a second kiss pressed to her lips. “Maybe it didn’t come at all.”

“Mm. And what do you reckon we do with all our free time?”

“Got a few ideas.”

“Nap?”

“Ha. Well, there’ll be plenty a’ time for that too.”

“Not with you there won’t be,” she says with a smirk, and rises off the bed.

Arthur chuckles and works himself out of his clothes while Maria undresses beside him. She finishes first and snuggles under the bedspread in only a camisole and bloomers, her hair freed down the curve of her back while he strips down to his union suit.

She wolf whistles before he slips in next to her. Dons a southern accent. “My, my, Mister Morgan.”

“Shut up,” he says with a grin.

“My stars. I ain’t seen you this indecent in a long time.”

“Sorry I don’t go gallivatin’ around in my bloomers all the time.”

She laughs. “Oh, I’m sorry. Sorry for not wanting to fall asleep in my clothes like a barbarian. Who goes to bed with their boots on?”

“I do.”

“Well I think you’ll find this much more comfortable.”

“Y’ may have to lose a few more layers ‘fore I’m really comfortable.”

“I will if you will.” She inches closer to wrap an arm around his torso. “I love you.”

He yawns wide and long and silent. Kisses the top of her head. Sleep is already heavy in his bones when he closes his eyes. “Mm, me too.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve said that a lot tonight, haven’t I?”

“Don’t be sorry, darlin’. I ain’t ever gonna tire of hearin’ you say it.”

“Okay, good. Cause I've got a lifetime more of ‘em.”

“Tha’s a real long time to spend on an outlaw.”

She smiles and closes her eyes. “Looking forward to it.”

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