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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 4 years

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Just Breathe

A little Ever After (1998) crossover because I am a SLUT for the Renaissance Aesthetic and also for Drew Barrymore and Dougray Scott’s performances.

This one’s for you, @221bsunsettowers and @thecomfortofoldstorries

tw: mentions of past abuse, forced servitude

---

“Friends and honored guests, it gives us great pleasure, on this festive occasion, to not only honor Signore Vesemir...who seems to have disappeared; but also to tell you of a long-awaited decision,” the King began his announcement.

At the back of the party, gossamer wings spread wide behind his shoulders and sparkling blue eyes surrounded by rhinestones, Jaskier stood in terrified silence. This was the big moment. The one where he would bare his soul and his true status in life to Geralt. Hopefully his sweet, caring, introspective Prince would be able to accept him. To love him still, despite his position in life.

“Breathe,” he told himself quietly, “Just breathe.”

“It is my great privilege to announce the engagement of my son, Prince Geralt, to-”

But Geralt cut his Father off, stepping forward and away from the dais where the royal family had been standing. He rushed down the short staircase and across the red velvet carpet to where his darling Julian awaited, his hand outstretched and his breathing shallow. “My Father said you were getting married.”

“He was misinformed.”

“Then you are not engaged?” the Prince gasped, beaming. The servant in noble’s clothing shook his head and laughed wetly.

“No, I’m not.”

“I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life.”

Geralt had assumed that the watery-eyed smile Julian gave him in reply was one of happiness, or else he would have stopped right then and asked the younger man what was wrong. He would have saved them both the heartache of the following hour. The following week. The following month, even.

But the eager Prince was too absorbed in his own excitement; he didn’t stop to ask. He only saw his ethereal love, his Julian, wrapped in the white silk-and-velvet doublet. He saw the lace at the Viscount’s neck and wrists, so teasingly sweet, and the delicate pearl buttons that ran along his wrists and throat. He saw the matching white velvet breeches fastened below Jaskier’s knees, holding up a pair of fine silk stockings. On his beloved’s feet were a pair of embroidered blue-and-white dancing slippers in an old style; the style of Julian’s parents, probably.

“I’ve even invited the troubadours,” Geralt smiled, gesturing at the colorful troupe of guests off to one side.

“That’s lovely, Geralt, but I need to speak with you for a moment before anything else transpires.”

“Whatever it is, the answer is yes!”

“Wait-”

Geralt took the man he hoped to marry by one trembling hand and led him back up to the dais without letting him finish his sentence. Surely the Viscount was shaking with excitement. Surely the willowy brunette knew that Geralt intended to wed him and make him Consort. Didn’t he?

Yet when the handsome Prince looked down into the Viscount’s eyes he saw only raw terror and guilt building there. Like a terrible blue wave about to knock him off his feet. The horror hit full-bore when, a moment later, the Baroness Marx grabbed hold of Julian’s left wing and ripped it from his doublet, throwing the torn gossamer appendage to the ground and stomping on it with her expensive leather dancing shoes. Jaskier cringed; Vesemir would be heartbroken.

“Madame, contain yourself!” the Prince demanded. The Baroness wilted under his glare but only barely.

“He is an imposter, Your Highness. His name is Jaskier Pankratz and he has been a servant in my household for ten years!”

Everyone froze. Jaskier’s heart stopped beating entirely, he was sure.

“Julian,” Geralt swallowed thickly, his golden gaze turning to his one true love. “Tell them the truth. Tell them…”

“He is a devious, grasping little pretender and it is my duty to reveal his lies to you, Your Majesties,” the Baroness continued her speech, curtseying deeply, still standing atop Jaskier’s crushed wing. “I am sorry that he forced me to reveal it so publicly, but I couldn’t let you make so grievous a mistake, Your Highness.”

“Julian?” Geralt whispered. His voice was hoarse and low. Disappointed and tinged with anger. “Please?”

“It’s true,” Jaskier sniffed. A pair of twin tears made their way slowly down over his grimacing cheeks, dropping to the carpet below. “Julian de Lettenhove was my Father. I am what she says.”

“The apple,” Geralt realized. “That was you?”

“I can explain!”

The King interrupted with a growled, “Well someone had better.”

“First you’re engaged…” Geralt breathed carefully, still trying to control his boiling fury. “And now you’re a servant?”

“Geralt, please!”

A shocked gasp rippled through the crowd and the Prince’s posture tightened visibly. His body language changed entirely in the span of a second; he pulled away from Jaskier and straightened to his full height, squaring his shoulders and raising his chin to glare down the length of his nose. The younger man flinched back as if struck, the wing still attached to his doublet shuddered and shimmered in the air.

“Do not address me so informal, monsieur. I am the Prince of Kaedwen and you...you are just like them.”

Jaskier heard the impossibly loud crack of his heart shattering to pieces in his chest. He gasped sharply, feeling an ice-like stabbing sensation echo through his ribcage, and backed away from the dais slowly. His feet tangled with each other when he tried to turn around and he dropped to his hands and knees with a cry. Geralt jerked instinctively as if he was going to help him up but caught himself just in time, going still as stone.

His eyes were still narrowed and his nostrils flared with righteous fury. He couldn’t believe that Julian...that Jaskier would lie to him. The man who rescued him from troubadour bandits and spoken to him openly about philosophy and went swimming in his underclothes in the wilds of Kaedwen and debated life and love with a famous artist as easily as breathing…

The Prince watched as the thin brunette struggled back to his feet and took off at a sprint for the exit. His sobs echoed across the open-air dance floor and filled the torchlit space with the sound of pure anguish. The troubadours were looking on with open disgust written across their features. Just as Geralt was about to break down and go after Jul-Jaskier, the Baroness’s hand closed around his upper arm like the cold iron of a manacle.

“Such a sad day, Your Highness,” she sighed.

Geralt could only nod and wrench his arm away, turning and running in the opposite direction as quickly as his legs would take him. He needed a moment alone.

---

“He is your match, Geralt,” the artist argued. He gestured in the direction of the Baroness’s estate and glowered at the Prince, who sat crouched in the castle shadows, hiding from his Father’s wrath. “Do you have any idea what that boy went through to get here tonight?”

“He lied to me.”

“He came here to tell you the truth,” Vesemir snapped. Geralt looked up; he’d never heard the old man sound so angry before. His thick grey eyebrows were drawn together and his tone was thunderous and low as he spoke again, “He went through Hell to come here. He was beaten. He was whipped. He was locked in a root cellar by that horrible Marx woman and you fed him to the fucking wolves.”

“You walk on water and you make flying machines, yet you know nothing about real life,” the Prince replied. He suddenly remembered last week, when he’d tried to hug Jaskier and the boy had cried out. It wasn’t surprise; it was pain. Jaskier had been...he’d been in so much pain and Geralt had been waxing poetic about politics and love and...Jaskier had suffered to be with Geralt. And what the Prince done in return?

“I know that a life without love,” Vesemir sighed, placing Jaskier’s lost shoe in the Prince’s line of sight. “Is no life at all.”

The old man wandered away, whistling a familiar song as he went. It was the song Jaskier had composed for him in the woods that day, as they’d ridden back to the Marx estate with the rescued painting. Geralt shook his head to clear it; this wasn’t the time for reminiscing.

He had to pledge his heart to the Princess of Redania. He had to do what all Princes had to do: give up their dreams in the name of their country.

---

Geralt burst from the side of the church and ended up running directly into Jaskier’s step-sister, Margaret. “Where is he?”

“Who?” Margaret raised an eyebrow.

“Jaskier, where is he?” Geralt begged. Margaret shook her head sadly and filled the Prince in on everything that had happened over the past few days. At last the royal pulled away, his face twisted in guilt and pain, “Sold?”

“The Baroness didn’t want him around distracting you in case you came to propose to Valdo, Your Highness.”

“Speak of this to no one,” Geralt begged. “And you shall be greatly rewarded. Jaskier spoke kindly of you, Lady Margaret.”

“As well he spoke of you,” she replied. The affirmation of Jaskier’s seemingly endless trust in him only served to pierce Geralt’s heart further; he had betrayed the only man he’d ever loved. He really had fed him to the wolves. And the wolves had sold him to a fucking weasel.

---

Geralt rode up to Count DeStael’s manor and was shocked to find Jaskier already making his way through the garbage-scattered courtyard. He looked completely different than when Geralt had seen him last; or ever. The noble’s clothes were gone. The pearl-knit snood was absent. The velvet doublets and high leather boots were absent. The air of easy confidence that usually swirled around him was also gone. Making his way slowly across the dirty yard in only a tattered blue chemise and dirty brown trousers, a pair of cheap leather slippers laced around his feet and dirt smeared across his face, Jaskier looked incredibly small and fragile.

He somehow managed to shrink even further in on himself when he glanced up at last and set eyes on the Prince. “Hello,” Geralt greeted, swinging down off his horse to approach.

“Hello.”

There was a pregnant pause before Jaskier spoke again.

“What are you doing here?”

“I, uh, I came to rescue you,” the Prince admitted.

“Rescue me?” Jaskier scoffed, stepping past Geralt, “A commoner?”

“Actually I came to beg your forgiveness,” Geralt blurted. His heart leapt hopefully in his chest when the brunette man paused walking away. Slowly, Jaskier turned back to face him. “I offered you the world and at the first test of honor, I betrayed your trust. Please, Jaskier…”

“Say it again,” Jaskier demanded. Geralt could see that tears had sprung to his eyes. The blue of his irises somehow seemed darker, now.

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” the younger man shook his head emphatically. He smiled sadly and sighed, “The part where you said my name.”

Geralt huffed a laugh and stepped carefully forward. Jaskier had every right in the world to reject him right now. He could spit on the Prince’s face and run screaming into the woods and Geralt would want to follow with all his heart, but he wouldn’t. He would let Jaskier go if that was what the other man wanted. But the brunette didn’t move, so Geralt took another careful step. “Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s eyes closed and his chest lifted with the force of his gasped breath. He had never felt so alive before this moment. Hearing Geralt say his name, his real name, even if it was just this once, was heaven.

Even...even if it was just this once.

Jaskier slowly opened his eyes again and let them settle on the Prince’s face.

Geralt pulled his missing dancing slipper from the back pouch at his belt and held it out as if in offering, “I was actually wondering if you could help me find the owner of this rather remarkable shoe.”

“Where did you find that?” Jaskier asked, his hands fluttering out to touch the rhinestone-studded material of his Father’s antique dancing slipper. He thought it had been lost to him forever in his moment of foolishness, a constant reminder of all the loss he’d ever faced. And here it was, safe and sound with Geralt.

The Prince stepped forward until their chests were nearly touching and began to speak in a low, careful tone. Jaskier heard the love in every syllable, “He is my match in every way. Please tell me I have not lost him.”

“It belongs to a peasant, Your Highness,” the servant bit his lip and turned away, stepping over to the low stone wall and leaning heavily against it. He couldn’t support his own weight; he was going to swoon. “Who only pretended to be a nobleman to save another servant’s life.”

“I know,” Geralt smiled softly. He knelt before the commoner and Jaskier gasped, his hands flying to cover his mouth. He shook his head, disbelieving. “And the name’s Geralt, if you don’t mind.”

Jaskier leapt forward and slammed their lips together, kissing his beloved Geralt for all his foolish royal ass was worth. He threw his arms around the Prince’s strong neck and melted when Geralt’s arms encircled his waist in return. Neither man was sure which one of them was holding the other closest and neither wanted to let go. Eventually the Prince stepped away and knelt again. He had to do this right.

“I kneel before you today not as a Prince, but as a man in love.” He slid the cheap, poorly-made leather boot from Jaskier’s foot and replaced it with the bejeweled silk dancing slipper. “But I would feel like a King if you, Jaskier Pankratz, would be my Consort.”

Jaskier burst into happy tears. Real happy tears this time. Tears that ran in rivers down his pink, smiling cheeks and into the dirt below. Tears that Geralt wiped away with the pads of his thumbs, as reassuring and careful as any Prince had ever been when handling great treasure.

Jaskier was overwhelmed with the love in his heart. He wanted nothing more than to bury his face in Geralt’s broad, strong chest and never come out again. He would build a castle between his lover’s arms and find no need to leave. He would, if Geralt would let him, claim the Prince as his home forever.

Never unwanted.

Never a nuisance.

Never a pebble in anyone’s shoe.

He nodded and flung his arms around his Prince once again. Jaskier allowed himself to be swept off his feet and swung through the air. Geralt was kissing him the entire time, wherever the Prince’s lips could reach. His nose, his closed eyelids, his mouth, his cheeks, his forehead, even down his neck and in his hair. Jaskier laughed and laughed, the happy sound ringing through the dark courtyard of the Count DeStael’s grim-faced manor house.

“We, my love, are going to live happily ever after,” Geralt asserted.

And they did.

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nemesis-is-my-middle-name · 3 years

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#11: Name

this one came out maybe the fastest of any of the prompts i’ve done so far. girls... good

(Read it on Ao3 here!)

Vivi was out hunting one day. It was quiet, with bright sun and a light breeze, and she’d taken up post in a tree, patiently waiting for an animal to pass by.

The deer that pranced through the clearing drew her eyes immediately. Her hand went to her bow, and she tensed, watching it.

Its fur was white and shaggy, but its legs were bare and colored a vibrant blue, with a texture reminiscent of tree bark. Its antlers looked much the same, draped with delicate sprays of white leaves and pink flowers. Its steps were slow and deliberate, almost like it was… showing off.

She nocked an arrow, aiming for the leg to incapacitate.

As though attuned to the tiny sound of creaking wood, its ears went up and suddenly it was bounding into the trees.

Not about to let it get away, she drew her dagger, abandoning the bow, and gave chase. It was nimble and quick, but with it weaving its larger body through the trees, she could easily keep pace with it. Just a little faster…

Coming up onto another clearing, she summoned her energy and jumped, locking her free arm around its neck. The deer tumbled, but she held fast. She ended up perched over its flank, dagger raised in the air.

And then she was dropped to the forest floor as the deer vanished. Suddenly there were clawed fingers on her chest – but not digging in, as she’d initially feared, just… resting there. A light warning.

In front of her was… possibly the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen, in a way that was inhuman and unfamiliar. Her skin was the blue bark of the deer’s antlers, and in her free hand she held a white cloak with a collar of woven wood that mimicked those antlers almost exactly. Her hands were large and tipped with sharp claws, and the coarse white hair cascading around her face was spotted with small pink flowers. Her eyes were rimmed with pink petals. She was smiling with sharp teeth, but the expression wasn’t cruel. More amused than anything.

“You’re quick, hunter,” she said. Her voice sounded like creaking trees and wind through the leaves. “But too curious for your own good.”

“You wanted me to chase you,” she replied, half accusatory and half joking, as she got to her feet.

The smile grew a little wider. “Maybe I wanted to catch you.”

She flipped her knife back into her belt and stepped away, tilting her head up a little. “Did you, now? And now that you have me?”

“Hm-m. That’s a good question, isn’t it?”

“I don’t hear much about you catching other hunters in these woods.”

She stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Vivi had to look up even farther to see her face. “You’re not like other hunters.”

“Tell me, what do they call you around here?”

The smile was back. “Catch me again, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

And then the deer went bounding off into the woods, and she was left alone in the clearing.

Vivi went back to the forest the next day. The weather was nice again, with even less wind today.

She’d left her bow behind yesterday, and was in the middle of retracing her steps to hopefully find it, when she stopped suddenly, listening to the background birdsong. It didn’t sound like any bird she knew, she realized, and she’d grown up with these woods.

Turning slowly, she turned her eyes up to the canopy, scanning for anything – there! A largish blue-and-white songbird, singing to itself, to all appearances totally unaware of her presence.

Still no bow – and she wouldn’t really want to shoot it, anyway – so she retreated a ways away and scrambled up a nearby tree. Fingers on the wood, she inched along a branch. Almost there...

Just before she reached its tree, the bird took wing, darting into the air and almost seeming to give her a look of challenge before it took off.

Cursing, she gave chase, relying on instinct to keep her from falling. She jumped from branch to branch, the bird always just a few inches out of reach. She felt things snap under her feet, but always a moment later than she’d sprung off the wood.

They were coming up to another clearing, where the thick branches stopped. She leaned a little farther forward, and her hand locked around the bird’s body, pinning its wings – and at the same instant, the branch beneath her gave out. She went tumbling to the forest floor, bird still in hand, lifted in the air so she didn’t crush it.

And then the bird vanished from her hand and standing over her was the fairy, this time with both hands at her collar, having just unclasped a delicate feathered cape.

“You’re reckless, too.”

Panting a little, she got up, brushing dirt from her shoulder. “I did get you. So…?”

“You can call me Shiromori.” White Forest. She gave a little bow as she said it.

Vivi pursed her lips. “That isn’t what I asked…”

That actually got a little laugh from her – a delicate sound, somewhere between birdsong and wind. “You’ll have to catch me one more time, then.”

And then the bird vanished above the trees, and she was alone again.

She hadn’t been having much luck hunting lately. Which was probably partly because she wasn’t paying full attention. She was always looking out for a bit of blue-and-white darting through the trees.

Her traps still worked, and she caught enough. But there was still no sign of Shiromori.

One day she slid down against a tree with a sigh. And then she heard a curious noise from beside her – like a high-pitched laugh.

She turned to look, and beside her was a fox, with a blue bark snout and a white pelt dotted with flowers. In a flash she was on her feet, knife in hand, and she was right behind the fox as it darted off.

This was the longest chase she’d given yet. The fox was small and quick, and a few times she nearly lost it in the undergrowth. Her lungs were starting to burn, her legs scratched from leaping over bushes to follow it. It darted through logs, into gnarled roots, and leapt across a creek, and she could only barely keep it in her sights.

Realizing she wasn’t going to catch it like this, she ran through options in her head, and then threw her knife forward. It buried itself in the ground just in front of the fox’s path, and as she’d hoped, it started and reared back in alarm – giving her the opening she needed to jump on it.

It vanished like the others, but this time she was ready, and as the fairy appeared with the fur cloak in hand, she grabbed her arms and pushed her against a tree, pinning her back.

Shiromori just laughed. “Oh, and you’re clever!”

“And,” she said triumphantly through harsh breaths, “I win.”

Her expression sobered a little, into a faint smile. And then she easily pushed Vivi’s arms and mimicked her posture, framing her own shoulders in her much larger hands. She could feel the strength there, far past the capability of a normal person, but the way she held her was gentle. She leaned down a little, mouth at her ear.

“My name is,” she began, and then made a strange sound. It sounded like whistling wind and the fox’s laughter and the rustle of leaves. And then she leaned back, almost… waiting.

Vivi opened her mouth and surprised herself by perfectly mimicking the sound she’d made. “It’s… pretty.”

“Use it wisely.”

She took the side of her chin and leaned into a kiss – small, and quick, with sharp teeth pricking at her lips – and then released her entirely, leaving her reeling a little.

The fox vanished into thick brush, and Vivi was left standing there for a while. She ran her tongue over her teeth, tasting flowers and remembering the feeling of that un-word in her mouth.

#mystery skulls animated #MysteryMarch2021 #vivimori #the nemesis speaks #swift writes #although i did go some places from where i started with it #i may finish up and post the (lewthur-centric) original for friend tomorrow #but who can say #def not me

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summahsunlight · 5 years

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Pathways, a series of drabbles

Title: Friendship

Word Count: 2014

Pairings: Kes/Shara, Luke/Sela (OC)

Characters: Kes, Shara, Luke, Sela (OC), Poe, Kaleb (OC), Evelyn (OC)

AO3/Master List

Poe, Kaleb and Evelyn meet for the first time.

Yavin IV, 8 ABY

Nothing exciting ever happened on Yavin IV. Which was perfectly fine for his retired military parents, but for little Poe Dameron, it was the most boring place in the galaxy to live. It was hard when you only had the native wildlife as your friends. Poe was certain that other children his age, on more populated planets, had each other to play with. He wasn’t stupid; he knew that he probably had more freedom to roam his home planet than most kids and his mother always tried to make it up to him by taking him up in her A-wing.

Poe glanced up at the blue skies, his brown eyes watching as the clouds swept by. His mother had indulged his love of ships and flying since the moment he could talk. Someday, he was going to blast off this rock, he was going to go to flight school, he was going to become a pilot—perhaps the greatest pilot the galaxy had ever seen.

It was getting late in the day and he knew if he stayed out in the jungle much longer, well, his parents would start to worry. They might have let him have free range of the jungle, but that didn’t mean they worried less about him. Poe looked down the path towards the ranch, and smiling, took off in a run, leaping over unearthed tree roots and grabbing onto low hanging vines. He laughed with delight as his feet left the ground, as he flew through the air on the vines. He landed just at the edge of the Damerons’ property and blinking into the bright sunlight realized there was ship parked in the nearby clearing—a ship that he did not recognize.

Visitors were also rare for the Damerons, being on the far reaches of the Outer Rim and it was not time yet for their supply order to be delivered. Poe’s brow furrowed as he sprinted towards the front porch, curiosity getting the best of him. His mother had the windows open, letting the warm jungle breeze move through the house. Creeping under one of those windows he could hear voices. Papa, and Mama, of course, but there was another woman and man, and their voices were not familiar to him. However, the way his parents were talking to the couple, Poe guessed that they knew Kes and Shara.

There were questions about how the Damerons had been since they both had mustered out of the military, questions about life on Yavin—Papa and Mama answered them, with laughs and happy sighs; they loved the peace here, they loved being with their son.

And there were more questions, from Papa, on where their friends were going to stay while the Temple was fixed up and their new house was built; a small silence, and then the man asked if Kes and Shara could take them in… but only if his family wouldn’t be a burden to Papa and Mama…

“Of course, you can stay here as long as you like, Luke,” Shara exclaimed. “And you’d never be a burden!”

“How long do think it will take for the Republic to send those supplies to get that Temple up and running?”Kes asked.

“Hopefully not long,” the man replied in a soft, warm tone. “After all, no one has lived in some of those temples for thousands of years.”

Poe lifted himself onto his tiptoes and peeked into the window. Seated at the dining table with his parents was the man, Luke, who wore a black tunic and pants, and one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen in his young life. If angels existed, Poe imagined they would look like her. She had long copper brown hair, pulled back in a loose bun and in her lap, a baby girl slept, peacefully. A little boy with sandy brown hair moved about her legs, munching on a fresh koyo fruit, the juice dripping down his chin.

Shara chuckled and used a cloth napkin to wipe his chin clean. Her brown eyes shined brightly watching the small child move around her table. “Poe gets just as messy when eating koyo fruit. I think you and he are going to become great friends, Kaleb.”

Kaleb simply smiled at his mother and reached for more koyo fruit. Poe’s tummy grumbled, reminding him that he had not eaten any lunch yet. After breakfast, he’d taken off to the jungle, to get lost in his adventures—to defeat the Empire in his X-wing. Now that the Empire had been thoroughly defeated by Poe, he was hungry. He thought about leaving his hiding spot and going inside so he could enjoy koyo fruit with the other little boy, but the woman was asking after him.

“Where is Poe?” the woman inquired, looking around the house.

“Probably half-way up a Massassi tree right now,” Kes said with a warm chuckle. “Always exploring that boy, with his head in the clouds.”

“He tried taking my A-wing up the other day, on his own,” Shara added, with a shake of her head. “Had it in pre-flight mode and everything, all on his own.”

Luke glanced in his direction and Poe dashed out of sight. He was incredibly proud of himself for getting the A-wing into pre-flight mode all by himself, and he was sure he would have gotten it to launch if his mother had not found him. “Smart boy,” the man said, with a soft laugh. “Sounds like he’ll make a great pilot one day, Shara.”

Poe beamed with pride from his hiding spot. His mother and father would tell him he could be anything he wanted, but they never acknowledged he’d make a great pilot. Poe surmised his mother never said it because she didn’t want to upset his father; Kes hated the idea of his son joining the military and becoming a fighter pilot. The former Pathfinder wanted a different life for his son.

Inside the house, Poe heard the scraping of chairs on the floor. Kes was telling Luke that he’d walk him down to the Temple and they could reminisce about old times while they checked for repairs that needed to be done before his students moved in. Poe jumped from the front porch and hid in the bushes his mother had planted, watching as Kes and Luke left, walking down the path towards one of the old, abandoned Massassi temples, recanting stories of their days fighting in the Rebellion and how they both had hated the cold on Hoth. He watched them go before he climbed back onto the porch and then slipped in through the front door.

Shara heard him and turned to smile at her son. “There you are. Come here, little pilot, there’s some people I want you to meet.”

Poe gazed across the room at the woman. The baby girl in her lap had woken up and was now eating some koyo fruit as well. The little boy, Kaleb, was leaning against the woman’s leg, his blue eyes watching the older boy, cautiously. Poe shifted his gaze to the baby; her cheeks pulled into a warm smile and he couldn’t help but smile in return at her.

“I don’t think we have to worry about the children being friends, Sela,” Shara said, ruffling her son’s hair. “Looks like Evelyn already likes you, Poe.”

“I think we’re all going to like the much quieter life here on Yavin then on Hosian Prime,” Sela replied. She gave her daughter a kiss on her head and put the little girl down. “Too much chatter and invasion of privacy in the Capital. Don’t get me wrong, Shara, I knew what I was signing up for when I agreed to marry Luke—you don’t marry the hero of the Rebellion and start a family with him without the holonet breathing down your neck. But stars, it was really starting to affect the children.”

Shara frowned, watching as Evelyn wandered over to Poe, her sticky fingers holding out some fruit to him. “We might be living in the far reaches of the galaxy, but we still get the holonet; their obsession with your children, and Leia, disgusts us.”

Sela ran her fingers through Kaleb’s hair. “It’s why Luke wanted to leave; a quiet place to raise our family but also to rebuild the Jedi.”

Poe tore his eyes away from Evelyn, not caring that her sticky little fingers had latched onto his. He’d only heard stories of the Jedi, from some of the older men down at the colony, and his mother would often tell him tales of Luke Skywalker. Luke. “Are you Skywalkers?” the boy asked, eyes shifting towards Sela.

“Not just smart, Shara, but insightful,” Sela said with a smile that lit up her whole face. “Yes, we’re Skywalkers. I hope you don’t mind we came to live here.”

“You’re going to live here?” Poe questioned; brow furrowed in curiosity. Why would anyone want to live here? Nothing happened on Yavin IV. It was a boring place.

“Luke needs a place to train new Jedi,” Sela answered him, honestly. “Do you think you can show Kaleb around? Show him all the fun places to play?”

“Sure. Can he climb trees? Those are the best places to play. You can pretend to be fighting against the Empire up there.”

“He can’t climb trees—yet—but I bet you can teach him.”

Brown eyes met blue ones. Poe had never actually taught anyone, anything. But if it meant having a friend and not just the woolamanders, well, Poe was going to try to teach Kaleb how to climb trees. He felt a tug on his arm and Evelyn let out a little cry as she stumbled over her small feet. She fell on her bottom and large tears rolled down her cheeks.

Poe glanced between Shara and Sela, a look of guilt and remorse passing over his young face. He didn’t mean to hurt the little girl; he had completely forgotten that she was even standing with him and holding his hand. He had just gotten so excited at the thought of having real friends… “I’m sorry!” he gasped. “Did I, did I hurt her? I didn’t mean to hurt her!”

Sela picked Evelyn off the floor and wiped her baby’s tears. “You didn’t hurt her,” she assured the little boy. “She’s just learning how to walk and she’s a little unsteady on her feet. She scared herself more than actually hurt herself.” She gently touched Poe’s curls. “You’re a sweet boy.”

“As sweet as they come,” Shara said, handing him a bowl of koyo fruit. “Poe, do you think you can take care of Kaleb and Evelyn for a few moments, while I help Sela bring their things into the house?”

“Yes, Mama,” Poe said, munching on his koyo fruit. He watched as Sela placed Evelyn on the floor. Immediately she started to cry when Sela left her sight.

Cautiously the little boy sat down next to the crying baby. Poe smiled at her, softly. “It’s okay, your mama will be right back.” He held out some fruit to Evelyn. Her big blue eyes looked towards where her mother had gone, and then at her older brother, who was lounging over the chair, just watching. “Here, Evie,” he said, giving the little girl a nickname that would stick with her well into adulthood. “You can have some of my koyo fruit.”

Evelyn tentatively grabbed the fruit he offered, her cries not as loud or persistent. She finished her piece and then reached into his bowl for more. Poe continued to smile at her and talk to her. By the time his mother and Sela returned, both Evelyn and Kaleb were sitting with Poe on the floor—the bowl completely empty.

Poe turned his smiling face up towards his mother. “See, Mama, I took care of them. We’re friends now!”

Somehow, Shara knew that they would always be friends, the three of them, and that they would always take care of each other.

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #poe dameron fanfiction #luke skywalker fanfiction #poe dameron #kes dameron #shara bey #luke skywalker #sela swift (oc)#kaleb skywalker (oc)#evelyn skywalker (oc)#kes dameron x shara bey #luke x oc #daddy luke!#it's little poe!

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monster-teeth · 7 years

Text

Are you sure?

The glass shimmers. The small shards twinkling like the most terrifying little stars littering the kitchen floor, lighting up from the fluorescent bulb ahead. They spread out from the blast point like the big bang he’s been told created the universe billions upon billions of years ago

Thump.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. THUMP. THUMP. THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP.

He forgot what his heart sounded like. Fear rises like the air in his chest. The beating goes faster. The breathing goes faster. The shaking starts.

The REAL fear starts.

One hand grasping and clawing at his chest, at his shirt, trying to get a grip on such an intangible idea as "calm". The other moving from pulling hard on the roots of his hair to picking and swiping, wild gesturing at the glass shards on the floor. Knees getting weaker. Crouching down. Realizing his own muttering getting louder and louder, no, no, no,

"No!"

"No! No! No! No!"

"Great-fucking-great, Bleau! You broke a fucking glass! He's gonna yell at you! He’s gonna kick you out!

He's-...." The crying starts.

"He's gonna hurt you..."

He backs away to the bed, trying to sit down, calm down, slow the breathing down. He misses the glass, thankfully. Hopefully? He's not sure. Would that garner extra points of sympathy? How long would it take for him to notice a broken glass if he cleaned it all up now?

His thoughts race to the image of his guardian's sister, Aunt Maritha.

He's small and he's young and he just wants a glass of juice. She is just outside, gardening. The curtains in the kitchen are drawn closed. She shouldn't see him, right? It's just a glass of juice. She doesn't like him in the kitchen without her permission, but he's afraid to ask. If John isn't home she's not likely to say yes. She's more likely to tell him to stick his mouth under the faucet upstairs like an animal. In her opinion there's no difference between him and such things.

He's just tall enough to reach the cabinets. He stretches his toes. He moves slow. Listening to every sound in the small tiny room. Hearing the clock. Hearing his breathing. The thumping of his “sister” upstairs. Playing with the toys he can never touch. It distracts him for a split-second. He forgets where his feet are. The most gentle of presses on the floorboards and a soft squeak comes out. He prays to every god he’s ever had the pleasure of learning the names of that Maritha doesn’t hear. He waits. He doesn’t breathe. He waits. And nothing comes. He stretches but inches further, grasping a glass very gently, making sure he’s holding it so that it doesn’t knock against anything in the house. He runs back through the plan. Step 1:

Aquire cup. Check.

What’s next?

Pour the juice, and hide it upstairs. When she comes in and goes to the bathroom rinse it upstairs at the same time so she can’t hear the water. When Maria comes down to talk to her mother, slip the glass into her room. Maritha and Maria won’t notice. Maria uses way too many cups for her own good, and Maritha takes them all out of her room without a second thought.

Perfect plan. Except he doesn’t notice the water on the floor when he steps backwards to quickly head towards the fridge. He slips. He falls. He drops the cup. A million, trillion twinkling stars across the floor. Even if he could get out of the kitchen, even if he could hide, hide the glass! Clean it up! Nothing, she heard it. Her shadow pops up from the front garden. He hears her drop her tools. Getting up’s to dangerous but he tries anyway. There’s no escape. The screen door swings open making that ugly creak.

“Maria?”

That worried tone is not something he ever hears directed towards him.

She steps into the kitchen doorway. Her faces changes instantly.

“Bleau.”

Had he known death like this before? Fear like this before? Surely. He’s done far worse. This is certainly new, though.

“Get up. Get the fuck up you filthy little thieving monstrosity! Get up!!!”

He’s familiar with the pain of being pulled by his ears. It seems like it gets worse overtime though. He’s not getting used to it. It still hurts. He knows it so well but it still hurts? He feels like it shouldn’t work that way. Maybe an infection? He’ll ask John later.

She’s screaming at him. The glass hurts more than her loudness so he almost doesn’t care. He knows what’s coming. She’s flipping him across her legs. She’s hitting him like every time he disobeys. It hurts. He’s crying. He can’t remember that feeling anymore, he’s losing the memory. It was too long ago. And he hasn’t been hit like that recently enough to continue reliving it. It just feels ghostly and vacant. He’s still scared though. Just scared. Because he knows what it means now that he’s broken this. He knows what it means.

But he’s also forgotten to listen while reminiscing. Poor choice. The key to the door is being opened. It’s a new noise he’s not trained to yet. He’s working on it.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no ,no.

Not now.

Not yet.

“Bleau, I’m home! My meeting got out early and-“

He’s coming into the bedroom, not good. Not good!

He sees him. He must look like shit. No way of getting out of this. His face is so wet from crying you could wipe down a table with his tears.

“Bleau what’s wrong?”

He’s worried. Pheon’s always worried. Worried about something. Sometimes he’ll tell you what, other times he’ll just stare off into the distance and look sad.

Bleau’s crying. Bleau’s never crying. What happened? What did I do? How did I hurt someone now? I just wanted to come home. I just wanted to see your silly, smiling face again. Why are you crying?

“What’s wrong? What happened? Did someone hurt you? Are they still here?”

Where did they go, can I send a guard after them, should I chase them myself, I know where my knife is, do you need medical attention, can I help you, where does it hurt, why are you crying?!

He’s walked all the way to the bed, he’s reaching out to touch him. He wants to, he know’s Bleau doesn’t always like it. He stops halfway. If he touches him he’ll feel safe, but Bleau might get more scared. Might get more uncomfortable.

“What’s wrong.”

He’s holding his hand over his mouth. He’s scared, doesn’t wanna say anything. He’s programmed to. He tells him.

“I..b-broke..glass..” He vaguely points with the other hand. Towards the kitchen. Towards the floor.

Pheon is calm. Pheon sits down.

“Are you okay? Let me see your arms. Hand me your arms. I’ll be gentle.” The arms are given.

“Geez you really scared me, Bleau.”

He doesn’t understand. This doesn’t make sense. Where is the yelling? Where is the hitting? Where is it? When will it come? He doesn’t like not knowing.

“Toes, please.”

He gives him his legs to graze over with his hands, checking for any shards of glass.

“You don’t look hurt anywhere. Were you just really startled?”

“Aren’t you gonna hit me?!”

“What? What, no! What on Silara gave you that idea? Why would I hurt you? Did you hit your head? You should let me check there too.” He leans over, shimming around to Bleau’s side. Gently picking through his hair. Carefully checking for wounds or bumps.”

“But I broke a glass…”

“Yeah, so? I drop shit all the time. It’s annoying but stuff happens. Your head seems fine. Do you want a hug?”

He sits there for a few moments as Pheon’s fingers leave his nest of blue hair. He’s stopped crying for the most part now. His heart beat doesn’t make him feel like he’s gonna die. Maybe it won’t come. Maybe the pain won’t come. Maybe it just won’t come.

“…Bleau?”

“Yes. Yes, I want a hug.”

“Okay. Why don’t you scoot up to the head boards so you’re more comfy.”

Wings relax, arms lay slack, he curls his legs up over Pheon’s lap. He lets him hold him still and close.

“You’re safe now, okay? I don’t know who ever made you feel like you shouldn’t be, but they’re not here now. You’re here with me now and I’ll protect you for as long as you want to stay here with me. Okay? You can stay as long as you like or leave whenever you want. You should be comfortable and safe here. I care about you. You can even fall asleep now if you want. I’ll clean up the glass.”

“I can fall asleep?”

“Yup, yes. Do you want me to leave you be or stay until you doze off?”

“Stay. Talk.”

“About what?”

“Whatever. You’re voice is nice.”

“Hmm. Weeellp. This one time, Nekura broke a glass. She was so sad.”

“Who’s Nekura?”

“She’s my sister. The White Warrior? You know?”

“What?”

“Eh, it doesn’t matter right now. Anyway. So she breaks a glass too, ya’know. It’s her favorite mug. Mint green. Pretty handle. She’s so sad. I have to explain to her that things break. She’s too little to really understand that I can’t fix it. I tell her I could if the pieces were big enough. But, man, this thing is shattered. Shattered. Beyond repair. So I tell her that we can keep the broken bits if she wants and I’ll make her a new cup. A new mug. Mint green. With an even prettier handle. I tell her we can make lots of cups. It’s easier that way. We can make them together. She likes that. She likes making things. It’s nice. Anyway, you and I can make a cup if you want. I have lots of mismatching things, I like it that way. I prefer plastic though. It doesn’t break and it isn’t as loud or as heavy.”

“Me too, I like plastics. But why would we make a cup? Why are you rewarding me for breaking something?”

“I-… I’m not trying to-…. I don’t exactly mean to reward, more to make you comfortable. I just want to make people happy. Comfortable. I want them to have everything they need. So if you need something, you can tell me and I’ll get it for you. Like a new shirt or shoes, or… a cup. We can make one. Or I can get a whole new set if you like that better. We can get plastics. You can pick them-“

“Pheon.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t need you to do that stuff for me. I’d rather you didn’t. It makes me feel guilty.”

“Okay. Do you want me to just go clean up the glass then?”

“I broke it, I should be doing it.”

“You’re emotionally drained. You should be sleeping. It’s better for you.”

“Fine. I’ll sleep, you go clean if you want to.”

“Okay, sleep well.”

He moves a pillow under Bleau’s head and slides his legs out from under Bleau’s ridiculously long set. He tucks him in a little. He leaves him be. What could he have done better? There’s no use, he can’t change it. He can’t change what he said or what he did. Did he touch him too soon? Too much? It doesn’t matter, you can’t change it. Do I come on too strong? Too aggressive? Too caring? Was it my fault? Was it his fault? Was it?

Probably not. Probably nothing he could have done about it. He was just saying what he felt.

But if he waited? If he waited to say what he felt?

It doesn’t matter, it wouldn’t have changed.

Are you sure?

He cleans up the glass.

#Pheon #Bleau #scripts #talesofsilara #here's something actually readable by people that didn't require any clean up really

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beyondthenightfall-blog · 6 years

Text

Half-Heart: Chapter One

Twenty years later... This was it. This was the day Nemo was going to show them all how wrong they were. Ever since he was a child, Nemo had always dreamed of being powerful. The historical figures in the legends he had read - mighty kings, queens and warriors of old, who paved the very world they lived in with remnants of what their amazing power had done. Entire cities fell under the chaos of war, only to be built back from the ground up, even greater than they were before. Armies rallied in their thousands; knelt and proclaimed their allegiance to the one whose might was enough for them to risk their lives in battle. The power to forge the world to his liking, with just a word and a wave of his paw; Nemo couldn't find much more to think about since the day he found himself truly alone. The citadel in which he stood, carved into the mountainside by the architects of the past, was another example of what power could do. Someone had pointed at those rocky slopes one day and announced, "I want my palace there." And it had been built, exactly as they wanted it. Everywhere the Water-Wielder looked he could see it; from the old portraits hung on the wall of Myrn's former governors, heroes, nobles; the colourful, perfectly woven tapestries depicting scenes from the greatest of legends; the ornaments, urns and bowls of gems all over the tables, right down to the repaired cracks in the walls. Someone, at some point in time, had pointed, declared what they wanted, and had got it. If he'd read all the signs right, today, the twentieth anniversary of his hatching, was the day that was going to change his life. Depending on what was going to happen, perhaps he too could wield a little bit of power. He sat in the entrance to the citadel courtyard, looking down at his webbed talons. He was someone special; even the greatest of fools could've realised that. Right from the moment he could walk, visitors to the citadel had taken one look into his black eyes and recoiled in horror, often followed by a hasty excuse and a quick exit. It wasn't long until his father, the Governor Taranis, had ordered him to stay in his room whenever there were visitors, making as little noise as possible as not to 'arouse suspicion', which was a difficult and very frustrating task for a five year old dragonling. Still, his father was paranoid and ... a little strange even at the best of times. Not to mention the countless times that Taranis had drilled into him the fact that he was bound to a special future; a future that no other dragon could imagine. Warm sunlight poured into the courtyard over the eastern walls, illuminating the sea blue scales on his outstretched paw. Nemo clenched his fist shut, a determined grin flashing over his face. This day had been foreshadowed for many years; the day he'd come of age and be ready for whatever grand plan was in store for him. Father had always been sketchy on the details whenever he'd asked what was going to happen; the best answer that Nemo had ever gotten out of him was that everything was going to happen exactly as it should, and everyone's lives would be better when it did. Was he going to start training to be some sort of hero, then? Like one of the warriors in the stories he'd been told? Nemo couldn't quite see himself in that role; he looked down at his skinny form and shook his head. He wasn't very strong, and never had been. If he wore a suit of armour he'd just sag to the floor under its weight. Or maybe he was going to be taught a magical art of some sort. He'd heard of very powerful dragons that could not only use their elemental breath attacks, like fire and frost, but could also merge with their Element itself, becoming forces of nature in their own right. But he'd also been told that only dragons of a certain, ancient bloodline could do that, and so his hopes were soon dashed. He wasn't going to get any answers from sitting there thinking about it; he'd done that for his entire life and still had no luck. Nemo stood up, raising his wings to catch the warmth of the morning sun's rays. He could see wiry, light blue reflections flickering this way and that across the sandstone pillars that dotted the sunny courtyard. Nemo inhaled deeply, catching the tiny droplets of water on the breeze, and then charged out into the courtyard. It was time for his morning swim. Two servants stood beside the large pool of water in the centre, scrubbing its bottom with long brooms. One of them yelped at the sight of him dashing towards them and darted out of his way in terror, but the other merely sniffed and gave him a stern look. "Master Nemo, the pool is being cleaned. You cannot--" The water dragon stormed straight past him and dove into the water, making sure to give his tail a good whack against the surface as he submerged, hopefully sending a massive splash of water right into that smug dragon's face. Nemo wasted no time in starting his laps of the pool. His legs and wings tucked themselves in, and the fins along his spine and tail rose. His streamlined form circled the rectangular pool, his tail swaying gently from side to side and occasionally flicking to give him a quick burst of speed. He watched the blurry form of the servant drop the stick of his broom into the water and stomp away in a huff, fanning his dripping wet wings. Nemo surged forward with a powerful wave of his tail, bouncing off the wall with his legs. It served him right, thinking that he could tell him what to do. He did more laps than usual that morning. Swimming in circles for well over an hour would have bored anyone else half to death, but Nemo couldn't put into words just how much he loved being able to do this. He'd never had any water as a child, not like this. There were small fountains dotted along the citadel's walls on the ground level, but he always got into trouble if he got caught playing in those as a child. Eventually he had complained enough for Taranis to give in and have a pool constructed in the courtyard for him. Then came the day he swore he'd never even think of again, for it made his heart seize with sorrow, when he'd felt natural spring water up against his scales for the first, and possibly last, time. No, Nemo thought, the fins on his cheeks snapping open and slowing him down. He started forward with a paddle, his webbed feet easily treading the water. If today is the day I think it will be ... if today is the day I finally get my freedom, then it won't have been the last time. He was falling into that trap again; the trap of reminiscing of that day when he'd tasted what it was like to live beyond these walls. He slowed to a stop, wings fluttering open as he gently sunk to the bottom of the pool. So much had happened on that day, but one event, one meeting, had etched itself into his heart forever. I wonder if I can see her again? At the bottom of the pool were a pile of stones that he had carved into seashells. The paint on them was starting to peel and some of the colours were a little muted, but they were as close as he was going to get to the real thing until he could find the biggest swimming pool in the world, the 'ocean', where apparently real seashells could be found in their millions. He picked up a white shell dotted with little blue spots and rested his snout on it. He closed his eyes for a moment, opening his awareness to the silence and peace that his azure surroundings offered him. He could feel the sun creeping further still into the courtyard, tracing its warm fingers along his wing membranes. The same warmth that hugged his heart whenever he thought of her. He rolled over onto his back, clutching her shell closed to his chest. He would see her again, he would make sure of it. But roots of doubt were already spreading throughout his mind, as he stared up at the quivering, blurry lines of the chain link barrier that had been put up across the courtyard roof following his escape that year, blocking his one and only entrance to the sky. He wondered whether she had forgiven him for abruptly leaving her like he did; if she'd somehow understand that it had never been his intention to abandon her. He clenched his teeth and his chest gave a guilty lurch as he imagined her returning to their little forest grove day after day, hoping that he would one day be there once again, waiting for her. Would she even remember him? And if she did, would she even want to see him? He lay watching the sun come up for some time, casting flickers of light that zigzagged along the bottom of the pool, until a dragon the colour of a storm cloud lurked over the water, blocking it out. Nemo sighed, his gills fluttering. He rolled over and placed her shell on top of his pile, right where it belonged. As unexciting as the sight of his father was these days, Nemo's heart couldn't help but give a little leap. Taranis had obviously come searching for him, so it must be time. Time for whatever great destiny that had apparently been written for him. I will be free. Nemo pushed off the bottom of the pool with his legs and exploded out of the water, landing in front of Governor Taranis with a wet flop. His father merely blinked as Nemo fanned the water off of his wings, sending droplets sprinkling onto his scowling face. An irritated hiss from nearby, however, confirmed that he hadn't come alone. "Watch it, you little hooligan," Lady Madalyn snapped, reaching up to wipe beads of water from a gold pendant around her neck. Nemo could've done without the sight of the Governor's mate that morning, but then again, every day he managed to avoid her was always a sunnier one. With glistening scales the colour of ripened plums, bright emerald eyes and more jewellery than he'd ever seen on a dragon adorning her golden horns, neck, tail and toes, she was quite possibly one of the most beautiful dragons in Soven. It was a shame that beauty only existed on the outside, for now she glared down at him like she always did when she saw him, as though he had maggots wriggling out from between his scales. But Nemo wouldn't let Madalyn's scorn bother him that morning; she was minimal in importance to what was coming up next. He stood to attention before his father, ignoring her as she fussed over one of the silver rings on her horns. "Good morning, Father," Nemo said, dipping his head in respect. He stole a glance up a Taranis' face, and noticed that the Governor looked as though he hadn't slept in days. His sky blue eyes were bloodshot, the scales around them puffy with fatigue. He wasn't even wearing any of the jewellery he usually flounced around in; his long silver horns were bare, as were his toes. He wasn't even wearing his red jewelled medallion that signified his position as Myrn's Governor. Nemo thought he looked as though he'd just this second stepped out of his chambers, straight to him without a moment to lose. "Nemo," Lord Taranis said, his blue eyes almost staring straight through him. He looked as though his mind was everywhere except where he was standing right at that moment. "Today's the day, as I'm sure you know. Your twentieth hatchday, and therefore the day you come of age. It is time to set you off on your path towards your true purpose, and a rich and prosperous future." Bolts of excitement were shooting through Nemo's dripping scales, and he found his tail pounding at the ground behind him in anticipation. "I'm ready, Father," he said, already feeling the wind lash through his wings once more; you could only have so much fun flapping in circles around the courtyard. And his swimming pool only went so deep; he wanted to dive to the bottom of the biggest lake in the world and explore its endless depths. His world was about to swing open its arms and welcome him to what he should've had since his birth. "I'm ready for whatever test is ahead." "This is not a 'test', not quite," said Taranis. "More of a ... ceremony. Great gifts will be bestowed upon you, gifts that no other dragon in the land could possibly imagine." This was perhaps the most Nemo had ever gotten out of his father regarding the events of this day. The idea of these 'gifts' made his curiosity erupt with questions. Whatever they would be, they certainly weren't the pile of pebbles and new set of paints he'd received on last year's hatchday. "So when does this ceremony start?" Nemo asked, trying not to rocket off into the air in excitement. "Whenever you are ready," Taranis said. The dark grey dragon finally jerked into motion and turned his head towards the eastern archway leading back into the citadel. "Everyone is awaiting your arrival in the Great Hall." "'Everyone'?" Nemo echoed, tilting his head. "Yes. People have come from all over Soven to witness this ceremony today. It is a most momentous occasion for them; many have been waiting for this day for decades." His mouth hung open as though he was about to say more, but then it snapped shut. Taranis shuffled his black wings awkwardly. Nemo didn't need to hear any more; he trotted off into the dark shade of the citadel, his wet feet squishing against the marble floor. Tall pillars scattered with runes and symbols from one of the Old Tongues led the way down the black onyx hallway towards the massive, ornate doors at the end that led into the Great Hall. He could hear Father and Lady Madalyn's claws clicking along the floor behind him. "Now remember, Nemo," Taranis said, then fell silent. "Just ... remember to be on your best behaviour," he finished at last with an edge to his voice that hadn't been there before. Nemo glanced over his shoulder and grinned at him. "How insulting! I am always good," he joked. "No, but seriously, I got it. I don't get why you're so nervous. You said so yourself: this is for the better for all of us, right?" Madalyn made a strange choking noise in her throat and swept away down one of the side corridors. Nemo watched her tail disappear around the bend. "What's her problem?" Taranis stared longingly after her. "She's been feeling ill this morning," he said. He tucked his wings tightly against his back. "I will tend to her later. Come, we're almost there." Nemo wanted to sprint the rest of the corridor and burst through the doors; sprint onwards to claim his freedom, the power that was so obviously his birthright, and his reward for living like a prisoner for the first twenty years of his life. The moment he'd waited for was finally here. This was his salvation. He managed to stop before the door, though, remembering his manners; Lord Taranis was always the first to enter special events like this one. Nemo shuffled restlessly on his feet as he felt his father step up closely behind him, trying not to just start yelling at him to open the door already! His tail twitched like a speared fish; the anticipation was unbearable. Father was practically on his tail when he stopped. Nemo's mind was so busy swimming through all the possibilities before him that he barely noticed the Governor's ragged, panicked breaths. The face of the dragoness he so wanted to see again smiled at him through the mist, just as something heavy and hard struck the back of his head. He felt himself falling, deep, deep into darkness, as his father's agonised screams echoed in his ears.

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