#adhemar fic

[hope-to-hell]

A Fairytale in Silver and Glass masterlist

1. In this place, an endless rain

2. From a great height

3. To hold the sun

4. The benthic

5. To the bone

6. Kintsugi

7. Mercy

8. Nascent trees

#rufus sewell #adhemar #adhemar fic #adhemar x you #adhemar x reader #a knights tale #a knights tale fic #my fic #a fairytale in silver and glass

[bisexualpirateheart]

pairings i want to write more of

Luke Skywalker/Din Djarin - The Mandalorian

Jackson Healy/Holland March - The Nice Guys

Bud White/Ed Exley/Lynn Bracken - L.A. Confidential

William Marston/Elizabeth Marston/Olive Byrne - Professor Marston & the Wonder Women

William Thatcher/Edward Black Prince of Wales - William Thatcher/Geoffrey Chaucer - William Thatcher/Adhemar - A Knight’s Tale

Eddie Brock/Venom - Venom (Technically I haven’t written any yet? this is a crime)

#fic #fanfic #fic pairings #i have an idea for a will/adhemar fic #and a few luke/din ideas #but other than that #i need to find a prompt list or something

[bluejay-in-flight]

New Pending Fic Idea!

Don't you love when you already have four stories you're currently working on AND a song but then you watch a movie you've seen at least three times before and your brain is suddenly like we need to write!!!!!! And now I'm thinking write what? The movie is already absolutely fantastic there's nothing I would add or change about it (the movie is A Knight's Tale btw) so what would I write about?

Then your brain sends you the weirdest most ridiculous idea of a crossover between A Knight's Tale and Harry Potter and it's just so crazy that you might just have to write it cause sure as hell no one else is going to 😂😭 So yeah now I'm going to start writing a Harry Potter/A Knight's Tale fanfic where characters from Harry Potter take the place of A Knight's Tale characters and play out the plot haha (which I will be extending past the movie)

So if you're interested in the idea or just morbidly curious in how the hell I'm gonna go this I'm putting what I have of the idea so far below the cut so enjoy 😅 Also if you haven't watched A Knight's Tale pls do it's such a fantastic movie and one of my absolute favorites!

Who is played by who:

Will Thatcher - Harry Potter

Count Adhemar - Draco Malfoy

Roland - Neville Longbottom

Wat - Ron Weasley

Geoffrey Chaucer - Blaise Zabini

Jocelyn - Cho Chang

Kate - Hermione Granger

Christiana - Luna Lovegood

Colville - Cedric Diggory

John Thatcher - James Potter

Added character for fun - Pansy Parkinson

Ships in crossover:

Canon Characters...

Will/Adhemar

Roland/Christiana

Wat/Chaucer

Jocelyn/Kate

Characters in actual fic...

Harry/Draco

Neville/Luna

Ron/Blaise

Cho/Hermione

Pansy/Cedric

#my stories #jay jabbers

[artemisegeria]

Scarlet Vision A Knight’s Tale AU Scenario

I’ve been working on bits and pieces of this fic since last August, but I just don’t think I’m going to finish it/be able to make it work. I’ve moved on, but I still like the premise. So here is a summary version of it. If this happens to inspire anyone to write something, please do.

 Cast

William Thatcher = Wanda

Chaucer = Vision (different personality from the original movie)

Sir Ector (original knight who died at the beginning of the movie) = Bruce

Banner’s wife = Natasha

Roland and Wat (William’s friends) = Sam and Steve

Kate (blacksmith) = Tony

Count Adhemar (antagonist) = ?* 

*I played around with not having an antagonist at all, but I think Ultron, Thanos, some other character, or an original character would fit here.

 I also cut out a few other characters that didn’t fit the story I was planning on telling.

 Plot

Follows the basic plot of the movie fairly closely, with some points of divergence.

Bruce and Natasha are a knight and his wife. Theirs was a marriage of convenience. They have a fond partnership and understanding. Bruce is allowed to spend most of the time researching the scientific advances that he loves, and Natasha does not have to fit neatly into a courtly role. Sam, Steve, and Wanda are their squires/attendants. Natasha has trained Wanda how to fight and joust, along with Sam and Steve.

The story opens during the break between tournament events. Natasha et al. check Bruce’s pulse and confirm that he’s dead. They’re all a little shocked, trying to figure out what to do next. Natasha proposes that they regroup at the castle/manor where they live. They start to prepare to leave, but Wanda says that she can take Bruce’s place. The others are skeptical, but she convinces them to try. Wanda wins the joust. They all agree to continue attending tournaments.

Training montages. Traveling. Friendly banter. Wanda practicing disguising/deepening her voice.

During the next tournament, where a little bit of bribery got her in without the proper papers, Wanda is waiting for the joust/practicing and a man offers a suggestion about her form or something. Wanda gets defensive and refuses to take the advice. She then sees that the man was her opponent’s herald. She presumes that he was only trying to throw her off. The first few tilts go badly. She finally takes the advice and ends up winning. Her opponent and his retinue disappear before she can thank the man.

On their way to the next location, they come across the same man on the side of the road. He’s in pretty bad shape. When they finally manage to wake him up, he tells them that the knight he was working for had him beaten up and left him for dead instead of paying him for his services so far. He introduces himself as Vision. Vision recognizes Wanda as the knight from earlier. The group allows him to travel with them, and he offers the same services of drafting patents of nobility and being Wanda’s herald.

During the next tournament, Wanda’s armor is badly damaged, and she comes across Tony, who is making experimental armor that no one will take a risk trying. Wanda agrees to use it at a much-reduced rate. This involves giving up the secret of her identity. Tony accepts that she is a woman and joins their rag-tag group. He makes the armor for her.

The new members bond with the pre-existing group. Quickly go through other tournaments. Wanda and Vision can never sleep, for different reasons, so they end up having many late-night conversations while the others are asleep.

Throughout this time, a legend has been growing around Wanda, due to her sudden success out of nowhere and the fact that she always keeps her full armor and helmet on throughout the public spaces of the tournaments. She sometimes walks around tournaments as herself and is known as a fellow-traveler, but of course the knight and Lady Natasha’s attendant are never seen together. During one tournament, she hears whispers that her next opponent is Prince Thor, fighting under a pseudonym, whom no one else will face down because of his position. Everyone tries to convince Wanda to forfeit, but she refuses. She defeats Thor, and he nods at her, grateful that she was willing to fight him. The whole group is invited to that night’s festivities.

Wanda is worried because her education has not focused on things like dancing. Vision and Tony, who surprisingly has a much wealthier background, give her and Sam and Steve tips. Then, during the night, there are switching places shenanigans where Wanda has to trade places as Sir Maximoff and Wanda and constantly make excuses for herself (I know this is overdone, but it is one of my favorite tropes and very funny when done well). She and Vision dance together. If there’s an antagonist, Wanda dances with him as well, while he angles for information about Sir Maximoff as she gives misleading answers.

After the long night celebrating and running around, everyone else collapses as soon as they reach their sleeping area. But Wanda and Vision are too giddy to fall asleep; for once there’s a happier cause of their insomnia. They continue talking and laughing and eventually fall asleep leaning against each other. They sleep very deeply and don’t wake up until everyone else is already moving around, much to their friends’ glee. Wanda and Vision try to brush it off as if nothing happened.

Wanda continues winning tournaments, and some rivals or the main antagonist want to find a way to stop her. They send an investigator to figure out where she came from. The investigator discovers the secret of Wanda’s identity just as she is about to win the most important tournament of the year. She gets sent to the stocks and all her friends protect her. Vision makes an impassioned speech, and Prince Thor reveals that he’s been hiding in the crowd. He makes Wanda a knight, and she defeats the main antagonist and wins the big prize.

At the very end, Vision congratulates her. Wanda asks what he plans to do now that the tournament season is over and winter is approaching. He says that he doesn’t know and was considering joining a monastery to put his copying skills to good use. Natasha walks by and stage whispers to Wanda that their manor/castle has a lot of spare rooms. Wanda takes the hint, inviting Vision to come stay with them. He accepts. They kiss.

They live happily ever after.

#fanfiction #au scenarios #scarlet vision #wanda x vision #wanda maximoff #vision

[brightnshinyrecs]

Fandom: A Knight’s Tale

Author: speakmefair

Rating: 15

Characters: Wat/Geoffrey Chaucer, Will Thatcher/Jocelyn and Adhemar

Summary:  Geoff is a spy. Will has a bright idea. Wat listens to him. And Adhemar wishes he had less idea of what's going on than he actually does. No sons of Edward III were harmed in the making of this fic, although Chaucer may have wanted to...

Reccer’s Note:   It is gleefully silly, as it should be.

#fandom: A Knight's Tale #rating: 15 #recs

[locke-writes]

Masterlist

The requested rebloggable version of my masterlist under the cut.

Remember that my motto is “If I know it well enough I can write for it” so questions about fandoms and characters are always welcome. I write for movies, tv shows, plays, musicals, books, etc.

All Fics

Anastasia The Musical

Dimitry

Baby Driver

Baby

Buddy

Darling

Being Human (US)

Aidan Waite

Bishop

Josh Levison

Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure

Bill Preston

Ted Logan

Booksmart

Amy Antsler

Gigi

Molly Davidson

Tanner

The Breakfast Club

Andrew Clark

John Bender

Brooklyn Nine Nine

Amy Santiago

Jake Peralta

Rosa Diaz

Terry Jeffords

Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Cordelia Chase

Giles

Spike

Xander

Criminal Minds

Aaron Hotchner

David Rossi

Derek Morgan

Penelope Garcia

Spencer Reid

Daredevil

Foggy Nelson

Frank Castle

Matt Murdock

DC Extended Universe

Arthur Curry

Barry Allen

Bruce Wayne

Harley Quinn

Joker

Mera

Victor Stone

Disney

Christopher Robin

David Kawena

Diaval

Dory

Flynn Rider

Gaston

Lumiere

Maleficent

Moana

Nani Pelekai

Piglet

Prince Adam

Prince Philip

Wiggins

Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them

Newt Scamander

Percival Graves

Friends

Chandler Bing

Janice Litman

Joey Tribianni

Monica Gellar

Phoebe Buffay

Rachel Green

Ross Gellar

Fright Night (2011)

Charlie Brewster

Jerry Dandridge

Peter Vincent

Ghostbusters

Egon Spengler

Peter Venkman

Ray Stantz

Guardians of the Galaxy

Gamora

Peter Quill

Yondu

The Good Place

Chidi Anagonye

Eleanor Shellstrop

Jason Mendoza

Michael

Tahani Al Jamil

Halt & Catch Fire

Joe MacMillan

Hannibal

Frederick Chilton

Hannibal Lecter

Will Graham

Harry Potter

Bill Weasley

Charlie Weasley

Draco Malfoy

Fred Weasley

Ginny Weasley

George Weasley

Harry Potter

Hermione Granger

James Potter

Lavender Brown

Lucius Malfoy

Luna Lovegood

Marauders

Neville Longbottom

Oliver Wood

Remus Lupin

Ron Weasley

Severus Snape

Seamus Finnigan

Hateful Eight

Chris Mannix

Domergue Gang

Jody Domergue

Joe Gage

John Ruth

Pete Hicox

The Haunted Mansion

Edward Gracey

House MD

Gregory House

James Wilson

How I Met Your Mother

Barney Stinson

IT

The Losers Club

Bill Denbrough

Ben Hanscom

Eddie Kaspbrak

Richie Tozier

It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia

Dennis

Mac

Charlie

The IT Crowd

The IT Department

Roy

Jurassic Park

Alan Grant

Ian Malcolm

Jurassic World

Lowery Cruthers

Zara

Zia Rodriguez

The Kingsman

Eggsy Unwin

Harry Hart

Merlin

A Knight’s Tale

Chaucer

Count Adhemar

Wat

Knives Out

Benoit Blanc

Law & Order SVU

Amanda Rollins

George Huang

John Munch

Mike Dodds

Nick Amaro

Rafael Barba

Rita Calhoun

Sonny Carisi

Lost Boys

David

The Vampire Clan

Lucifer

Chloe Decker

Lucifer Morningstar

Mazikeen

Marvel

Ava Starr

Avengers Team

Bruce Banner

Bucky Barnes

Cable

Carol Danvers

Clint Barton

The Collector

Deadpool

Fandral

Hope Van Dyne

Johnny Storm

Loki

Nakia

Okoye

Peter Parker

Phil Coulson

Pietro Maximoff

Sam Wilson

Scott Lang

Stephen Strange

Steve Rogers

Susan Storm

Thor

Tony Stark

Valkyrie

Vision

Yon Rogg

Wanda Maximoff

The Martian

Mark Watney

Rich Purnell

Merlin

Arthur Pendragon

Merlin

Morgana Pendragon

Morgause

Uther

Mr Right

Francis

New Girl

Coach

Jessica Day

Nick Miller

Schmidt

Winston Bishop

Now You See Me

The Four Horsemen

Parks & Recreation

Andy Dwyer

Chris Traeger

Donna Meagle

Tom Haverford

Peter Pan (2003)

Peter Pan

Peaky Blinders

Ada Shelby

Alfie Solomons

Arthur Shelby

John Shelby

Luca Changretta

Michael Gray

Polly Gray

Tommy Shelby

Phantom of the Opera

Erik

Princess Bride

Buttercup

Pretty In Pink

Duckie

Steff

Priest

Black Hat

Prodigal Son

Malcolm Bright

Martin Whitly

PS I Love You

William Gallagher

Pushing Daisies

Ned

Repo! The Genetic Opera

Graverobber

Luigi Largo

Rotti Largo

Reservoir Dogs

Freddy Newandyke

Mr White

Nice Guy Eddie

Vic Vega

A Series of Unfortunate Events

The Baudelaire’s

Esme Squalor

Star Wars

Bodhi Rook

Cassian Andor

Darth Maul

Finn

Hux

Kylo Ren

Obi Wan

Poe Dameron

Qui Gon

Rey

Stranger Things

Eleven

Jim Hopper

Jonathan Byers

Steve Harrington

That 70s Show

Donna Pinciotti

Fez

Michael Kelso

Steven Hyde

Three Musketeers (2011)

Aramis

Athos

D’artagnan

Porthos

Trainspotting

Renton

Trouble in the Heights

Nevada Ramirez

Watchmen

Adrian Veidt/Ozymandias 

Rorschach

Watchmen (Team)

What We Do In The Shadows

Nandor

Nadja

Will & Grace

Karen Walker

Will Truman

X-Men

Charles Xavier

Erik Lehnsherr

Hank McCoy

Kurt Wagner

Victor Creed

Wolverine

#rebloggable masterlist #locke writes masterlist #ok to reblog

[hope-to-hell]

A Fairytale in Silver and Glass, part 8: nascent trees

—

He is a man composed of heavy doors and endless rooms, in which his secrets lie in drifts across the floors.

No, wait.

He is the final lingering echo of the last bell that rings in the new year.

Still not right.

He is a man aflame.

He is Adhemar: alone and maybe lonely, sitting with one hand cradling his face.

Here you are.

I thought you’d gone.

(When you try the door, the knob turns beneath your hand; whether you stay or leave, the future is unknown— and in your choosing, the what-might-be becomes what-might-have-been.)

I am no more and no less than this. One piece of me is tied to all the rest, and if you pick one up you’ll have them all.

(Do you withdraw?)

Islands rise from fire, from ash, from clouds that form and tear themselves apart at once. He doesn’t play at penitence; it isn’t in him. He is who he is because of what he’s done and seen, because of the fire that roils beneath his skin like hellfire from the ocean floor. But also—yes— within that bitter burning darkness there is nonetheless

life.

(How, then, can he find his grace? Arrogant sharptoothed flint-edged vicious selfish raging scheming)

He sees the scaffolding that ascends into the heavens and at its base is heaped dirt and blood and shit; his hands are pierced by splinters, but still he climbs. At the apex of this tower is a box made of glass: a greenhouse where the air is silent and waiting, waiting for him to see new land forming in the distance.

Saplings rise and pull strength from the ashes; one leaf unfurls, then two, then ten, then thousands. They send their roots deep and drink their fill. And Adhemar rises from his chair; he opens in the way that oaken doors open: slowly, with the weight of years.

(May the worms take him if the vultures don’t.

But he could be kind, he could be, he could be, he let them go, and listen: there is silver in his hand and through this fire there beats the heart of a man; tear him open and the smooth cool stone at his center will catch the light.)

I thought I’d leave. I nearly did. And yet you press your ear against his chest to drown out the rain in the oceanic roar of his pulse and in his sudden sharp inhale as what-has-always-been becomes what-could-be.

You held the sun in your hands and it was cold; it sank with you into the river and flowed with you to the sea. This is the part of the dream you’ve kept for yourself: the light is argent in the depths and as it spreads it makes a path beneath the waves to lead you home.

#rufus sewell #adhemar #adhemar fic #adhemar x you #adhemar x reader #a knights tale #a knights tale fic #my fic #a fairytale in silver and glass

[hope-to-hell]

A fairytale in silver and glass: part seven

Mercy. Adhemar x Reader. At last, the penultimate chapter. What is hope, anyway?

—-

I thought I could imprison my failings in a cage of glass, to be examined as relics of a distant time. You see, there was a moment once– long ago– when the world as I knew it turned upside down. I swore to do better, to be better– and yet. He sits and you sit with him; there is blood beneath his nails and crusted in the grooves along his palms. He throws heat like a furnace; it's always surprising, somehow, to find that he has human warmth.

You're hurt. It's absurd: your mind is still fumbling around the afterimage left by whatever writhes inside him, still faintly rimed with ozone and black tar. This is an echo of a moment, spiraling in upon itself to be spun out anew. And in the endless sea of how and why and what will be you fetch up against him, new land rising steam-shrouded from the water, all naked cliffs and stone and

(This is how the world was made)

when you open his hand, his palm is limned with silver scars. All his years are written there in long-healed cuts and torn calluses, overlaid by livid crescents in the shape of a clenched fist. Do you regret it? For him to say either yes or no would be a lie;

It is a complicated question.

(Do you withdraw?)

the only answer he can give is in the briefest closing of his fingers over yours.

We burned the forest to drive them out, but though a hundred men were hidden there, fewer than a dozen emerged. We kept one for information and another for a messenger; the rest met a swift and bitter end.

Mercy?

We had none. It was a matter of practicality; we had no further need of them.

And the one you kept?

He became a vessel for our anger and our grief. And I was…unkind. His words brush against the edges of some bloody evening long ago, over some poor soul whose last glimpse of light was the spark and howl of flames tearing through the trees. I left the cloth over his eyes, even when it didn’t matter anymore.

There’s the fire in him again, his voice burred and raw, but among the smoke and ashes lies the scent of violets and moss, of petrichor, of leather; and though his hand is burning hot, when you cease the mending of his wounds to close both your hands over his, he reaches equilibrium and he is warm.

(What do you think happens when the setting sun touches the earth in winter? Is it spiteful? Does it seek to scorch the land?

I think— I think, perhaps, it gives itself away to warm the far dark corners of the world.)

You have been cruel.

I have.

You have been terrible.

Yes. He waits, and in him is the weariness of years. A man is a man is a man, and for all his power he cannot plumb your thoughts.

And will you not let me leave?

You can leave only once. And you cannot return. Such is the way of things: the tangle of want and need, the smell of rain on wool, the patter of bare feet on stone and concrete, a locked door and an ending that’s the same as always. The cycle is reflected in the lines on his face and in the gnawing writhing told you so, you were and are and will be nothing more than this that eats at him.

A gift is not a gift unless it’s given with an open hand.

(He could be kind)

I think— I think the measure of a man is in his actions. You have been cruel, and yet—

Hope is a breath, a whisper; it is the first drops of rain on parched earth. There are no guarantees, no happy ending promised to those who tear themselves open on the edge of what might be. Everything in him screams to close himself up tight, to stoke his fire until he bursts in gouts of blood and tar, but

(What is the measure of a man?)

Hope is a smooth stone reflecting morning light; it is the richness of turned earth and the spark of silver in his hand. Hope is a weakness, yes, but what else can he do but let it stab into his breast? And so he holds himself open and shudders through an exhale, through fire and ash and gnashing teeth, through years and miles, through endless frightened faces, through rain and moss and and and—

—and yet you could be kind.

#rufus sewell #adhemar #adhemar fic #adhemar x reader #adhemar x you #a knights tale #a knights tale fic #my fic #a fairytale in silver and glass

[hope-to-hell]

A fairytale in silver and glass: part five.

To the bone. Book quote from Michael Ende’s The Neverending Story. The cracks are beginning to show.

—-

He doesn’t ask if you miss your life before because stupid questions beget stupid answers. Truth be told, he rarely asks you anything at all. He watches, and sometimes he commands—

—and oh the steel in his voice when he caught you with your hand on the door to his study; all he had to say was no and it sent a violent shiver from your toes up through your shoulders; his eyes were heavy on you til you’d slunk out of sight, and your heart was pounding when you later lay in bed and slipped your hand beneath the covers—

—but most days there is little talk between you. He doesn’t ask and you don’t offer.

He leaves and as he does the air runs in eddies around him, pooling at his lips with words on the verge of being said. I will return, perhaps, or be good

(Be safe)

and though your supper is on the table every night there is still a gnawing hunger in your belly. You wake each dawn to neatly folded clothes, to breakfast on the side table, to wan light streaming in through the narrow window. Days pass in an endless patter of your bare feet on cold floors and the scent of brass that clings to your hand each time you try the door.

(I held the sun in my hands)

This is a sleepless night; days and nights scratch at one another til they’re hopelessly entangled. There is no feeling the breeze on your face, no deep inhale to draw the dawn into your lungs. The closest you can get is Adhemar’s greenhouse, but it is a sealed box that always seems to be surrounded by clouds and rain. The air within these walls is still and empty, and for a moment you cannot breathe.

(I clutched it to my chest)

The study door is ajar tonight.

(Really? You made it all the way here and didn’t notice? You, whose pulse quickens when shadows cross the hall beyond your door? Or were you hoping—)

Where do you go?

He doesn’t answer.

Night and day exchanged glances, and in the long slow blink between them he returned. His veins pulse close to the surface and their frantic tattoo can be nearly heard.

Golden light fans out through the open door; it’s a gentle glow that pushes back the visual static of the darkened hall. He is there and he is not; he holds a silver ring in his hand that he walks across his knuckles: back and forth, back and forth, until it disappears into his fist.

What do you miss the most? he doesn’t ask.

Sunlight. Pavement. Midnight conversations. Laughter over supper. Human touch. He doesn’t ask, and so you cannot answer. In the space between words unsaid he looks to you and sees beyond. The ring turns in his hand again and when it reappears it’s streaked with red.

Are you—

Leave it.

His voice is a tangle, burred and harsh and each word buries its hooks deep to leave threads of worry behind. He is not measured nor aloof; something in him teeters on the edge of anger. There is silver in his beard and in his hand; the light is golden on his skin and melts through him to his bones. Hie to your chamber. He is old now, ancient even, layer upon layer of tar and filth and recklessness, of moments that could have become his doom and his grace were he not held back by whatever it is that eats at him.

No. Are you hurt? Do you need— There is pain in him, some struggle that gnaws him from the inside. It flies in the face of your judgment and experience, but

(Who are you to kick at the pillars of the sky)

his fractured parts are visible at last and he cannot push them back inside himself.

Go. To. Your. Chamber. There it is: the fire, the crack in the earth, the stone dropping molten from his tongue. He stands upon the edge of reason and though he is all aflame there was still a tattered book waiting for you in the greenhouse. And still the words were smeared on the page when you read:

But if all at once it looks as though your wish might come true, you suddenly find yourself wishing you had never wished for any such thing.

And when he rises— when he is so close you can smell the rain and ozone still clinging to his curls— when the flecks of green in his eyes are so clear— when he rises, he is fighting back something

something

that you cannot name but can only feel.

Please, he says; the word lands silvery in your hand.

(Dust in an empty room, black powder, drifting smoke. Light and heat and all around is the crashing of a house as it falls to its knees. He is there and he is incandescent; if he takes another step he’ll burst and all the good, the bad— all the teeth and shadows and meadowgrass— will come pouring out.

Can a man change his stars?)

A man is a man is a man, but sometimes a man is a vessel of oil. Sometimes a man is a footprint in deep mud. Sometimes a man is a bloody hand. Sometimes a man is a single word held aloft by a fine thread. Adhemar curls himself around his please, around the smooth cool stone at his center. The thread vibrates. It sheds fragments of fiber that are incinerated by his writhing burning something. And it holds.

Go, he says again, and drops his gaze, although to do so grinds his teeth and makes his bones shiver in their sockets. To your chamber, he says, and what else can you do but obey?

#rufus sewell #adhemar #adhemar x you #adhemar x reader #adhemar fic #a knights tale #a knights tale fic #my fic #a fairytale in silver and glass

[hope-to-hell]

A fairytale in silver and glass, part eight

Nascent trees. Adhemar x Reader. At last we have arrived at the final chapter. A choice is made, and whether it signifies an end or a beginning is up to you.

Many thanks to those who have been with me on this journey, writing love letters to a long-dead fandom.

—

He is a man composed of heavy doors and endless rooms, in which his secrets lie in drifts across the floors.

No, wait.

He is the final lingering echo of the last bell that rings in the new year.

Still not right.

He is a man aflame.

He is Adhemar: alone and maybe lonely, sitting with one hand cradling his face.

Here you are.

I thought you’d gone.

(When you try the door, the knob turns beneath your hand; whether you stay or leave, the future is unknown— and in your choosing, the what-might-be becomes what-might-have-been.)

I am no more and no less than this. One piece of me is tied to all the rest, and if you pick one up you’ll have them all.

(Do you withdraw?)

Islands rise from fire, from ash, from clouds that form and tear themselves apart at once. He doesn’t play at penitence; it isn’t in him. He is who he is because of what he’s done and seen, because of the fire that roils beneath his skin like hellfire from the ocean floor. But also—yes— within that bitter burning darkness there is nonetheless

life.

(How, then, can he find his grace? Arrogant sharptoothed flint-edged vicious selfish raging scheming)

He sees the scaffolding that ascends into the heavens and at its base is heaped dirt and blood and shit; his hands are pierced by splinters, but still he climbs. At the apex of this tower is a box made of glass: a greenhouse where the air is silent and waiting, waiting for him to see new land forming in the distance.

Saplings rise and pull strength from the ashes; one leaf unfurls, then two, then ten, then thousands. They send their roots deep and drink their fill. And Adhemar rises from his chair; he opens in the way that oaken doors open: slowly, with the weight of years.

(May the worms take him if the vultures don’t.

But he could be kind, he could be, he could be, he let them go, and listen: there is silver in his hand and through this fire there beats the heart of a man; tear him open and the smooth cool stone at his center will catch the light.)

I thought I’d leave. I nearly did. And yet you press your ear against his chest to drown out the rain in the oceanic roar of his pulse and in his sudden sharp inhale as what-has-always-been becomes what-could-be.

You held the sun in your hands and it was cold; it sank with you into the river and flowed with you to the sea. This is the part of the dream you’ve kept for yourself: the light is argent in the depths and as it spreads it makes a path beneath the waves to lead you home.

#rufus sewell #adhemar #adhemar fic #adhemar x reader #adhemar x you #a knights tale #a knights tale fic #my fic #a fairytale in silver and glass

[hope-to-hell]

A Fairytale in Silver and Glass, part six

Kintsugi. Adhemar x Reader. A single choice does not define us. It is a ripple in a pond. But enough ripples together make waves that change the shape of the land.

—-

He hits the ground hard and all the breath leaves his body. His desperate hollow gasps strain his flesh and leave spots dancing across his eyes; this is Adhemar in shame, in anger, in broken blinding raging shards of so this is how it is.

(The great oak split, and at its center was unholy fire)

He stares up at the sky as bruises bloom across his chest. He lost— he lost— to some upstart peasant.

You’re better than this.

He will return home and brush the dust from his clothes; he will build himself back up until his presence blots out the sun and cracks the earth.

This is how it is—

Perhaps. But does it have to be? The words slip sibilant into his ear, pouring across his skin and leaving stinging trails in their wake.

(In spring he saw green leaves among the ashes: tiny nascent trees)

He pauses with his hand upon the door.

(He says goodbye and good riddance when no one else can hear; he takes the ring and leaves his father to the worms)

What happened to the others?

They are far from here, and safe. Some are naught but dust by now, some are wanderers, some have grown deep roots. Perhaps some are even happy.

He let them go— he let them go—but in the long-ago and far-away, he watched endless nameless faceless companions stand with their feet growing numb from cold; he heard their breath catch at the sound of the lock: the near-sob and the hard swallow as their ties to outside were severed.

He lifts his hand.

(All you have to do is let us in)

He feels the lance in his dreams: the heft of it, the vibration of the winning strike traveling through his arm, victory— satisfaction—

(blood and shit and the screams of the dying)

—he wakes with war heavy on his tongue and a longing for the thrill of the joust, for adoration and elation and nights with wide-eyed lovers who he’ll never see again. But the tournament is far away; it carries on without him—

—He paces before the empty stands and already he can feel hoofbeats hammering up through his armor; he tastes dust and straw lingering in the air and lets a smile steal across his face—

All is still and silent, save for the heartbeat in the next room.

Where do you go? He doesn’t answer, cannot answer— not without shattering something small and precious. Instead he leaves another novel in the greenhouse, foxed with time and use. It may be written in a language that few, now, can read; but tucked between the pages is a little scrap of homespun cloth.

(This will save your life someday)

He makes a deal on a golden afternoon when the wind carries whispers of autumn. The victory he craves is out of reach, but power— that he can have.

All that you desire and more.

He is not kind, not by half, but he understands the gravity of his position. And so he builds a village, a town, a city, a metropolis. With stone, with brick, with steel and concrete the city grows as Adhemar watches from a tower that reaches ever higher. He keeps his secrets in the low places, and when he shows his face he is polite; he is remote; he is inscrutable.

(Whispers of light herald the dawn to come. Adhemar stands with his teacher and listens to the whickering of destriers dozing in the hay. You must understand that power itself is merely a means. You have the gift of noble birth, and now you must decide what you will do with it. Will you be a protector, or a tyrant?

What does this have to do with horses?

Everything and nothing, my little lord. Now, come. The sun rises, and it is time you learned to carry a lance.)

And are you satisfied? Do your night jaunts slake your thirst? Can you balance who and what you are? Do you live?

Does it burn?

Adhemar opens the door and steps across the threshold.

(Early morning light)

He meets your eyes. Once, long ago, I made a choice.

What?

(A single oak becomes a grove of trees)

He tries again.

I would speak with you. I have been cruel.

#rufus sewell #adhemar #adhemar fic #adhemar x you #adhemar x reader #a knights tale #a knights tale fic #my fic #a fairytale in silver and glass

[hope-to-hell]

A Fairytale in Silver and Glass, part 7: mercy

—

I thought I could imprison my failings in a cage of glass, to be examined as relics of a distant time. You see, there was a moment once– long ago– when the world as I knew it turned upside down. I swore to do better, to be better– and yet. He sits and you sit with him; there is blood beneath his nails and crusted in the grooves along his palms. He throws heat like a furnace; it's always surprising, somehow, to find that he has human warmth.

You're hurt. It's absurd: your mind is still fumbling around the afterimage left by whatever writhes inside him, still faintly rimed with ozone and black tar. This is an echo of a moment, spiraling in upon itself to be spun out anew. And in the endless sea of how and why and what will be you fetch up against him, new land rising steam-shrouded from the water, all naked cliffs and stone and

(This is how the world was made)

when you open his hand, his palm is limned with silver scars. All his years are written there in long-healed cuts and torn calluses, overlaid by livid crescents in the shape of a clenched fist. Do you regret it? For him to say either yes or no would be a lie;

It is a complicated question.

(Do you withdraw?)

the only answer he can give is in the briefest closing of his fingers over yours.

We burned the forest to drive them out, but though a hundred men were hidden there, fewer than a dozen emerged. We kept one for information and another for a messenger; the rest met a swift and bitter end.

Mercy?

We had none. It was a matter of practicality; we had no further need of them.

And the one you kept?

He became a vessel for our anger and our grief. And I was…unkind. His words brush against the edges of some bloody evening long ago, over some poor soul whose last glimpse of light was the spark and howl of flames tearing through the trees. I left the cloth over his eyes, even when it didn’t matter anymore.

There’s the fire in him again, his voice burred and raw, but among the smoke and ashes lies the scent of violets and moss, of petrichor, of leather; and though his hand is burning hot, when you cease the mending of his wounds to close both your hands over his, he reaches equilibrium and he is warm.

(What do you think happens when the setting sun touches the earth in winter? Is it spiteful? Does it seek to scorch the land?

I think— I think, perhaps, it gives itself away to warm the far dark corners of the world.)

You have been cruel.

I have.

You have been terrible.

Yes. He waits, and in him is the weariness of years. A man is a man is a man, and for all his power he cannot plumb your thoughts.

And will you not let me leave?

You can leave only once. And you cannot return. Such is the way of things: the tangle of want and need, the smell of rain on wool, the patter of bare feet on stone and concrete, a locked door and an ending that’s the same as always. The cycle is reflected in the lines on his face and in the gnawing writhing told you so, you were and are and will be nothing more than this that eats at him.

A gift is not a gift unless it’s given with an open hand.

(He could be kind)

I think— I think the measure of a man is in his actions. You have been cruel, and yet—

Hope is a breath, a whisper; it is the first drops of rain on parched earth. There are no guarantees, no happy ending promised to those who tear themselves open on the edge of what might be. Everything in him screams to close himself up tight, to stoke his fire until he bursts in gouts of blood and tar, but

(What is the measure of a man?)

Hope is a smooth stone reflecting morning light; it is the richness of turned earth and the spark of silver in his hand. Hope is a weakness, yes, but what else can he do but let it stab into his breast? And so he holds himself open and shudders through an exhale, through fire and ash and gnashing teeth, through years and miles, through endless frightened faces, through rain and moss and and and—

—and yet you could be kind.

#rufus sewell #adhemar #adhemar fic #adhemar x you #adhemar x reader #a knights tale #a knights tale fic #my fic #a fairytale in silver and glass

[hope-to-hell]

A Fairytale in Silver and Glass, part six: Kintsugi

—

He hits the ground hard and all the breath leaves his body. His desperate hollow gasps strain his flesh and leave spots dancing across his eyes; this is Adhemar in shame, in anger, in broken blinding raging shards of so this is how it is.

(The great oak split, and at its center was unholy fire)

He stares up at the sky as bruises bloom across his chest. He lost— he lost— to some upstart peasant.

You’re better than this.

He will return home and brush the dust from his clothes; he will build himself back up until his presence blots out the sun and cracks the earth.

This is how it is—

Perhaps. But does it have to be? The words slip sibilant into his ear, pouring across his skin and leaving stinging trails in their wake.

(In spring he saw green leaves among the ashes: tiny nascent trees)

He pauses with his hand upon the door.

(He says goodbye and good riddance when no one else can hear; he takes the ring and leaves his father to the worms)

What happened to the others?

They are far from here, and safe. Some are naught but dust by now, some are wanderers, some have grown deep roots. Perhaps some are even happy.

He let them go— he let them go—but in the long-ago and far-away, he watched endless nameless faceless companions stand with their feet growing numb from cold; he heard their breath catch at the sound of the lock: the near-sob and the hard swallow as their ties to outside were severed.

He lifts his hand.

(All you have to do is let us in)

He feels the lance in his dreams: the heft of it, the vibration of the winning strike traveling through his arm, victory— satisfaction—

(blood and shit and the screams of the dying)

—he wakes with war heavy on his tongue and a longing for the thrill of the joust, for adoration and elation and nights with wide-eyed lovers who he’ll never see again. But the tournament is far away; it carries on without him—

—He paces before the empty stands and already he can feel hoofbeats hammering up through his armor; he tastes dust and straw lingering in the air and lets a smile steal across his face—

All is still and silent, save for the heartbeat in the next room.

Where do you go? He doesn’t answer, cannot answer— not without shattering something small and precious. Instead he leaves another novel in the greenhouse, foxed with time and use. It may be written in a language that few, now, can read; but tucked between the pages is a little scrap of homespun cloth.

(This will save your life someday)

He makes a deal on a golden afternoon when the wind carries whispers of autumn. The victory he craves is out of reach, but power— that he can have.

All that you desire and more.

He is not kind, not by half, but he understands the gravity of his position. And so he builds a village, a town, a city, a metropolis. With stone, with brick, with steel and concrete the city grows as Adhemar watches from a tower that reaches ever higher. He keeps his secrets in the low places, and when he shows his face he is polite; he is remote; he is inscrutable.

(Whispers of light herald the dawn to come. Adhemar stands with his teacher and listens to the whickering of destriers dozing in the hay. You must understand that power itself is merely a means. You have the gift of noble birth, and now you must decide what you will do with it. Will you be a protector, or a tyrant?

What does this have to do with horses?

Everything and nothing, my little lord. Now, come. The sun rises, and it is time you learned to carry a lance.)

And are you satisfied? Do your night jaunts slake your thirst? Can you balance who and what you are? Do you live?

Does it burn?

Adhemar opens the door and steps across the threshold.

(Early morning light)

He meets your eyes. Once, long ago, I made a choice.

What?

(A single oak becomes a grove of trees)

He tries again.

I would speak with you. I have been cruel.

#rufus sewell #adhemar #adhemar fic #adhemar x reader #adhemar x you #a knights tale #a knights tale fic #my fic #a fairytale in silver and glass

[hope-to-hell]

A Fairytale in Silver and Glass, part five: to the bone

The book: Michael Ende—The Neverending Story.

—

He doesn’t ask if you miss your life before because stupid questions beget stupid answers. Truth be told, he rarely asks you anything at all. He watches, and sometimes he commands—

—and oh the steel in his voice when he caught you with your hand on the door to his study; all he had to say was no and it sent a violent shiver from your toes up through your shoulders; his eyes were heavy on you til you’d slunk out of sight, and your heart was pounding when you later lay in bed and slipped your hand beneath the covers—

—but most days there is little talk between you. He doesn’t ask and you don’t offer.

He leaves and as he does the air runs in eddies around him, pooling at his lips with words on the verge of being said. I will return, perhaps, or be good

(Be safe)

and though your supper is on the table every night there is still a gnawing hunger in your belly. You wake each dawn to neatly folded clothes, to breakfast on the side table, to wan light streaming in through the narrow window. Days pass in an endless patter of your bare feet on cold floors and the scent of brass that clings to your hand each time you try the door.

(I held the sun in my hands)

This is a sleepless night; days and nights scratch at one another til they’re hopelessly entangled. There is no feeling the breeze on your face, no deep inhale to draw the dawn into your lungs. The closest you can get is Adhemar’s greenhouse, but it is a sealed box that always seems to be surrounded by clouds and rain. The air within these walls is still and empty, and for a moment you cannot breathe.

(I clutched it to my chest)

The study door is ajar tonight.

(Really? You made it all the way here and didn’t notice? You, whose pulse quickens when shadows cross the hall beyond your door? Or were you hoping—)

Where do you go?

He doesn’t answer.

Night and day exchanged glances, and in the long slow blink between them he returned. His veins pulse close to the surface and their frantic tattoo can be nearly heard.

Golden light fans out through the open door; it’s a gentle glow that pushes back the visual static of the darkened hall. He is there and he is not; he holds a silver ring in his hand that he walks across his knuckles: back and forth, back and forth, until it disappears into his fist.

What do you miss the most? he doesn’t ask.

Sunlight. Pavement. Midnight conversations. Laughter over supper. Human touch. He doesn’t ask, and so you cannot answer. In the space between words unsaid he looks to you and sees beyond. The ring turns in his hand again and when it reappears it’s streaked with red.

Are you—

Leave it.

His voice is a tangle, burred and harsh and each word buries its hooks deep to leave threads of worry behind. He is not measured nor aloof; something in him teeters on the edge of anger. There is silver in his beard and in his hand; the light is golden on his skin and melts through him to his bones. Hie to your chamber. He is old now, ancient even, layer upon layer of tar and filth and recklessness, of moments that could have become his doom and his grace were he not held back by whatever it is that eats at him.

No. Are you hurt? Do you need— There is pain in him, some struggle that gnaws him from the inside. It flies in the face of your judgment and experience, but

(Who are you to kick at the pillars of the sky)

his fractured parts are visible at last and he cannot push them back inside himself.

Go. To. Your. Chamber. There it is: the fire, the crack in the earth, the stone dropping molten from his tongue. He stands upon the edge of reason and though he is all aflame there was still a tattered book waiting for you in the greenhouse. And still the words were smeared on the page when you read:

But if all at once it looks as though your wish might come true, you suddenly find yourself wishing you had never wished for any such thing.

And when he rises— when he is so close you can smell the rain and ozone still clinging to his curls— when the flecks of green in his eyes are so clear— when he rises, he is fighting back something

something

that you cannot name but can only feel.

Please, he says; the word lands silvery in your hand.

(Dust in an empty room, black powder, drifting smoke. Light and heat and all around is the crashing of a house as it falls to its knees. He is there and he is incandescent; if he takes another step he’ll burst and all the good, the bad— all the teeth and shadows and meadowgrass— will come pouring out.

Can a man change his stars?)

A man is a man is a man, but sometimes a man is a vessel of oil. Sometimes a man is a footprint in deep mud. Sometimes a man is a bloody hand. Sometimes a man is a single word held aloft by a fine thread. Adhemar curls himself around his please, around the smooth cool stone at his center. The thread vibrates. It sheds fragments of fiber that are incinerated by his writhing burning something. And it holds.

Go, he says again, and drops his gaze, although to do so grinds his teeth and makes his bones shiver in their sockets. To your chamber, he says, and what else can you do but obey?

#rufus sewell #adhemar #adhemar fic #adhemar x reader #adhemar x you #a knights tale #a knights tale fic #my fic #a fairytale in silver and glass

[hope-to-hell]

A Fairytale in Silver and Glass, part four: The Benthic

Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire— Jorge Luis Borges, A New Refutation of Time

—

‘Live, and long may your choice weigh heavy upon you.’ This is the curse laid upon him so very long ago, when his victories rang near as hollow as his defeats, when the stars were merely points of light that hung immutable in the sky. ‘Live, but know that the core of your being lies rotting underground. Live, and feel yourself crushed by the weight of who you failed to be.’

He howls then, torn asunder; he feels his own blood warm on his hands but when he looks down there is nothing. He cannot reconcile what he sees with what he feels; he thinks of rabbits and foxes, their red fur flying. There are hounds baying somewhere close by, scenting their quarry. The image is pinned to his breast with bright points of pain and though his thoughts are fractured he understands that, somehow, this is the easy part.

He breathes.

The muddy ground of the yard dries beneath his body; stars and sun exchange glances overhead and he feels his breath catching on cracked lips.

He breathes, and does not wonder why no one comes.

(No one? How terribly sad.)

If he lies here much longer he will be merely a man-shaped hollow in the earth. The difference between crusted blood and dried mud is merely a matter of the source; both are equal in the misery they cause: he itches inside and out, unbearably. He does not move because he cannot move, because the stars are wheeling overhead and he is fixated on them.

He breathes.

Move, you bastard.

There is something crawling in his bones.

Come, would you really give up so easily?

He shifts and warmth ripples out around him; there is a deep hum in his ears and he cannot think; he moves and the hum becomes a roar becomes

nothing. His ears are ringing and there is a strange flavor on his tongue. When he was a boy, lightning struck the old oak in the near meadow; the air was sharp and exhilarating, threaded through with punky wood and smoke. The memory pulses with each beat of his heart.

The itch abates and he moves to sit with his forearms on his knees. Perhaps he will be sick; nausea crawls along his spine and curls at his nape. But he is proud, despite all this; he chokes it back and grits his teeth. He’s held his own against princes, ruffians, peasants— he’s suffered injuries to flesh as well as pride, but none of it was like this. Those beatings-down at least made sense; he was placed firmly in his position and knew the names of those above and below. But this—

whatever this is—

(Look at him, pathetic thing.)

Adhemar finds a crust at his side, and cheese, and a cup of something passably strong. He chews and lets the thoughts filter back into his head. They shy away from something dark and thorny— something writhing and hungry and he thinks again of foxes and the hunt— but there’s room enough for most of him to squeeze inside.

How long have I been here?

He eats and drinks and ponders the basket that held his meal. Willow branches and a homespun cloth: these are simple things, but their textures entrance him and he runs his fingers over each until the bread goes sweet in his mouth. The yard is muddy, yes, but the basket is dry. Someone brought it, thought enough of him to bring him food despite his sorry state. Or perhaps it was because of this— this—

(What is the true measure of a man?

Wealth?

Faith?

Prestige? What will buoy him up before the Gate and grant him peace?)

Perhaps someone’s concern was enough to bring them stealing across the yard to leave a meal beside his nerveless form.

Perhaps they felt it was their duty. It’s a palatable enough reason; being vulnerable— pitiable— is a thorn that pierces deep, but duty he can understand. Duty keeps men upright in their places; it forms the pillars that hold up the sky.

(You’re not meant to like them, boy. Doubtless they do not like you, worm that you are. But you are responsible for them.)

Perhaps someone worried over him, pitied him even, and it turns the bread sour on his tongue.

(Again. His arms are shaking from the weight of the blade; he cannot see for the sweat in his eyes and all around is the maddening drone of summer insects.

We’ve been at this for hours.

And we’ll be at it all night as well if you don’t pull yourself together. This will save your life someday.

He burns from fingertips to toes but he finds the hard smooth stone at his center. In his mind’s eye he closes a fist around it and feels its spreading coolness. He raises his blade and this time it is he who says again.)

Adhemar rises on legs gone stiff. He scratches at his nape and starts across the yard. He takes the basket with him.

#rufus sewell #adhemar #adhemar fic #adhemar x reader #adhemar x you #a knights tale #a knights tale fic #my fic #a fairytale in silver and glass

[hope-to-hell]

A Fairytale in Silver and Glass, part three: to hold the sun

This isn’t a fairy story; this is marble and oak and the echo of footsteps in the distance. This is misery with your hand tracing rain down the window while the city sleeps below. But despite the storm outside, all is silent within the tower behind its many inches of shatterproof glass. It is only in the greenhouse that the storm is thunderingly loud and alive. And though Adhemar is never there when you arrive, there is always, now, a book tucked beneath the cushion of his chair.

(Dream, my darling he says as hoofbeats hammer all around you; he leaves bruises with how harshly he pulls you up to ride before him. The appetites of men are more terrible than those of any beast.

He is wrapped in thick wool against the cold; his cloak flows about him and though the wind is cruel against your cheek, he holds you tightly and he is warm. I will keep this one he says, but to whom? It’s only you and him and the frozen ground.)

Something draws his gaze beyond the lamplight.

He doesn’t share what he sees but when he called you to him and said read to me there was broken stone in his throat.

(He says come no closer. There is something writhing in him; the words fall burning from his lips.

You were gone so long. I worried, I—

What, were you afraid? How I wish you hadn’t sought me out. His teeth are so sharp; he smiles like a razor opens: his lips curl back and when he speaks it cuts. Afraid for me, my sweet, or for yourself? Do you think anyone would come to collect your bones? Any kindness crawls back over itself and leaves only this biting cruelty. Here you are, you wretched thing. And he grips your jaw to make you open wide.)

Continue, please. The story is finished, the book laid in your lap. There is nothing left to read, and yet he asks.

(Will you tell me about all those far-off places, about oranges and dragons and your daring adventures?

You’ll be disappointed. He leans into your hand and sighs; sweat and filth drift from his curls as all his travels catch him up. He breathes war through lips peeled raw by the sun; there are threads of blood between his teeth. He is more than tired— he is weary.)

This is not a fairy story, but it’s still something of a fantasy. Once upon a time, when I was little, I wondered what it would be like to live in the sky. I thought if I could just fly high enough, I could stand on the clouds and hold out my arms to catch the sun.

Hn.

I know it’s silly, but

No.

Hm?

You were meant to dream beyond your means. It’s what makes you human. There is a tightness in his jaw that speaks to hard-learned lessons. Continue.

(He waits in silence while his father holds court. Adhemar watches, and he learns, and he remembers everything. Every bluff, every threat couched in polite concern, every fleeting alliance: all can be used and turned against these men.

They bow to your position and your wealth, not to you. He spits the words and doesn’t give a fig about the consequences. The bloody nose is worth it; he sees the stone crumbling beneath his father’s feet and tracks its fall. I will be better.)

I held the sun in my hands and it was somehow cold; when I sank into the stream I clutched it to my chest and watched the water freeze around me.

You were frightened?

No. Just tired

and

the air weighs heavy in these halls; the storm cannot be heard but it can be felt. This isn’t a story; it’s a fragment of a dream, a scrap of mood. And in the dream there is no catharsis, only spreading emptiness. It’s the feeling of reaching out a hand and finding nothing in return, of feeling frostbite and sunburn creeping in at once, of the moment after lightning strikes when all the world holds its breath. He doesn’t want to hear about the dream, he can’t want to. He is power and wealth and inscrutable design; he is above and yet.

And yet he asked. And when you raise your eyes to him, he is watching. And he sees.

#rufus sewell #adhemar #adhemar fic #adhemar x reader #adhemar x you #a knights tale #a knights tale fic #my fic #a fairytale in silver and glass