I saw this artwork and immediately thought of your knight! ghost and princess work!
it’s “the meeting on the turret stairs” by frederic william burton which was inspired by the danish story of princess who falls in love with her personal body guard.
Ugh I think of this painting so often I think it's tattooed onto my brain. The way she can't look at him, can't do more than let him hold onto her arm. Her hand doesn't even grasp at him but you can see her desperation. The flower discarded on the stair, perhaps indicative of another lost flower. The absolute devotion on the knight's face. The yearning. God. More stairwell stuff with knight!Ghost and his princess.
You don't know quite where you're going, you only know you had to get out of there. Had to get away from that horrible dinner, that horrible man who looked at you with cold callous indifference. Away from the half-baked praises your mother was singing, trying to court a man who had less interest in you than he would a flea. Everything is going terribly wrong and you have nothing to fall back on but empty, broken, promises.
You run up the turret stairs, determined to find a space for yourself away from all of this. Anywhere you think would be the last place for your maids to look. Besides, the knights stationed up there won't say anything if you cry. Their gossip hardly ever reaches the maids.
You press close to the wall to make way for the knight coming down, but he's quick to grab you instead. Gentle hands hold you steady as he moves a few steps lower to let you meet his warm gaze, one you recognize even(perhaps especially) through the watery tears gathering on your lashes. Your Ghost.
"My lady," His hand reaches to cup your cheek, thumb brushing away the stray tear that escapes you, "I can't leave you alone for a second."
You hardly give your positions a seconds thought before you collapse onto him. He's strong enough to take it, hardly wavering as you cling to him. His arms circle your waist, tight to hold you close as you press your face to his armored shoulder. You feel his nose against your neck, his breath as tense as his body. This is improper, but you don't care. You hate seeing him without your colors, you hate it.
Ghost sighs and loosens his grip on you, letting you go. You wrap your arms tighter around him, as if that could stop it. He tuts, as if it's such an imposition, and reaches for your arms to pry you off of him.
When you're set right on the stair again he keeps hold of your hands, a warning not to try grabbing him again. Still, his thumbs stroke the backs of your hands, warm leather soothing against your skin. You love him all the worse for pushing you away, for doing his duty.
"Let's get you back where you're supposed to be," He tells you. You swallow and nod, unable to look at him past that. Back into the maws of wolves, you think. Ghost walks you back to the dining room, offers you a handkerchief to dry your tears. His duty ends there, but he enters with you.
When the table stands to welcome you, you hear the creak of his glove as he clenches his fist. You feel the guard he raises for you like the warmth of a fire, safe from the dangers of the night. Your eyes are trained on the foreign king on one end of the table, the way he stares down his nose at you, the darkness of his eyes behind his mask. You've never seen a blue look so hostile, so black with malice. As if he isn't waiting just for you to leave again, but for you to die.
"Sir Riley," Your father's tone is light, but unquestionably harsh, "You are off the princess's service, are you not?"
"My duty is to the royal family, which my lady is apart of. I'm doing my job and escorting her," Ghost challenges. Your father grits his teeth, determined not to make a scene for a potential ally. You've never known your knight to call the king like this. It's a dangerous game, one with consequences you don't want Ghost playing against.
"Ghost," You turn away from the hateful gaze of the German king to speak to your knight. He drops his eyes from the king to yours, soft and coppery, and affectionate.
"Princess," He hardly hides his preference for your authority. You're sure your father is seething.
"I'm alright," You tell him softly, "you're dismissed."
He stalls a moment, eyes searching yours. You know he'd jump if you only asked, you never saw a problem in that until now. Some things you need to be able to handle on your own. Things like diplomatic incidents. He nods, bows shortly, and leaves. Your eyes follow him as he goes, your heart leaving with him. You turn back to your audience.
"My apologies," You address both kings, "my emotions got the better of me, it won't happen again."
"I should hope not," Your father tells you. König tips his head, studying you.
"Pathetic," The voice barely fits the man, but you hadn't heard him speak all evening. König rolls his shoulders back and gestures for your maid and your new knight. "I was getting tired of this dance anyway," when he turns his eyes back to you they hold the trace of a smile, though you hesitate to call it that, "Princess, I think a walk would do us both some good."
"Of course," You try to smile, though all you can feel is a deep unease. Perhaps you should have kept Ghost by your side, politics be damned.
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What happens when a Jedi Initiate dies?
It cannot always be prevented, the galaxy is a dangerous place, especially for children, and the Jedi are still only mortal.
Accidents happen. Illnesses exist.
Tragedies do too.
The Crèchemasters are highly trained to prevent that, of course, but they too are only mortal. They too can fail.
The death of an Initiate is a heavy burden, for the entire Temple. It doesn't happen often, but when it does it is a heavy burden. It is from that burden that one of the Order's most sacred traditions stems from.
They may die an Initiate, but they will not join the Force without guidance.
When an Initiate dies, they automatically gain the rank of Padawan – no matter their age. They will posthumously be taken in by a Master and be gifted a braid and a lineage. If they already found their crystal and built their saber, these too will be taken care of by their new Master.
Some Masters of such Ghost-Padawans, especially those who had a bond before their passing, will live the following years as if they had a living student. They will not take on another until the Force or they themselves deems them ready, at which point the High Council will hold a honorary Knighting.
Because while the Order might lose an Initiate, no Initiate will ever be left alone.
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soapghost circus au
ghost’s an extreme motorcycle stunt performer - globe of death, riding on his back wheel along tightropes, that sort of thing
soap’s a fire breather/dancer. he’s a roaming performer; he just finds empty spaces or bored people and starts twirling
he pretends not to notice the way he always wanders towards a certain tent every night to watch a certain masked daredevil defy gravity. he thinks he's slick and that ghost won't notice him in the crowd, completely forgetting that he's carrying something that happens to be on fire
ghost couldn't miss him if he tried
one day off, soap's trialing fire whips; he loves the loud crack and the way the flame licks through the air and maybe he's a little too impatient to practice with non flaming whips first, even though he's never used one before
he's covered in soot and fine welts where the tip of the whip keeps flicking back up at him, cutting through his shirt and stinging his skin but he doesn't let that stop him. it starts to stick to him, damp with sweat and blood and he's quick to strip it off; throwing it to the side to keep practicing
when soap finally gets a few good cracks in a row and breaks to celebrate, he almost jumps out of his skin when he sees the masked rider leaning against a trailer watching him
of all the times he's wanted ghost to talk to him, this is not one of them
he wanted to impress him, dance for him with his flaming batons and be mesmerised by his fluidity and skill
not catch him filthy and struggling with something as basic as a whip
he's ready for ghost to ream him out for not having control over the whip - he's known throughout the circuit for expecting utter perfection in his routines - but when ghost finally does speak, it's only to ask if he's done for the day
soap falters for a moment. he wanted to get some consistency with the whip before he stopped, but he's starting to feel the hours of practice; muscles aching and skin blistered with minor burns
he says he is and ghost pushes off the trailer, nodding his head to make soap follow. he brings him back to his trailer and tells him to clean up then takes out his personal med kit to treat the grazes on soap's skin
soap's shocked; for all that he loves to watch ghost perform, they've never really talked before
part of why he joined the circus was so he wouldn't be a burden on anyone, the oldest in a family with too many mouths to feed and not even time to nurture, and here he is taking up ghost's valuable practice time be he wasn't good enough to handle his own discipline. he tries to brush him off, downplaying the burns and tries to leave before half them can be treated but ghost just glares and orders him to sit back down
ghost does expect perfection from himself but it isn’t out of any malice or ego; it's bc he knows if he isn't perfect, he could very easily die. he’s picked a dangerous profession and he gives it the respect it deserves. there isn't any shame in being a novice or failing at something; he thinks there's a lot of beauty in having the courage to get back up again and again
so every day he watches soap practice and bullies him into his trailer to put him back together bc he knows he won't do it by himself
and every night soap wanders over to ghost's section of the fair grounds, in awe of his skill and wishing he could be worthy of the care he gives him
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