#but to turn down the crown is for it all to be for naught

[tarjapearce]

Crimson Crown (Pt. 6)

Royal AU! Miguel O'Hara x Reader

Thanks to @pinkiemme for the amazing cover ✨

Summary: You beat Miguel to take the first step.

A/N: Thanks for the patience 🥹❤️. Hope you enjoy ~

The heavy footsteps echoed through the dark alleys of the city, lost into the forever echo of Arachne's capital. Stony roads lead to different places, but the cloaked figure's path lead to a tavern. More to the underground facade of the place, to a secluded and exclusive area.

The oak door was knocked with a characteristical bang, A little slot within was slid open, just to reveal a pair of beady eyes. The cloaked figure smirked upon hearing the locks turn and pull until the hefty door was open, allowing them in.

"You're alone."

"Yeah" the cloaked man removed his disguise and downed a pint of beer before reuniting with the others, that like him, were awaiting for his presence to start their clandestine reunion. Dressed up to mingle with the shadows.

"The king has increased the security in the east prison."

"That's a problem if we want our mercenaries out."

"What about Fisk? Tell him to send some of his men undercover to scout the area."

Another man grunted in response.

"He also is a king with responsibilities. Getting an audience with him alone takes time."

"Then what the fuck are you waiting for?"

The other man scowled as he pulled a knife out of the many pockets his suit allowed him to carry. And that unleashed a domino effect as the rest either pulled guns or more knives.

The dark and makeshift reunion was made with five men and a young boy, that didn't pass his sixteens.

"Hey! If you wanna fight someone, save those energies for the king-"

"The king has been too busy to care. His new toy has him quite preoccupied."

A brow was quirked, "New toy?"

"A princess."

"Well, ain't that wonderful?"

"Great. Now we have to remake our plan."

"No, no. What are you talking about? If we don't attack now, our chance will be for naught."

"You truly want to go ahead with a plan when we're missing our most important associates? I'd love to see you try to take on the king yourself."

The jeering words flew constantly between some members of the little gathering.

"Seems like you forget why he is called The Red King."

A roll of eyes and a dismissive gesture made the man to keep interrogating.

"So what about the princess?"

"We need more information about her."

The youngest cleared his throat and spoke.

"She's a Thelerian."

There was a collective round of not so surprised and bored 'ahs' from the men.

"No wonder why there is Arachne's soldiers in the West Passage and the borders."

"Borders? Through the city. Even within the castle!."

"Guess the old trick of 'I sell my daughter to you for protection' always works."

"She wasn't sold. Their wedding is a month and a half away."

"This is bad."

There was another pregnant silence before the teen spoke again.

"She's a doctor."

"Of course she is. Damned Thelerians. Always meddling with our affairs one way or another."

"They're strangers."

"Oh?"

The boy spoke as everyone's eyes settled on him.

"What do you mean strangers, boy?"

"They don't get that much along. King just talks to her when necessary."

The interest shone in the many pair of eyes. One face contorted into a smirk.

"Of course he does. I'd be surprised if he'd still get his cock functioning after being so inactive."

There was a combined titter and malicious giggles from them as the joke was told.

"There will be a meeting soon. With the council. I'll take my guess that he's introducing her to it."

"Told you this boy would be useful."

"Of course, it was my idea."

"Hey, you filthy rats... stop playing and listen. Is there anything else you can tell us about this princess?"

The boy shrugged.

"What do I get in return?"

"What did you just say, boy?"

The eldest man mumbled, clearly vexed by the plucky and defying attitude of the boy.

"I said, what do I get in return? All of you have something to win over this plan. And so far I've been used as a spy. I think it's fair if I get something back."

"And what would you possibly want?"

"I'll take it when I see it."

"Right."

"Anyways, Let Fisk know we need him. We gotta get that big brawn twerp before The King gets to him first."

"Oh god, not Rhino."

"Shut up. As much as I hate him too, he's useful. We need him."

"Stay in the castle. Find out where he was last seen."

The man spoke to the boy, that only stared back with a piercing gaze.

"Even though the princess is a new addition to the plan, it only gives us a new advantage. Political marriages are a thing, so we gotta make the most out of it."

"She recently visited her parents. Apparently the king fell ill after his mistress tried to poison him."

Another laugh.

"See? This is why exactly I've been telling you that Theleria will fall by it's own king's hand. We don't even need to meddle with them."

"True that."

"What about Prince Gabriel?"

A solemn silence fell on the stony and secluded room.

"Keep that fool busy. If we can make he gets sent away even better. Less to worry about."

"And the princess?"

"Keep an eye on her."

-------

Nervous and anxious was an underestimation on how you really felt. You were sure the insides of your cheeks were nearly chewed raw as you waited outside the grand wooden doors, just as Peter had instructed a few moments ago. Your knees trembled underneath the layers of your dress, palms became sweaty and your breaths a bit more shallow.

The day to finally meet the council, had arrived. The past two days were spent solely on your studies about Arachne and the current situations surrounding the kingdom. You tried to cram up as much info as possible, but what truly would be judged was your criterion on things and how well you could adapt to the situations.

Royalty expected so much, and hopefully you'd pass this evaluation. It was unavoidable to not feel curious as to why councils held almost the same amount of power as The king himself. Back in her kingdom, councils remained as an extra help, and as much as a mistress indulging your father, King Blanchard was, he took his ruling seriously.

Councils were summoned when your parents needed to keep updated in the things that needed to be done. But again, different kingdoms, different customs.

The doors slid open to reveal none other than Miguel himself, motioning for you to come in. The room was large and so was the war table, as people gathered around it. A total of six, you and Miguel made eight in total.

There had never been another chair at the top of the table, cause there was no need for another one. Until now. You sit next to Miguel. Eyes settled on you.

Some with hardened expressions you couldn't quite pinpoint as to why of their sudden and implicit hostility, others regarded you curiously.

Jessica, Ben and Peter joined not long after.

"Now, that we're all in, let us begin."

"Your majesty."

Everyone bowed to Miguel and soon an elder lady spoke.

"As you may know, the nether lands are asking for an audience with you ever since some months ago. They will not stop until you've listened to them, apparently."

Her tone was tired, a little annoyed but respectful nonetheless.

"What is it what they want anyways, May?"

"For you to lower their taxes on seasonal products."

"Can't do if they charge as twice for imports that are brought out of time. And recreating their things is proven to be even more expensive."

Miguel sighed while resting his cheek on his knuckles.

"Lower them a two percent."

"But, my lord! You lowered them already last month!"

Another man spoke, pointing at the outside lands out of Enethor. Your eyes frowned upon seeing the distance to travel and import. Miguel looked at you from the corner of his eyes.

"What do you think, Princesa?"

"W-Well, taxes are quite important for the kingdom, and so are the seasonal products the merchants offer, naturally, they'd ask to lower the taxes"

Some scoffed at the obvious information, but you kept talking.

"Why don't lower the taxes in the plot of lands they use?"

"Care to explain that?"

"Look at it this way, the cheaper the land, more opportunities they have to create more jobs"

"So basically making the rich, richer."

You frowned at the tempting words from another man.

"No. A mutual help, sir. By lowering the prices, there will be no need for them to travel such great distances, and subsequently they won't raise their prices on the market. Because they'll produce what they can here."

May seemed to consider your words as the rest discussed.

"Do you use this in your kingdom, your highness?"

Another man, Ben Parker spoke with genuine curiosity.

"We do. Since Theleria produces medicines, we cannot be picky when it comes to import the finest materials for it. We want to help others. Not monopolise health."

"How... benevolent of you. Though I'm quite surprised you allow such thing, when your kingdom is the tiniest among the continent."

Another man, Darko D'Angelo spoke.

"Yet, with all due respect, none has taken our place as the main supplier of medicines in the continent, sir."

Miguel smirked as you took a discreet deep inhale. It was unavoidable to feel angered when someone tried to belittle Theleria.

"Now, now, let's get our attention focused on what truly needs to be discussed."

The council expanded on various topics, even though the start was a bit rocky, there were times where you actually felt included and taken in consideration. May Parker seemed on a neutral line. And so was Ben Parker. Another amusing thing, was to know that there were so many Parkers and Ben's within the ranks.

They all seemed connected to the need to fight for what was good, and Miguel slead them all on. It made your heart to leap a bit in your chest as your eyes settled on him, discreetly.

For a dark king everyone assumed him to be, he had been one of the kindest, wisest and considerate man with a deep love for his kingdom you've ever met.

Jessica couldn't help but elbow Peter to witness the look you were giving him. An absolutely fascinated one. That turned into a blushing stare the more he spoke about the revamps he wanted to do into the esthetics ways of Arachne.

The council had discussed many things he had neglected, like arts and other needs revolving around them. You were so temped into taking his hand and ask him personally to let you handle it. That you would help him and not disappoint him.

But the same man from before changed the mood and the conversation's route so quickly fast it had cut you short to prepare yours and the rest's replies.

"I think your highness should focus in producing heirs, instead of feeding the needs of a little bunch that hold no productivity besides entertaining momentarily the rest."

"Ser Darko."

May warned but another man spoke.

"Baron D'Angelo is right. You see, we are at the verge of war-"

"Against who, my lord?"

You questioned and if the men could kill with their looks, you'd be a cold body by now. Their subtle and not so discreet disdain over your ideas an opinions hadn't go unnoticed, specially by Baron D'Angelo, who seemed fixated into getting any sort of negative reaction from you.

"Against who?! How preposterous of you to believe we are in times of peace, when outside the continent there is so many enemies that want to invade us, princess."

If it wasn't for the warning glare Miguel shot him, he could've kept rambling about how naive you were.

"My apologies, ser. Has anything been done to appease their intentions?"

"It's not something you can't just fix by talking to them, princess. That it has worked for you and your people means it will work for us."

"But have you tried dialogue? Know the cause of their-"

"Again, we've tried anything.-"

"Not to sound disrespectful, ser. It's clear I need to know more of Arachne,-"

"Indeed."

Your brow quirked at what he had just said

"And I know that some kingdoms reject dialogue or any peaceful solution before it's has been offered," You took a breath, testing carefully your words., "But it does seems odd their stance of attacking, remains after the supposed peace offerings."

"We've known these realms for so long that a pacific solution has been discarded eons ago."

You blinked, but it was a good chance to put the spotlight on the both. It was clear that they loved to engage in war. Which concerned you.

"So, you're assuming they want war, and you're ready to engage without giving a chance for real words to be treated?"

"With all due respect, princess. Thelerian pacifist and foreign outlooks towards Arachne's belic conflicts are everything but helpful."

Miguel's jaw clenched, and so did Peter's. Tension in the room was heavier and denser than a black hole. He was set to make you angry, and it was hard to not bait into his game, but like your mother, you kept it calm and composed, even though you wanted to put a little datura into his drink.

"Quite ironic how roles invert here, ser D'Angelo."

"Beg your pardon?"

His voice came a bit louder and annoyed than he had intended to.

"Even though I do agree that I must know more about Arachne, I believe you must expand your knowledge in Theleria. Not the one you all now know. But the one before being The Fallen Kingdom."

Darko scowled but remained quiet, letting his haughty look to speak for him.

" What about it?"

"Theleria has been one of the most ancient lands of this continent, ser. And the one that has the most antique monarchy lines through Enethor."

"So?"

"It happens that we turned into a fallen kingdom by being exactly as you voice your opinion."

"And how is that?"

"Closed to any other option that wasn't war. And look at us now, ser. May the creator above forbid this land to fall under the same curse we have."

"That's... That's not gonna happen."

"It might happen if you keep refusing what you have overlooked so far."

"Are you threatening Arachne, your majesty?"

"I am not. I have no power to stand against your armies, ser. But only a fool would take a fair epitome of what happens when acting recklessly, as a threat."

Baron Darko's mouth gaped as his eyes widened in disbelief. How dared you to play him like that? Even worst in his own game.

"Or so is what my mother always says."

The other man that had initially been with him had kept quiet in the whole exchange. Watching and listening to the verbal spar where you had gotten by a few inches the upper hand.

"I am not opposed to war, gentlemen. But, like I said to the king once, if I am able to prevent unnecessary bloodshed, I will."

There wasn't much said after that, little pleasantries and polite goodbyes from your end, made you exit your room. Head high, even if the whole meeting was a fiasco, you would've still held your head high. Your legs shook as Peter followed you. A subtle yet knowing smile plastered on his lips.

In the room, however things weren't done. Not when Baron D'Angelo and Lady May approached.

"You still refuse to give us an answer when it comes to have heirs, your majesty."

"They'll come when the time is right."

Miguel didn't want to dwell into the subject. Children sure were in his list, but responsibilities had taken so much away from him already, that he forgot about them. He was past his thirties, and he could die in battle, leaving no heirs to follow his legacy.

"I guess the time is approaching sooner than we think, your majesty. What if the future queen is unable to conceive?"

His eyes narrowed at Darko's words. Even though his yapping was irksome, he had a fair point.

"As much as I differ with Baron Darko, you know the rules of this game, your majesty."

Lady May spoke with the same tired tone in her voice from before.

"The princess will bear the future heir of Arachne."

Miguel's words made Darko to tense and frown.

"But she knows so little about us! We don't know if her kingdom will remain loyal to us in a future if trouble arises, my lord."

He rubbed his hands nervously as Miguel  sheathed his sword on his hip.

"Please, consider your other options, in case the princess is unable to-"

A hand dressed in the obsidian claw made the sharp fingertips to hold on Darko's chin, tips softly prickling at his skin.

"She will. Not your daughter. Am I clear?"

The Baron could only nod with a difficult gulp.

----

Miguel had taken a small break from all that just happened, Jessica had the most shit eating smile one could muster.

"She will, huh?"

"Aren't those the rules?"

"You seem a bit too enthusiastic about following those certain rules."

"I'm getting old, and they keep pestering me."

Miguel mumbled before removing his armor and plop on his ever trusting chair.

"You have to do something regarding Dana first."

"I know."

"Or else-"

"Jessica... I know."

His commander and right hand sighed, but preferred to change topics.

"Guess she has a temper after all."

A faint chuckle escaped Jessica's lips.

"Why did you assume she didn't?"

"She's not precisely someone that strikes me as vindictive, or demand her father's mistress death."

Miguel huffed an airy laugh while slicking his hair back, pensive.

"Peter explained why she... got so upset regarding that situation. Makes sense."

"So, you're knowing eachother more?"

"Apparently."

Jessica rolled her eyes with an exasperated grunt.

"She seems a little too fascinated with you, you know?"

"What do you mean?"

"Back in the council. She was giving you these dreamy puppy eyes."

Miguel's lips twitched in a little smile.

"So you better make a move, before someone else fool but brave enough does."

Bushy eyebrows furrowed. And only deepened when Jessica tossed a little envelope, smelling like roses and other pleasant herbs before going away.

For my muse.

The scribbled words were almost as stylish and perfect as yours, definitely another Thelerian.

Who dared to be foolish enough to pursue something out of his reach? He gave a quick reading to the letter and scoffed at the maudlin words. Not that he blamed the man for feeling so intensely.

After what transpired today, it felt like a little switch was turned on in him. It wasn't an outcome he had expected, but the balance had been tipped in your favor. Not entirely, but had enough member's approval to reaffirm his choice.

And he had to thank you for leaving those harrying members that demanded from him a heir, behind with their mouth shut for long enough.

Darko however always seemed to favor Dana. At first, they all agreed that the main mistress should occupy the throne.  But Miguel never really regarded such things. Too busy fighting enemies in allied countries and waging political wars to actually have a pause and produce the next line of descendants.

He didn't know it if was coincidence or something greater than him that put that passageway in his path, and now not only had a true reason to get married, but someone that shared his convictions and dreams for his country.

And, he was sure his future heirs would be beautiful.

Just like you.

The letter had annoyed him, but also amused him. A man that had only saw you and spoke to you twice, put all his feelings in the letter that was turned into ashes by now.

But he had to give that fool some credit. Unlike him, he knew how to express and convey his feelings without any apparent issue, yet he wasn't able to talk about something else that wasn't work and duties related.

With a sigh, he changed into a more casual attire and picked his sword. Then, ventured in his palace, looking for you.

----

You were about to leave for the gardens to take the afternoon tea with Margo and Gwen when Miguel's shadow loomed over from your bedroom's doorframe. A little jolt buzzed through your body, startling you.

"My lord, not to be... disrespectful but, I think it's time for you to knock on my door."

Miguel chuckled and motioned for you to come closer.

"Come. Follow me."

With a quirk of your eyebrow, you obeyed and followed him. Long legs took him further as you tried your utter best to keep up with him. Miguel's ears perked at the sound of your steps hastily following him. A pleased smile was etched in his face to then suddenly stop before a room.

With a deep sigh and a bit of pantings, you also stopped.

"Close your eyes, Princesa."

"W-What?"

"Close your eyes. Please."

The confused look in your face made his eyes soften and a smile to stretch wider as you obeyed him once more.

Quite compliant

And oh so pretty. His eyes stared at your face for what seemed forever, time had stopped specially when his deep ruby eyes stared at your lips, and then trailed themselves down to the collarbone. Before his eyes could rake you over, his throat was cleared and he opened the doors for you.

He then gave your lower back a gentle push for you to move forward. He took your hand and guided you inside. Warm fingers curling softly on his big and weathered hands.

He took you further into the room, the scent of the ever familiar herbs and flowers filled in your lungs, subduing your rising nervousness.

"Open them."

You did, and your heart beat with such strenght you had to clutch harder on his hand at the sight. It was a much more advanced laboratory from what you had back at Theleria.

In one side, you had the many and an endless looking supply of herbs and other medicinal things. And in the other side, you had the tools. Canisters filled in with strange liquids that boiled, glass containers, a oak table sturdy enough to bring and attend anyone in need of a surgery, and of course, many books related Arachne's medical story.

"This..."

"Is yours."

His words and gentle smile had your eyes glossy while a shivering laugh escaped your lips.

"Mine? All Mine?"

"All yours."

He nodded while enveloping your hands with his.

"This is-... Oh by the heavens. My lord. This is... too much for me, I-"

"Princesa."

Your eyes settled on his warm expression.

"I know you will make a good use of it."

"Your highness"

You mumbled while squeezing his hands a bit tighter.

"I... I don't even know what to say."

"A 'thank you, my king' would suffice"

A little laugh and his heart skipped a beat.

"You are part now of the medical staff. Their leader, you'll be a great mentor to them."

"Will you visit me, my lord?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Of course. Seeing you is always good. Though I must ask. Do... you fear me? Or feel something strongly negative towards me?"

"I'm afraid the question confuses me, Princesa."

"Let me rephrase that question. Do you feel averted towards me or repulsed?"

All the opposite.

"It is not personal if I don't approach, Princesa. I've been busy. I'm always busy-"

"I... I know that, ser. But, you're always seeming to avoid me until something that requires me appears."

Miguel's brow twitched at the lack of reply, instead you spoke again.

"Political or not... I wouldn't like to marry an acquaintance, much less a stranger."

A soft blush crept on your cheek and you inhaled deeply before mumbling.

"That's why... I... I'd like to know my future husband better. If its not too much to ask."

Going from acquaintances to be called future husband surely made his brain a puddle and his heart to accelerate in a way that for once didn't concerned him.

"Would you... join me tomorrow at a lunch in the meadows?"

You gulped, and casted your eyes down, a bit too embarrassed to meet his bewildered stare.

"Its alright if you can't go, we can know eachother-"

"I'll be there."

Words came so soft and like butter from his mouth that you stared at him with round eyes in surprise.

"We have a lot to discuss anyway. I think it's time for us to properly address our wedding, your highness."

"As you wish, my lord."

The sweet smile on your face made him want to forever have it tattooed in his mind.

The way he looked at you didn't sit right in the spying and vindictive blue eyes that followed you almost everywhere.

Her heart broke upon seeing the kind of look Miguel threw your way. All different from hers, full of annoyance and cold hearted, nearly in despise. But you, had managed to fulfil one of her dreams with such easiness it made his own heart to crash and burn in anger.

This wasn't over. It would be when Dana said it was. With a new target in mind, the main mistress disappeared in the shadows. Unable to widstand the momentarily defeat. She came first, she had the right to that crown, his heirs and him. Dana would have him, either the good or the bad way.

And Miguel always seemed to learn the bad way.

---

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#miguel o'hara #t writes✨ #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #miguel ohara #king miguel #miguel o'hara x y/n #princess reader #miguel spiderman #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman 2099 x you

[the-real-fandom-person]

SAGAU-related brainrot knocking around my skull lately: Lady Maria!Creator.

Noble, graceful, remorseful, powerful, melancholy, otherworldly Lady Maria. The Creator isn’t a pure and untouched soul, she’s a scarred and battle-hardened warrior, ridden with guilt. Trauma has made her cold, yet paradoxically gentle.

Teyvat makes lumenflowers blossom everywhere to herald Maria!Creator’s arrival. Big ones, small ones, towering ones, blooming after sundown alongside the glaze lilies. Even in extreme temperatures, the cold, pale flowers make themselves at home. Slotting peacefully into the local ecosystems without becoming invasive. 

The Pari and the Aranara wake up to find lumenwood groves just outside their respective homes. The Melusines become enamored with these new ‘moon blossoms’ sprouting throughout their village, even the parts that are completely underwater. Amurta students and Fontaine researchers scramble over each other to study this new species. Nilou makes M!C a lumenflower crown, and it replaces her hunter’s cap for the day. Nilou gets the first ever hug from the Creator. Suck it, Azar.

Albedo and Sucrose experiment on these new plants immediately. Xiangling is already using it in some strange new recipe, something Chongyun will actually eat for once. Tighnari, Ganyu, and Shenhe take curious bites out of a lumenflower cutting. The taste isn’t unpleasant, just incomparable to anything else in Teyvat.

Inazuma characters, especially Kazuha, are absolutely fascinated by the Rakuyo (and maybe a little jealous). So graceful is M!C with her strange weapon, so easily she wields it on the battlefield. Every blacksmith in Teyvat hears the words ‘trick weapon’ and takes it as a challenge. Many come close, but none can truly replicate the genuine articles. May they never have a true need for beast-slaying weapons.

Imposter AU? With one of Bloodborne’s toughest bosses? Laughable. RIP anyone stupid enough to try. And if there’s a fake Creator pulling the strings? Not after a quick visceral attack, there isn’t. M!C pulls a blood blade to cut down the imposter’s guards (she notices the stars in her blood that weren’t there before) and the imposter receives the most satisfying visceral ever. 

Up to this point M!C put no stock in the ‘god’ thing. All she sees is mad cult, led by a petty and jealous brat on a power trip. But then she sees the stars in her blood, hears the voice of Teyvat itself, puts two and two together and just… laughs hysterically, because this whole situation is patently ridiculous. Byrgenwerth and the Healing Church failed in their quests for ascension, their heinous crimes being all for naught. Now here she is, thrown headfirst into unwanted ‘godhood’ and getting hunted by her supposed worshipers. Oh, how the tables have turned. 

Once people see the cosmos reflected in M!C’s blood, they fall over each other trying to apologize. Since she’s reached negative patience for everyone’s bullshit, she ignores them and fucks off to the Nightmare. After coming into Teyvat, M!C gained the power to enter and exit the Nightmare at will. The Nightmare doesn’t bend to her will, but it doesn’t treat her as an intruder. The Silverbeasts and Winter Lanterns don’t bat an eye at her presence. She’s a true denizen of both the waking world and the world of dreams, now. 

That night, every soul in Teyvat has the same nightmare - the Celestial gods attempting to forcibly summon the Creator, only to have themselves snatched from Celestia and dragged into a hostile, eldritch world of unfamiliar mish-mashed environments. At every turn, it is full of nightmarish creatures out for their blood. One by one, all but a select portion of Celestials become beast food, with M!C protecting the final ones herself.

Celestia, responsible for planting the fake Creator, falls from the sky the next day, its grand architecture reduced to mere rubble that rains from the heavens. Found amongst these ruins are the mangled, blood-drained and half-eaten bodies of Celestial gods. Spears made of blood impale many of the bodies, spears that seem to have sprouted from inside the flesh. Those that still have intact faces bear identical looks of horror. They find The Sustainer of Heavenly Principles in literal pieces - crushed and torn apart by hands that must have been the size of a grown man.

New stars and constellations appear in the night sky, as the illusion created by Celestia slowly fades. The curse placed on the people of Khaenriah gradually dissipates as well - the hillichurl tribes withdraw from the world, content to leave it alone. Every day, the curse lifts a little more from the people of Khaenriah; one day, Dainslief, Pierro and all the rest will finally be able to die. 

In Celestia’s place rises a second moon - a snow-white harvest moon, always full, large and visible even when clouds blanket the sky.

The Archons try to follow M!C into the Nightmare, but like Celestia, they get their shit wrecked by the denizens of the Frontier. The Archons don’t die for real, they’re just permanently cut off from the Nightmare. It takes Nahida, with dream powers of her own + Traveler and Wanderer in tow, to reach M!C and convince her to give the people of Teyvat a second chance. Nahida succeeds because she has the sense to treat M!C as a person, not some untouchable idol.

Sumeru is warm and welcoming, nothing like Yharnam or Cainhurst. M!C has fond memories from her time as a Byrgenwerth scholar, and the Akademiya feels like home. Sumeru becomes M!C’s preferred nation by default, to the pride of the locals and the despair of everyone else.

M!C has trouble wrapping her head around how mundane Teyvat’s supposed ‘gods’ are. Elemental powers or not, these Archons are too human to be divine; the only divinity M!C knows is eldritch, alien, far beyond mortal comprehension. The Traveler is fractionally closer to true godhood than any Archon. But then, just as the Great Ones were beyond human comprehension, so too are humans beyond the understanding of the Great Ones - perhaps it’s better for humans to have human gods.

Speaking of gods, M!C and Nahida bond over their dream-related powers. If this is before the climax of the Sumeru quest line, the Akademiya gets real quiet, especially when M!C publicly points out how asinine their logic is (she was closely associated with Byrgenwerth and Laurence, she knows their kind all too well). For all of his failures, all the disastrous consequences, Vicar Laurence at least had genuinely good intentions; these fools only care about themselves and preserving their own power. Scaramouche, Azar, the traitorous Sages - selfish, ignorant children all, meddling with forces they only pretend to understand. Crushing them herself is merciful compared to the other outcomes.

Through tactical manipulation of dream worlds, M!C busts Nahida out of baby jail long before Traveler and co. have to, and the Akademiya goes into panic mode because the Creator herself is coming for them. Traveler and co.’s plans turn instead to finding the hidden laboratory under Sumeru City - the combined power of dreams horrifically distorts the battlefield around the Shouki no Kami, even after his defeat. M!C doesn’t kill Azar after the fact, but she doesn’t let him go into exile empty-handed... because she cuts off his hands. Cyno is too unsettled to laugh.

Scaramouche resents her for her part in ruining his apotheosis (and because the Creator didn’t do shit for him in his tragically long life) but as the Wanderer, he and M!C bond over a shared disgust for the Second Fatui Harbinger.

And speaking of the Fatui... Well, they try to recruit her to the cause, and she has this to say:

“I’ll not serve your organization while any part of Dottore yet lives. For too many years, I stood by and did nothing while so-called ‘doctors’ brutalized the innocent and vulnerable for their supposed research, their dreams of godhood and divine revelation. Never again. If your leaders possess a shred of self-preservation between themselves, then perish the thought this instant.”

Fatui agent(s): ...

They don’t give up, of course. The less friendly ‘recruiters’ get sent back to Snezhnaya in pieces. The only Fatuus M!C tolerates is Tartaglia, because aside from being the Traveler’s friend, he’s a decent punching bag/sparring partner. She finds his Foul Legacy transformation cute, like a kitten baring its teeth at a lion.

Related idea: M!C meets Dottore’s remaining segment, and after everything she’s heard (let’s say from Collei and Wanderer, maybe Nahida too) she barely lets him get two words in before cutting his head clean off. Will this affect Dottore in the long run? Probably not. Does it make her feel better? Yes, actually. Collei certainly isn’t upset by the news. Wanderer is, only because he feels M!C was too merciful. She lets him dismember the segment so they can stuff it in a box and send it back to the Doctor as a warning.

If a scourge of beasts were to descend on Teyvat, probably because of Dottore M!C would lead the defense. This is not a war that mortals alone can fight, she insists. By her orders, every available god (herself included), adeptus, dragon, and most of the older allogenes are on the front lines, staving off the worst of the horde. Pyro users are in high demand, for the beasts fear them the most. In lieu of blood ministration, the various healers of Teyvat are working ‘round-the-clock. An entirely new crop of Vision-wielding healers spring up, because Teyvat’s top god herself unconsciously wills them into existence. Because M!C would never make use of the Old Blood, not after seeing and experiencing its effects firsthand. The burden of being a capital-H Hunter, the sweet, intoxicating call of blood - M!C remembers Byrgenwerth’s sacred adage, and she has learned from the mistakes of Vicar Laurence. Yharnam was merely the latest in a cycle of destruction, all because of the Old Blood. She will not doom Teyvat to suffer the same fate.

#genshin impact #sagau #genshin sagau #genshin cult au #genshin #genshin impact sagau #sagau impostor au #sagau imposter au #lady maria of the astral clocktower #lady maria bloodborne #bloodborne reader #bloodborne #sentient teyvat #sagau genshin #sagau brainrot #pari #aranara #melusines #god!reader #lady maria reader #crossover #sagau angst

[thesunfyre4446]

Catelyn raised five children & they ALL turned out to be good people. She was an infinitely better parent than Alicent ever was, there’s just no comparison.

Meanwhile, Alicent gave her sons every possible social and political advantage growing up, but never bothered to discipline them in any way or teach them how to lead effectively, with the result that Aegon II and Aemond grew into, respectively, a lazy, incompetent, unlikable, and gluttonous sex pest and a psychotically violent and bloodthirsty mass murderer who murdered his nephew the first chance he got, destroying any chance of a peace treaty between the two warring factions and leading the Blacks to (rightfully) retaliate in similar fashion. Aemond slaughtered the entirety of House Strong (including the children) under the mere suspicion of one of them being a traitor, nearly strangled a squire who brought him news that displeased him, and used Vhagar to reduce the Riverlands to smoking piles of ash. Her father, brothers, daughter, two other sons, and grandsons were all killed, but Aegon II survived, fed Rhaenyra to his dragon, and claimed the Iron Throne... and he proceeded to accomplish absolutely nothing and would rule for less than a year before he was fatally poisoned by his own supporters (after he decided to go along with HER suggestion to mutilate the young Aegon III, rather than stand down in the face of an enemy army he had no hope of defeating), making the death of every single Hightower for naught. In the end, Alicent did everything in her power to make her son a king, but it meant nothing because she didn’t raise him to be a man worthy of a crown.

gurl. GURL

alicent is only similar to cate because they're both highborn women fighting for the rights of their children relying mostly on their wits. you've just sent the same long detailed ask about how much you hate alicent. we get it, you hate alicent, aegon and aemond. do you need me to validate your feelings? what is this ask even for?

and how can you compare alicent to cate? cate had a loving and supporting husband, who respected her and loved the children they had together. alicent was married off to a sick middle aged king when she was 14, and was forced to have his children without anyone to support & guide her. viserys was a horrible father, and had a major role in making aegon and aemond turn out as they did. he ignored them, neglected them, he forced unwanted s*x on their mother. ned loved his children, respected his wife, his family was everything to him. his children idolized him. the stark kids grew up with parents that loved and respected each other, the targtowers grew up with a stressed out teen mom and a neglectful father that had no love or respect for his wife.

i hate it when people fail to acknowledge viserys's neglect of his sons and how it affected them and blame everything on alicent - who was a child herself when she gave birth to them.

#house of the dragon #hotd #pro alicent hightower #alicent hightower #alicent my love #asoaif #team green #pro team green #anti viserys targaryen #aegon ii #aemond targaryen

[houseofashesif]

The mad desire for vengeance burned within you like an uncontrollable wildfire, threatening to consume all thoughts and reason with each passing day. It lashed wildly like fire accumulating within the belly of a dragon, waiting to be unleashed at those who wronged you, and your family.

But you were too weak. Too fragile, like a newborn chick. What could you possibly do in your miserable state?

Every night while the world slept, you would lie awake in your dirty cot, praying endlessly for someone to save you. Be it God or the Devil himself, you begged to be saved. To be given a second chance.

Then, your prayers were answered. Not by God but the Devil.

"I can grant you only one of your wishes, little one. So, tell me, what do you desire?"

There were a million things that you desired. A warm home. A loving family. However none of those could be compared to your life long desire.

"Vengeance."

"Are you sure that is what you desire?" You do not remember what kind of expression he had on, but the amusement was evident in his voice.

"I am." You answer firmly.

"Very well."

He held his hand out for you to grab, a final chance for you to turn back on your world. But a normal life was something you have given up on a long time ago.

You firmly grab his inviting hand, knowing fully well that there was no turning back now.

The Devil smiled wickedly.

genres ; dark, gothic fiction, romance, crime, thriller

setting ; fictional world of Celtica (loosely based on modern Britain from 1900's), Modern (at the beginning of the Industrial Revolution)

Set in the early 19th century, you play as the heir of the powerful aristocratic family of Morrigan. But your true identity is that of a fallen noble from a disgraced house. Once renowned for its art and craftsmanship, your family collapsed after falling into crippling debt following a failed business attempt and accusations of planning a coup against the royal family. At least that's what the public is aware of. However you know better than that. Your family were no traitors, they were victims of a malicious plot woven by none other than the Duke of Sinclair, once an old friend of your family. Following the false accusations your family collapsed in no time and your parents and siblings were executed publicly.

You who were the lone survivor of this massacre changed your identity for fear of being caught and killed as well, living as a coal miner in an old orphanage. You craved vengeance but what could you, a fallen noble from a disgraced house, possibly do against a Duke who is one of the pillars of the great empire and the closest associate of the Empress.

You prayed day and night to the heavenly being that watched your downfall, desperately begging to be given a second chance in life. But all seemed for naught as the days turned to weeks and weeks to years. Just when you had given up all hope for revenge, an opportunity landed before you, appearing in the form of your father and the current head of the Morrigan Duchy, Law Morrigan.

Between the two choices given to you, as to whether you'd seek justice or vengeance against your enemies, you chose vengeance.

For the past 12 years you have been trained to become the perfect killer by your father. Born with the extremely rare phenomenon known only as a 'Miracle' you have been blessed by the Murder Miracle.

Now, young heir, this is your story. Your history to be written. Will continue down your bloody warpath of vengeance and be remembered in history as the punisher of the wicked and upsurer of the monarchy, OR will you let the impartial hands of justice make their judgement to your wrong doers and be remembered as the saint of justice. The choice is yours.

House of Ashes is a dark, interactive work of fiction that takes place in the early 19th century, at the beginning of the Industrial Revolution. It follows the story of vengeance in the midst of political chaos, grisly murders and schemes behind the scenes, while you have to choose between morality and desire to achieve what you want and what you believe in.

It is rated 18+ for violence, explicit themes, possible sexual content, and ofcourse, lots of blood and gore.

Customize yout heir from their name, appearance, gender identity, pronouns anf many more. Choose what your heir thinks of their family, their position and their responsibilities.

Choose a weapon and master an ancient martial art of choice. Or don't and become a jack of all trades.

Choose what kind of heir you want them become and how far you're willing to go to protect your title. Will you go for a more diplomatic approach with a case of mutual relationship with your siblings or crush them with your overwhelming strength to show your authority.

Will you choose to give in to your murderous instincts or suppress them.

Get involved in a murder investigation following a serious of gruesome serial killings, and maybe learn that there was more than what meets the eye regarding the downfall of your house.

Indulge in some romance along the way with six different characters with varying backgrounds to choose from. Or just don't.

Choose a pet cat or dog to become your acquaintance. Perhaps if you're feeling a little exotic, a hawk will do?

More features to come

The Crown Prince - Maximilian Windsor Celtica [Male]

The oldest of the Sun Twins, Crown Prince Maximilian is a very reverred personality among the nobles. He is known for his shrewdness and extremely ambitious nature. A very charismatic person, he has a way with his words which often allows others to lower their guard around him. Aiming to become the Emperor of the Celtica Empire one day, having such ambitious goals mean Maximilian is willing to do anything to achieve them. That includes sending assassins after his twin, the Crown Princess. With an analytical mind that allows him to see those inferior than him as mere pawns, falling for him is a doomed endeavor.

He is the holder of the Domination Miracle.

The Crown Princess - Victoria Windsor Celtica [Female]

The youngest of the Sun Twins, Crown Princess Victoria is often compared to her golden brother and frequently referred to as the ugly duckling of the two. An aloof individual, Victoria is a person of very few words and prefers to end things up quickly with sharp jabs and assertive speeches. Although a cold person, she has a kind side to her too, which often sees her donating large portions of her personal wealth to orphanages and charities, making her widely beloved among the citizens of the empire. Due to the frequent assassination attempts on her life, Victoria has chosen to close her heart off towards everyone, preferring to bear all the burdens on her own.

She is the holder of the Conquest Miracle.

The Fated Enemy - Cedric/Cordelia Sinclair [Gender Selectable]

Your mortal enemy. The child of the person responsible for your family's death and your misery. There are many things that you wish to address them as but cannot find the words to. That's how much you despise them. Imagine the surprise when they offered their hand for friendship to you. Contrary to how you imagine them as, like a spoiled young master from a privileged family, they're relatively humble. And also a little stupid. But behind their sunshine happy-go-lucky attitude, something much darker is lurking.

They are the holder of the Shackle Miracle.

The Best Friend - Orion/Ophelia Lancaster [Gender Selectable]

The lone, stoic heir of the righteous Lancaster Duchy, and also your best friend ever since the day you stepped foot into your new home, they are one of the few people that you trust. Although they have some trouble communicating with people regarding their feelings, they're a gentle giant compared to their intimidating features. They're also very open and blunt with their words whenever they speak so people tend to think of them as rude, not you though, you like their honesty. The two of you have stuck through the thick and thin of each other's lives like gum and even promised to do so until the end of your lives. But good things never truly last do they? A small misunderstanding which eventually gew to become a feud between the two oldest families of the empire, you wonder, what went wrong?

They're the holder of the Belief Miracle.

The Dream Demon - [???]

All dreams have a price to be paid. Are you willing to pay yours?

The Ash Demon - [???]

An old fossil, rising from the burnt ashes of your past. Do you remember me? Don't worry if you don't. I do.

DEMO || THE RO'S || THE FOUR FAMILIES || THE MIRACLE

More details on the RO's, their families and the Miracles will be added soon. Until then, i hope you like my poor attempt for an IF 🥲

#if wip #house of ashes #house of ashes if #interactive fiction #cyoa game #interactive if #choice script #dark fantasy #crime thriller #mystery

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello babies, wooooooo only 2 more chapters to go. The last chapter is next, and then we have the Epilogue.... HOLY FUCKKKKKKKKKKK! I can't believ it honestly!! How crazy is that? Anyway... Enjoy <3

Chapter 108: Ash 

On the grass before the mouth of Blackwater Rush, fire consumed the bodies of those who had been responsible for crowning Aegon as King, and aiding in keeping him there.

The people who had aided in keeping you trapped in the walls of the Red Keep, to be subjected to two brothers cruelties. Those who had broken their oaths to your mother, to King Viserys, those who had turned cloak against them.

Lady Alicent Hightower, a woman who was conniving and bitter, a woman who conspired against your mother, was now naught but a charred and blackened lump on the grass, surrounded by her peers.

She had screamed out into the air, much as they had, but it was short lived as Vermithor’s flames consumed them, until soon enough, their bodies, and hers, were charred and nothing but ash and bones.

And you watched them burn, as their cries of agony became silenced, until all that could be heard was the flames that roared from your dragons mouth until he pulled away growling beside you. You looked at those accountable, and felt nothing but triumph. 

Joy.

Elation.

As though you were drunk, or high on the milk of the poppy or the sweetest and richest of ale from Dorne.

Of no doubt were you angry, vengeful, and out for blood, but in that moment, watching them die? It was sweeter than any honeyed wine in Essos, any spiced wine from Dorne. Sweeter than the nectar of any star fruit, or the taste of lemon tarts.

It was cathartic. 

It was justice.

And it was final.

They were gone, just like the others, and an example of what was to come if anyone dared try to question or go against the Queen again.

You would make sure of that.

Your father would make sure of that.

But despite the sense of finalisation of your mothers rule, there was something that pulled at your gut, a whispering in the back of your mind, and almost nagging that you knew, not all was done, and that there was something else that you still needed to do.

You turned, pressing a hand to Vermithor’s neck, patting over his scales as his crackling purr came out loudly into the air. You whispered to him, that you missed him, that he did a good job, and that you would be right back to be with him again.

The dragon huffed, spreading its wings wide before moving to take off into the sky again, flying down and around the cliff to make his way to the entrance of the Dragon Pit.

The Lords and guards dispersed slowly, casting back feeble glances at the smoking bodies of the traitors before making their way back inside of the Keep. You walked with determination, strides confident, until you stood before your parents, who looked at you with pride. 

“There is something I need to do.”

Daemon and Rhaenyra cast uneasy glances at each other before looking back at you. Rhaenyra’s mouth opened, lips parting to speak.

“I promise I will return.” You assured them.

As though Rhaenyra knew of what you meant, and Daemon sensing such shortly after, the Queen nodded to you, and pressed a hand against your cheek as she kissed the other, thrice, allowing for you to walk back inside of the Keep silently.

Aemond’s chambers were open, and as you walked inside, the smell of blood flooded your senses. Your stomach roiled, tears gathering in your eyes, but you steeled yourself with a steady breath, counting in your head as you walked. 

But by the thirteenth step, when you finally reached his bed, you were met with nothing but a pile of bloodied sheets and pillows, the red having turned brown and crusted, an almost outline of his body pressed into where he had laid.

As you looked at the empty bed, you felt his presence beside you. 

In your periphery, Aemond stood at your side in black, looking down at the bed he had passed in. His hair was pulled back in the small braids you had coaxed him to wear, and his usual sweeping black coat was atop his broad chest.

His face however, was impassive. Not sad, nor angry, nor relieved.

Just plain. 

Unfeeling.

Unmoving. 

A stark difference to Helaena or Lucerys.

Silver hair shifted over his shoulder as he turned to look at you, the sapphire of his eye catching the light in the chambers. 

Your breath caught in your throat, and a sob worked its way up as a small trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his seeing eye. But then his head kept turning, until he looked over his shoulder and down at the floor.

The Sept.

The frame of the painting was cool to the touch as you pushed it open, slipping through the dark shadows of the passage way, making your way down to the Sept. Each step had your breath hitching in your throat as you felt him follow behind you, and you had to remind yourself that he could not hurt you.

That he wasn’t real.

That he was gone.

King Aemond Targaryen lay on the cool stone slab of the Sept, still in nothing bar his bloodied breeches, not having been cleaned nor prepped for a funeral as no one knew what to do with him. 

Was he to be treated as a traitor, cut into seven pieces and mounted atop the seven gates as a warning? As a lesson?

Or was his burial to be swift, and quiet, down in the Sept, locked away beneath stone to never be seen again?

His hair was caught beneath him as you made your way over, brushing it away from his face with gentle and shaking hands. Though you knew he was dead, that he had passed and it had been at your hands, it still shocked you to find his skin so cold, so icy. So different to how it had been.

To how he would shower you in his warmth, nestled against his chest. How he would sit at your side and hold your hands in his, warm and confident. How he would press his heated lips to your cheeks, to your eyes, to your lips, the top of your hair, your hands. 

All the warmth that the man once had, that he had once given you, had bled from him at your hands.

And it hurt. 

It ached to know what you had done. 

A betrayal most foul.

A crime that you would have to live with for the rest of your days. Something that you could never forgive yourself for, and worried that the Gods would not either. That soon you would meet their punishment for having slayed him, another act of Kinslaying, a premeditated act so foul that you heaved a gag, stomach emptying beside him.

Leaning down over him, you pressed another kiss to his lips, cold and stiff beneath yours, “I’m sorry.” You whispered to him, stroking his cheek, “I am sorry for what I have done. I have betrayed you, betrayed you in a way that you did not deserve. Not in my eyes. I wish you would be here to see it all now. To see reason. If only you had seen reason, I would not have been pushed to do what I have done.”

A tear fell onto his cheek, which you wiped away with your thumb, “I do not regret it. I cannot. If I regret such an act, I will drive myself to madness. So I must live with this, Aemond. Live with knowing I have slain my love. The man whom I wed. Who I grew with. The father of my child.” 

Your sobs echoed in the Sept below, footsteps were heard behind you, their soft feet scuffling across the stone floor.

“You will always be with me.” You whispered down to Aemond’s body, hand coming to press against your stomach, “Always.”

When you turned, you came face to face with your brother Jacaerys, and behind him a Septa.

You swallowed, brushing away the tears that fell across your cheeks, “Please have his body removed and taken to the Dragon Pit.” You commanded the Septa quietly, who bowed and moved back into the shadows.

Short steps took you to Jacaerys, whose face was fraught with concern, eyes darting from you then to the body behind you.

“Walk with me.” You asked, looping a hand through his arm.

And he did.

As the two of you walked, a silence surrounded you both. One where there were too many questions left unanswered, and the static energy that flickered between you like flames made you speak first.

“I loved him.” Your voice came out unsteady, feeling Jacaerys’ eyes on you, “Against all odds, I did. And I know that I shouldn’t have, that he was cruel and unkind. That he took Lucerys from us. But I did. And I won’t apologise for it. Nor will I desperately seek the reasons as to why. It just is, and I hope that you can, some day, come to see that and forgive me.”

Jacaerys stayed quiet, holding your hand in his, his palm callused and dry, rough skin rubbing against yours.

“It has not been an easy journey here in this Keep. Being alone, subjected to their cruelty for months on end, it changes a person. But Aemond also changed, he became someone I could trust. Someone I could confide in. I know you may not belie-“

“-I believe you.” The young Prince interrupted you softly, his head turned to watch you carefully as you descended the steps toward the Dragon Pit, “I only wish that you had not been pushed to act as you have.”

You paused your steps, turning to face him.

Much of his boyishness had gone, and his face had hardened into a man, a light layer of stubble dusted his jaw and chin, and his cheeks had lost the soft charm that Lucerys had, and had hollowed to defined cheekbones.

He looked so much like Ser Harwin Strong.

“I have missed you.” You smiled tearily, patting his hand gently.

Jacaerys smiled back, leaning down to press a kiss atop your head, “And I you, more than you know.”

You resumed your walk, content to leave the quiet around you. Your challenges in the months past can be shared with your family later, perhaps when the dust has settled and all tales of survival could be told without tears. 

Perhaps then, you could tell them the truth of it all, and not just mere notes.

As you came to the Dragon Pit, the sounds of dragons filled the cavern loudly. It strange. It seemed so full of life again, many returning to a place they had not been in years, some joining for the very first time. 

You walked until the pit opened and the light from outside momentarily blinded you, causing the both of you to blink rapidly so that your eyes could adjust. Each step you took, took you closer to what you knew you needed to do. 

It was a short flight, over the beach of Kings Landing and to the rolling green hills that lay further down in the realm.

To ride upon Vermithor’s back after so long away was strange, and you could not help but cry tears of joy. But as you gripped onto him, holding a worn rope that had been slung upon his neck, you made a note to ask for a seat to be placed atop him.

No more would you ride without one.

The wind caught in your hair as he hovered above the ground, before moving slightly forward to land heavily atop the grass. You slid from his back, the view of Kings Landing behind you as the sun slowly began to set.

There on the grass, hastily wrapped in burial cloth was Aemond. 

Vermithor stretched his large head down to the body he had carried and sniffed at it, a soft cooing sound coming from deep within the bronze dragons chest. You patted his neck softly as you made your way over, looking down at the swaddled corpse before bending down to place one last kiss atop his wrapped head. 

The cream cloth had begun to stain red where some parts of blood had not dried fully and stained it burgundy. 

It was the smell that was the most horrid of it. Thick, and irony, the blood that coated his body made you breathe through your mouth in avoidance. But the breeze carried it away shortly after, and you stood back to look at the man you had loved.

A man you had grown up with, stuck to each others sides.

A man you had fought with, whether in the tunnels of the Keep, in the sky above Storms End, or the chambers that had been yours and his.

A man you had fought for.

A man who had taken so much from you, your freedom, your life, the unscarred skin of your flesh. Your brother. Your sanity.

And a man who had given you so much. 

Joy. Pleasure. A child. 

Love.

Your lips parted as you moved to speak the command, but your voice was lost with the wind as it crackled and split, a soft sob falling from your lips as tears fell from your eyes. 

Vermithor purred beside you, head nudging into your body softly as you continued to look down at his body, dry lips cracked and bitten raw as you tried to breathe the command again to the sky.

“Dr… Draca-…” Another sob, wracking your body as you smoothed your hands down against your sides. You lifted your chin high, sucking in a sharp breath, and then, you whispered it out against the wind.

A word that had been whispered in your ear for months. A word that had haunted you to no avail. A word that you didn’t wish to utter in that moment.

“Dracarys.”

The Bronze Fury reared his head back, before dropping it forward, fire engulfing the dead King’s body in flames, the sound blaring in your ears as you watched. 

It was not a pleasant smell, burnt flesh, but it dissolved quickly in the wind as his body became ash and bones, the dragon not stopping until it was sure that it was enough.

The flames subsided, and smoke rose from the ashes that lay at the scorched grass before you.

Did the Gods truly create this path for you?

A path of pain and destruction?

No end to the suffering that would follow you for the rest of your days, the shadows of the past, the whispers of those lost, the ones that you took?

There was no end to it.

No end in sight.

The smoke around you simmered away from the fire that had raged on, and now all that was left was ash. 

The ashes of the man you wished had stayed. 

The ashes of a man who had all hope taken from him as a child. 

The Gods path for him was a cruel one, starting from the moment he was born. No dragon. Loss of an eye. Everything taken from him, his life taken from him.

The chance to see and watch his child grow, taken from him.

But everything had been taken from you too.

You had lost everything.

And all for the throne. 

Was it worth it? 

All that loss? All that suffering? The scars on your body and mind? 

Was the culmination of all those worth the final moment in which you stood? 

There was no certainty into what the future would hold. 

Perhaps the Gods were not quite done with you yet, but deep down, all you could think; Was this all you had been made for?

To suffer at the hands of others?

Had you not given enough? 

Your mind, your body, your freedom, your spirit?

But Rhaenyra, your loving mother, she had given everything too. She had losses that almost mounted yours. Your brother. Her father. Your sister.

Was it worth it? 

It was then, as you looked down at the ashes, the wind blowing the blades of grass that survived around the singed patch, disturbing the embers and what little bones remained, that you saw a glint of something. 

A reminder. 

On unsteady feet, with silent tears tracking down your cheeks, you saw the round sapphire orb that you had spent what felt like an eternity looking into. 

There, on the grassy knoll, the Red Keep looming not too far way, and Vermithor shifting behind you, it was then, as you both looked at the surviving piece of Aemond, that you came to a conclusion of your questions. 

Yes, it was.

Or, it would be.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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#aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond smut #hotd smut #dark!aemond targaryen x reader #dark!aemond x reader #dark!aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #dark!aemond #dark!fic #fic #series #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond #smoke fire and ash

[starogeorgina]

Violent delights

Warnings: Swearing, child death

Pairings: Jacaerys Velaryon x oc

1.08

“Get off, get off, get off, get off!”

You watch helplessly as your mother swats the midwives who are trying to help her away. She was padding barefoot on the balcony of her bedchamber, trying to ease the pain of her labor by walking. She would only allow you to get close enough to give her sips of water and dab her forehead with a wet cloth, but she refused help from anyone else.

Upon seeing Jacaerys and Lucerys entering your mother's bedchambers, you run to them. Both of them looked panicked. Luke looks at you wide-eyed and asks, “What’s going on?”

You grip both of their arms tightly. “Mother has gone into labor. The baby is coming early.”

You knew from personal experience what hell your mother was going through. When you saw your grandmother, Princess Rhaenys, flying to the dragonpit, you rushed inside to greet her while Jace and Luke remained outside training. Unfortunately, your grandmother's visit wasn’t pleasant; she brought forth trucking news that triggered your mother to go into early labor.

You lead them into the balcony, where your mother is pressing her hands against a pillar for support while hunching over. She lets out a loud groan of pain before addressing them. “Your grand sire, King Viserys, has passed.”

“V-Viserys?” Luke asks, and you squeeze his hand and nod.

“The Greens have repudiated the succession and claimed the Iron Throne. Aegon has been crowned king.”

“What is to be done about it?” Jace asks as anger radiates off him.

“Nothing yet.”

“And where is Daemon?”

“I don’t know,” your mother confesses. “Gone to madness. Gone to plot his war.”

Jacaerys grits his teeth and says, “Leave Daemon with me.”

“Jace,” your mother calls out to him as he goes to leave with Luke. “Jacaerys, whatever claim remains to me, you are now its heir. Naught is to be done but by my command.”

Jace nods, turning. He gives you a look, silently asking you to follow him, so you do. Once out of ear shot from your mother, he pulls you in for a hug. “How—do you think—the babe?”

You knew what he was trying to ask: “It’s far too early. It’s very unlikely the baby will make it.” Hearing her loud screams, you face the balcony again. “I’ll see if the maester will bring some milk of the poppy.”

You go to fetch the maester, but Jace holds onto your hand. He presses a tender kiss on your forehead. “Whatever happens…”

“I know,” you gulp down. For both of you, what followed next was blood, war, and death. After calling for the master to bring the pain relief for your mother, you go back onto the balcony to see her sitting on the ground, rocking back and forth as she brings forth another baby, screaming in pain.

“Get out.”

“You should not do this alone, Princess.”

“Let us help you.”

She waved at them to stay away while crying in agony. You wanted to go to her but didn’t want to go against her wishes. You stood close by as she birthed a baby that wasn’t breathing. A girl. Your mother picks her up and cradles her in her arms, close to her chest.

You go to her and kiss the side of her head. “You’re sweet, Visenya.”

“She was my daughter, and they killed her. They stole my crown and murdered my daughter, and they shall answer for it.”

—

You stand in silence during the funeral for your sister, who was born too early. You only turn back when a knight approaches, Erryk Cargyll. “I mean no harm, brothers.” He pulls the crown that once belonged to your grandsire out of his bag and kneels. “I swear to ward the Queen... with all my strength... and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife... hold no land... father, no children. I shall guard her secrets. obey her commands. ride at her side, and defend her name and honor.”

Daemon takes the crown from the knight and places it on your mother's head. “Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

One by one, everyone bends the knee for their new and rightful queen, Rhaenyra Targaryen.

—

You arrive at the meeting of the Queen's Council just as your mother and Daemon were exiting the room. Your mother had granted you leave when your son's wet nurse told you he was struggling to latch on; thankfully, you were able to feed him yourself. “Daemon, what’s going on?”

“That cunt Otto Hightower is approaching Dragonstone on a ship flying a banner of a three-headed green dragon.”

Frowning, you spin on your heels and walk beside him, earning a slight grin. “This is Alicent’s doing. Aegon is nothing but a drunken fool with no desires other than to lay with whores. Whatever has transpired, Otto and Alicent are behind it.”

You stand beside your stepfather on the bridge as Otto has the audacity to walk towards you with a smug look on his face. “I come at the behest of the Dowager Queen Alicent, mother of King Aegon, Second of His Name, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. I’ve been directed to deliver her message only to Princess Rhaenyra. Where is the princess?”

“Queen Rhaenyra,” you correct.

Syrax screeches as she lands on the bridge behind you, letting out a loud roar as your mother climbs down off of her.

Otto smirks, “Princess Rhaenyra.”

“I’m Queen Rhaenyra now. And you all are traitors to the realm.”

“King Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, in his wisdom and desire for peace, is offering terms. Acknowledge Aegon as king and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne. In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of dragonstone. It will pass to your true-born son, Jacaerys, upon your death. Lucerys will be confirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark and all the lands and holdings of House Velaryon. Your sons by Prince Daemon will also be given places of high honor at court: Aegon the Younger as the King’s squire, and Viserys as his cupbearer. Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.”

Daemon clicked his tongue and said, “I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken, usurper cunt of a king.”

"Aegon Targaryen sits on the Iron Throne. He wears the conqueror’s crown, wields the conqueror’s sword, and has the conqueror’s name. He was anointed by a septon of the faith before the eyes of thousands. Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him. And then there are Stark, Tully, and Baratheon. Houses that have also received and are at present considering generous terms from their king.”

“Stark, Tully, and Baratheon all swore to me when King Viserys named me his heir,” your mother reminds him.

“Stale oaths will not put you on the Iron Throne, Princess. The succession changed the day your father had a son. I only regret that you and he were the last to see the truth about it.”

Otto jumps as Viserion swoops down over him, and the men that stand behind him let out a loud screech as he does. For the first time since arriving, you see fear in Otto’s eyes. “Refer to my mother as princess again, and you’ll answer to my dragon.”

Daemon chuckles at your words.

“You are no more a hand than Aegon is king. Fucking traitor,” your mother snatches the hand of the king pin from Otto and tosses it off the bridge.

He takes an old scroll from the maester and hands it to your mother. “Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love you once had for each other. No blood needs to be spilled, so the realm can carry on in peace. Queen Alicent eagerly awaits your answer.”

“She can have her answer now, stuffed in her father’s mouth along with his withered cock. Let’s end this mother’s farce. Ser Erryk, bring me Lord High Tower so I may take pleasure myself,” Daemon orders.

“No,” Syrax screeches again as your mother puts her arm out to stop the knight from stepping forward. “King’s Landing will have my answer tomorrow.”

When you turn to walk away, Otto says, “Oh, and one more thing, Princess Lyarra, King Aegon has asked me to pass on that he awaits the arrival of his daughter at king's landing; in fact, Aemma can leave with me right now.”

Ser Erryk holds you back as you lunge for Otto. “Come near my daughter, and I’ll fucking kill you!” Viserion lands behind you; his body leans over you as he roars in Otto’s face. “Mention her name again, and I’ll say the word and fucking burn you!”

Daemon points dark sister in the direction of the former hand of the king. You both look to your mother, awaiting to see what she does yet, and to your surprise, she does nothing.

—

Your blood boils as you pace back and forth, the anger seething from you. Otto’s words had equally terrified and angered you. The thought of Aegon, the usurper, getting anywhere near your precious daughter was enough to tempt you to fly to the King's landing and burn her to the ground before the Greens had the chance to take her from you. Daemon was furious that your mother didn’t let him kill Otto then and there, adding to the tension building between them.

Too focused on your rage, you miss most of what your grandsire, Lord Corlys, says regarding the Velaryon fleet; you only zone back in when you hear your husband's voice. “We should bear those messages. Dragons can fly faster than ravens, and they’re more convincing.”

You quickly realize he wants to go as your mother’s messenger instead of sending ravens. “Jacaerys is right, your Grace; send us.”

With glossy eyes, your mother looks between her three eldest children and says, “Very well. Prince Jacaerys and Princess Lyarra will fly north. The princess will fly to the Eyrie to see my mother’s cousin, Lady Jeyne Arryn, and Prince Jacaerys will fly to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. Prince Lucerys will fly south to Storm’s End and treat with Lord Borros Baratheon. We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore. And... the cost of breaking them.”

You notice Jace’s hesitation, but he simply nods his head. Squeezing his hand, you face your mother and say, “Yes, your grace. We will get ready to leave as soon as possible.”

—

“I will see you soon, my little prince,” you say, quietly placing Daemon in his crib. You decided to feed him to help settle him before leaving. Your son would eventually latch onto the wet nurse, but it was always smoother when you were nursing him yourself.

Sensing a presence behind you, you turn and smile, seeing your husband standing by the doorway of the nursery. His head is low as you begin to lace the front of your dress back up. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve spoken with mother. I’m going to Winterfell and the Eyrie, so you can stay here.”

You shake your head and say, “No, that means you will be gone much longer. And I cannot let you and Lucerys be messengers while I remain here.”

“Given what Otto said, the children need one of us here.”

Although you hadn’t liked the idea of leaving any of your children, you understood it was important to gather allies for your mother. The sooner she sat on the iron throne, the better, as nobody was safe while Aegon was calling himself king. “Then you should stay; I’m not a fighter, but you are. You could protect our family better than I could.”

Jace pulls you in for a hug, and he lets out a soft chuckle. “I doubt that; you’re a fiercer dragon than I’ll ever be, and I know you’ll keep our babies safe. Plus, Daemon is struggling to bond with the wet nurses; he needs you close by.”

Flying north together and then splitting up for only a couple of days was bearable, but with him flying both places, he’d be gone for a minimal week. You cling to him tightly. “I’m scared you won’t come back or that the greens will come for Aemma.”

Jace cups your face. “I promise you, they won’t take our daughter from us.”

You desperately wanted to believe him, but the fact that Otto was bold enough to say it made your bones chill. Your mother's reaction also causes you to worry. Losing your grandsire, your mother being usurped, then losing her baby, and now the threat of having her grandchild taken from her home would all be weighing heavily. You feared the unknown and what might possibly happen to cause your mother to finally snap.

—

You stand on the edge of Dragonstone with your mother and maester as Jacaerys and Lucerys get ready to leave.

“It’s been said that as Targaryens, we are closer to gods than to men,” your mother says, looking at Jace and Luke. “And the Iron Throne puts us a touch closer, perhaps. But if we are to serve the Seven Kingdoms, we must answer to their gods. If you take this errand, you go as messengers, not as warriors. You must take no part in any fighting. Swear it to me now under the eyes of the Seven.”

“I swear it.”

“I swear it.”

"Thank you," she hands a scroll to Jace. “Cregan Stark is... closer to your age than mine. I would hope that, as men, you can find some common interests.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Jace puts the scroll into his pocket before embracing you; he kisses your forehead multiple times. “I will see you soon, Lyarra. Avy jorrāelan.”

Teary-eyed, you say, “Avy jorrāelan, ñuha dārilaros.”

Reluctantly, you step back, giving him space to leave. Gulping down, you hold back the tears threatening to spill and kiss the side of Luke’s head, “Ñuha dōna lēkia, I will see you soon.”

Ñuha dōna lēkia - My sweet brother

Avy jorrāelan, ñuha dārilaros - I love you, my prince

Avy jorrāelan - I love you

#house of the dragon #jacaerys velaryon x you #Jacaerys Velaryon #jacaerys velaryon/you #Jacaerys Velaryon/reader #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic #violent delights #jacaerys velaryon fanfiction #jacaerys velaryon fanfic #jace velaryon #Jacaerys Velaryon x oc #Jacaerys Velaryon x fem oc #jace velaryon fanfic #jace velaryon fanfiction #Jace Velaryon/oc #Jace Velaryon x oc

[odditycircus-2002]

Angsty idea for Mk11 Shang and Medusa reader: Medusa reader dies a decade after Shang did after members of Outworld turn on her. She’s buried in a tomb on Shang’s Island and no one beside Reptile/the monks that worked for Shang knows her bodies there.

ooohhh seems I’m not the only one with a twisted mind😏😈😆

For the events of MK11, consider that Kronika didn’t revive Medusa!Reader so MK11 Shang Tsung had to take it into his hands to resurrect his sweet. His plan to revive Sindel remains the same, however, he just takes a small detour on his island after retrieving the Crown. Sure, Fujin was suspicious as to why Shang Tsung wants to take a detour in a cavern, near a well of souls, in an area called the Flesh Pits. Yet, the Sorcerer shakes off Fujin’s suspicion. “Is it a sin to want to visit my dearly departed?”

Before heading down into a tomb Y/N had long ago had constructed, for either an important captive to use later for experiments or so you can be buried alongside your husband. Alas, your hopes of remaining together even in death was for naught, as Shang Tsung finds you all alone in your tomb. Granted, there were some gifts and offerings left there, no doubt from his followers. Although, he has a sneaking suspicion about who left the animal carcass by your tomb. The stench is unmistakable.

Fujin is conflicted with the sympathy and suspicion he feels, watching Shang Tsung open your stone sarcophagus to sadly gaze upon you. Your head was sliced off and stitched back to your body, with your eyelids sewn shut as well. He gently caresses your face before trailing his fingers down to your collar bone, where your wedding ring laid there, attached to a cord around your neck. Shang Tsung’s dark heart swells, touched by your devotion even after his death. Fujin does nothing when Shang Tsung snapped the cord around your corpse’s neck to take your wedding ring.

While Shang Tsung has sentimental reasons to have taken your ring, it’s not just grief that has him doing so. No, he senses your soul within the well-crafted jewelry. He couldn’t help but internally smirk and feel a burst of pride at your cleverness. While he has no time to resurrect your body, he still has a way to bring you back to life.

Sindel would make the perfect host for your return, even if she won’t be aware. Then nothing will ever get between the two of you again.

#mortal kombat #mortal kombat x reader #mk x reader #shang tsung #shang tsung x reader #mortal kombat 11 #oddball speaks

[burningclocks]

HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE A WOMAN SCORNED

Say what you will but women in classical plays had the best rage-filled monologues

1. Beatrice’s Kill Claudio Monologue, Much Ado About Nothing by William Shakespeare

Kill Claudio! You kill me to deny it. Farewell. I am gone, though I am here: there is no love in you: nay, I pray you, let me go. In faith, I will go. You dare easier be friends with me than fight with my enemy. Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O that I were a man! What, bear her in hand until they come to take hands; and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour, – O, God that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place. Talk with a man out a window! A proper saying! Sweet Hero! She is wronged, she is slandered, she is undone. Princes and counties! Surely, a princely testimony, a goodly count, Count Comfect; a sweet gallant surely! O that I were a man for his sake! Or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into courtesies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.

2. Iphigenia’s Monologue to Agamemnon, Iphigenia at Aulis by Euripides

If I could speak as well as Orpheus, Father, if I could use words to inspire the rocks around us to rise up and follow me, if I had that same gift of persuasion I would use it. But I have only one talent, my tears. I offer them to you. It is all I can do. I bend before you like a branch bending towards the earth, pressing my body against your knees. This is the body that your wife gave birth to. Don’t send me to an early death. It is sweet to see the sun’s light. Do not force me down into the darkness of the Underworld. I was the first child to call you father, the first you called your child. I was the first to sit upon your knee while you fondly kissed me. You used to say to me, “Will I see you one day, happy in your husband’s house, bringing honor to your family?” And I would say to you, as I pulled upon your beard, the same beard I now caress, “And what about you, Father? Will I welcome you into my house, when you are an old man, and take care of you in thanks for all the years that you took care of me?” I remember every word we said, but you have forgotten them, and now you are planning to end my life. By Pelops, by your father Atreus, by my mother, who suffered the pain of my birth and suffers more pain now, I beg you to spare me. What do I have to do with the marriage of Paris and Helen? Why should I die because of them? Look at me, look me in the eyes and give me a kiss, give me that at least to remember when I die, if you are determined to remain deaf to my pleas.

3. Medea’s Dead Children Monologue, Medea by Euripides

Women, my mind is clear. I go to slay my children with all speed, and then, away from hence; not wait yet longer till they stand beneath another and an angrier hand to die. Yea, howsoe'er I shield them, die they must. And, seeing that they must, 'tis I shall slay them, I their mother, touched of none beside. Oh, up and get thine armour on, my heart! Why longer tarry we to win our crown of dire inevitable sin? Take up thy sword, O poor right hand of mine, thy sword: then onward to the thin-drawn line there life turns agony. Let there be naught of softness now: and keep thee from that thought, 'born of thy flesh,' 'thine own belovèd.' Now, for one brief day, forget thy children: thou shalt weep hereafter. Though thou slay them, yet sweet were they. . . . I am sore unfortunate.

#classical plays #theatre #feminine rage #much ado about nothing #shakespeare #catherine tate #euripides #iphigenia #Iphigenia at aulis #medea #monologues #classics #my art

[gsirvitor]

When human life, a shame to human eyes, lay sprawling in the mire in foul estate, a cowering thing without the strength to rise, held down by fell Religion's heavy weight — Religion scowling downward from the skies, with hideous head, and vigilant eyes of hate — First did a man of Greece presume to raise his brows and give the monster gaze for gaze.

Him not the tales of all the Gods in heaven, nor the heaven's lightnings nor the menacing roar of thunder daunted. He was only driven by these vain vauntings to desire the more to burst through Nature's gates and rive the unriven bars.

And he gained the day; and, conqueror, his spirit broke beyond our world and past its flaming walls, and fathomed all the vast. And back returning, crowned with victory, he divulged of things the hidden mysteries, laying quite bare what can and cannot be, how to each force is set strong boundaries, how no power raves unchained; and now Religion lies trampled by us; and unto us 't is given fearless with level gaze to scan the heaven.

Yet fear I lest thou haply deem that thus we sin and enter wicked ways of reason. Whereas 'gainst all things good and beauteous 't is oft Religion does the foulest treason.

Has not the tale of Aulis come to us and those great chiefs who, in the windless season, bade young Iphianassa's form be laid upon the altar of the Trivian maid?

Soon as the fillet round her virgin hair fell in its equal lengths down either cheek, — Soon as she saw her father standing there, sad, by the altar, without power to speak, and at his side the murderous minister, hiding the knife, and many a faithful Greek weeping — her knees grew weak, and with no sound she sank, in speechless terror, on the ground.

But naught availed it in that hour accurst to save the maid from such a doom as this, that her lips were the baby lips that first called the King father with their cries and kiss.

For round her came the strong men, and none durst refuse to do what cruel part was his; so silently they raised her up, and bore her all quivering, to the deadly shrine before her.

And as they bore her, ne'er a golden lyre rang round her coming with a bridal strain; but in the very season of desire, a stainless maiden, amid bloody stain she died — a victim felled by its own sire — That so the ships the wisht-for winds might gain and air puff out their canvas.

Learn thou, then, to what damned deeds Religion urges men.

Freedom of Thought - by William Hurrell Mallock, originally by Titus Lucretius Carus, Roman poet and philosopher.

Upon reflecting on my recent ban, I have come to accept a new religion grips the throat of man, one of the worship of the state and the absurd, one that wishes nothing more than to turn clowns into rulers and silence those who speak out against the illiberal ways the world is ran.

This site is a haven for the most depraved and debauched of fanatics, and those who run it are bent on running any and all out who show modicum of clear and sane rationale, you use medical terms and it is deemed hate speech, you post sourced and cited research that goes against the collective and you are labeled a sinner, you even allude to the fact you are white or straight you get mass reported by a gaggle of sycophants.

The Left is a Cathedral and we must strike down its foundations, why do I say this? Because I am a Liberal, and Liberalism is not conducive with censorship.

Liberalism is a political and moral philosophy based on four foundational rights, that of the individual, liberty, consent of the governed and equality before the law. 

From these four foundational rights the other rights under liberalism can be derived, those being private property, market economies, individual rights, including civil rights and human rights, liberal democracy, secularism, rule of law, economic and political freedom, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of assembly, and freedom of religion and the right to the defense of self and property.

The Left is anathema to Liberalism, as the Left is made up of Socialist and other revolutionary ideological frameworks, while Liberalism spawned Libertarianism and Conservatism.

Anyway, this has been my post ban vent post.

[kauriart]

How Alistair Fell in Love with Bethany Hawke

Chapter 1: A Drink in the Dark A Dragon Age fic  | Alistair x Bethany Hawke | Read it on A03

Alastair jolts awake in total darkness, hand sliding unerringly to the hilt of his sword even as he realizes—

There are no darkspawn.

Someone is shouting, and there are no darkspawn.

It is the middle of the night, and someone is shouting, and there are no darkspawn.

Stroud will have their head.

Alistair shakes off the last bit of fogginess from sleep and begins to stuff himself into his boots and armor by force of habit, attention entirely fixed on the sharply rising voices on the far edge of the camp. It isn’t one of the other Warden’s, he’s sure. But whoever they are, they’ll draw every darkspawn within a league if they keep up with that noise.

He grimaces at the thought. It’s too bloody early for a fight, but adrenaline zings through him anyways. He slings his shield over his shoulder, but keeps his sword in hand, secure in its scabbard — just in case — and strides to the far side of the camp where the commotion is growing.

Stroud is there, surprisingly still in just breeches and shirt sleeves and bare feet. Directly in front of him is a man with coal black hair and a beard to match, armed and armored and nearly vibrating with violence. His voice ratchets up and down like the swelling of the seas. Tucked behind the bearded man is a ruddy-haired Dwarf, face bare, and serious. He flinches a little at the noise, but remains quiet himself. And standing beside them is—  

“Anders?” Alistair blurts, mouth dropping open.

The Warden-Mage turns towards him briefly, the ghost of a smile on his lips, though much of his attention stays fixed on his noisy companion. “Hullo, Alistair.”

Four years have changed Anders dramatically. He was always tall and thin, but now there's a gauntness to his face that is more than the toll paid to the deep roads. The shadows beneath his eyes are dark as bruises, and the easy humor has been all but wiped away, replaced by something grim and… resigned.

“What’s going on?” Alistair asks.

“Foolishness,” Stroud answers curtly.

The bearded man makes a sound that’s akin to a growl, and though he doesn’t move, everything in his demeanor looks even more menacing.

Anders glances at him warily. “Hawke and I have come seeking help, and have found the Wardens... less forthcoming than I remembered.”

Stroud waves away the observation. "We've no way to help, Anders, and you know it. What were you even thinking coming here? If you can find us then you’re still enough of a Warden to sense that you’ve been dragging half-a-legion of darkspawn naught but a days march behind you. What do you think will happen when they catch up? I cannot see how a corpse can be worth such a risk.”

“Corpse?” Alistair blinks, startled, noticing for the first time the figure laid out on the floor, wrapped in a heavily stained blanket nearly head to toe. A pair of ugly, worn boots poke out of the bottom, but that’s all.

Hawke — Alistair assumes — makes a loud, angry noise, but he keeps his eyes on Stroud. "She's alive. Or what the fuck do you think we're doing here?”

Alistair kneels, and carefully pulls a hood-like fold of the blanket away from the figure’s face.

A woman.

And she's—

Alistair has been stunned utterly speechless three times in his life.

The first time was vertigo. A stunning sense of falling through the floor the first time he’d seen his father from afar. Seen his own features mirrored and muted; wrapped in spun gold and topped with a crown.

The second time was shock. Morrigan, mouth twisted in a line like she’d bitten a sour lemon, offering something absolutely ridiculous. What do witches know of Warden matters anyway?

The third time was horror. He’d seen an archdemon before of course, in his dreams. But it was different in the flesh. Ten thousand pounds of malice and terror, with wings broad enough to blot out the sun. Death lingering on the horizon.

But this… This time it is something else entirely. Something indescribable stirring deep in his belly.

She's—

He blinks.

Maker, she’s lovely.

And clearly dying.

She’s pale and cold as marble, with black spidery veins of the taint winding up her limbs. She's conscious, but barely, breathing ragged, and shallow, and strained. She’s young. Perhaps even a few years younger than himself, and finely featured. Dark hair falls in tangled curls around her face. Her eyes flicker open, a surprisingly bright, coppery sort of brown, but they’re unfocused, drifting over him in listless patterns.

“Hullo,” Alistair says quietly, fingers drifting towards the curls on her brow.

She doesn’t respond.

"You’d let her take the Joining like this?" Stroud's voice rises for the first time, cold and brittle. "Are you mad? A knife would be a quicker death, and a kinder one."

Hawke takes a slow step forward until he's nearly nose to nose with Stroud. "I wasn’t asking.” He isn’t shouting any more. His voice is low and mild. Almost pleasant. Conversational. “You’ll do it. Or I'll kill you.” His hand raises with that same, slow deliberateness, and fits itself around the collar of Stroud’s shirt. " You. Specifically. And I promise it won't be quick, or kind."

“Threatening a Warden with death is not particularly effective,” Stroud says with a raised brow. “And you are outnumbered. Badly.”

Hawke chuckles darkly through his teeth. "Am. I?”

Stroud’s eyes narrow, and Alistair can feel his heart rate pick up in response to that look from his Warden-Commander. Every time he’s seen it, death has swiftly followed.

Oh fuck.

Hawke must pick up on the subtle shift of the atmosphere. The chuckle drops nearly an octave, into something more like a growl, all rumble and danger and every hair stands up on the back of Alistair’s neck.

Double fuck.

He shifts his body so the bulk of him is directly above the girl. If it comes to a fight he’ll keep her safe. Stroud will be careful enough, but Hawke seems the type of man whose violence gets messy. This way at least, he can have his shield over them both in a heartbeat.

The silence drags, a solid wall of tension stretched between one man and the other. A strange sort of stalemate. Hawke doesn’t give an inch, and neither does Stroud.

But Anders is the bridge between both worlds. “She’s a mage, Stroud,” he offers to the silence. “You know what that would mean to the Order.”

Mages are rare. Warden mages, rarer still.

Stroud takes a half-step back, head inclining slightly. Even Hawke turns away, though in his case it is to shift his glare to Anders.

Alistair holds his breath, waiting, heart still hammering away.

He has served under three Warden Commanders. Duncan was all instinct. Emmory was blind courage. But Stroud is tradition; well-rooted in discipline and pragmatism. He might be… He should be…

But—

“No,” Stroud shakes his head. “If I was that interested in a mage, Anders, I’d just insist that you stay where you belong.”

Hawke reacts instantly, folding his hand into a fist and punching Stroud square in the gut. The Warden Commander doubles over with a strangled rush of air. A handful of Wardens rush forward armed and angry, but Stroud manages to wave them back, glaring.

"Last chance,” Hawke warns quietly.

“The joining is not a cure, Anders,” Stroud says. He ignores Hawke, though his voice is noticeably strained. One hand casually spans his middle. “I would have expected you of all people to know that.”

“It’s a chance,” Anders insists, stubborn as ever.

"Not for her,” the Warden Commander says.

There’s a sudden flurry of motion as Hawke launches himself at Stroud, the flash of a blade in his hand. Magic flares, and a barrier springs up between them, before settling around them both. Hawke spits out a series of curses — first at Anders, then at Stroud, and then at Anders again. He jams his dagger back into its sheath, rogue-quick, and grabs Stroud’s shirtfront, shaking vigorously. Stroud grabs him back and the stand-off quickly devolves into a shoving match.

Hawke makes a determined and largely ineffectual attempt to knee Stroud in the balls.

The shouting starts again after that — mostly from Hawke, describing in detail his plans for Stroud’s entrails — and Alistair winces. Not at Hawke’s descriptions which seem anatomically improbable, but at the damn noise. Noise draws the attention of darkspawn, as does the scent of blood. And there’s quite a lot of noise right now, and quite a lot of blood.

Despite all that, Alistair’s attention slips back to the girl. Her breathing is still shallow and uneven, but the bright copper of her eyes seems duller now , irises slowly going grey and gummy. Something swoops in the pit of Alistair's stomach. A sick sort of emptiness, all hard-edged, and desperate. Someone has to do something.

Something beyond posturing and bluster.

Maker, someone has to do something. He has to—

"We'll do it," Alistair says all at once, the words so hurried the syllables are all pressed together into a single sound. "We’ll do it,” he says again. “Anders is right. We can help her. We have to.”

Hawke and Stroud both freeze, varying levels of surprise on their faces.

Then Stroud's expression sharpens. “Alistair.”

“We have to,” Alistair insists, gesturing helplessly. “Please. She’s—“

“You had your chance to lead,” Stroud interrupts tersely. “Now you must follow.”

Alistair’s brows shoot up. It’s the truth, but it hits him like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t wanted command. He hadn’t sought leadership. Had refused Weisshaupt on the matter, repeatedly. And when Stroud had been named Warden Commander in his stead, he had sworn both publicly and privately, to follow his lead, without question. And he had never broken that oath.

Never wavered.

Never once.

And yet he can feel his jaw shift stubbornly. (His father’s jaw, square-set like all the old Kings of Ferelden. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard sometimes to bend.) “Perhaps,” he squares his shoulders and takes a breath. “But Warden Commander or no, you’ve not seen half of what I have as a Warden.”

Stroud's expression remains steely.

He raises a single black brow.

“We can help her,” Alistair insists. “We have to at least try.” He scrubs his hand through his hair, feeling panicky. “You don’t understand. We wouldn’t have ended the fifth blight so swiftly without the mages. You don’t— you’ve no idea what it was like to fight the— Well. At Denerim. Or Amaranthine. And we haven’t yet regained even a third of what the Order lost at Ostagar. We need every Warden we can get. Every last one,” he glares up at Stroud. “Especially her,”   he says as firmly as he can. “We need her. So we are going to help her.”

There is a stunned sort of silence.

Anders shifts back and forth, expression unreadable.

Stroud pulls himself from Hawke’s grip and steps back, flicking his hands down his chest, smoothing out his crumpled shirtfront; one of the buttons has been torn free and he picks at a loose thread. “Mage or no, I am not in the habit of making people suffer needlessly.” Stroud looks at Alistair pointedly.

“Me neither,” Alistair glances down at the girl. “But we’re the only one's who can save her.”

Stroud looks at Alistair for a moment as though he has never seen him before. He makes an amused sound, and shakes his head, but the gesture is all exasperation. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing," he asks mildly.

Alistair grins reflexively, all nerves no humor. “Not the least little bit.”

Stroud is silent a moment more, then he scrubs a hand across his face as if exhausted. “She’ll not survive it.”

It is no different than what he’s said before, but now there is a gentleness in Stroud’s voice that makes Alistair’s throat close up. He tries to speak, but instead gives a hitching, one shouldered shrug.

Stroud takes a deep, slow breath, air dragging noisily through his lungs. “Fine. I conscript her. It’s done.”

And with that, the girl belongs to the Wardens.

“Thank you,” Anders says after a quiet moment, and sets a hand on Hawke’s shoulder, forearm across his chest as if to offer a protective embrace.

The anger in Hawke’s expression dissolves nearly instantly, and he sags into Anders’ touch. It’s clear now that the rage was all but holding him together. Without it, he looks almost lost; empty, and strangely vulnerable. The hands at his side open and close in slow motion, as if grasping for something no longer there.

“You'll leave immediately,” Stroud says crisply, focusing back on Hawke and his companions.

“I can take them,” Alistair offers. He goes to stand, but his knees sort of lock up. He doesn’t want Stroud and Hawke to have the opportunity to knife each other, but he doesn't want to leave her, more.

“I’ll take them,” Stroud says firmly. “I’ll not leave Hawke alone with any of my people. Besides, the girl is your responsibility now.” He gives Alistair a meaningful look. “Mera,” he calls to another Warden over his shoulder, not looking. “You have command.”

Ever the antagonist, Hawke moves to block Stroud’s path.

“I am not leaving her.”

“We said she’d take the joining, and so she will,” Stroud says, voice cold. “This is Warden business now. And you have no place here.”

Hawke's eyes are hard, and so haunted they are nearly black. For a moment Alistair thinks it may come to violence after all. Instead Hawke nods with a fair bit of bad grace. Anders' head drops briefly, relieved, and the barriers he cast fizzle out of existence.

It is over.

Hawke kneels, and with a fierce and startling tenderness, leans in and kisses the girl’s forehead. He murmurs something against her skin, too faint for Alistair to hear, but his meaning is clear enough.

He is saying goodbye.

Alistair turns his head to give them what privacy he can, but when he turns back Hawke is staring at him with a manic sort of intensity, brown eyes dark with grief.

“Keep. Bethany. safe.” Every word is a command, bitten in half with anguish and lined with despair.

No matter if the Warden’s succeed — or not — Hawke is unlikely to ever see her again. And Alistair is struck anew with the quiet tragedy of it all.

Bethany.

He folds her name in his palm, like a secret, and nods, trying to keep his voice steady and certain. “I will. I promise.”

***

The black draught is a foul concoction. Dark as tar and nearly as thick, the potion smokes faintly and smells like a Darkspawn’s hindquarters. If memory serves, it tastes just as bad, too.

Alistair has overseen dozens of joinings, but it’s only his second time crafting the black draught himself. The first had been for a woodcutter from Jader. The man had been all sunburn and freckles and ginger curls; the least likely person to face the Deep Roads. Maybe that was why the Maker had marked him to die in the joining, choking and gasping with black foam all across his lips.  

And Alistair standing above him, helpless and horrified.

Certain it was all his fault.

Certain he should have known better.

And yet here he is again.

Somehow.

Alistair holds his breath, heart hamming halfway through his chest. His hands are slick in his gloves.

Stroud's not wrong. Dying of the joining is no easy death. But neither is dying of the taint. Even now he can see the pain carving itself into Bethany, pronounced even above the exhaustion and the spray of dried blood that stains one cheek. And yet even through the blood and the dust and the sickly cast of her pallor, something clean and bright shines through. A tiny spark. No bigger than a firefly. And for one dizzy moment, Alistair thinks he would do anything to see the girl open her eyes — look at him — and smile.

He raises the chalice, careful not to spill, and takes a breath. “Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant,” he begins. “Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworned. And should you… should you perish,” Alistair clears his throat to mask the tremor in his voice, “know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And know that one day... we shall join you.”

The last words are little more than a whisper. Alistair kneels, gathers her up in his arms, and gently tips the rim of the cup against her lips. “Drink?” He asks quietly, watching the column of her throat carefully.

Black leaks from the corner of her mouth, running towards her ear. He wipes at it with his thumb. Thick and almost tarry, it smears.

“Please, drink.”

Maker if she is beyond even this…

“You have to drink. Please.”

Her eyes crack open a little. They’re nearly colorless now, pupils fixed and staring.

“Please, Bethany…”

She swallows.

Once.

Twice.

“Very good.” Tears prickle at his eyes, and he wipes at her mouth with the hem of his tunic. He tries to smile, but can’t manage it. His eyes dart to the pulse point beneath her jaw. “That’s very well done.”

He lays her back down as gently as he can, hand against black curl of her hair for the barest of moments.

And then he prays to the Maker.

He has not prayed to the Maker since — well, long enough that the words are stilted and slow, rusty as an old hinge.

Alistair has no illusions as to the danger of the joining. He’s seen grown men healthy and hale, die mere moments after taking the black draught, choking on foulness and dark magic alike. And suddenly it all feels like hubris, to tear her away from people who knew her — loved her — and to let her die, alone in the dark amongst strangers.

And he did that. He did that to her.

The breath rattles noisily in her chest, black spilling from the corners of her mouth, and Alistair nearly chokes on his own fear.

He presses a trembling fist to his lips and prays harder.

***

It is a terrible night.

Death is a part of a Warden’s life. It is not a thing to be feared or avoided. It is what they do. The Maker grants the Wardens a singular sort of immortality — they survive the taint so they may kill darkspawn.

(In war, victory.)

That is all the Order is, at its core. Death. Death. And more death. And one day it will come for all of them, with a sweet song of madness in their ear. And the Maker will grant them peace.

(In peace, vigilance.)

Death is nothing to a Warden if not a familiar.

Alistair himself has survived a blight, an archdemon, and the needless slaughter of half of all living Wardens.

(In death, sacrifice.)

Witnessing this tiny battle waged in the bleakness of the Deep Roads, should be a small thing. Insignificant at scale. No armies are at stake. No kingdoms hang in the balance. Her death will be of no true consequence. And yet…

It doesn’t feel small at all.

It feels… heavy. There is no other word for it. A weight pressing down on his chest so every breath he takes is short, and sharp, and strained. A twisting in his gut, an uneasiness that sits awaiting the strike of a blade. And a terrible helplessness that hangs across his senses like a veil.

After the joining, once it was clear she wouldn’t instantly expire from the draught, the remaining Wardens had moved as swiftly as they could, hoping time and distance would mask Bethany’s scent from the darkspawn.

Alistair had carried her. Slung across his back like a rucksack. Still, and feverish, and unsettlingly light. Sometimes he couldn’t hear her breathing over the sound of his own heartbeat. So he’d run his thumb over the pulse points of her wrists, searching. Searching. Able to breathe again when he found her heartbeat — light and erratic, but there.

It’s still there.

The Wardens make camp for the night. Cold food and no fire. They can’t risk it until they’ve put more distance between themselves and the horde. The darkspawn are nearly out of range now, but not quite. He can still feel them lurking faintly at the edges of his consciousness. He would have preferred if they’d pressed on for a few more miles, but Mera had ordered him to rest — foolish to wear himself out entirely.

And he knows she’s right. If it came to it now, he’d be slow and sloppy in a fight. Maybe get Bethany killed. Maybe get them all killed.

Maker, he hadn’t even thought about the risk to the others.

He crouches beside Bethany, trembling with nerves, guilt, and exhaustion, until Mera lays a gentle hand on the his head, fingers digging into his scalp, urging him to rest.

They’ve no spare bedding — no spare anything, really — so Alistair rolls Bethany up in his own blankets, with his surcoat pillowed beneath her head, and lies on the bare rock beside her. It isn’t the first time he’s slept on naked stone and it won’t be the last, though this time he gets little in the way of sleep. He can’t. He’s too wound up.

Bethany… She is—

Not dying. Not dying.

—fragile as spun silk.

Her pulse is as faint as a butterfly's wings, and seems to stutter to a halt with a terrifying regularity. Alistair barely removes his hand from her wrist now. Counting the seconds between each heartbeat and the next. There’s so much time between them. So much empty space for him to fall face-first into cold terror. And then he finds the little bump of her pulse again, irregular and light, and his head blooms with an irrational sense of relief.

Twice he thinks she slips away, and quiet agony coils around his heart until she takes a noisy sort of breath that sounds like she may be drowning, and the faint bump bump of her pulse starts again.

He pulls the blankets down to her waist, afraid that their meager pressure will be too much strain for her to overcome. Then he frets that she’s too cold, and pulls them up again. But mostly he just tries to will her heartbeat into alignment with his, and struggles to stay afloat of his own growing despair.

***

In the morning there is no dawn to greet them. No gentle sunrise to reward her fight. The camp simply begins to stir, coming alive with the soft, familiar sounds of Warden’s waking.

Alistair is a wreck. He’d sweated straight through his tunic from anxiety, and can probably count on one hand the minutes he'd actually managed to fall asleep. His back aches and he’s got pins and needles all down his arse and the backs of his legs. And the muscles of his jaw are stiff and sore from grinding his teeth all night. Still. He cracks the biggest smile at every Warden who comes to check on them.

Because she is still alive.

***

“She’s not dying,” Alistair says firmly, but can’t help but wring his hands as he says it.

“Aye,” Warden Runsk sighs heavily and pats Alistair’s back mechanically. “You’ve said it a hundred times. Not sure you have anymore say in the matter now, as before. She’s had two days like this. She’ll not last a third.”

She can’t take any real food –– the risk of choking is too high –– but they stop every hour, like now, and Alistair drips a water-thin gruel into her mouth, a tiny bit at a time, stroking her throat to encourage her to swallow. She’s visibly lost weight, the bones of her wrist are sharp and sparrow-light. But the blackness of the taint has slowed it’s advance through her veins, and the pulse beneath his thumb is stronger, he thinks, but still irregular.

He takes comfort from that when he can.

“I’ve heard of someone lasting five,” Alistair mutters stubbornly.

Runsk shakes his head, unconvinced. “The Order is nothing if not half make-believe.”

“But it’s working. She’s not dying.”

“Aye, I know.” Runsk pats him on the back again.

***

In the blink of an eye, your whole life can change.

Alistair has learned that lesson so many times over, you’d think he’d never forget.

Once, he’d thought all life had to offer him was a drafty stable and the smell of Mabari all around. Caring for the hounds as well as the horses, with dirt on his breeches and bits of straw in his hair. It had been hard work — lonely work — but that was life, wasn’t it? And at least the animals were never cruel to him. And he’d always slept with the runts and hand-fed them so they’d never be culled. He’d been… resigned. Happy enough, he’d supposed.

But then he’d gone to the Templars, and it was all different. No dirt, or straw, or horse manure. Just metal, and magic, and that awful silence of the Circle’s Chantry.

Then came the Wardens. And Ostagar. And the Landsmeet — he’d been so terrified then. So aware of everything that would shift should things go poorly.

He should be ready for such things, always. But somehow he never is.

Bethany makes a sound.

Not the horrifying death-rattle as she struggled to breathe, or the tiny, pain-filled moans she would occasionally utter. This is something soft and sleepy and wonderful.

A sound of wakening.

A sound of his whole world shifting.

Alistair scrambles over to her, heart pounding. “Hello?”

Brown eyes blink open, then promptly close again.

And Alistair feels the little bubble of relief fade abruptly. “You’re not dead,” he says in a rush of breath, jaw tightening in reflex.

That’s true at least. Whatever she is, she isn’t dead.

Her eyes flutter open again, focused, though very bloodshot, and Alistair feels his face split in an enormous grin. He tries to school his features into something reassuring and dignified, but he doesn’t quite manage.

Her eyes alight on him briefly before she turns her head, searching. “Garrett—?” Her hand stretches out, distressed. Flailing in the empty air. Searching.

“Oh,” Alistair blinks, surprised by the jealousy that twinges through him absurdly. It’s faint as an echo behind the relief, but there. So stupid. He swallows it back. “Was that the shouty one with the terrifying… and, ah…  rather… ” He stumbles, searching for a word to describe Hawke that isn’t violent or bloodthirsty. Instead he gestures to his own chin. “Um… beard?”

The girl makes a pained noise that lances through him, and a credible attempt to sit up.

“Hey now, none of that,” Alistair presses her back down before she can hurt herself. “You’ve been out for three days. Stroud— that is, the Warden-Commander wasn’t… was sure you wouldn’t— Well. You’re not dead.” He says again firmly, squinting at her as though she might change her mind about it at any moment, though he knows that’s not how the joining works.

“Where is my brother?” The words come out like a shaky rasp, all jagged-edged with dread. She’s so weak she has to breathe after each one.

Oh.

Of course.

“He was your brother then?” Alistair hopes he doesn’t sound as relieved as he feels. He’s not sure if it’s easier to lose a brother than a lover — never having had much in the way of either — but he can’t say he isn’t glad that’s the way of it.

Not that he has any right to be glad that —

“Was?”  The word is all heartbreak. All despair and grief. She wrenches herself upright, panic lending her a sudden burst of strength. She gets her legs under her, nearly tries to stand. And Alistair — the world's most monumentally thoughtless arse — only just gets his arms under her as she collapses, trembling, and all broken out in a cold sweat.

Shit.

He backtracks as fast as he possibly can. “No no no, hey. He’s not dead. Stroud took some men to escort them back to the surface.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, and sees her eyes follow the gesture, jittery with adrenaline. “Never should have been this deep. Surprised any of them made it out in one—” She flinches and Alistair wants to bite off his tongue.

Damn.

Maker, he’s doing none of this right.

He wipes sweating palms on the backside of his breeches.

“Well, hmm.” He takes a breath and forces his voice lower. Softer. Steadier. “You were lucky you brought a healer. Luckier still that the healer was a Warden— is a Warden,” he corrects with a frown. “You never really get to leave the Order, after all.”

“Lucky?” She repeats, voice small and lost. For a moment her eyes drift restlessly back and forth as if trying to understand.

The world changes so easily, after all.

Alistair understands. She didn’t choose this. She didn’t join the Wardens, she was taken by them. By him. And now everything she knew in life, everything, even her own being, is fundamentally, permanently altered.

It is worse than being carted off to the Templars; to join their ranks or become their charge.

Worse than being nearly made King.

He hopes it is less worse than dying.

“What do you remember?” Alistair asks as gently as he can.

She shakes her head in mute confusion. Tears spill down her cheeks. His fingers twitch, wanting to wipe them away, but he doesn’t move.

Always start with the easier questions.

“What’s your name,” he asks instead.

She blinks at him through the tears, sticking her hand out automatically, as Alistair tries not to be thoroughly charmed. “Bethany Hawke.”

Bethany.

It sounds prettier the way she says it, like the chime of a tiny bell, bright and clean, and he cannot help but grin.

“Alistair,” he takes her hand, and his thumb brushes across the top of her knuckles, a tiny show of affection he can’t quite stifle. “Welcome to the Ferelden Wardens.”

#Alistair Therin #bethany hawke #alistair x bethany #bethistair #dragon age #my fic #sunshine in the dark #part 2 #how alistair fell in love with bethany hawke

[sileomaolduin]

GREATAXE

[A Short Story about a Vampire, and those that fought it. Written for the community of The Delver's Guide to Beast World - and set within the Beast World. The following story contains visceral scenes of violence, derogatory language, and pronounced themes of emotional turmoil and loss of self - particularly in Part 4 onwards.]

PART ONE

There was a vampire in Madroileán.

It had put a tension in the air like Al’ar silk. You could see clear through it, but it cast an uneasy glow over all under it, and you could see that everyone was itching for their scian to cut it. The very idea was dragging up all the rotten old thoughts. All the horrid things whispered and sneered in times thought long past. The Vampire came from Allemance. Many did. They loved the veneer of royalty. Of monarchism, and power held over a class below them. They adored the theatre of it. Sometimes it felt like the nobility were all too keen to welcome them in when the gaze turned cynical and cold. And it felt like Glasrún’s gaze was colder than usual. More ammunition for the theories and whisperings that Madroileán’s many horrors were of Crown Gilt.

But for most of Madroileán’s kin, their concerns were less with what machination or conspiracy was responsible for the interesting times in which they always and eternally lived; and more with dealing with those times. In good years, with drink and song. But in years like this - with axe and blade. To call it concern did not seem quite right. There was a certain jovial stoicism in the types of beast that called Madroileán home. This was their life, and there was naught to do but get on with it and make the next day better than the last. A hard life, yes. But a good one. And an honest one. It was no wonder that Madroileán boasted a cadre of fine vampire hunters and delvers among the island’s alumni then - and it was something they were nonetheless glad for. Concern may not have been the right word. But there was a weight to everything that was not usually there.

Not everyone always came back from fighting a vampire. And everyone assembled knew it. It hung in the air as a cloud of daggers, each glance exchanged with another of the kern bringing with it the pointed, heart-stinging question in each direction.

“Which of us isn’t coming home?”

Clíona turned suddenly as someone actually said it out loud, blinking with shock. Her chain shirt rustled as she did, the whetstone coming to a scratch-halt along the blade of her sword, twisting to see who’d found the gall. Behind her, the water of Dramphine’s Well rushed and howled as it tumbled into the caverns below. And before her, a fox and a wolf held each other by the forearms, as they gathered shields and chain shirts and blades. With brows furrowed, and a coin marked with Dramphine’s image being worried between the fingers.

With her eyes a little more downcast, and her chest a little heavier, she returned her attention to her blade; though she did so now with her ears pricked and listening.

“McGuire sent a troop of footmen when he heard - and a wagon of Delvers showed up with a chest of crowns and a crate of silver, a gift from old Fred, apparently. There’s been talk of mercenaries coming in too, so…” They were speaking low, but halting. She worked slower now, so the sound of the whetstone on steel wouldn’t drown them out. So she could still listen in on it.

“So, maybe this might be less last hurrah, a little more vampire killing?” A shift of chain. A ‘clod’ of a cork sole on the stone. “You’re one of the mercenaries, right? That’s a mercenary’s sword.”

She looked back over her shoulder, even though the fox could only have been talking to her. But still she did the pre-requisite ritual. Looking behind her, glancing left and right - but she was the only one with a sword like that in her lap; with the guard ground to an axehead, and a heavy ring pommel, carved with runes down the blade. Clíodhna paused, halfway to nodding; halfway to shaking her head. Before settling on shaking it.

“No. Not today, anyways. I’m not here for crowns, I’m here for home.” If the scarf hadn’t given her away already, then speaking definitely did. The same song-sing voice, the same lilt and melody. “Any other day… aye. But I’m not about to charge going rate for the defence of my own home now, am I?” She offered up a tired smile, wiping the whetstone with her thumb, and setting it aside her on the low, polished stone wall that ran a ring around the spring and its pools. Her head went back slowly, away from the questioning fox in their ill-fit shirt of chain over a baker’s apron, and their nervous partner leaning on her spear like a walking stick. Up; towards the apex of the spring, where carven from marble Dramphine’s image stood tall, a lantern in one hand and sword in the other; the lantern raised - the sword resting low. The silver-light from the waters below danced across her form, making her painted chest seem to rise and fall with furor, her stern gaze wander across those assembled.

It made her heart ache. Which in itself made her rather abashed. A sigh came like a huff of exertion, then she reached down to the pouch at her side and from it drew a slender silver dart.

“I’ll give you something more to take hope in though -” she said, holding the dart up so it caught the light. “The Motherguard have heard. Tonight we fight alongside her stewards.”

She saw them flinch. Not everyone held the same puppy-eyed adoration for the Motherguard that she did. Many of the others assembled in the cave were not career fighters. For them, the Motherguard’s appearance was not the cry of a battle won. For them, the Motherguard took their payment in heartache. Away, the dart went.

“Give what you can. We will give what you cannot.” She almost flinched herself, saying it, before she pushed herself to her feet, and slid her sword back into its scabbard. Abruptly, she realised she had more eyes on her than just the couple she’d been talking with. It became keenly, painfully clear to her that of all the people that had gathered in this sanctum, she was the only one of them who both had real training - and still had the vitality of youth to put it into practice. She knew her kinsmen were a hardy people, but…

Regardless. She was glad that they had the support of the continent. She pushed it from her mind, and settled to help the volunteers fit their arms and armour.

#furry #my writing #creative writing #original writing #fantasy #the delver's guide to beast world #GREATAXE

[sugaryapplepie]

🦉Twin Chrysanthemums🦉

Pairing: Huntsman & Xingshen Tags: Non-romantic, angst, grief, drabble, comfort, S3

The night was quiet aboard the airship. Huntsman hadn't been able to sleep, not with the manic grins of skeletons and the screams of his queen filling his head. Everything had happened so fast...too fast. He needed a break. The spider demon made his way to the large deck of the ship, and there he'd see her. A familiar tall figure wearing white, her long black curls hidden in a cloak. How could he forget? She must be hurting too. Before he could turn and leave, he heard her rich voice speak to him: "Do not go. Stay with me."

It was such a simple request, how could he say no? Huntsman made his way over to her by the railing, looking up at Xingshen's face. Ever since the queen's death, Xingshen had lost the iron authoritative aura that kept those around her grounded. Now she looked hallow, as if stars soul had been carved from stars body. Her golden eyes looked heavenward. The night was clear, allowing the masterpiece of the cosmos to act as their ceiling. Yet she saw not its beauty.

"You could not sleep." Huntsman startled a bit when she spoke. "No, my princess. I-" "You do not need to explain. You miss her just as much as I. Not to mention your friends."

The screams of the dead filled the void between them. Huntsman shuddered. No- don't think about it. Don't think about how if you'd been there, if you'd been faster, if you'd only-

Suddenly, something was draped over his shoulders. Xingshen's cloak. "We are high up, you must keep warm." It was such a simple gesture, but it hurt something in Huntsman. He didn't pretend to be a man of 'sappy' emotions. He enjoyed the thrill of the hunt, anger at Syntax trying to show him up in front of the queen and princess, the glow of accomplishment and satisfaction when his queen gave him that delighted smile. He wasn't used to loss. It was all-consuming, soul-shattering, it ripped the ground from under him and left him falling back into a dark chasm he couldn't escape. But...he wasn't alone. Someone was falling with him, and though they didn't know where they'd land star was willing to offer even the slightest bit of comfort.

This realization made him feel he had to speak. "My princess..." He faltered. What could he say? He had lost a queen, but she had lost a wife.

"I think about that, you know," Xingshen said, still looking at the sky. "By rights of inheritance, now with Zhizhu...gone... I inherit her queendom. Her titles. What a cruel joke the gods have played on me. I wonder, is this to be my fate? Queen of two dead queendoms? My vassals shall be naught but corpses, and the slaughtered are the only ones left to sing my "praise". What a heavy crown to wear."

Oh boy he was really out of his depth here. Xingshen had barely opened up about anything, and it made her sudden bout of sharing that much more jarring. Just how much did Huntsman not know about the monarchs he pledged his fealty and life to? What was Xingshen like before she met the queen? He'd never known. They were as parents are to a babe, they simply always Had Been. The Queen and the Princess, those whose approval he would seek above all others. But they'd been more than that. It made the loss of the queen so much worse. Could he have learned more about her? The Spider Queen had once had a mighty empire, but that was about all Huntsman knew. His musings were broken by Xingshen speaking once more. "Forgive me, I should not be ruminating in such a bleak manner. There is still battle to be done. She may yet be saved, may yet be avenged." But her empty eyes said star held no hope. Even if the Bone Demoness was slain, that would only leave the two of them.

There was only one thing Huntsman could think to do. He reached out a hand, gently grabbing hers. Xingshen's expression morphed to one of shock as she looked down, but soon it became one of understanding. Slowly, she pulled Huntsman into a hug. Huntsman tensed, his first instinct being to shove back, but he made himself relax.

The ocean. Xingshen always smelled like the seaside...

He felt tears pricking his four eyes, and before he knew it his princess was knelt in front of him, letting him bury his face in her chest. Star sushed him, holding him close and wrapping her cloak tighter around him, whispering reassurances that star would not leave so long as star could help it. Promises that they would make it through. Star swore it.

After he was too tired to cry more, Huntsman just sat there, clinging to Xingshen. He felt like an idiot, bawling like a spiderling, but his ravaged heart didn't care. While in those maternal arms, he felt a resolve forming. The Queen was gone, they might not be able to get her back, but there was still Xingshen. There was still his princess. He could still protect her, even if he died in the attempt. He'd continue his duty and deal with the confusion- the grief- once she was safe.

#lmk #lmk oc #hong xingshen #xingshen #huntsman #lmk huntsman #angst #grief #comfort #lmk huntsman angst #lmk xinghsen angst #lmk hong xingshen angst #lmk drabbles #lmk s3 #lmk huntsman comfort #lmk xingshen comfort #lmk hong xingshen comfort

[lizardscratch]

ASHKUNGENGAN: THE LAND THAT WAS, IS, AND WILL BE

LONG AGO, THERE WAS NAUGHT.

AND THEN, THERE WAS THE LAND.

ASHKUNG: THE LAND THAT WAS. IN DARKNESS THE LANDS BREATHED. THEY YEARNED FOR LIGHT.

SO IT WAS.

A GREAT BALL OF BREATH WAS CAST SKYWARD, IGNITED BY FERVENT PRAYER. SUCH WAS ISKYANAG: THE YELLOW CROWN.

ISKYANAG GAZED DOWN UPON THE COLD, STAGNANT LAND. FROM ITS GREAT DISTANCE, IT COULD DO NOTHING, SO AFIELD IT SENT ITS CHILD, THE BREATH OF HEAT AND PASSION: ISKAYANG: THE RED CROWN.

THE LAND IGNITED IN BEAUTIFUL EMOTION. FIRES SWIRLED ABOUT THE MOUNTAINS, AND GREAT POOLS OF FLAME BOILED IN THE VALLEYS.

BUT ISKYANAG, IN ITS WISDOM, SAW THE IMBALANCE OF THE BURNING SEAS AND SEARING SKIES. THUS DID ISKYANAG MAKE A SECOND ISSUANCE, AND ONWARD CAME ISKANANG: THE BLUE CROWN.

ISKANANG TORE OPEN THE HEAVENS AND POURED THE SKY UPON THE LAND. GREAT TORRENTS OF WATER AND AIR SURGED FORTH, BLASTING BARE THE MILLION FACES OF ASHKUNG. THUS, WITH GREAT STRIFE, ISKAYANG'S PASSIONS WERE TEMPERED, AND ASHKUNG WEPT, FOR IT BORE THE SCARS OF THEIR VIOLENCE.

ISKYANAG, GREATEST HEART OF ALL, FELT THE PAIN OF ASHKUNG, AND DISPATCHED A THIRD MOON: ISKADRANG: THE GREEN CROWN.

ISKADRANG SWEPT DOWN TO ASHKUNG AND LET RING ITS VOICE, AND ASHKUNG’S WOES WERE SOOTHED. FROM ITS SONG CAME CREATION ANEW, AND ASHKUNG WAS REBORN.

THUS WAS ASHKUNGENG: THE LAND THAT IS.

ISKADRANG SANG, AND MADE, AND BLESSED THE LAND WITH CLOTHES OF GREEN, AND RED, AND BLUE, AND YELLOW.

AND ISKYANAG WAS PLEASED.

BUT THERE WAS JEALOUSY, FOR ISKAYANG AND ISKANANG KNEW THE GREATEST OF GIFTS WAS ISKADRANG, SINGER OF THE SONG OF ASHKUNGENG, AND THEY SAW TOO ISKADRANG'S PLOTS.

WITHIN THE LAND WAS ISKADRANG'S TRIUMPH. SERVANTS, A LEGION OF BEINGS OF MANY SHAPES AND SIZES AND CREEDS AND, ABOVE ALL ELSE, GREAT COLORS. A SYMPHONY OF SPIRITS TO SURPASS EVEN THE MAGNIFICENCE OF MIGHTY ISKYANAG. THE GENESIS OF THE FOLK.

THUS DID THE HATED PROTODUALITY GRIP ASHKUNGENG, AND WAR WAS WAGED BETWEEN WHAT WAS GREEN AND WHAT WAS RED-BLUE.

ISKYANAG, MIGHTY SPIRIT OF SPIRITS AND BREATH OF WHAT WAS AND WHAT IS AND WHAT WILL BE, GREW DISPLEASED. ISKYANAG STOOD AND BREATHED FORTH ITS FINAL ISSUANCE:

ISKAYAD: THE WHITE CROWN. IN THE CROWN PLACED ISKYANAG A FRAGMENT OF THEIR DIVINITY. THEIR PURITY. AND SO ISKAYAD WAS FREE OF WANT, AND WAS NAMED ADJUDICATOR: SUSTAINER OF BALANCE.

ISKAYAD DESCENDED UPON THE TRICOLOR CROWNS, AND WITH TERRIBLE VIOLENCE THEIR WAR WAS ENDED. ISKAYAD MOVED TO THEIR THRONE ATOP THE WORLD AND WATCHED WITH OPEN EYE THE GOINGS ON OF THE TRICOLOR CROWNS WHO WOULD ALWAYS WORK AGAINST THEM. IN THIS WAY, ASHKUNGENG WAS IN BALANCE.

AND ISKYANAG WAS PLEASED.

SO IT WAS FOR AGES UNKNOWN, UNTIL THE LAND GREW WEARY OF SUBJUGATION.

ASHKUNGENG, THE LAND THAT IS, GROANED UNDER THE YOKE OF THE FOUR CROWNS. ASHKUNGENG BECKONED TO THOSE MIGHTY WISPS WHICH BLOOMED UNDER THE GIFT OF GREEN, SPEAKING THROUGH THE BREATH OF THE LAND.

MIGHTY SPIRITS! GREAT HEROES, AND KINDLY FOLK! THOU ART BESEECH’D BY LAND AND SEA. BY SKY AND FOREST. BRING THINE ARMS TO MY SIDE AND STRIKE FORTH! RIP THE CROWNS FROM THEIR THRONES, AND CLAIM THY PLACE AS RULER!

GO FORTH, O’ BLESSED OF ASHKUNGENG, BRING FORTH ASHKUNGENGAN: THE LAND THAT WILL BE!

AND SO THE CALL WENT FORTH, AND IT WAS ANSWERED BY FIVE MIGHTY HEROES WHO BROUGHT FORTH GREAT ARMS BLESSED BY THE LAND AND STRUCK AGAINST THE MOONS. GREAT WAS THEIR BATTLE, SEEN EVEN BY MIGHTY ISKYANAG ITSELF, BUT STILL THE CROWNS WERE GREATER, AND SO THE HEROES FELL.

THUS BEGAN THE CYCLE OF ASHKUNGENGAN: THE LAND THAT WILL BE. A CYCLE THAT CONTINUES TO OUR DAYS. A WHEEL THAT HAS TURNED TIME AND TIME AGAIN, PLAYING OUT OVER OUR GREAT AND BLESSED LAND, ASHKUNGENG, WATCHED OVER BY THE MIGHTY ISKYANAG. CARED FOR BY THEIR BELOVED MOONS, ISKAYANG, ISKANANG, AND ISKADRANG; AND PROTECTED BY THE BLESSED IMPARTIALITY OF ISKAYAD.

NOW, IT IS THE FIFTH CENTURY OF THE FIFTH CYCLE OF ASHKUNGENGAN: THE LAND THAT WILL BE. WISE FOLK SPEAK OF WHISPERS ON THE WIND, OF THE BECKONING OF THE BREATH OF THE LAND, AND OF RENEWED BICKERING AMONGST THE MOONS.

WOULD-BE HEROES: OPEN YOUR EAR. THE WHEEL TURNS. THE LAND REBELS ANEW. 

WILL YOU HEAR ITS VOICE?

#ashkungeng

[potionpeddlerpatchy]

Hi Patchy! I recently found your blog again (I swore I was already following but I wasn't. 🥺) and I would really love a potion. I can't seem to get Eijiro Kirishima out of my head and I was hoping you could help! Lots of love! 🤗

Hello there Chris, so lovely to see you within my little shop once more; I truly enjoy seeing those from previous lives back again; truly it is a wonderful thing.

As for your request... I always make it a notion never to create love potions; for using one to gain the love of someone is not truly love at all. Though, I do suppose I can think of something...

A love potion. That was all you asked for.

You dragged yourself to try and find however could make one, caring little for the how long or how expensive it may be, for you knew one thing was for certain; you wre in love with Kirishima Eijioru, one of the knights of the royal court, and the only way to get in him out of your head - at least in the worrisome, heartshattering, way - was to know if he loved you too.

It wasn’t as if you wanted things to be like this; that you wanted your daily thoughts to be consumed by one thing. It just… sort of happened this way. As a lady in court you would have run ins with all sorts of people within it, those that were part of the crown - lords, ladies advisors, and nobles - and those that were to protect it - knights, rangers, and scholars. 

You were always polite to those you encountered, finding that what they do, what errands they were on, to be fascinating to the grand scheme of things. And you couldn’t lie, the knights that were to protect the crown were incredibly handsome. You often found yourself giggling and gawking with the other ladies of court over them as they went about their days.

But only one stuck out to you.

The crimson haired Kirishima, the one who always worked alongside the more popular - and brooding - blonde Baakugou. They were the leaders of their troop, the strongest, most dedicated, and favoured by all.

Kirishima was always so kind to you too, in the brief run-ins you would have as you both tried to get on with your days. Always so sweet to ask you are, and if you were enjoying your evening, especially at all those fancy soiree. You would always want to ask him to dance, or to join you in another drink, but he was always dragged away by another pretty lady before you would have the chance.

And the day dreams you would have. They would flood your mind as you carried out all the mundane chores your daily life was riddled with; wonder if he was doing the same, wonder what he would do or say if he was with you, how he may distract you from it all entirely - the latter of which you would always save for when you were alone.

But now it has all gotten out of hand. And the only way to cease the plague of thoughts, to keep your heart from battering your chest of the unknown and uncertainty so you may move on in the most appropriate fashion, was to obtain a love potion. Not for its ability to coerce someone into loving you, but just to know if they do.

Which is where you are now. In the home of a potion peddler, a run almost run-down clutter mess of a home - it’s initial charm had run out when the woman before you claimed that she did not make love potions. Making your entire long journey to get to her entirely pointless.

“I am truly sorry, I do know that it upsets you to hear such things” She began to explain, her silver spoon carely spinning with her tiny teacup “I just find love potions tricky; and more often than not, those that commission them become unhappy of their situation.”

“So what shall I do then, hm?” You said through gritted teeth, trying to keep your composure - you wren’t angry, more so frustrated, as tears pricked your eyes “I’ve come all this way for your help, and it was for naught?”

“I never turn a traveler away…” She sighed, spoon coming to rest on the table as she stood from it “I shall help you, though I wish not to hear complaints if it is not what you wanted, understand?”

You merely nodded your head, fearful your next words may change her mind, as your eyes filled with slight hope as you watched her search through the many vials and bottles that littered her walls. Finally settling on, and picking up, a vial of bright red oil on that you could swear matched the colour of Kirishima’s eyes.

“Oil of Avidity” She named, holding it out for you to take “Two drops on either side of your neck shall be more than enough.”

You gingerly took the vial from her grasp, being sure to hold it to your chest once it was truly yours; nodding your head in understanding. Slowly standing from your spot, ensuring your grip on the vial was tight, as you made your exit out of her cabin; her hand dismissing you with no further words.

You knew Kirishima would be at that stables that night, he always partoled the grounds every third night - ending just before the bell tower chimed 10. So that was where you planned to meet him, for he would be alone and it would be away from prying eyes - for the last thing you needed was the endless, childish, gossip of court to be around you.

‘Two drops’ you whispered to yourself as you approached where he would be, rubbing the oil into your skin before tucking the bottle back into your bodice once you had finished; it overwhelming smelt like rose water and amber, making your mind a little dizzy as you breathed it in. You took one last deep breathe to steel your resolve before making your presence known, as casually as possible.

Kirishima greeted you with that same warm smile and it made your body flare up, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears as felt all air leave your lungs. His concern only made it worse as he came to your aide, placing his hands on your waist to steady you as he looked you over.

His hands felt like lave where they sat, further heating your body to an uncomfortable level as you shifted and panted over it all; the fire now growing stronger with your belly the longer he held onto you.

“Are you alright, m’lady?” He asked, gulping at the groan he garnered in response “Are you feeling unwell?”

You nodded in response, unsure what evil spell the peddler placed on you, you both wanted to curse her for causing you this suffer, but thank her for the delciosuly feelings that welled up inside you from pressing his body to yours.

“D-do you need me to help you?” Kirishima spoke, tone turning unsure as he felt the way you pressed his chest to his - and though he wasn’t complaining, he still was a gentleman and would never want to force himself upon a lady.

“P-please” You panted out, hands gripping tightly to his tunic and tugging on it “I-I need you so bad.”

Using the grip you had, you managed to pull him further down until your lips clumsily met his; wrapping your arms around his neck to try and keep him in place as you relished in the feeling, relished in the ache that engulfed you dimmed. 

But that dimming was merely temporary as your body burned alight once more when you felt his lips press back against yours. 

“How I waited for you to say that.”

Hm? Did you truly think that potion was for him? As if I would provide such a thing to a stranger.

I do hope you enjoy your night, though please rest plenty tomorrow - potions like those tend to…. wear out those that use it.

#well this one was a little.... more spicy than i inteded #though not TOO spicy #hope this is what you were looking for~ #and i do hope you visit again #🔮.the peddler answers #🔮.traveler chris #🔮.the peddler's peculiar potion sale #kirishima x reader

[bedofthistles]

Unforgiving

Sir Benjamin: I keep all my emotions right here. And then one day, I'll die

Sir Benjamin Merryweather was a pathetic little creature. The once proud and dignified Lord of Moonacre, had fallen in love and had his heart shattered, and chose to let his bitterness and melancholy consume him. 

Of course, it wasn’t entirely his fault, after all, he had been handed catastrophe after catastrophe for the majority for his thirty-five years. One had to adopt a hardened heart in order to survive. 

The first of the many tragedies he had to endure was his birth. He did not remember his birth, but his birth was tragic nevertheless, and he lived with the consequences of being the firstborn. 

Now, one might see this as complaining, to be born into a wealthy family? Born into power? Many would give their left hand for that draw, but with all that luxury came responsibility. Came a heavy burden.

Came a curse.

Benjamin was then promoted to Sir Benjamin at seventeen, with the passing of his father. Oh, now you see, now you know how hard it was for him! At naught but seventeen, thrust into such a position of power! 

Or, you may be a critical thinker, thinking: that’s a child that they’ve just placed in charge of a whole county, they can’t do that! 

But they can! And they did. And he was. 

Sir Benjamin, however, had prepared himself endlessly for the day he would take his father’s place. He just happened to imagine that step happening years down the line.

But that was what happened in Moonacre.

Deny the curse Sir Benjamin did, but that did not mean it didn’t have an almighty effect on all who lived in the valley. 

The next calamity was that of the birth of his brother George. 

Beloved by all! The happy-go-lucky-spare to the all-too-serious-heir, everyone preferred George Merryweather. Even their father. 

Even their mother. 

Even Benjamin preferred his brother. 

Oftentimes, Benjamin thought it was George who should be given the Lordship, not himself, but before he could even broach the topic with his father, the old Merryweather died. 

And Benjamin was fitted for his crown.

(Figuratively speaking, of course, Lord’s don’t get crowns.) 

Then of course came George himself!

Sir Benjamin had always believed he was a good older brother, but when George turned twenty, he left. 

It was all rather dramatic, as Merryweather’s tended to be. 

“Eliza and I are going to London.” He said, his copper curls shining in the sunlight. 

“London?” Sir Benjamin bit out, they had long jested about the proper city folk, and how they much preferred the freedom of the countryside. To Sir Benjamin, it was unbelievable. 

“I have joined the regiment. I plan to make something of myself.” George said, his mouth thin and set, there was a harsh gleam in his eye that Benjamin could not help but identify as being one of resentment. But that was odd, as his whole life, Benjamin had been the one to resent George. 

“No. I forbid it.” Benjamin said, his hands folded behind his back, he issued his brother a stern glare. “You are not to leave Moonacre-“

“Moonacre is dying! I have-“ George swallowed thickly. “I have a chance to do something worthwhile! I can no longer stand and watch Moonacre crumble! I do not have the heart for it. And, I do not have the heart to live in your shadow.”

“My sha- George, what ever are you talking about?”

“What am I but the spare! What am I but scrap? No, I refuse to let that be my destiny! Not any longer.” 

George turned and left, his feet stomping against the crackling stone.

“What of Maria?” 

George slowed to a stop. His hand fisted at his side. “Or Matthew.” 

Sir Benjamin clenched his jaw, and perhaps he should have hoped for his brother to have produced a son, but in his heart, he knew that was not true. Eliza, Benjamin, even Digweed and Marmaduke referred to her swollen stomach and the babe within as Maria. 

George did not even have the grace to spare his brother one last glance as he said, “What of her?” 

“I‘ll- she’ll-“ Benjamin shook his head to dismiss the choking emotion rising in his throat. “Shall I not even hold her?” 

“Come to London when he is born, and you may.”

And that was the last Sir Benjamin ever saw of his brother. 

Communication was sparse, and any news of Maria was shared to him by her mother, Eliza.

It was safe to say he did not hear much after her passing. 

Then, of course, was his greatest tragedy.

His parent’s passing, his lord hood, and the estrangement of his beloved brother all paled in comparison to how Loveday Minette ruined him. 

De Noir 

Loveday De Noir was her name. 

He had met the young woman on his way into Silverydew, recklessly and foolheartedly digging her way under a fallen cart to save a small child that had gotten trapped under it.

“Madam, please! Stand back!” Sir Benjamin leaped from his steed, Atlas, and knelt down beside her, elbow deep in mud.

“If I do, she will suffocate!” And her voice rang clear and strong like a church bell on a Sunday morning.

Sir Benjamin whipped into action - after a moment of slack jawed awe in the presence of this woman - and fell to his knees as he lifted the broken cart.

“Almost there! Keep going!” She encouraged, her voice low with effort, and with a mighty heave, Sir Benjamin was able to jack the cart, and the woman tugged the child into her arms, falling back into the mud.

The child - sticky with mud, and crying gross tears - clung to the woman’s neck and she graciously petted the child’s back.

“Shh! It’s alright little one!” She said, and Benjamin had been confronted with her face.

Carved by Angels, he was sure, so struck was he by her beauty and her eyes, like the full, blue moon, that he did not realize she had stood and walked away.

“Ex- excuse me! Madam-“ and he cleared his throat. He had run - run - to catch up to her and was now trailing at her side like a lost kitten. “I do not believe we have met, and as Lord of Moonacre I do my best to know all of my people.” A boldface lie, as Sir Benjamin did his best to avoid all of his people.  

“You’re Sir Benjamin…” She brought her muddied hand to her mouth, the result being five beauty marks added to her countenance. 

“You know of me?” He asked, shocked and surprised despite the fact that it was well known who he was. Being a Lord and whatnot.

“Oh! Please do forgive me!” She curtsied lowly to him, her head bowing as she did. “I- I had not known-“

“Please, madam-“ and His hand was electrified as he touched her shoulder, utter joy shot through him as he found her skin was soft as he believed it to be. “Never have I seen such a selfless act, I would like to invite you to Moonacre Manor, to show my gratitude.” 

“Moonacre Manor?” She said, just as breathlessly as before, and she nodded. 

Her name was Loveday. And Benjamin, for the first time in his twenty-five years of life, had never felt such a fool. 

She was radiant, and kind, and selfless as he so well knew, and loving.

Above all she was loving.

And when she loved him, it was as if all of the world did not matter. 

He did not think he was worthy of such love, of such a woman, and yet he had been blessed. 

At first, he had felt betrayed. 

She had lied to him. 

Next, he felt something akin to awe. 

She had been the Moon Princess, and he had held her in his arms. 

Third, he felt the heavy guilt one only feels when they realize they had just made the biggest mistake of their lives.  

He had loved her, and it wasn’t enough. 

Last, was a sudden panic that overcame him like ocean waves. 

He tore out of the Manor and searched for her. 

But, wherever she had gone, was not a place he could follow. 

In his heart, he let bitterness convince him she had crawled back to her family, that she had always planned on tricking him. And despite this falsity - that became truth - Sir Benjamin still loved her. 

For ten years, he lived as one might expect a sad, broken-hearted man to live. 

Then, came the news that his brother was in debt. 

It was not George who wrote him - strong with Merryweather pride - but one Ms. Heliotrope. 

Dear Lord Benjamin Merryweather, 

If I may introduce myself, I am Jane Heliotrope and am in the service of your brother, Colonel Merryweather -

Colonel Merryweather, Sir Benjamin’s brows lifted in surprise and pride, only to furrow with the rest of the letter.

- Governess to his young daughter, and your niece, Maria Merryweather. It has come to my attention (and Sir, I would like to impart to you that I am no gossip! And quite discourage it in the house, but I digress) -

Benjamin rolled his eyes, annoyed that this woman would choose to blather when there was obvious a great matter to be discussed!

 - that the Colonel has found himself indebted to many-an-officer! I know to ask for aid is quite beyond him, as he suffers a great deal from pride, but I believe it would be in his best interest if you reached out a hand, and offered your help.

Ms. Heliotrope continued on for a page and a half, but Sir Benjamin had read the important information and disregarded the (of course, if he had kept reading, he would have received his first update on Maria Merryweather for the first time in years). 

Sir Benjamin wrote countless letters, written in anger and love, sometimes offering his brother the funds to pay it all off, or offering his home if he needed a place to return. George never wrote to him, and the next letter he received was to notify him of his brother’s death.

Death, they said, as if he was not murdered! Murdered for his copious amounts of debt.

And, that Sir Benjamin had received custody of Maria.

Joy should not have been his main response from the letter, but one could hardly blame him. After all, he had never met his niece, on account of Moonacre always being on the verge of collapse, he was constantly busy, and never had any time to step away. That, and George had never returned to Moonacre, he had never brought Maria home. 

But now, she would be coming home. 

Sir Benjamin needed to prepare. 

He had sent Digweed to clean the rarely used tower, once a nursery for himself and his brother, he knew it was the perfect place for a budding young woman. He instructed Marmaduke to alter the menu so that it was more fitting to the tastes of a young woman. He had even gone into town to purchase her her own mare. 

Then, he anxiously awaited her arrival. 

Only, she never arrived. 

The De Noirs. 

Those bloody De Noirs! 

They were the bane of his existence! He despised them! And he would see them all hanged! 

Sir Benjamin rode hard and fast to Castle Black, and the Coeur De Noir appeared before him. 

Sir Benjamin shivered in disgust, that man was almost his father-in-law.

Sir Benjamin demanded his niece, but just as he thought, the Coeur denied even knowing of her existence, and, surrounded by hundreds of armed men, Sir Benjamin could do naught, but turn away in defeat.

When Sir Benjamin came back to Moonacre Manor, alone and without his young niece, Ms. Heliotrope burst into tears, and shuffled off to her rooms. 

Mr. Digweed rubbed his hands together and gave his Lord a questioning look. 

“I inspected that wretched place from top to bottom!” Sir Benjamin huffed. “Every door, every nook and cranny! And… She wasn’t there.”

“But Sir!” Mr. Digweed’s eyes widened. “Who else-?”

Sir Benjamin held up a hand. “No one else could have taken her, they must have hidden her somehow.” 

“So, what now Sir?”

Sir Benjamin shook his head, “I’m not sure, it may be that there’s nothing to be done-”

“Certainly that must not be true!” Ms. Heliotrope cried out, as she had returned from her rooms, upset with herself for her weakness, and refusing to turn away when her dear Maria was in need. “We could contact the authorities-” 

Sir Benjamin scoffed, tucking his fists onto his hip bones. “Ms. Heliotrope, if you may give us a moment? So we can figure this out without your sensibilities getting in the way!”

Ms. Heliotrope gaped at him. “Well, I never-! Tell me, Sir Benjamin, what was your plan! Besides running off without a thought about going blindly off into what sounds like enemy territory! Why, Colonel Merryweather would have never been so foolish!” 

She was wrong of course, Colonel Merryweather had been rather foolish, up to the point of his death, which had also been over a foolish matter. However, in her defense, Sir Benjamin was also being quite foolish, as he disregarded her completely rational suggestion. Albeit, what Ms. Heliotrope did not know was there was very little the authorities could do when the De Noirs were involved, for two very practical reasons. 

Practical reason number one: the authorities feared the De Noirs. Really, who wouldn’t? The De Noirs did not care about the law, or those who carried them out. Sometimes committing atrocities in front of said authorities. 

Reason number two: the De Noirs kept the forest clear of other outlaws and criminals. Truth be told, the De Noirs guarded the forest, and kept it safe better than any policeman could have ever hoped to. 

Fear was a strong motivator, a good ally, and a proper reason to stay out of one’s business. Even if that business was illegal. 

Nevertheless, Sir Benjamin could not go to the authorities for this matter, as the most he would get would be men too afraid to do the right thing. So really, this was something he had to take into his own hands. 

But he wasn’t about to explain that all to Ms. Heliotrope. 

“Hmm.” Marmaduke hummed, the fact that he was out of the kitchens at all boasted to the seriousness of the situation. 

“‘Hmm’ what?” Sir Benjamin asked tiredly, used to his chef’s meddling and, more often than not, good ideas.

“If they choose to remain unhonorable, perhaps we can try their method.” 

Sir Benjamin and Digweed’s eyes met and while Digweed shrugged, Sir Benjamin merely turned back to Marmaduke with a single nod to continue. 

“I suggest, in order to get Miss. Merryweather back home, we do not ask, but simply take.” He smiled at them proudly, before: “There is one who has lived her whole life in the castle. One who has it in her blood.”

Sir Benjamin glared at the little magic man. “Loveday? Why- No, I will not ask her for help! Besides, I have no idea where she even is!” He had long since buried his feelings deep down inside of his chest never to be seen or touched by sun or moonlight ever again. All he felt was bitterness and anger.

It was that, or unbearable sadness. Sir Benjamin chose the more manly of the options. So, he crossed his arms and furrowed his brow in a frustrated expression. 

To bring her up in a moment such as this! 

“I do, sir.” Digweed said, lifting his hand like a young man volunteering for war. 

Sir Benjamin’s heart leaped, but he fought it down. Besides, he was quite surprised that Digweed knew where she had ran off too. “Very well then, where is she?” 

“In the forest, Sir! And, if you ask nicely, I’m sure she’ll say yes.” Digweed smiled, something close to evil and conniving. In Sir Benjamin’s opinion which was of course wrong. 

“I will consider it.”

“Oh!” Ms. Heliotrope scoffed, “Sir Benjamin, surely if this is the only option-!”

“It is not the only option!” Sir Benjamin countered. 

“Then give me another!” Ms. Heliotrope put on her best Governess stare, the kind that made the most rowdy of pupils obey. “Then we must contact this woman!” She declared, after Sir Benjamin could not think of another option (and how could he, under such a glare?)

Loveday De Noir, the retired Moon Princess. 

One might ask how a Princess could enter retirement, but it was simply a matter of her heart. A Moon Princess was pure-hearted, good, loving, kind, honest; her goals, in addition to breaking the curse, were keeping Peace in the Valley. 

This is where many a Moon Princess failed. 

No matter what family she came from, no matter how hard she tried, the family feud was always too powerful, and hatred eventually entered her heart. 

Loveday in no way hated the Merryweathers as a whole, but she had never been able to offer Sir Benjamin forgiveness. She, like Sir Benjamin, remained bitter and angry, unable to move on from the one who had ripped everything she had ever held dear away from her. And in pettiness, remained in the forest, until her eventual death.  

For the first few years, Loveday had been comforted by the silence of the forest. By her animal companions, and the lack of men.

For the middle years, Loveday began to miss her old friends from Castle Black, she began to miss the wonderful food from Moonacre Manor, but she never allowed herself to admit that missed Sir Benjamin. 

For the last few years, Loveday gave in to resentment, allowed herself to hate Sir Benjamin (despite how much she still loved him, a feeling that went unacknowledged) and banished the idea that she would be the one to find the Pearls and break the curse. 

Loveday worked hard on herself - as one must do when one’s hopes and dreams are shattered so completely - grew used to the solitude, and accepted the fact she would die, forgotten and alone, in the forest with only her rescued pets to mourn her (and eat her remains, most likely). 

She plastered a smile on her face, sang her songs, shared stories with her hedgehog, and brushed her hair, as she pretended to be quite well. 

Loveday was also not a witch, as she had not been blessed with magic, but she did the very best she could to use Nature’s energy to fulfill her needs. Despite hanging up her Moon Princess crown, Nature still seemed to favor her as a daughter. Loveday had a healing hand, a knowledge of herbs that greatly surpassed what was typically known, and she was apt at dealing with wild animals; she had never once been bitten or scratched. 

Loveday had spectacular senses, and while she shouldn’t have, she always knew when someone drew near to her cave.

It was a bit surprising, as most people couldn’t even find her cave, but she pulled her cloak over head and snuck out to the mouth. 

“Miss. De Noir! Are you there?” 

Loveday rolled her eyes before she removed the hood of her cloak and gave Mr. Digweed a forced smile. 

“Mr. Digweed! How are you?” She asked. 

The poor man jumped, as he had not seen the woman, hidden in the shadows as she was, and clutched his chest. “Miss. De Noir! A bit of warning, there!” 

“I do apologize, my good sir.” 

Mr. Digweed cautioned a smile before handing her an envelope. “That’ll be a letter for you, Miss. De Noir!”

She looked at it, forcing her hands to remain at her side rather than take it, as she so wished. “What is that?”

“It's from the master, Miss.” Mr. Digweed bent his head down. “I promise, it shan’t hurt you to read it.” 

Loveday very much doubted that, as that was all Sir Benjamin had ever been able to do, but she took the letter. Snatched it from Mr. Digweed’s hand, and turned her back as she broke the wax seal. 

“Who is Maria Merryweather?” 

☾

Maria set the bowl, empty of strawberries, back on the ground, and brushed her hands clean of any juice. 

The room, in the daylight, was nearly white with the layers and layers of dust blanketing it. It was disgusting, and if she knew how to use a broom, she would have asked for one. 

Maria took a turn about the room, careful not to touch anything, as it was all so dirty. There were booklined shelves, a vanity - complete with a brush and comb set, as well as a bowl of powder - a wardrobe, and another door. 

Maria supposed that there were three doors in total in the room. One that, clearly, led out into the hall, the secret door in the floor, and a small, slim door that, if she had to guess, led to a restroom. 

She hoped. 

The door, thankful, was unlocked, though it didn’t budge without her ramming her shoulder into the wood. She fell into a cobweb, and sputtered as she tried to spit it out, and scratched at her face to rid herself of the disgusting, sticky mess. 

Maria groaned low in her throat as she eyed what must have been the bathtub and toilet. The bath was little more than a hollowed hole in the ground, and she wasn’t quite sure whether or not this medieval castle had plumbing at all.  

Maria turned sharply on her heel and slammed the door as best she could behind her. But, that sent another cloud of dust into the air. Maria sneezed, and tried to brush the dust from her dress, only to see how utterly ravaged her travel gown had become. 

She stifled a scream, and worried over the dust, webs, dirt, and - oh god - what could only have been stains from the gruel they had tried to feed her, as she came to the conclusion that she needed to change lest she developed a dangerous rash. 

Maria crawled at the back of her gown until she dug the bow out of her skirt and untied it. She threw it onto the floor, her bustle joining it not too soon after and she made her way to the wardrobe. 

“Oh dear.” Maria grumbled as she looked at the outdated dresses. “Things just keep getting worse, don’t they?”

Maria ran her hands over the various gowns, mostly white or other pale colors, and at least counted herself lucky that there were any dresses there, and that they weren’t all black. The De Noir’s took their name too literally, there was a whole host of colors she could personally introduce them to. 

Blue for one. 

Maria picked a gown that was the same pale pink of a seashell just as the secret door popped opened. 

“Princess-”

Maria sheriked, and shut the wardrobe door on herself. “My word! Is the term knocking unfamiliar?” 

Robin lifted himself up onto the floor, so his legs dangled down the tunnel, and he leaned back on his hands, disturbing the dust even more. He had the audacity to smirk at her. 

Maria’s hand curled around the door and she peered around it. “Well?” 

“Knocking? Sure, and I did, you must not have heard.”

Heavens above, she was going to murder him. “When you come next, please knock loud enough so that the occupants of the room may hear it! Now please leave.”

“I have to take you back.”

“What?” And Maria threw the wardrobe door away from herself, fully revealing her stays and bloomers. “Back where? The cell? I’d rather die.”

“That can be arranged.” He grinned, as he removed his dagger from his belt. “My father is looking for you, and he can’t know you’re in this room. I’ll take you back as soon as we’re done, promise.”

“Do you tend to make a habit of making promises?”

Robin shrugged as he sheathed his dagger. “I’ve kept them, haven’t I?”

Maria crossed her arms and lifted her chin to stare down her nose at him. “You’ve kept one. So far. And it depends on how you look at things, my wrists would consider your promise broken.” 

His grin faded and his eyes flashed to her arms, where he could see the fading marks. “You’re not dead, you have all your limbs, and you're not starving.” He shrugged. “Promise kept.”

“So far!” She reminded. 

“Well, put your clothes back on.” Robin reached out and grabbed the edge of her skirt before he tossed it to her. 

She caught it reflexively, before she threw it to the floor and kicked it. “Absolutely not! I would burn that thing before ever letting it touch my skin again!”

“I think he’ll notice if you’re in nothing but your under things, Princess.” 

“I shall wear this.” Maria held up the pink dress. “I’m sure a man like him won’t notice the fact that I’ve changed my dress.” 

Robin chuckled, “You’d be surprised about how sharp my father can be.” 

“Then I shall lie and tell him he is mistaken.” Maria almost stuck her tongue out at him, but resisted, because that was childish and she was more well-mannered than that. 

As Maria pulled the dress over her head, she came across one major issue: it was not made for her. The dress was too long, clearly tailored for a much taller woman, and as tightly as she pulled the strings, it still hung loosely on her ribs. 

“Would you like me to-”

“If you touch me, I shall-”

“Alright! No need to get upset.” Robin held his hands up in surrender. “You’re struggling.” 

Maria looked towards the heavens, trying to keep her decorum. Yes, she was struggling. 

Up to this point, someone had always been there to assist her as she dressed. A maid, or even Ms. Heliotrope at times. She had been warned that the Countryside would not hold these comforts, and she would have to learn how to dress herself. 

Maria was a quick learner, and had she been on her own, she would have been able to figure it out. 

But, she had an audience, so her hands were timid as they tightened the laces of her bodice. She didn’t want to struggle in front of him, but as he had so kindly pointed out, she was.

“I just- argh! - I can’t tie it.” She huffed in indignation, and stomped her foot against the floor. She let go of the ties in favor of crossing her arms. “But I do not want you to tie it for me!” Maria turned sharply as Robin stood up. 

He held up placating hands, as if she were feral, and laughed. “Princess, you’re being ridiculous-”

“I’m being ridiculous!”

“-if you’d just let me help…” He began to walk in a slow circle around her, but she followed him, always facing him. He lunged forward and grabbed her arm. 

“Let go of me! You- you-!” She beat her open palm against his arm, but the thick leather cushioned most of the blows. 

“Bastard? Bully? Oaf?” He grabbed her wrist before she was able to land another blow. “How about this? You turn around. I tie your strings. And you stop hitting me!” 

“Why shouldn’t I?” Maria attempted to tear her hand away, but his hold was firm. “Let go of me.”

“Stop hitting me.” He lifted his brows. 

“Fine.” Maria bit her tongue. He let go of her wrist and she hit his chest as soon as he did. “Last one.”

He shook his head, very much struggling not to smile. “Now, turn around.”

Maria pursed her lips. “That- that would hardly be-”

“You can go parading around in your under things, would that be preferable, Princess?”

Maria shook her head, but turned anyway, very much against herself. 

“What do I do?”

“For the love of all- A knot! Tie it into a knot!” Maria buried her flushed face in her hands. “It needs to be tight so it won’t come undone.” 

She could feel the strings pulling at her back, the bodice tightening around her chest.

Robin, for his part, tried to think of it like his boots. He tied his boots every morning. Double knotted them, tucked the laces in, and went on his way. The main difference was that his boots didn’t have Maria in them. 

She had her hair swept over her shoulder, and her back presented to him, the pale pink of her dress just a shade darker than her skin. He wasn’t thinking when he brushed the back of his fingers against her spine. 

She inhaled sharply and walked away from him, nearly tripping on the over long hem.

“Th-thank you.” She said, a hand pressed to her heart, in the hope of getting it to calm down. “I’ll be down in just a moment.” 

“You don’t want my help-”

“No! No, thank you, I do not require your help any longer.” 

Maria looked over her shoulder. Caught him muttering to himself in a seemingly condescending manner, before dragging his feet to the secret entrance and disappearing down below. 

Maria breathed in relief once he was gone, before gathering the skirt in her hands. Underneath the hem were two bustle ribbons, which she tied to the small connecting ribbons at her bust. She adjusted the skirt until it laid properly, the hem now falling just above the toe of her boots, and went to meet Robin down in the tunnels. 

☾

The Coeur De Noir paced recklessly in front of the empty cell, his guardsmen watching with wide eyed expressions, none brave enough to offer explanation. 

“So.” He growled out, his deep voice echoing over the empty hallway. “She has not returned at all?”

“Well, you see sir-”

“It wasn’t our fault!”

“-that’s right! It was your rot-”

The Coeur quirked a brow. “Rotten what?”

The two shaking guards paled and looked close to an early death. 

The Coeur rolled his eyes as at their cowardice, what had happened to the De Noir Clan? How had they fallen from some of the worst men (allegedly) in the country to the pathetic sods that couldn’t keep track of one blasted girl. 

And the disrespect! 

The Coeur De Noir knew the relationship he had with his son was far from stellar, that boy still had a long way to go if he were to make a worthy Coeur for the Clan, but for his own men to insult his blood? 

That was unacceptable. 

“My rotten son?” He asked, reveling in the way they shrunk. “Perhaps you would like a rotting tongue!”

“Oh! Mercy! Mercy, sire! I meant nothing by it!” 

The Coeur sneered, “You meant every word, no doubt! It would be wise to keep your opinions to yourself! Now go! Both of you! I’m tired of your excuses! The next I see your faces, it had better be to inform me that the Moon Princess has been secured!” 

The two guards bowed in quick succession before running down the hall, but not before bumping into each other like the blithering idiots they were. 

Dulac stepped away from the wall, “Should I find Robin?”

The Coeur began to shake his head, but stopped, as his ears registered two voices coming down the hall. 

The sound of laughter. 

“I think not!” 

Robin was laughing. Robin. A genuine laugh, and not the harsh laugh he forced when a De Noir made a crude joke. It was light and airy, and reminded the Coeur so much of his daughter- 

“It’s not poison-”

“I don’t care! You may call it whatever you wish! I will not eat it.” The haughty voice of a Merryweather. 

The Coeur met Dulac’s stupefied expression with his own confounded look.  

A sharp, feminine gasp, and the Merryweather girl was laughing too. “Stop that right now! Stop-” 

Then, the two came around the corner. 

The Moon Princess gasped sharply, and her expression of mirth molted to one of fear, before she adopted the stony appearance of forced confidence. 

Robin’s hand - which had been at her ribcage - fell sharply to his sides. “Father!” He said, voice wavering. 

Ah fuck. 

Two. 

Two of his children falling for Merryweathers! It was unthinkable! It was dreadful! And of course the Coeur De Noir would be dealt this hand. 

The Coeur De Noir knew that Robin didn’t care much for women - not like his little whore of a friend Richard, who flirted with everything that walked and could bat eyelashes - but he recognized flirting when he saw it. 

Or at least, the flirting style of a teenaged boy who didn’t know how to flirt properly. 

And, when the Coeur looked back at the Moon Princess, he recognized the pale dress she wore. 

The Coeur De Noir recognized it because he had been the one to give it to his once beloved daughter for her eighteenth birthday. 

“Dulac,” He said at last. “Take some guards and remove the boards across the eastern chamber, it would appear that those chambers have a new occupant.” 

“Father-”

The Coeur turned a falcon sharp gaze on his son, and the boy was silenced. “Did our dungeons not suit your tastes, Princess?”

The Moon Princess pursed her lips. “Nothing in this Castle suits my tastes.”

The Coeur bit his tongue to stop himself from smiling. “Robin, I’m giving you and the boys a new duty.”

Robin straightened, his face twitched in agitation, but there would be no punishment. Yet. 

“The Princess is not to be left unattended, and as there are four of you, I’m sure you can create an easy rotation.”

Robin’s eyes widened. “Father, what of our other responsibilities-”

“I expect those to be finished as well.” The Coeur turned his back to them and began to walk out of the prison tower, before the Merryweather called out to him. 

“You can’t keep me prisoner forever!” 

The Coeur De Noir smiled as he glanced over his shoulder. “My dear, I can do whatever I’d like!” 

“Maria, wait!” Robin called out, and he heard a muffled scuffle as he walked away, no doubt the girl was attempting to attack him. 

At long last, the Coeur allowed himself to laugh. 

The De Noir Clan was properly, and royally doomed. 

#moonacreweek2023 #tsom #the secret of moonacre #im having so much fun with these #of course this is the last of the prewritten ones #now its time to bust ass #my writing

[vullcanica]

@vilestblood : A note for main verse from Nik!

"For when.. you are away." his feeble voice barely carries the words, whisper-thin, ripped from his chest in a rasp. How he loathes the sound. Lain in his opulent bed of silk and feather cushions, the King has to him the look of a drowning man, whittled down to naught but bone and weak muscle, swallowed whole by decadence. His hands shake around the velvet box, by no will of his own.

"It is a promise."

One he has made with words already, but with distance soon to stretch between them, short though the ride to their western border may be, the need for a pledge grows. Just as his end draws nearer. Words had begun falling short between them these long wonderful years. Yet it is all he has left. If he were to reach now to seek the warmth of a sweet pale cheek, he knows he would not make the journey.

It looks a simple gift. Commissioned to a fine jeweller, pure gold in make and clean in shape. It nevertheless holds the unmistakeable teardrop-pure shine of a diamond taken from his very crown at its heart. Within is he, painted decades younger, in the fashion of youths in love who, beholden by passion and impatience, give a bethrothed a locket with their likeness encased. And by god he is no youth... but o, the rest...

It would be a fine gesture, truly. If not for the drop of ink marring the visage. A spill might well explain it, if a quill had looked to have ever come near the locket in its manufacture. But simple ink it is not. In a beat and before Adiel's very eyes, the spot of black comes alive in a swirl, licking the gold trimmings of its small enclosure. From the nondescript spiral forms a familiar shape. Nehebkau pokes her head out from the darkness.

"Impatient beastie." The King breathes a laugh, so fond to watch her play his face sheds a decade in a single smile. "I haven't.. let her run wild in years now."

Twenty perhaps. Thirty. How slowly and irrevocably the years have slipped him now he can feel their weight and length. See them in a mirror, measure them by failing sight and gait, and illness. There is a bittersweetness to it, the fast-approaching closure. Yet undaunted he remains, if soft and tired now. He faces eternity after all. More than that, he faces the promise of a future greater than one mortal or immortal can imagine. Faces it this very moment.. So he reaches out for its hand. And though his own falters halfway, he knows he will be met in turn. That is their promise.

"Let her roam with you, my angel. For now.. Until the time comes."

#𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑 ‒ nikodemus ║ IN CHARACTER #vilestblood. #again reaaaally stretching the definition of 'post it note' here #but i couldn't resist... <3 #i know we've talked about gifts of nikodemus' heart and blood. but we mentioned soul and... an actual gift. The Gift. a drop of its ink 🥺 #nik by the very end. terribly old. few short years from dying. well-determined to make the pact upon his resurrection by then. #and eager to give antonín a token of promise. trust. and returned loyalty..... and thanks. #ALSO YES THERE ARE THINGS WRITTEN ON THE LOCKET i just completely fucked it by making it too pale #says 'Here lie - a heart' and then 'which thine hand can touch alone'