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#from the vault of the spring court
throneofbriars · 3 months
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐏𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫
PAIRING: Inner Circle x Reader; intended eventual Eris x Reader
SYNOPSIS: The reader wrestles with being the only Inner Circle member without powers and begins to realize just how isolated she feels.
WC: 1.0K (just a short little snippet from an abandoned fic that I didn't want to keep locked in the vault)
AUTHORS NOTE: This was intended to be an Eris x Reader fic, but I abandoned it 1k words in because it wasn't going where I wanted it to. I might pick it up again someday if people are interested, but, for now, have this little snippet of a powerless Archeron Sister!Reader contemplating power within the IC.
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What does it mean to hold power?
Rhysand held power - he was power and he used himself as a weapon, artfully skilled in being both the blade that felled and the shield that defended. Feyre held power, gifted to her by the High Lords of Prythian themselves, who were unaware of the unfettered access she had to the gifts of the Courts - Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter, Dawn, Day, and Night. 
The power that simmered between Rhysand and Feyre - the High Lord and Lady of Night - was the reason their Court could be as free as it was.  
Cassian and Azriel held power. The Lord of Bloodshed and the Shadowsinger, owners of seven siphons each - a great testament to the raw power that ran through their veins. They used their powers - Cassian’s unforgiving strength and Azriel’s manipulation of the dark - to protect the Night Court. 
Elain held power gifted to her by the Mother - by the Cauldron she so desperately wished to forsake. The female was a Seer, a prophet who was ignorant and inexperienced in reading the prophecies she saw. Elain rejected the Cauldron's gifts, both her power of sight and her mate, Lucien. Though the Cauldron still called to her, still whispered prophecies into her ear, still haunted her with ghosts of a future she had no desire to foretell. 
Even Nesta - bitter, cruel Nesta - held power. It wasn’t a gift like Feyre’s or Elain’s, nor was it inherent like Rhysand’s or Cassian’s or Azriel’s. No, Nesta’s power was taken from the Cauldron, clawed from the damned thing as retribution for the suffering the female went through in the name of its power.  
Lady Death, they called her. A being of frigid night and silver flame; one of the few who could wield the Dread Trove without consequence. She offered the power back to the Cauldron as the price for Feyre’s life and the Cauldron happily accepted. But, Nesta held onto a fraction of that power and it became part of her, the death magic weaving into the very foundation of her being. 
So, what does it mean to hold power? Nothing.
Power means nothing until it’s used - for better or for worse. 
It was unfair, you believed, how meaningless the Inner Circle’s powers were now that they sat idle, waiting to be taken from the shelf, to be dusted off, to be utterly unleashed. 
It was unfair that those who take it for granted were gifted powers that most could only dream of. If you had powers, you would cherish them, use them to make the world better.
But, you didn’t. You weren’t given any gifts by the High Lords of Prythian like Feyre. You weren’t deemed fit by the Mother to be gifted with power from the Cauldron like Elain was. You didn’t have the same claws as Nesta, the claws used to rip power from the Cauldron by force.
You were just you. A Cauldron made female. High Fae. The product of a wicked king’s endless greed. Plain. Simple. Powerless. You.       
“Cassian, you really shouldn’t be using such foul language around Nyx,” Nesta reprimanded, bouncing the winged baby in her arms.
“You should have heard the things said around us when we were growing up, Nes,” Cassian countered, looking pointedly at the female sat next to him. “Your first curse word is a right of passage in the camps.”
“This isn’t an Illyrian war camp, Cassian, and-” Nesta’s words were cut off by Rhys, who spoke up from the head of the table.
“-And that will not be a right of passage we’ll be celebrating. His first flight, sure. When he inevitably kicks your ass- butt- for the first time,” a cunning grin made its way onto the High Lord's lips, “absolutely.”
Those sitting around the table, privy to the conversation - Rhysand, Azriel, Cassian, Nesta, Elain, and yourself - laughed at the High Lord’s words. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that sooner-rather-than-later the little winged child would kick the Lord of Bloodshed’s ass. It was inevitable. 
“The High Lady will have your head if she finds out you’ve been speaking like that around the little one, Cas.” Azriel smiles, equally as cunning as Rhysands, before continuing, “You should keep your big mouth shut.”
“Ha,” Cassian’s laugh is booming, his words cocky. “I’m not scared of Feyre.”
“Why would you be scared of me?” Feyre’s voice rang out from the entryway of the dining room. Flecks of paint decorated her hair and clothing, a testament to her hard work in her studio on that morning. 
Cassian’s eyes went wide, his face falling into one of surprise and - fear? 
“Nothing- no reason,” the Illyrian male floundered. “I mean- who said anything about being scared? I’m not scared; nobody is scared.” 
Azriel snickered as he shoveled another forkful of eggs into his mouth. Cassian latched onto the movement, a silent conversation passing between the two Illyrians before the Lord of Bloodshed turned his attention back towards his High Lady.
“Azriel cursed in front of Nyx-”
“Eat shit, Cassian.” The words rolled off of Azriel’s tongue before he knew what he was saying, his face blanching as the realization caught up with him. 
“Azriel.”
Rhys and Feyre jumped to reprimand Azriel, the others around the table holding back their laughter. You, however, had stopped listening, withdrawing into the comfortable presence of your own thoughts. 
It was always like this with Rhysands Inner Circle. 
Once upon a time, you had enjoyed it - listening to the familial banter of your sisters and their mates… of your family with their family. But you had grown tired, weary of never feeling the sense of belonging, of connection that you desperately craved. 
You were part of the Inner Circle, part of the family… but you were distinctly separate. 
Perhaps it was your own fault. Life hadn’t left much room for hope - hope for connection, hope for family, hope for love, hope for hopes sake. You’ve become certain it’s too late for you to learn how to hope for anything. 
And, though you were tired, though life and fate had left you thoroughly devoid of hope, you would play the role that was assigned to you - you owed Feyre that much. 
One empty smile at a time.
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wistfulrat · 6 months
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・❥・lesbian wangxian reccs ・❥・
ao3topships poll gate made me realize there are hundreds nay thousands of u who dont know abt lesbian wangxian ?? that’s so sad can i proselytize u real quick
mimilamp cinematic universe (the ppl’s mcu) sorry for starting this list with a whole author catalog. as if it's my fault!! these gave me covid. no listen mimilamp fics have feverish lesbian angst levels of hot horny despair that could paralyze a large forest animal. and on a sentence level it's just stunning. messy dykes fumbling toward love confessions while making emotionally insane choices and the sex scenes fuckn bang ??? god is real
good, good - 13.5k E Wei Ying has two broken wrists and now she needs Lan Zhan to help her do stuff (jerk off)
here’s a story - 46k E Wei Ying reluctantly joins her recently-dumped best friend, Lan Zhan, on a couples' holiday retreat. Snow! Drinks! Truth or dare! There's a s-s-s-single bed! You'll never guess what happens next.
out of your system - 20k E “Maybe you should get me out of your system,” Wei Ying blurts. “Maybe that’ll help.” // Wei Ying finds out her best friend Lan Zhan is in love with her and offers a really super solution.
exposure therapy - 14k E Wei Ying clambered up from the floor, put the joint on the corner of the night stand, announced, “Exposure therapy,” and got into Lan Zhan’s bed. // Lan Zhan doesn't like to be touched, Wei Ying likes to touch.
know no one else - 20k E Lan Zhan moves out, Wei Ying's boyfriend moves in. Six months later, Lan Zhan visits, they go to a party, and Wei Ying has something to tell her.
74243 this author should be studied in a lab bc these 2 fics ruined my life. a pulitzer prize short fic with immaculate tone followed by the fuck nastiest shit you will ever read. "wei ying swipes right" still a top 3 bar of all time re: fic summaries. like people died.
chef’s kiss - 6.5k E Wei Ying said, “You know, in some ways I’m kind of depressed. I took your biggest dick on my first try. Now I don’t have anything to build up to.” “There are bigger ones available,” Lan Zhan said lazily. “I can pay for express shipping.” // (Lan Zhan works the late shift.)
pull out game weak - 22.7k E Wei Ying swipes right.
plonk this is the only fic in many ways. dyke nmj's mustache academy award winning breakout role. possessive hot dyke lwj. the sentence "don't knot her you freak." have u ever seen a group chat get rabies in real time. the slut rot breached containment. it was a public health crisis. it brought back horny cinema. cultural reset.
good friends - 11.5k E “I could invite her over for when the game’s done,” Nie Mingjue offers. Lan Zhan hums, considering it. They do that sometimes. Take omegas down together.
occultings will i ever get tired of -wwx thinks she's straight and wants to practice being gay with sadsack lwj who is like sure im in love with u and this will cause me psychic damage but mayhaps that's the cost of being homiesexual--? no i dont get tired of the classics it's called taste
give me one good honest kiss - 25k E The text keeps flashing over and over in Lan Zhan's head like the bulb lights on a marquee. They’d been talking about homework directly before that, swapping notes on music theory in the baroque period. Then, like a fork of lightning out of a clear blue sky: wanna practice kissing? 😚 // Wei Ying suggests an arrangement. Lan Zhan, in love, deals.
saltyfeathers ok so like sure it's ill advised to get your cartilage pierced at claire's but if you wanted the experience of participating in deranged hysteric behavior that kinda bangs in a badgood way? well then.
the mall that has it all - 8k E She introduced herself in the food court, breathless after sprinting across it in Lan Zhan’s direction and vaulting over a table only to crash into the seat across from her, ask, “Can I have a sip?”, spring forward with both elbows on the table to wrap her burgundy lips around Lan Zhan’s smoothie straw, wrinkle her nose, and say, “What is that, kale? Not really my thing, as like, a mall goth. Oh!” A pleased, chaotic exhale. “My name’s Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan said, after taking a moment to fully process the last forty-five seconds, “What?” or; mall goth au
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odyssean-flower · 6 months
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The Winding Path of Fate Chapter 2 - Spring: Three Meetings and a Proposal
Masterpost Pairing: Neuvillette x Female Reader Summary: Somehow, you keep running into Neuvillette. When something unexpected happens, he offers you an unexpected proposal. Warnings: None except for restrictive gender roles, also for some reason Fontaine’s regency england (sort of) now? Note: I update this story on AO3 first so please go over there if you'd like to read it faster
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Have a picture of neuvillette standing next to the skull of Oroboshi
Previous | Next
A month had passed since that unexpected encounter. You hadn’t told anyone about it, because it felt unreal even to you. Maybe you really had drank too much champagne.
In any case, the events of the ball were quickly forgotten amidst the immense preparations you had to do to obtain your governess license. It was a long, grueling process that involved leaving your hometown and moving all the way to the city, but it was about to bear fruit at last. After one last history exam, you would finally obtain your license and be able to advertise your services in the newspapers and bulletin boards.
And then, you would finally be blissfully freed from all those marriage-hunting obligations. No more balls, no more disappointments...
It was those thoughts that kept you going as you stared at the tiny words in your history textbook while being surrounded by people who seemed determined to scream their lungs out today.
“Get him, get him!” your sweet, adorable sister shouted next to you.
“Send him to jail!” her new beau also shouted from next to her. I’m pretty sure one can’t be sent to jail for hoarding ashtrays, you thought, but said nothing. He probably couldn’t even hear you, anyways.
Today, you were forced to chaperone your sister and the viscount’s son on their “romantic engagement.” Said “romantic engagement” happened to be attending a trial at the Opera Epiclese. Apparently, this was a popular date spot for young couples. It was things like these that made you feel dreadfully old and out of touch sometimes.
The seats were packed for today’s trial, for good reason. This trial was just one part of a lengthy divorce proceeding between a celebrity couple, in which they were trying to figure out how to divide their many, many assets. It was akin to a serial and even had its own dedicated column in the newspapers.
You glanced over at your sister and the young lord. They were whispering together and giggling. Even though the viscount’s son seemed a bit, for the lack of a better word, dopey, from your short interactions with him you could tell that he was a good-hearted and generous young man. Plus, there was a certain charm in watching him and your sister getting closer, the same feeling one would get from observing two cute puppies playing together. Perhaps your mother would live to see one of her daughters get married after all.
You looked back down at your book. You were on the chapter about Remuria, one of your favorite subjects. You loved reading about that long-deceased God King and his drowned empire of music. You knew that there were extensive ruins from that period near the town of Petrichor, but it was much too far and dangerous (without shelling out the exorbitant amounts of money for protection) to go there from the Court of Fontaine, so you could only ever dream of visiting there.
The cacophony faded into the background as you became engrossed in the topic.
It felt like no time had passed before you felt your sister shake your arm. “Sister, Sister! The trial’s over! Let’s go.”
You looked up to see people walking past you towards the exit. Judging from their chatter, the wife seemed to have won. What she was going to do with a vault of ashtrays, you had no idea.
You snapped your book closed and followed everyone else out. “I don’t know how you can read that boring book when there’s such an exciting show going on,” the viscount’s son commented, eyeing the thick textbook.
“Oh, that’s one of Sister’s special powers! The ability to read anywhere, no matter how loud or unsuitable the place is. I don’t know how she does it,” your sister chimed in.
“You can learn it too, you know, if you apply yourself to it,” you informed her.
“Ugh, you’re already talking like a governess,” your sister pouted.
“A governess? You want to be that?” the viscount’s son said, sounding incredulous. Seriously, why does everyone sound so shocked when they hear about it? “I had a governess once. She was always alone and wasn’t even allowed to eat with the family. Seems like a rather miserable job if you asked me.”
“Yeah, that’s what I told her, but she won’t change her mind! She kept talking about how it’s ‘her role in life’ and her ‘fate.’”
You tuned the two out. You had heard variations of this conversation too many times over the years.
Once the three of you reached the main hall, the darling couple decided to go get some refreshments while waiting for the rain to subside. You decided to sit on one of the comfy stuffed couches under the stairs and resume your studying.
The words on the pages flowed into your brain. Remus...Sybilla...harmosts... what would it be like to live in that era? Or at least, to walk the places where these words were once part of everyday life? To touch the artifacts—the once-cherished, once-used items—of the people from back then?
You shook your head. Sometimes, your mind would drift to things that weren’t anywhere on the horizon of your life, just like how you would sometimes indulge yourself by reading romance novels and light novels from Inazuma. No, you needed to hone your mind and focus on your reality. You were in no position to move off your pre-determined path. You needed to think about how you were going to teach these concepts to children—
“Good day to you, Miss [Name].”
You nearly jumped at that voice. A very familiar voice. Knowing who you were going to see, you stood up with your head bowed.
“Good day to you, Monsieur Neuvillette.”
You lifted your head. The man himself was standing in front of you. You had only ever seen his face in the papers and only met him once (in the dark, no less), but you thought he seemed a bit fatigued. You couldn’t blame him, though. You were sure you would feel the same if you had to preside over such a ridiculous series of trials.
“I do apologize for disturbing you,” Neuvillette immediately said upon seeing your face. Maybe your poker face wasn’t as good as you thought.
“It’s alright, Monsieur. I don’t mind.” You tried your best to sound like you meant it.
“May I sit down?” Neuvillette said after a pause. You nodded, and he proceeded to sit next to you. You moved all the way to the other end of the couch. It didn’t seem like anyone had noticed you two, considering how this couch was somewhat hidden away from sight, but you couldn’t take any chances. A governess’s job prospects hinged on having a spotless reputation, after all.
“Are you here with someone?” Neuvillette asked.
“Yes, Monsieur. I’m chaperoning my sister, who has been invited on a date here.”
Speaking of your sister, you glanced out of the corner of your eye to see how the two lovebirds were faring. They were currently in the process of choosing from a large menu, giggling and nudging each other as they did so. They probably weren’t going to be finished any time soon.
“Date...” Neuvillette mused. “Yes, I’ve heard that it has become quite a trend among young people to have romantic engagements at the Opera. I must admit, I don’t quite approve of having the sanctity of trials be used for such purposes.”
“I agree,” you nodded. “Although since trials are already spectacles, I suppose this isn’t so preposterous.”
“You certainly don’t mince words, Miss [Name].” there was an amused note in his voice. All you could do was shrug and smile. It wasn’t like you could refute him.
Another awkward silence. Maybe you had offended him with your comment? You didn’t really know why he would be offended though, considering that trials in Fontaine were like performances.
“What did you think of the trial, Miss [Name]?”
You had to think about it for a minute. It felt like you were being quizzed on something you hadn’t studied for. “I think they are both idiots, Monsieur. They would save everyone’s time by dueling it out between themselves.”
Neuvillette blinked for a minute, and then a small laugh slipped out his mouth. You took that to mean that he agreed with you.
His lilac eyes moved to the thick textbook in your hand, seeing it closely for the first time. His brow furrowed. “Were you reading that during the trial?”
Under his puzzled gaze, you felt like you had done something wrong. “Um, yes. Not out of disrespect for the proceedings, I assure you, Monsieur. But I have an important exam for my governess license coming up, so I need to grab any chance I have to study for it.”
“Studying in such a chaotic environment... you’re very dedicated to your goal. I can think of a few people who might be able to learn from you.”
You didn’t hear any sarcasm in his voice. He sounded genuinely impressed. You felt your shoulders relax. It had become an unfortunate tendency of yours to become defensive when you talked about these things. “Thank you, Monsieur.”
“What are you studying?” He leaned closer to you. How long is he going to stay here?
“History, Monsieur. I was reading about the older periods of Fontainian history like the Remurian Dynasty,” you opened your book and flipped to the chapter.
He tilted his head to the side as he looked at all the underlined passages and marginal notes on the pages. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe that the subject of Remuria would make up such a large portion of the exam that it would warrant all these notes. Is it a personal interest of yours?”
The idea that Neuvillette knew what was on the exam was surprising. You didn’t think it was something he would have much knowledge of, but since he was the head of the Maison Gestion, which administered the governess exams, maybe it wasn’t so surprising?
“...I suppose it is,” you said at last.
"What do you like about it?”
That question caught you off guard. "I just...do,” you said at last. “The story of that civilization is very fascinating to me, so I couldn’t help but read more about it.”
No one had ever asked you about this, so you didn’t know how to answer it.
Neuvillette looked down at your notes again. Was he reading them? You had the urge to close your book. Somehow, it felt like a violation of privacy, like he was reading your diary.
You were saved by the footsteps running up to you. “Sister! Sorry we took so long! We got the—oh Archons, is that Monsieur Neuvillette!?”
Your sister and the young master were both holding boxes of Conch Madeleines in their hands, staring at the Chief Justice with identical expressions of shock. You might have laughed if the atmosphere ’t so serious.
Neuvillette stood up. “Good day to you both,” he nodded towards them, then to you. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your day.”
The three of you watched as he left. Once he was out of earshot, your sister turned to you excitedly. “Sister! You know the Chief Justice?”
“I don’t,” you said, which was a half-truth. You really didn’t know him. “He just came up to me and started chatting.”
“Really?” she lifted an eyebrow. “The Chief Justice, who is so notoriously private that he rarely even does interviews, just randomly struck up a conversation with a stranger?”
“Look, I wish I could give you a good reason, but I can’t.”
Your sister continued to stare at you with narrowed eyes. You were usually pretty good at lying to people thanks to your excellent poker face, but your sister was one of the few people who could see right through you.
“Hey, it stopped raining!” Luckily, you were saved by the viscount’s son’s shout. “That was quicker than I expected.”
With snacks in hand, the three of you left the opera house and headed towards the aquabus station.
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The exam day came, and in your honest opinion, you performed excellently. The questions were so easy that you could answer them in your sleep. The results would be finalized next week, and you knew for certain that you had qualified with flying colors. You handed the exam to the invigilator and left the Palais Mermonia with a spring in your step.
Now that you had the rest of the day free, whatever shall you do? Well, since the weather was so nice out, you thought you’d go to the Café Lucerne and get some Conch Madeleines as a celebratory snack. You had brought along your treasured copy of The History of the Decline and Fall of Remuria Volume 1 as well. Just the thought of spending the day eating sweets and reading your favorite book in the warm sunshine brought a smile to your face as you walked towards the elevator.
The thought distracted you so much that you didn’t notice the other occupant in the elevator until they cleared their throat. You spun around. It was as though fate was playing some kind of sick joke on you, since it was Neuvillette—who else could it be—standing in the tiny elevator space with you.
You thought about excusing yourself and leaving the elevator, but it was already descending.
“We do seem to meet quite often, Miss [Name],” he said. “My apologies.”
“Yes, we do indeed, Monsieur Neuvillette,” you said, resigning yourself to your fate. Why did he apologize just now?
“Did you have business at the Palais Mermonia today?” he asked.
“Yes. I had to write a history exam for my governess license.”
“Ah, I see. I wish you luck in passing.”
“Thank you, Monsieur,” you smiled and nodded.
An all-too-familiar silence fell. Couldn’t this elevator go any faster? It felt as though this shaft was going on forever.
You racked your brain for something to say but came up empty. You and Neuvillette simply lived in two completely different worlds. In situations like these, it was better to stay silent and pretend to be invisible, in your experience.
“So, Miss [Name], what do you think of the fall of Remuria? Do you believe it was truly predestined?”
“Huh?” That was the last thing you expected to hear.
Neuvillette repeated his question.
“I heard you the first time, Monsieur...I was just confused as to why you asked me that.”
“I simply want to know what a scholar of history like yourself thinks about it. I’ve asked this question to several others, and I’ve always received different answers. It’s very fascinating.”
A scholar of history? You felt embarrassed at how your heart lifted at hearing yourself described as such.
“Well, if you don’t mind listening to the opinions of an untrained layman like me, Monsieur...”
You cleared your throat and began to launch into the theory you had been brewing inside your head for several years. As you talked, the two of you walked out of the elevator and into the main hall, where people gawked at the Chief Justice listening attentively to a plain-looking woman prattling on about Remus and Boethius.
You noticed none of these things, for you had gotten too carried away with the excitement of finally having the opportunity to express your opinion on things that you actually cared about. You also didn’t notice the soft amusement in Neuvillette’s eyes as he observed you.
“...And so, I believe that Remuria might have lasted for much longer if those in power didn’t covet the things that weren’t meant for them, and instead focused their energies on preparing for their inevitable fate,” you concluded as the two of you neared the Café, then smiled up at him triumphantly. It was then that you realized that you had been the only one talking for the past fifteen minutes. “Oh, my apologies, Monsieur. I got carried away. It must have been dreadfully boring to hear me talk on and on.”
“Not at all. I was the one who asked, and it’s fascinating to hear such long-ago events from the perspective of a modern young lady. Have you ever considered becoming a historian or an archaeologist?”
Your good mood immediately faded upon hearing that. “No, Monsieur,” you said, sounding curter than you meant to. “I have not. Being a governess is my sole goal in life.”
Neuvillette seemed to sense your shift in mood, and the corners of his eyes lowered in regret. “My apologies. I have overstepped my bounds. But still, I do believe that the academic world is missing a brilliant mind like yours.”
You knew he was just being kind, but you still couldn’t help but feel a bit proud. And guilty. Your personal issues weren’t his problem. “Thank you, Monsieur.”
“I must admit, I had a very different impression of you from when we first met.”
“You did?” What he said baffled you. You always considered yourself to be a straightforward, “what you see is what you get” kind of person.
“Yes. I assumed you to be much more somber and cynical, but you’re nothing of that sort. You’re much livelier and passionate than you seem.”
“No, I’d say you were right the first time, Monsieur,” you said, amused. Lively and passionate were not words you had ever heard yourself associated with. “I think everyone acts different when they’re talking about the things they like, because they’re really talking about themselves. For instance, my sister loves to tease most of the time, but she gets deathly serious when it comes to shoes. I’m sure even you have moments like that, Monsieur.”
“No, I’m afraid not. My emotions are not so mutable or varied as yours.”
“Hmm…” you stared at him. It was true that his face wasn’t very expressive, but many people had said the same thing of you and assumed that you were unfeeling, which you knew wasn’t true. Perhaps it was the same for him.
The scent of coffee caught your attention as you realized that you were standing in front of the Café. “Ah, this is where I was heading, Monsieur. Would you like to, ah, join me?” you said awkwardly.
“I would be delighted to, but I am in fact invited to the opera house for a special performance, so unfortunately, I must decline.”
“A performance, huh. That sounds wonderful. Well, I mustn’t keep you then. Goodbye, Monsieur Neuvillette.”
“Goodbye, Miss [Name]. Have a lovely day.”
You watched him as he left. You had been looking forward to your reading time, but now you couldn’t help but feel a little lonely.
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“Congratulations, Miss [Name], you are successfully qualified as a Court of Fontaine-licensed governess.”
The Gestionnaire’s monotone voice did little to dampen your excitement! You did it! After all your hard work and perseverance, you had finally obtained what you longed for.
“Now, you will be placed on the waiting list.”
You felt your smile drop off your face. “Waiting list?”
“There is a large volume of applicants whose applications are waiting to be processed before yours. Not to mention, there is currently a surplus of governesses in Fontaine. You need to wait for the older ones to retire before taking their spots,” the Gestionnaire dropped their voice to a whisper. “I would advise you to reconsider your career aspirations. If you want, you can also be placed on the waiting list for schoolteacher licenses.”
You frowned. School teachers were a somewhat less respectable profession for noble ladies than governess. It wasn’t as bad as laborer or factory worker, but it was still cause for other nobles to gossip about your family behind their backs.
For poor, low-ranking nobles, a spotless reputation was as valuable as gold. Any perceived blemish could attach undesirable labels that would take generations to erase. You thought of your beautiful, angelic sister, smiling so happily with that viscount’s son. That fragile relationship could be so easily snuffed out by a single bad rumor.
There were other jobs open to you, such as lady’s companion. However, you knew yourself well enough to know that you wouldn’t last very long in a role like that.
But on the other hand, you were desperate. You needed to fulfill your role for the sake of your family’s future and your own.
“Okay, put me on that list too,” you nodded tightly. “How long is it?”
“For both lists, it would take at least a year before we reach your application.”
“A year!?” you said. You hadn’t intended to sound angry, but the Gestionnaire recoiled. You forced yourself to calm down. Getting angry wouldn’t help your case.
A year was far too long. You lived in a boarding house in the centre of the city, and your savings were running out quickly. You didn’t even know if you would be able to pay next month’s rent. As a governess, you were supposed to receive a stipend for the first few months after obtaining your license as you searched for work, but those hopes were now dashed.
You thanked the Gestionnaire and left the Palais Mermonia with heavy steps, eventually ending up at the Café Lucerne. You considered going to a tavern to drown your sorrows in drink but decided against it. You were angry and frustrated, yes, but not to the point of doing something so foolish.
So, instead of a nice bottle of alcohol, you ordered five bottles of Fonta. Maybe you could drown your sorrows with their refreshing taste instead.
You slumped in your chair as you guzzled down the first bottle. You didn’t get it. You had worked so hard to fulfill the role granted to you by fate, and yet an obstacle was inexplicably placed on your path. It was such an inoffensive, unassuming role, so why...?
And what were you going to do from now on?
You could go home. Your family lived in a small town that was some distance away from the Court of Fontaine. But you would rather not. You had moved out in the first place to alleviate the financial burden on your family, and if you did move back, you would have to endure your mother’s tireless attempts to find you a husband.
You tilted your head back and stared up at the sky. It was a clear blue, not a single cloud in sight. It felt like it was mocking you.
Just then, a pale face framed with long silver hair blocked your sight. Lilac eyes looked down into your own.
Of course he would be the one to witness your current state. You wouldn’t be surprised if you went home and found him in your sitting room at this point.
“Hello, Monsieur Neuvillette,” you stood up and curtseyed half-heartedly. “As you can see, I’m no state to keep you company today. Please feel free to converse with someone else."
Neuvillette did not leave, but instead surveyed your surroundings. His brow furrowed at the bottles of Fonta.
He sat down across from you.
“My apologies for being so presumptuous, but I simply cannot stand by and watch you in such a state. Please, tell me what is distressing you.”
You stared at him. He was leaning forward, his eyes brimming with concern. Even though you barely knew him and was still considering just excusing yourself and leaving...
You sat back down and told him what just happened and your current circumstances. As you did so, you felt hot tears building up at the back of your eyes. You squeezed your eyes in a desperate attempt to stop them from coming out. You prided yourself on never crying, on taking what life threw at you without complaint. But there was also another reason, something you were surprised to admit even to yourself.
You didn’t want Neuvillette to see you cry.
It was a pathetic wish, but you wanted to show your best side to him. You wanted him to keep being impressed by you.
You didn’t know if Neuvillette picked up on your feelings. You hoped not. If he tried to comfort you, you would really lose control.
It felt colder than it did a few seconds ago. The area darkened; the shadows of clouds casted onto the ground. You could hear the people around you discussing if it was going to rain. Perfect. You would welcome rain at this point.
Neuvillette didn’t say anything for a while after you finished talking. You wondered if he understood what you told him. Surely the Iudex, the highest authority figure in the land next to the Hydro Archon, would find the concept of financial issues foreign?
You decided to grab another bottle of Fonta. But just as you reached for it, Neuvillette’s hand blocked yours and gently placed it down on the table.
Unaware of your reeling, he spoke in a quiet voice. “I can see that you’re in an extremely difficult situation, Miss [Name]. It troubles me greatly.”
You simply nodded. What else was there to say.
“I would like to propose an... unorthodox solution to your problems. One that would be beneficial for both of us.”
You looked up at him at that. You had expected him to tell you to go back home and tell your parents what happened and obey their wishes. But Neuvillette himself was offering a solution? What could it be?
Every nerve in your body was telling you that this could lead to nothing good. You usually trusted your instincts, as they were always right, but currently you were desperate enough to listen to anything.
“What do you propose, Monsieur?”
“Marry me.”
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ell0ra-br3kk3r-writes · 4 months
Text
The Phoenix and the Crow
part twenty-six
pairing: kaz brekker x fem!reader
genre: neutral
el's thoughts: i'm absolutely heartbroken that we won't be getting a spin off or sab s3... but also insanely grateful for the content creators out there who continue to share their talents with us <3
masterlist
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Y/N felt like she and Kaz had become twin soldiers, marching on, pretending they were fine, hiding their wounds and bruises from the rest of the crew.
It took two more days of travel to reach the cliffs that overlooked Djerholm, but the going was easier as they moved south and toward the coast. The weather warmed, the ground thawed, and she began to see signs of spring. Y/N knew what the city looked like, having been before on quick missions. The docks were still crowded with ships, but it’s tidy streets marched to the water in orderly fashion, and the houses were painted in such colors- red, blue, yellow, pink- as if in defiance of the wild white land and the long winters this far north. Even the warehouses by the quay were wrought in cheerful colors. It looked like the city was made by fairies from her children’s books, everything was candy-hued and in its proper place.
“Cannon,” said Jesper.
Y/N turned and glanced up to where the Ice Court stood like a great white sentinel on a massive cliff overlooking the harbor.
Kaz squinted up at the big guns pointed out at the bay. “I’ve broken into banks, warehouses, mansions, museums, vaults, a rare book library, and once the bedchamber of a visiting Kaelish diplomat whose wife had a passion for emeralds. But I’ve never had a cannon shot at me.”
“There’s something to be said for novelty,” offered Jesper.
Y/N pressed her lips together, “Let’s say it’s not fun. I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Those guns are there to stop invading armadas,” Jesper said confidently. “Good luck hitting a skinny little schooner cutting through the waves bound for fortune and glory.”
“I’ll quote you on that when a cannonball lands in my lap,” said Nina.
They slipped easily into the traffic of travelers and traders where the cliff road met the northern road that led to Upper Djerholm. The upper town was a rambling extension of the city below, a sprawling collection of shops, markets, and inns that served the guards and staff who worked at the Ice Court as well as visitors.
Signs of Hringkalla celebrations were everywhere. The shops had created displays of pepper cookies baked in the shape of wolves, some handing like ornaments from large, twisting trees, and the bridge spanning the river gorge had been festooned with ribbons in Fjerdan silver. One way into the Ice Court and one way out. Would they cross this bridge as victors tomorrow?
“What are they?” Wylan asked, pausing in front of a peddler’s cart laden with wreaths made of the same twisting branches and silver ribbons.
“Ash trees,” replied Matthias. “Sacred to Djel.”
“There’s supposed to be one in the middle of the White Island,” said Y/N, ignoring the harsh glare the Fjerdan threw her way. Her voice was low and hard, the toll of their journey evidently forcing her back into her usual role as a soldier.
“It’s where the druskelle gather for the listening ceremony,” Nina continued.
Kaz tapped his walking stick on the ground as he stood beside the Inferni, leaning closer to her ever-so slightly. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
“The ash is sustained by the spirit of Djel,” said Matthias. “It’s where we may best hear his voice.”
“Kaz’s eyes flickered. “Not what I asked. Why isn’t it on our plans?”
“Because it’s the holiest place in all of Fjerda and not essential to our mission.”
“I say what’s essential. Anything else you decided to leave out in your great wisdom?”
“The Ice Court is a vast structure,” Matthias said, turning away. “I can’t label every crack and corner.”
“Then let’s hope nothing is lurking in those corners,” Kaz replied.
~
“Here?” Jesper complained, peering into the dank main room of the run-down tavern. The whole place stank of garlic and fish.
Kaz gave a significant glance upward and said, “Terrace.”
“What’s a gestinge?” Inej wondered aloud as she read the welcome sign.
“It means ‘paradise’,” said Matthias. Even he looked skeptical.
Y/N helped secure them a table on the tavern’s rooftop terrace. It was mostly empty, the weather still too cold to attract many patrons. Or maybe they’d been scared away by the food- herring in rancid oil, stale black bread, and some kind of butter that looked distinctly mossy.
Jesper looked down at his plate and moaned. “Kaz, if you want me dead, I prefer a bullet to poison.”
Nina scrunched her nose. “When I don’t want to eat, you know there’s a problem.”
“We’re here for the view, not the food.” Kaz spoke from beside Y/N.
She mously picked at her piece of bread, nibbling on it slowly. She had to agree with the others, the food was terrible, but it still wasn’t the worst she had had to eat before.
“We’re going to start looking conspicuous soon,” said Nina. “This isn’t the kind of place people like to linger.”
“Maybe they don’t have anyone to take to jail,” suggested Wylan.
“There’s always someone to take to jail,” Kaz replied, then bobbed his chin toward the road. “Look.”
A boxy wagon was rolling to a stop at the guardhouse. Its roof and high sides were covered in black canvas, and it was drawn by four stout horses. The door at the back was heavy iron, bolted and padlocked.
Kaz reached into his coat pocket. “Here,” he said and handed Jesper a slender book with an elaborate cover.
“Are we going to read to each other?”
“Just flip it open to the back.” Jesper opened the book and peered at the last page, puzzled. “So?”
“Hold it up so we don’t have to look at your ugly face.”
“My face has character. Besides- oh!”
“An excellent read, isn’t it?”
“Who knew I had such a taste for literature?”
Jesper passed it to Wylan, who took it tentatively. “What does it say?”
“Just look,” smiled Jesper.
Wylan frowned and held it up, then he grinned. “Where did you get this?’
Matthias had his turn and released a surprised grunt.
“It’s called a backless book,” said Kaz as Y/N took the volume from Inej and held it up.
She peered through. To the barmaid and the other patrons on the terrace, it looked like they were handing a book around, discussing some interesting passage. Instead Y/N had a close view of the gatehouse and the wagon parked in front of it. She lowered the book and looked at Kaz, a proud smirk gracing her lips. “Clever.”
He nodded and turned his head quickly, but not before she could notice the light red painting his cheeks.
“Four guards,” she said, nodding towards Matthias confirming what he had shared before.
“They’re the first line of deffence,” said Matthias. “They’ll check paperwork and confirm identities, flag anyone they think requires closer scrutiny. By this time tomorrow the line going through the gates will be full of Hringkalla guests and backed up all the way to the gorge.”
“By then we’ll be inside,” Kaz said.
They continued discussing the schedule of the wagons as Y/N lifted the backless book again. The wagon driverwore a gray uniform similar to the ones worn by the guards at the gate but absent any sash or decoration. He swung down from his seat and came around to unlock the iron door.
“Saints,” Y/N said as the door swung open. Ten prisoners were seated along benches that ran the wagon’s length, their wrists and feet shackled, black sacks over their heads. She felt the group’s apprehension rise. Only Kaz seemed unfazed.
“Hooded, chained, and shackled?” said Jesper. “You’re sure we can’t go in as entertainers?”
“We go in as we are,” said Kaz, “as criminals.”
~*~
taglist: @katherinereid @littlecat21 @jahayla-parker @maliciousbrekker @brekkershadowsinger @brekkers-desigirl @clunaes @wonderland2425 @bookloverfilmoholic @karensirkobabes @bookworm-center @el-de-phi @so-get-this-sammy
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tessa-liam · 6 months
Text
Marabelle
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It’s A Dream Come True
– Chapter 7
Choices – The Royal Romance, AU
Series Premise – An American teenager from New York City is introduced to the world of a small European country and its society of royalty, nobility, and commoners. How will her life story be transformed? Will this new adventure bring her happiness...or regret?
Marabelle Series Masterlist
Main Pairing – Prince Liam Rys x F!OC Sophia (Sophie) Taylor
Other Pairings – Maxwell Beaumont x M!OC Daniel (from NYC), Drake Walker x F!OC Melanie Smithson
Most characters belong to Pixelberry.
Series Rating – M*🔞Warnings: this series will have NSFW material, crude language & innuendo.
Not Beta’d - Please excuse all errors.
Category – Alternate universe/on-going series/angst/fluff
Words: 2393
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It’s A Dream Come True
Chapter 7
Chapter Summary – It’s the evening of the Masquerade Ball. Bertrand and Maxwell formally introduce Sophie to King Constantine as Lady Sophia of House Beaumont and officially joins the court as a noblewoman. Prince Liam and Sophie spend more time together and reach a milestone.
Music Inspiration:
When You Walk in the Room, Sanne Saomonse
A/N1: Bethany Beaumont, Maxwell’s mother, is originally from the U.S. and is Barthelemy Beaumont’s second wife. Annabelle Beaumont (deceased) is Bertrand’s mother.
A/N2: ‘Social Season’ in this AU series refers to a traditional period in the spring/summer for royalty and members of the court to take part in Balls, dinner parties and charity events.
A/N3: My submission for Choices Flashfics @choicesflashfics, Week #52, prompt 3 - “Well...that was/this is unexpected.”
A/N4: My submission for @choicesseptemberchallenge2023, @midnightmelodiz, Day 4 – Dreams, Day Dream, “I’m in love with you!”
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It’s A Dream Come True
Royal Gym, Cordonian Palace
In the heart of the palace, Liam and Drake were in the midst of an intense workout session. The Royal gymnasium was within an imposing chamber with high, vaulted ceilings, adorned with paintings of legendary battles and noble ancestors.
Liam adjusted the weights on the bench press and began to lift, his muscles straining against the resistance. Drake, spotting him, supplied encouragement.
“You’ve got this, Li! Remember, every rep gets you one step closer to looking dashing in that masquerade outfit.” Drake chortled with a grin.
Liam chuckled, grateful for Drake’s support. “I don’t know how I’d manage this without you, my friend. It’s not just about looking good at the ball, though. I want everything to be perfect for Sophie. This is a big night for her.”
Drake nodded, understanding all too well the pomp and circumstance of court events.
“Yeah, I feel you, buddy. Melanie has been talking about this ball non-stop. It’s like the Super Bowl of fancy parties, and I am determined not to embarrass her.”
Their conversation paused momentarily as they continued their workout, their thoughts on their respective relationships. While Drake thought about Melanie and their commitment to each other, Liam’s thoughts went back to his conversation with Sophie after the garden party.
‘Sophie, I’m glad you could make it.’
'Thank you for inviting me, Liam.’
'I hope you don’t mind my asking, but is everything all right? You seemed a little ... disturbed earlier.’
‘I must admit, running into your chest was not exactly how I envisioned starting a conversation today.’
'Nor I, but it was a pleasant surprise nonetheless.’
Sophie opened up about the events that had troubled her that day. She spoke about the pressures of court and the weight of expectations, and her encounter with Madeleine.
Liam knew and understood that the palace and the court can be overwhelming; even at times, for himself. He found that they had ‘common ground in unexpected places.’
This was why he was determined to get to know her better. He felt a connection with her and a shared understanding that went beyond their titles. Liam wanted to find out everything about her.
After finishing their sets, they retreated to the terrace to grab water bottles and fresh fruit. Liam sat down with a towel and wiped sweat from his brow. “Have you chosen your mask for the ball yet?” he asked Drake.
Drake scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Not yet, but I’ve been thinking something mysterious and intriguing. Melanie loves a good mystery, so I want to keep her guessing all night.”
Liam grinned. “All night, Drake? Really?”
“Yeah, maybe not all night,” Drake winked with a grin. Liam laughed taking a swig of water.
The Masquerade Ball
“Awe, Sophie... look at you!” 
Maxwell blurted excitedly, as he twirled her around to appreciate her gorgeous red ball gown.
Sophie blushed at Maxwell’s enthusiastic compliment, feeling a warm flutter of happiness in her chest. Her ball gown, with its intricate lace details and flowing skirt, had taken her hours to choose with Aunt Bethany, but it was worth it to see the delight in Maxwell’s eyes.
“Thank you, Max,” she replied, her voice soft and touched by his admiration. “You don't look too shabby yourself in that dashing suit.”
Maxwell chuckled and gave her a playful wink. “Well, I had to step up my game to match your elegance tonight. Wait until Liam sees you, little blossom,” he teased.
“Are we ready?” Bertrand inquired, stepping beside Sophie and his brother, offering his arm for her to take.
As Sophie slipped her arms with her cousins, Maxwell exclaimed, “let’s do this.”
The doors to the grand ballroom are opened, and the herald announces,
“Lady Sophia Taylor of House Beaumont, accompanied by Duke Bertrand Beaumont of Ramsford with Lord Maxwell Beaumont of House Beaumont.”
The Introductions continued, as each noble or noble couple made their entrance into the ballroom.
King Constantine and Queen Regina, seated on the raised dais, exchanged polite greetings and nods with each noble as they were presented, their regal presence commanding respect and admiration from all in attendance.
As Sophie, Bertrand, and Maxwell approached the royal dais, Sophie executed a graceful curtsy, her gown billowing elegantly as she lowered herself before the King and Queen.
Bertrand and Maxwell, the brothers by her side, performed deep and respectful bows.
King Constantine and Queen Regina acknowledged their gestures with warm smiles and nods of appreciation.
Prince Liam, who was standing to the right of the dais, could not help but smile as he caught Sophie’s eye after she had finished her graceful curtsy as she moved towards him. His smile was warm and friendly, a silent greeting that conveyed his pleasure at seeing her once again.
"My lady, you are a vision of beauty."
Sophie, her cheeks tinged with a subtle blush from his attention, returned Liam’s smile with a gentle one of her own. It was a small, private moment amidst the grandeur of the ballroom, but it spoke volumes of their connection and friendship in the midst of the royal event.
A soft gasp escaped her lips as he gently lifted her hand and pressed a tender kiss to it. Her heart fluttered at his chivalrous act, as she felt a rush of warmth and attraction towards him.
With a charming smile, Liam offered his arm to Sophie in invitation to join him in the ballroom. She gracefully accepted, her hand resting delicately on his arm as they entered the grand hall together, the music and festivities swirling around them.
Melanie, watching the pair stroll into the ballroom, could not take her eyes off them. Their presence captivated her completely.
“Do you want another drink, Mel?” Drake asked, trying to get her attention. His voice broke through Melanie’s trance, and she turned to look at him, momentarily torn between her fascination with Liam and Sophie and the offer of another drink.
“Oh, uh, yeah, sure,” Melanie replied, her gaze reluctantly leaving the couple as she refocused on Drake. “Thanks, Drake.”
As Drake shook his head and started to walk to the bar, Melanie could not help but steal another glance at the couple now across the room. Liam and Sophie looked so comfortable together, their laughter heard from across the hall. It was hard for Melanie to ignore the pang of jealousy that tugged at her heart.
Drake returned with a fresh drink in hand, offering it to Melanie with a warm smile.
“Everything okay?” he asked, concern clear in his eyes.
Melanie forced a smile, trying to shake off her feelings of longing. “Yeah, just lost in thought, I guess. Thanks for the drink, babe.”
He nodded understandingly, his stare lingering on her for a moment longer before he turned to talk with his sister, Savannah. Melanie took a sip of her drink, determined to enjoy the evening despite the twinge of heartache.
Melanie watched as Liam gracefully guided Sophie across the ballroom floor, their waltz a mesmerizing display of elegance. The couple moved with such synchronized grace that it seemed as if they were the only two people in the room. She could not help but feel a pang of envy at their obvious connection.
As they waltzed towards the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony, Melanie’s curiosity got the best of her. She decided to follow discreetly, making her way through the crowd and out onto the balcony as well. The cool night air greeted her, and she saw Liam and Sophie standing at the balcony railing, gazing out at the garden maze.
From her vantage point, Melanie could see the intricate pathways of the garden maze lit by soft, romantic lighting, when she felt a tap on her shoulder.
Startled, Melanie turned to see a royal guard standing behind her. She immediately straightened up and offered a polite smile.
“I’m sorry,” she said apologetically. “I didn't realize. I was just admiring the view.”
The royal guard nodded, his expression stern but professional. “I understand, Miss, but for security reasons, we need to keep this area clear. I’ll have to ask you to return to the main ballroom.”
Melanie nodded in understanding. “Of course, I didn’t mean to intrude. Thank you for letting me know.”  She turned to leave the balcony, casting one last glance at Liam and Sophie, but they were no longer there.
The Garden Maze
Sophie’s laughter echoed through the hedges as she darted around corners. Her gown billowing behind her. The scent of blooming flowers filled the air, and the distant sound of music from the palace mingled with the symphony of nature. Liam pursued her with playful determination, his eyes alight with mischief as he turned a corner.
He found Sophie, cheeks flushed with eyes sparkling, standing at a small clearing where a stone bench rested beneath a canopy of Ivy. Sophie, breathless but with an impish grin hiked up her gown, revealing her shapely legs and slipped off her heels.
“A lady must do what a lady must do,” she declared, her voice teasing. Liam couldn't help but chuckle, charmed by Sophie’s unpretentious spirit. He approached slowly, allowing himself to savor the moment.
“Well, this is unexpected,” Liam remarked, his voice laced with amusement.
Sophie's eyes twinkled mischievously. “You didn't think I let you catch me so easily, did you?”
Liam shook his head, feigning innocence. "Of course not. I just did not expect you to resort to such …  tactics.”
With a playful glint in her eyes. Sophie stepped closer. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, don't they?” She winked.
Their continued banter dissolved into shared laughter, filling the garden with an infectious joy. Liam took a step closer, his fingers lightly brushing against Sophie's as he reached for her.
“Well then, Lady Sophie, I shall have to employ my own tactics.”
As if in response, Sophie took a step back, her eyes dancing with anticipation.
“And what tactics might those be?”
With a sly smile, Liam lunged forward, but Sophie was quicker than he anticipated. She dodged his outstretched hand with a graceful pirouette, her laughter ringing out like a sweet melody.
 Their game of tag continued, each chase and evasion bringing them closer together, the connection between them growing stronger with every shared moment. The palace seemed a distant world, forgotten in the enchantment of their own private garden.
They finally paused, breathless, and flushed from their game of tag.
Liam’s gaze met Sophie's, and in that moment, the world seemed to fade away leaving only the two of them.
Their newfound love, unspoken yet palpable, hung in the air like fragrance of the surrounding flowers. It was a love that was blossoming amidst the twists and turns of the garden maze, a love that had taken root in their hearts.
Without a word, Liam took a step closer, his hand gently cupping Sophie’s cheek. She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed. Their lips met in a tender, unhurried kiss. Sophie's blue eyes met his as Liam wrapped his other hand around her waist to pull her closer. Their lips met again, this time with an urgency as Liam deepened the kiss; his tongue searching hers.
Beaumont Estate
It was early morning when Sophie awoke in her bedroom at House Beaumont. The dreams she had experienced that night were like fragments of a beautiful story unfolding into reality.
As the soft light filtered through the gauzy curtains, Sophie could not help but smile. She lay in bed, the memories of her adventures with Liam in the garden maze still fresh in her mind. The way he chased her, the laughter they had shared, and the kisses that had ignited a fire within her heart.
With a contented sigh, she pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She couldn’t linger in bed all day, no matter how tempting it was to stay in bed with her daydreams. ...but she knew Marabelle was waiting for her morning ride.
Sophie picked up a brush and began to brush her long, chestnut hair. Her reflection in the mirror seemed different now – happier, more alive. She remembered the laughter they had shared, the way Liam’s eyes sparkled when he looked at her, and the warmth of his embrace. In her thoughts...Liam, I think, I’m in love with you!
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📌@ao719 @txemrn @queenmiarys @sfb123 @twinkleallnight @alj4890 @differenttyphoonwerewolf @harleybeaumont @busywoman @karahalloway @kingliam2019 @imjusthereforliam @lovingchoices14 @kyra75 @tinkie1973 @emkay512 @malblk21 @kristinamae093 @charlotteg234 @irisk12 @walkerdrakewalker @choicesficwriterscreations @midnightmelodiz
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Text
Hope of Spring - Chapter 17
Also on Ao3! Find Ch. 16 here :)
The missive came two days later, summoning the High Lords and their chosen parties to the Dawn Court in a week’s time. It arrived at lunch, and Tamlin gave her the letter to read over once he realized what it was. They held hands as they read and ate, rarely apart for any period of time anymore. They still enjoyed that companionable silence, but every second was charged now with the most beautiful energy between them.
A week’s time. Hopefully enough.
The Night Court had decided to postpone any additional training for Penny while she rested and fully regained her powers. They would encourage her to continue training with Tamlin this week in the interim as she saw fit, but would resume normal lessons and their routine of visits once the meeting had passed. There had been no word yet on capturing anyone’s powers for her to touch or the tools to help her focus the power on the battlefield, but she assumed there would be answers at the meeting. In the meantime, Penny had a plan.
Tamlin needed to go out to the small town nearby to get a few things. He’d invited her along, but she declined, reasoning that her energy levels were still incredibly low, so she’d feel better taking one more afternoon to rest. He’d fussed over her endlessly, but ultimately relented and rode into town that afternoon after she’d called him “a hovering mother hen”. As soon as she watched his horse crest the final hill, she took off out of their bedroom, running straight to the kitchens and scaring the staff half to death.
“I need to make apple tarts! Can someone help me?” A mischievous smile of understanding dawned on Ira’s face.
“Of course, Miss Penny. Let’s get you started.” The rest of the kitchen kicked into action, getting all the necessary materials ready. They instructed her on the best practices, how much spice, the best pressure for the rolling pin, and the perfect width for the apples. They encouraged her, all knowing what reason she had for such a hasty treat. News of the mating bond had traveled fast through the manor after the battle, and she knew that they were all as eager to see their High Lord happy as she was.
When it was all done and cooking and the timer set, she thanked the staff profusely and sent them all on their way early. Ira had left some additional provisions in the kitchen available for a late night dinner, should they require it, and she left last with a final wink to Penny.
Penny raced back up the stairs as the sunset painted the windows in beautiful shades of blues and pinks, sprinting to the bath to remove all the flour from her hair as the tarts cooled in the kitchen. She knew he wouldn’t care what she looked like, but for this, she wanted to feel her best. She bathed more quickly than she ever had before, throwing various oils over her skin and hair and dunking herself below the water. She toweled her skin so quickly and thoroughly that it turned a bright pink from the friction. She braided her hair into a soft coronet with a few twisted tendrils to the side, and, for once, put on one of the beautiful dresses that Tally had purchased for her so long ago. It was a mix of deep greens, the embroidery of golden leaves twisting around the low collar and down the edges of the light cap sleeves. When she was finished, she turned to see herself in the mirror, looking every bit a Spring lady. She nodded once, took a deep breath, and vaulted back down to the kitchens.
____________________
When Tamlin arrived home not much later, Penny was sitting in the dining room, trying to calm her heartbeat in the candlelight. It’s not like you have anything to worry about. Calm down. She tried to take deep, steadying breaths as she sat in his seat at the head of the table, eyeing the doors and counting the footsteps until he reached her.
Realizing the lack of staff and dark house, he called out “Penny?”
“I’m in here!” She hated the way her voice cracked. Stupid.
He rounded the corner through the doors. “There you are. It’s dark as the—Penny,” he gasped out, immediately aware of what this was. She cleared her throat and stood, brushing her hands nervously over her skirts and grabbing the plate of tarts in front of her.
“Surprise?” She whispered, holding the platter up. He all but ran to her, stumbling on the last few steps and righting himself with a huff in front of her. He grabbed the plate, set it down, and grabbed her face in his hands.
“Truly? This is truly what you want?” The desperation and hope in his voice nearly brought her to her knees. He bent to press his forehead into hers.
“I have never wanted anything the way I want to be yours. I want all of Prythian to know. Let there be no doubt in their minds that I am yours, and you are mine.” She pressed a kiss to his lips as he laughed in relief and joy.
“This doesn’t feel real.” He turned and grabbed a tart, shoving the entire pastry into his mouth as she laughed. “I’m going to eat the whole plate before you change your mind.” She threw her head back laughing. Gods, but she loved him. Before he could make good on his promise and grab the whole plate, she gently gripped his wrist and brought it to her face, kissing lightly over his pulse and looking up into his eyes.
“I love you, Tam. Now take me to bed.” He didn’t need to be asked twice, picking her up at the waist and throwing her over his shoulder. He practically sprinted up the stairs, their laughter and joy filling the halls as they went.
They didn’t make it to the room. Halfway up the stairs, Penny began untucking his shirt and skirting her fingers around his waist to his abdomen, nearly causing Tamlin to trip up the final two steps. He laughed, getting a few more steps down the hall before setting her on her feet and immediately moving in to press her against the wall to kiss her, cupping his large hand against her jaw to tilt her head up.
She’d never tire of kissing him, her tongue dipping into his mouth to taste the remnants of the apple tarts within. Every kiss between them was always enmeshed with the busy hum and spark of their magic, but there was an urgency this time in the way their lips met, their hands gripping each other. She reached between them, pulling his shirt up over his head, barely breaking their kiss to breathe as she did. Their hands roamed hotly across each other as his settled on the laces of her dress, tugging them strategically and loosening the dress in two quick pulls as she smiled against his lips.
With a quick motion, he’d hoisted her up against him, her legs wrapping by instinct around his body as he mouth found his neck and he sighed into her hair. She placed hot, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw and beneath his ear as he walked further down the hall, finding a recessed shelf and carelessly tossing the vase residing on it back into the hall with a crash, settling Penny down onto it instead. He pulled the dress down off her shoulders, bunching it around her waist and leaning down to kiss her collarbones.
Penny tossed her head back as he took a nipple into his mouth, sucking gently and letting his hands fall to her waist to pull her forward. She ran her hands through his hair, not bothering to stifle the contented hums that passed through her lips since she’d sent everyone away. He was hers, and this was theirs.
Tamlin continued his steady descent down her body, pressing kisses to her ribs, stomach, then hips. He looked up to her, eyes ablaze, as he told her to lift her hips, pulling the layers of dress between them down and tossing the whole thing over his shoulder as she giggled. He slid his hands up her thighs, pausing to grip and squeeze as he went. There was no prelude as he pressed his mouth to her, licking a stripe up her underwear as he reached into the waistband to tug those down her legs, too, never breaking eye contact with her as he did.
Her breathing was heavy, and the urge to tip her head back and close her eyes nearly overwhelmed her, but she stayed focused on him. Her mate, looking up at her with adoration and reverence in his eyes, not even forty feet from where she’d come barreling through the ceiling and into his life months ago. He pressed a brief kiss to her, causing her to shudder, but he didn’t let her recover before he dove back in, devouring her with firm flat licks and making her give up the last of her resolve to keep her eyes open. She leaned back on her left hand, her right winding through his hair as he pressed against her, driving her mad with the sensation of it.
She was climbing that high fast, so fast she could barely hang on as the pleasure soared through her, robbing her of all cognitive thought. He was equally enthusiastic, grabbing beneath her thighs and tossing her legs over his shoulders as he gripped her ass and pulled her closer to the ledge, her moans ringing out through the empty hallway. She could feel his emotions mingling with hers down the bond, every thought and pleasure ripping through her like an echo chamber. It was enough to brutally push her over the edge, grinding against his mouth as she gasped and came.
He didn’t give her a second to breathe and she didn’t want one. The urgency inside her, the need to claim him, had her shuffling down off the shelf immediately, already grabbing for him to pull him closer. But Tamlin was already there, his hands over her hips, turning her body around and tipping her forward. He ran his mouth up her neck as he pulled her back against him.
She was so out of control, so insanely wet and thrumming with desire that it took only a single push to sheath himself within her. She arched back, her hands seeking the ledge in front of her, as she accommodated the sudden change. He was there, hands stroking up and down her sides, lips finding the spot below her ear she so enjoyed. She couldn’t take it anymore–couldn’t wait.
“Please, I need–” But he was already moving, already reading the direction of her thoughts and giving her exactly what her body asked for–grasping her hips tightly and thrusting into her wildly as she hung on for dear life. “Gods, yes. Please, don’t stop,” she begged as he placed kisses along her neck and shoulder, causing her to gasp as he bit into her, her head falling back against him as she arched up. The sounds she made were unintelligible, his moans into her neck spurring her on, grinding back to meet his thrusts in time.
“You’re mine,” he growled, his hand crawling up her body to grip her neck as his pace grew frantic. “My mate.”
“Yes! Oh, yes. I’m yours.” She screamed into the hallway. His other hand released her hip to stroke sharp circles against her clit and that was all it took to have her exploding into stars. She couldn’t see, couldn’t feel, couldn’t tell anything happening around her–was only aware of the meeting of their bodies, the magic coiling together sharply and the bond thrashing widely between them, bursting with golden light as he came inside her and moved his arms to hold her close to him as they came down.
When their breathing calmed, he picked her up gently, forsaking their clothes and carrying her to their room, placing the gentlest of kisses along her neck as they went. He set her down softly in the bed, leaving to walk to the bathroom and get a soft cloth to clean them up. He took great time and care with Penny, her eyes half lidded and dreamy as she made room in the bed for him. He crawled in, tucking them both in and pulling her to his chest. They fit together like they always had, a lock and key, two halves of one whole.
As they lay in the bed together, Tamlin spoke into the dark. “Come with me to this meeting. Help me make the right choices this time. My mistakes in the past came from a lack of trust, but I trust you.”
She took a deep breath of him, savoring his smell, now intrinsically mixed with hers. “Of course I’ll come. I’d go anywhere you asked.”
___________________
The next week passed in a blur. Occasionally, they would surface to find some food or even venture outdoors for a bit to claim they’d spent at least some time training. But most of their attempts dissolved fairly quickly and moved back to the house once they got within a few inches of each other.
Though magical training had been put at somewhat of a standstill, with the return of her ability to wield, Penny was noticing that some things had changed.
“Tam, are you able to wield fire?” She asked one day, leaning backward off the side of their bed as he tended to the fireplace.
“No, it’s an Autumn trait, so unless there’s a mixing of familiar lines, almost no one in Spring can.” He watched her as she flicked her wrist, producing a small flame that danced between her fingers before she tossed it into the open fireplace. She rolled to look at him.
“It’s been days since I’ve seen Lucien. I think I am beginning to retain some powers even after the fact somehow. Come touch me.” Amusement and intent filled the smile he shot her.
“Gladly, my lady.” He spoke, as he rose to come to the bed. She scoffed, sitting up and holding her hand out.
“Incorrigible. Can’t you go an hour without bedding me?” She said, teasingly. He leaned in to grab her hand and lightly kiss her on each cheek.
“No. I cannot.” He murmured lowly. She sighed, leaning into him.
“Good, me neither. Let me just try something first.” He pulled back and she lifted her hand, shifting so that scales covered it, then feathers. She shifted back into her normal form, then produced the fire again.
“We should bring this up to Rhys at the meeting.” She stated, pulling the flame back in. “I wonder who else this extends to.” She looked at him, sighing, then leaned in for another kiss. “Now, it does seem we’re reaching the end of that hour.” She spoke against his mouth. He grinned against her lips.
__________________
As the High Lord’s meeting grew closer, the two spent their time planning how to present a cohesive front. Tamlin explained the last meeting there left the remaining High Lord’s wary of him. He wanted to start fresh, put forward that he truly was working for the greater good and that he was ashamed of who he’d been the last time. He wanted them to believe how hard he was trying.
Penny reassured him that she would be there for him each step of the way, and they came up with a number of signals in the form of hand squeezes should things start to veer out of control.
“I am so lucky to have you with me.” He murmured into her lips long after the sun had set as they sat together in the bath. They had one more day to prepare before their departure to Dawn, and they planned to go into the village tomorrow to see how repairs were going and offer any help as needed. They’d had the kitchens prepare extra food the past two days so that they might bring some food to the families in the village working hard to rebuild after the attack from Autumn.
“The feeling goes both ways. Are you nervous for the meeting?”
“Incredibly so. But I am relieved that you’ll be with me. I would have been ashamed to go alone again after the last time.” She turned and pressed a kiss to his chest, looking up through wet lashes into his eyes. “But more so, I am glad to have you with me. It’s been centuries too long of me being in charge of the decisions on Spring’s behalf. I need someone smart to do that for me.” She splashed him with water, but then leaned in and kissed the drops off his face.
“As long as I am here, you’ll never have to do it alone again.” And he knew she meant it.
____________________
Penny and Tamlin ventured into the town with horses carrying loads of food for the people at mid morning. The town was better off than she had imagined it would be. She’d been so singularly focused during the battle that she hadn’t seen how far Autumn had breached into the village itself, but fortunately, the damage seemed to have been mostly on the fields and hills.
A few buildings had already been fixed, new wood and stone standing out among the buildings. It seemed the last place to fix was the community hall in the town square, where many had already congregated in the morning sun to fix the roof and the upper side. They tied their horses, and Tamlin went to offer his help while Penny went to let some of the townspeople know that there was food for them if they’d like to come to the square. When she returned, a line had formed and Tamlin was helping to haul stones to complete the center.
He, of course, was shirtless in the heat, as was every other man helping, but she decided to busy herself distributing the food lest she let the newly-accepted mating bond cause her to do something in public she’d regret. Instead, she focused on the people coming to get food. She spoke to everyone who approached, remembering some she’d met before and learning the names of others. She talked with women and held babies and discussed how conditions had been in the town. She took mental notes of some items to discuss with Tamlin when they arrived back at the manor, and, towards the late afternoon when the building was finishing up, she sat with a group of children and helped them weave flower crowns on the edge of the community garden.
Tamlin came back over to her, gulping water and looking every inch a High Lord, much to her self-restraint’s chagrin. He placed his hands on her shoulders and squeezed as the young children looked up to him in reverence. A small girl with a missing tooth and a boy, only slightly older, looking similar enough to be her elder brother, came up to them. The boy spoke excitedly to them.
“We saw you holding the line against Autumn.” The boy spoke to Tamlin. “You didn’t even have the right armor, but you held the line and you kept my family safe.” Tamlin looked surprised as he crouched to the boy’s eye level. “Thank you for coming to fight for us.”
“I am your High Lord, I will always come to fight for you.” He inclined his head toward the boy, whose eyes widened in shock. The little girl pushed forward and shoved a flower crown into Penny’s hands.
“You burned the High Lord of Autumn alive!” She rasped with enthusiasm through missing baby teeth. “With his own fire. AND you saved the High Lord. I want to be just like you when I grow up.” Penny laughed with amusement, but she could feel her eyes begin to water as she took in the children all looking at them–at Tamlin looking at her with such pride and love. “My Papa called you the Savior of Spring!”
Another small voice chimed in. “Mine, too!” Our Savior of Spring!” Penny’s heart could have exploded, and as Tamlin took her hand they both stood. He pressed it to his mouth with a kiss as he declared. “That’s right. Our Savior of Spring.”
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chunkypossum · 16 days
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Come Hel or High Lord: Ch 6
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Chapter 6: Buzzards and Banter
Words: 3600
Reminder: This is a crossover between all SJM series. So spoilers for TOG, ACOTAR, and CC
Summary:
Aelin is that bitch ... that is all.
Snippet below the cut. Read on Ao3
“I tried to get her to rest 2 hours ago and she refuses to stop.” Adeion continued. “I was afraid that she had been nearing a burn out an hour ago but…” Aedion had his attention now, Rowan sliced an iced edged stare in his direction. “But what?” Continuing to monitor the fight below, Aedion didn’t meet his eyes. “She- I don’t know. It was as if she reached that burn out, the bottom of her well of power, and punched a hole through it just so she could keep going.”  “That’s not possible.” Rowan let his breath stream slowly from his nose in an effort to calm himself.  If he didn’t approach her correctly, she would never listen to him. As it was, Aelin had abandoned Aedion’s help and advice in favor of the more indulgent members of her court. He was going to have to have a talk with Fenrys.  Fine, if she wanted a challenge, she would get it.  He cracked his neck on one side, then the other, a growl rumbling low in his chest as a very Fae smile etched itself into the corners of his mouth. On silent feet, Rowan crept backwards a few paces before springing forward and vaulting himself off the balcony they had been perched on. There was a flash of light and he soared on near silent wings toward her back, sending a gust of wind towards her. When it was only a handful of inches from knocking her on her ass, a wall of fire rose up to meet it, sending Rowan pulling up high into the sky, screeching. He dove straight down, angling at the top of her head. He veered swiftly to the right then the left as arrows of fire shot up towards him. Aelin hadn’t moved from her position but her two sparring partners had discreetly seen themselves out.  Using a great blast of wind to slow his fall, Rowan shifted again, landing hard on his feet directly in front of her, panting, smiling.  A wicked grin crossed her face, “Came to play?” 
This is a cross over fic so a giant cast of characters and a big stupid storyline but Azris is my main bitch in this fic so ...Holla at ya boi if you want on or off the Azris tag train : @talibunny30 @iftheshoef1tz @born-to-riot @pathfinderofnight @fell-in-luvs @fieldofdaisiies @aktrain @honeysuckle-daydreams13 @secret-third-thing @acourtofladydeath @pippsmcgee @youvereachedthenearest-lovergirl @baileybird71 @skyesayshi
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theoasisspringsroyals · 4 months
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KING MARCUS HOSTS STATE BANQUET FOR WILLOW CREEK ROYALTY
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His Majesty King Marcus, alongside his uncle and heir to the throne, Prince Ruberto, and Ruberto's wife, Kiara, Archduchess of Newcrest, hosted a splendid state banquet to honor the esteemed guests from the Kingdom of Willow Creek— His Majesty King Orson and Queen Mother Anna.
The opulent affair, held in the grand halls of Windamere Palace, brought together the finest of Oasis Springs's court and Willow Creek's dignitaries. The banquet was a testament to the enduring bonds of family and diplomacy, as both monarchs navigated their shared grief over the tragic losses of their fathers this year.
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Her Royal Highness, Kiara, graced the occasion wearing the illustrious Cerulean Diamond Tiara and Necklace, a favorite from the royal vault and notably cherished by Pearl, The Queen Mother. As the wife of the heir to the throne, Kiara's access to the Royal Vault has been expanded, allowing her to adorn herself with the kingdom's most treasured jewels.
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Pearl, The Queen Mother, radiated elegance in the Pearlscent Blossom Tiara and its matching necklace from her own Royal Collection. The Pearlscent Blossom set holds a storied history, famously gifted to Queen Pearl by her late husband, His Majesty King Meaux, as a wedding present. The jewels were handcrafted by King Meaux himself, a testament to his love for Queen Pearl and a homage to her unique name - a name he insisted on celebrating through the exquisite jewel set.
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The Pearlscent Blossom tiara, along with its earrings and necklace, has become a symbol of enduring love within the Oasian court. As the banquet unfolded, it became clear that beyond the glittering gems and lavish settings, this gathering was a poignant celebration of both the past and future of the interconnected monarchies.
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casuallivi · 2 years
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Azriel Week 2022. Day 5. Ships (elriel)
Prelude: The Whims of Fate, The Wills of Fae
This fic can also be read as a prelude to The Things You Like, The Ones You Don't. The opening act was polished with the help of this gem ;) Hope you guys enjoy the ride, you can let me know your thoughts anytime ;)
Summary:  His life is harsh, his job is strenuous, his responsibilities are endless. His relief is one and only.
Warnings: explicit language, violence. Set during ACOFAS.
Word Count: 3853
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Velaris. Two months after Solstice.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The slow rhythmic drip of water brought Leon back to conscious. He wheezed, the coppery stench in the air making he realize it wasn’t water that dripped. Blood. Blood dripped down his nose, splattering on the cold stone. His former chains were discharged a couple feet from his mangled body, for Leon was slowly dying on the unfamiliar floor. His lungs expanded, trying to collect air, and Leon moaned painfully, the shattered ribs radiating pain all over his torso with every little amount of air that he managed to pull in. He tried to move, but all he could do was wheeze a painful breath. Everything hurt. He couldn’t feel one of his arms.
His face was a mess, his cheekbones sunk into the muscles, his nose a pulp of blood, his eyes so swelled, it took him a moment to manage to see through the blood coagulating in his eyeballs, the glimpse of white bone poking thought his left arm sucking another painful whimper out of him, his loose teeth flooding his mouth with blood. Leon didn’t even have enough strength left to spit it. He gagged on it, a silent pray for the gods dying between his useless unmovable lips. Mother, spare your child. Cauldron, have mercy on your son. They would not hear him. The subterrain cells buried deep down the confines of Hewn Mountain was not a place the gods could reach. No. Only the scum earned that privilege.
The events of the day blurred in his feeble mind. It seemed like a life time ago when Leon was captured within the borders of Night Court after making his trade in Day. Getting caught wasn’t an ideal situation, but Leon was your usual thief. He was a master of his craft, and escape was an art he had perfected along the centuries. He went as far as escaping from the infamous Illyrian general during the last war, avoiding the military draft as the rest of the losers in his village.
The Mother knew Leon was a big male, meant for a big destiny. Dying as a nobody, in the middle of a war that had nothing to do with him, was not in his plans. So what if they had him in hold for now? He would escape anyways. Leon was a tall male, but he wasn’t a burly tug who couldn’t go by unnoticed, solving his problems with his fist. His body was slender with finely build muscles, his brown eyes and black hair granting him the perfect common features to be dismissed in a crowd without a second glance, the adversities on the way being solved with the help of his cunning intellect. That, and the bit of coercive magic he was born with.
Blink once, he slashed the pocket of coins from your breeches. Blink twice, he was gone among the mass of bodies. Despite the fact he could steal without attracting attention, Leon had no desire to remain as a measly pocket picker. He built a fame for himself, accepted jobs not even the sliest of thieves would dare to attempt, he even robbed from the vaults of the High Lord of Spring. In time, his fame rendered him a few apprentices, they formed a little group, which later on grow into a massive band of thieves, tricksters, traders, messengers, mercenaries and killers. Whatever you needed, the Hel Raising Faes could got you, and Leon was their leader. The master of all crafts.
He remembered laughing earlier that evening, dumbfounded at the insult of being put in regular iron chains, the same material one would use to bound a lesser fae. How dare these assholes think such a primitive holder would keep him down? They would need magic-restrictive chains to hold a high rank male like him, even then Leon would not be going down without a fight. As every good thief, Leon took notice of all the details while being dragged down the dungeon. He counted two exits placed on opposite end of the corridor, ten holding cells displayed on each side of his block, all of them awfully silent as if there wasn't a single prisoner behind those doors. Which couldn't be true since Leon could hear them breathing, even catching a pair of golden eyes caged by an open hatch.
The Illyrian guard in charge of him pushed Leon through an open door. He bid his time, looking around the badly lit cell, taking in the four dark damp stone walls covered slick mold. Despite having heard the guards talking about his interrogation, Leon noted the lack of structure and torturing devices in the room. No hooks on the wall or the ceiling to hang a prisoner, no metal table displaying sadistic gear, no roaring fire with metal spikes to burn him. In fact, the only things in the cell were Leon, the guard, and two simple chairs. He scorned at them.
The guard shoved him down the wood chair and left. Leon watched him close the metal door, judging the quadrangular hatch big enough to stick a head. Fucking idiots. If you could stick a head, the rest of the body goes with ease. He waited for the familiar sound of a key turning, a lock being put in place. He heard nothing but the steps of his jailor getting farther.
Inching forward on his chair, Leon noticed two things. 1) The chair wasn't fixed on the stone floor, but simply put there, as one would place a piece of run-down furniture in a tavern; 2) He wasn't bound to the meek chair, his arms were only wrapped around the back, his wrists trapped together. With a furious snarl he snatched the chains, kicking the chair with rage, the thing coming apart as it collapsed against the back wall. Leon spit on it. How dare them threat him as if he was just a common thief caught in Night soil. He was the fucking leader of Hel Raising Faes, for fucks sakes, he–
"I see you renounced your privilege of sitting." Leon whirled back to see the other chair was no longer empty, a male sat there. He squinted at him. The cell was dark, but he should have been able to see his features from this distance, yet, he could see nothing except for the vague shape of a male, as if darkness itself molded around him. “Pity.”
Leon’s upper lip peeling over his teeth, a warning growl directed at the unknow male.
“Who the fuck you supposed to be? The headsmale?” he laughed at his own joke.
The male didn’t respond. Instead, he reached inside his jacket to pull out an object Leon knew well. The solid gold brass knuckles, with sharp spikes on the edges, glinted in his hands, the letters HRF, with flames burning behind it, inscripted on the side were carved by him.
"That's mine," he growled in warning.
"Is it?" The male twirled the brass. "I see you are a talker, then,” he threw the brass up and caught it in the air. “Tsk. That’s no fun.”
“I’m not a fucking talker.” Leon rebuked offended, puffing his chest.
He knew what this male was doing, trying to rill him up, scare him with the possibility of torture. Leon wasn’t stupid, they need him lucid and willing if they wanted to find the human whores, they would not lay a finger on him. “I’m not saying shit.”
“I’m counting on it,” the other sneered darkly.
The male inched forward, darkness bending and molding to revel a big pair of wings unfurling on his back, talons scratching the ceiling in their wake, denouncing him as another Illyrian, but not any Illyrian. A glow of blue flickered at the height of his chest, Leon’s eyes growing wild. Shit, fuck, shit. It wasn’t darkness he was willing, it were shadows. Shit!
A drop of cold sweat ran down his face watching the Shadowsinger’s face emerging in front of him, his eyes promising anything but mercy, holding Leon’s gaze as he slid his gold brass knuckles over his bronzed scarred fingers. Leon did not even had time to take a step back before he moved, his massive frame blurring as his fist collapsed with Leon’s jaw so strongly, he felt the bone disjointing. His mouth sagged open as he watched his jailor in shock. A rattling noise shook the cavernous cell, Leon emitting a strangled sound as a swarm of shadow began to descend from the walls, infiltrating from under the door cracks, the open hatch. Suddenly, the air staled, all light consumed from the cell while darkness embraced his piercing screams.
Outside the room, prisoners recoiled within their cells listening to Leon shouts for mercy, each one of them remembering what it meant to receive a personal visit from the Shadowsinger. He’d play with his pray. Put them in weak chains, feeding their wet dreams about an easy escape, let them bluff and puff your chest thinking they could outsmart Night Court’s intelligence. Sometimes he even let them wander around the labyrinth of dark corridors under the mountain. In the end there was no escaping this place, there was only him; The Shadowsinger. His cursed frame emerging from the dark, his devious shadow-hounds doing his bidding, his centuries of experience feeding from fae souls
Leon cried louder.
A prisoner shuddered.
No.
It was never a good thing to be a newcomer received by the Shadowsinger.
+
Azriel was morose and silent as he touched the town house door handle, waiting spelled-door recognized him. He’d been tracking every step of that insufferable band of thieves for months, his intelligence network working to eliminate every wicked branch of it. Tonight, he had finally come face to face with the slave traders, their leader slipping through Night border, in a messy attempt to escape, as he planned. Azriel left his spies taking care of the arrests, dedicating his time to locate the human victims hidden.
It wasn’t unusual for Children of the Blessed to fall into fae traps, their love for the race leading them to believe in promises that would never be fulfilled, happy ever after in the arms of a prince or princess. Learning their weakness, and counting on the easier access to the Human Lands without the barrier of the wall, the despicable leader of HRF created a network to smuggle humans. He’d lure the believers with pretty vows, bounding them into a life of misery and slavery. Only after he found the remaining humans, freed them and place in a proper shelter, did he return for Leon. If he closed his eyes, Azriel could still see them. Smell them. Dozens of humans kept in deplorable conditions, pressed together in a small pension room, malnourished children crying in their own filth, hopelessness and hunger bleeding from their gazes.
To be filthy, hungry and locked in a cell. Azriel knew what it was like, knew the mark it leaves on you. Maybe that’s why he chose to spend an especial evening with Leon, or maybe he was just a bigger of a monster as him. A monster who fed from pain. Azriel ran a hand throw his hair and crossed the foyer, doing his best to forget the memories trying to resurface, his shadows crooning for to sleep as they usually did. Sleeeeep. Sleeeeep. He would do just that once he reached the spared room on the second floor. He and Cassian stayed mostly in the house of wind now that the sister moved down here, but tonight Azriel was too tired to fly all the way back to there, his wings heavy and his muscles strained from days of flying nonstop –and if he was lucky, he could get a glimpse of Elain during breakfast. Yes, shadow-walking here had been a good choice. He was still thinking about he when he felt her.
Elain.
He usually felt her before he saw her. The scent of jasmine assaulting him quicker than Cassian’s jab during a sparring. It was unmistakably hers. Not the suave aroma one could scent the flower, but a deep lingering fragrance only carried by her, pleasant sugary notes of honey blending with it, the delicious mix arousing a variety of emotions within. Azriel found her sitting on top of the stairs with the faelights off. The dark did nothing to hide her from him, tho. That’s how he saw Elain was wearing pants, pajama pants, but pants nonetheless. His stiffness gave place to verve as he climbed the stairs, watching her. She was covered in a fluff grey wool pajama, hugging her knees, her feet guarded by a pair of polka dotted socks, her cheek pressed to the wall, honey colored tresses partially veiling sleepy doe eyes that blinked in and out of conscious. How could a female look so delicious and so adorable at same time?
Azriel chuckled quietly attracting her attention. Elain blinked at the sight of him, the softest of breaths escaping her parted lips, her head almost hitting the rail in her hurry to sit straight. She scanned him from head to toe, wild brown eyes cataloging every piece of him. He reached her in no time, retuning the small smile she gave him, extended his silent shield towards her, keeping their voices from the rest of the house. “You are up late.”
“So are you.”
The way she looked up to him was so innocent, her intentions so clear and honest, Azriel found himself reaching for her hand, Elain accepting his without a second of hesitation. For a moment he forgot how deeply covered in blood they’ve been moments ago, how truthfully he had to scrub himself to feel clean. When he remembered, he felt no urge to push back and hide his hands as he so often did in the pass. No, Azriel held her tighter, making sure she was real and not just a product of his sleep deprived imagination.
As if she felt his need for reassurance, Elain squeezed him back. She was real. She was here. Had she known he would come? Was she waiting for him? His mind spun with questions, yet he asked none of them, patiently waiting for her to finish cleaning her bottom.  
“Come. Let me walk you.” a stupid request to make, since her room was a couple of steps away, and he had to pass by it to get into the guest one. He just wanted to touch her all the way there. He could make twelve steps last for an eternity if he put his mind to it.
Except Elain didn’t share the sentiment.
“No,” she replied simply. Azriel tensed, his hand hanged loose, horrific confusion bathing his face as he tried to withdraw his fingers, which were laced with her. Elain held back. “Because I will walk you.”
Azriel placed his free hand on his chest, his tension dissolving in a nervous laugh. He almost cursed. Almost. “0x1, Archeron.”
Elain gave him a shit eating grin, the mischief in her brown orbs lightening the space between them. Her contagious joy emanated to him, so obvious he could feel it blooming in his own chest, happy and bright as her smiles. The rich sensation spread further along his body as they walk the short walk to the end of the hall, their feet almost dragging on the carpet, his shadows disappearing on his trail, leaving him and his sweet flower alone –save for the rest of their family, sleeping in their respective bedrooms, not that Azriel cared for any of them at the moment.
Once they reached the bedroom, Elain was the one to open the door in a single swipe, letting him pry to what was inside. To his utter surprise, the room was tidy despite the fact that it been a while since anyone slept in it. The window was ajar, letting the moonlight in, the floor was shiny, the bed had clean sheets, a suave fragrance perfuming the air. His eyes darted to the bedside table, noting the two items on top of it. A small crystal vase replete with tiny blue flowers, and mug of tea, steam rising above the rim. Still warm. Azriel eyed the flowers again. His throat bobbed. He had spent enough hours in Elain’s company as she piped about flowers and theirs meaning, to recognize those particular cobalt blossoms. Forget-me-nots.  
This was not the view of a barely visited guest bedroom, this was the view of a room ready for use. A room for someone who was expected. Wanted. Elain was watching him carefully, waiting for him to say something. When he didn’t, she spoke for him.
“I wasn’t sure,” she wetted her lips, feeling nervous for the first time tonight, her tone getting serious. “I just…I had this feeling,”
“That I needed to crash here?” he lifted a brow playfully, trying to lighten the crease in hers.
Elain shook her head, determinate to not let him downplay the urgency of her gut feeling.
“That you needed to rest.” Words came and die in the tip of his tongue.
Elain hadn’t been able to sleep properly tonight. She tossed and turned in bed the whole time, strange shapeless creatures chasing smoke and mirrors. She felt tired to the bone. She got up after a while, deciding a warm drink might help her to slumber. Instead of going down, to the kitchen, her feet guided her to the side, the empty bedroom calling to her. Angst heaved in her chest when she pushed the door open. The place felt abandon. Her heart ache looking at it. There was no way one could have a pleasant rest inside. This would not do.
A sudden necessity to warm the place assaulted her, and before she knew it, Elain was spreading the windows wide open, letting the night breeze sweep the cold creeping in the corners. She replaced the dusty brown bedding with one of her freshly-washed ones, a cozy cream-colored combination that smelled like roses and felt like clouds. She even brewed passionflower, pouring the soothing tea in an especial mug created to keep the temperature perfect for hours. Once she was done, Elain sat on the top of the stairs and waited. Deep down she knew who she was doing this for, knew who she was waiting.
Azriel eyed Elain. Back on the house of wind, the headache powder was placed on his nightstand with the reverence of a trophy. Whenever he slept there, Azriel would glance at vial in the wee hours of night, memories of her flooding his mind as they constantly did. Now here she was, presenting him a cozy room that smelled like home. Once again, she rendered him vulnerable without warning. One word from her being enough to disarm him. This type of vulnerability could be exploited by his enemies, could cost his life and countless others in a battlefield. Yet, he didn’t feel the need to pretend not being shaken, nor the need to hide behind his shadows. Being unraveled by Elain Archeron was unlike anything he had ever experienced. From her, he had no need to hide the cracks of his armor, from her, he had no wish to shield his mind and never let her pry to his insecurities.
For the first time in many centuries of being a spymaster, Azriel felt something other than anger at the possibility of being exposed. He felt relief. Behind his back, his wings sagged in exhaustion, imperceptible for untrained eyes, but another Illyrian would notice from a good yard. Being seen by Elain lighten his shoulders in a level that could not be describe by words, her gentleness sent his barriers careening down, her particular way of displaying affection ignited something deep inside of him.
They stood there for a minute. An hour. A day. Time was irrelevant. Each one of them was rooted to the spot by their own thoughts. Azriel should have stayed quiet. He should have thanked her and bid her goodnight. Elain already did more than he would ever deserve allowing him to bathe in the same warmth she presented to others, indulging in every spec of liberty he took with her. It should be enough. It would never be enough. Although he suspected the answer, he couldn’t help it, he had to know, he needed to know. Needed to hear her say it.
"Would you be here if you knew where I came from?” his voice was raw, vulnerable. Anxiety coming through. “Would you be here if you knew what I done tonight?”
“Yes.” Sometimes a single word can change everything. Sometimes a single word can full your courage in a way a warrior speech, in the peril of battle, would not be able to. “You want to tell me?” The soft squeeze in his hand was comforting weight, a symbol companionship, a prove of confidence.
“Not tonight.”
“Okay.”
Her unquestionable trust swelled on his chest. She made it look easy. To accept who he was, to understand the lengths he had to go, the damage he had to cause. He looked down at their hands, Elain following his gaze, gently running her thumb against his skin. His mangled skin coated in scars, and blood, and gore, and death. Would he taint her if he held for too long? Or would she infect him with her radiant self?
She pulled him in the direction of the inviting bed. “Rest,” she said again.
Rest. His shadows crooned like parrots, her voice mimicked with perfection. Rest. Rest. Rest.
Reluctantly, Elain let go of him, slowly, as if she would rather stand there all night than leave. Giving him one last sunny smile, she closed the door behind herself.
And that was it.
The point of no return.
The whole curse of his life changed by a four-letter word.
From that day on their clandestine flirting evolved. A dangerous dance that could not be stopped by the presence of other fae in the vicinity. Lingering touches that electrified his skin, sparkling chocolate eyes that never seemed to stray, feet touching under the table, pinkies hooked behind their backs, playful winks and beautiful shy smiles, the permanent scent of jasmine that always seemed to linger on his clothes, denouncing how much he spent seeking after her. From that day on he considered himself hers.
And mother had mercy on the land, because Azriel would measure no efforts to see a smile bloom in Elain’s lips, no consequence could stop him from trying to give her the sun if she asked for it. No matter that he didn’t considered himself good enough for her, that the Cauldron knew that as well and gave her to another, that fate would always try to bring her and her mate together. None of it matter. If he ever had the honor of receiving her heart, Azriel would guard it as his most prized possession, for Elain’s affection was something he could no longer live without.
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russpals · 7 months
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Peterhoff Palace Complex
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Photographs: Different views of Peterhof, which, rather than one specific place, is an astoundingly beautiful complex of palaces, gardens, pavilions, and fountains. The photos here and the text are a mere preview of a fraction of the place in all its grandeur.
The Grand Palace, Lower and Upper Gardens and Fountains
The Peterhoff Palace (which comes from the Dutch "Pieterhof," meaning "Pieter's Court") is a complex of palaces, gardens, pavilions, and fountains located in Petergof, Saint Petersburg, Russia, commissioned by Peter the Great in response to Louis XIV Palace of Versailles in France.
Peter the Great began constructing his new capital, St. Petersburg, in 1703 after successfully adding Swedish provinces to Russian territory.  Saint Petersburg allowed Russian access to the Baltic Sea through the Neva River that flowed to the Gulf of Finland.
Throughout the early 18th century, Peter the Great built and expanded the Peterhof Palace complex. Based on his sketches, he constructed the Monplaisir Palace (French: "my delight"). This would be Peter's summer retreat that he would use on his way coming and going from Europe. Later, he expanded his plans to include a group of palaces and gardens further inland, on the model of Versailles.
Most of the Peterhoff land is comprised of what is called the "Lower Gardens." In the middle of the lower gardens is the Grand Palace. The area behind this palace is the "Upper Gardens" and is comparatively smaller. The Grand Palace is not the only historic royal building in Peterhoff. The palaces of Monplaisir and Marli, as well as the pavilion known as the 'Hermitage,' were all raised during the initial construction of Peterhoff during the reign of Peter the Great.
There are a number of cascades and fountains through the grounds, which have various symbolic meanings and are in themselves great technological achievements. The greatest of these is that all of the fountains in Peterhoff operate without the use of pumps. Water is supplied from natural springs and collects in reservoirs in the Upper Gardens. The elevation difference creates the pressure that drives most of the fountains of the Lower Gardens.
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Gothic Chapel in Peterhof:  An Orthodox church in the name of Saint Alexander Nevsky situated in the Alexandria Park; Nicholas I ordered its construction to complement the Cottage Palace
Alexandria Park, the Cottage Palace, and the Farmers Palace
To the east of the main park at Peterhof lies an expanse of landscaped parkland in the English style, named after Alexandra Fedorovna, wife of Nicholas I. The land was used as a royal hunting ground for most of the 18th century and left to go wild after the court moved to Tsarskoe Selo.
In 1825, the land was passed to Nicholas I, who commissioned a Scottish architect and landscape gardener to create an English-style estate with a "cottage" palace and home farm. This was partly a concession to Alexandra (nee Charlotte of Prussia), who found the pomp and grandeur of court life oppressive. Alexandra loved the cottage. The Cottage Palace was completed in 1829 and became the permanent summer residence of the Tsar's family. Alexandria Park is one of the best-landscaped parks on the outskirts of St. Petersburg.
The building is equal parts seaside villa, Gothic castle, and English farmhouse, but extremely elegant, with several charming decorative details. The palace's interiors exemplify the private tastes of Nicholas and Alexandra and their children and grandchildren. The spectacular trompe l'oeil murals around the staircase, depicting gothic arches and vaults, and Nicholas's Naval Study, with superb views over the Gulf of Finland, are particularly impressive.
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The Farm Palace was initially a pavilion in Alexandria Park close to the Cottage Palace and Gothic Chapel. Meant to be a pastoral farm with a row of household buildings, it was later expanded into a summer residence for the family of Tsesarevich Alexander Alexandrovich of Russia. The palace became the favorite summer residence of Alexander II and his family. After many reconstructions, the house was named "The Farm Palace" in 1859. It would eventually be a favorite of Alexander III and Nicholas II.
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The Lower Dacha at Peterhoff (badly damaged in World War II and destroyed in the 1960s) - in the process of reconstruction
The Lower Dacha was in Alexandria Park, part of the Peterhof complex created by Tsar Peter I in the early 18th century as an Imperial summer residence. The palace was the home of Tsar Nicholas II while in residence at Peterhof (it was built for him), and several of his children were born there. It was badly damaged during the Second World War and was destroyed in the 1960s. The Lower Dacha is in the process of being restored. It is expected that the restoration will be completed by 2025. The picture below where the intact building can be seen, is from the early twentieth century. Photographs of the ruins have been included as well.
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pilferingapples · 2 years
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Les Miserables Daily: 5.2.4, Details Ignored
Today in the chronological read-through of Les Miserables,we’re finishing up with Bruneseau’s adventures in 1805!  Be sure to join us for the next chapter in 2032, when we’ll meet Bishop Myriel!
The visit took place. It was a formidable campaign; a nocturnal battle against pestilence and suffocation. It was, at the same time, a voyage of discovery. One of the survivors of this expedition, an intelligent workingman, who was very young at the time, related curious details with regard to it, several years ago, which Bruneseau thought himself obliged to omit in his report to the prefect of police, as unworthy of official style. The processes of disinfection were, at that epoch, extremely rudimentary. Hardly had Bruneseau crossed the first articulations of that subterranean network, when eight laborers out of the twenty refused to go any further. The operation was complicated; the visit entailed the necessity of cleaning; hence it was necessary to cleanse and at the same time, to proceed; to note the entrances of water, to count the gratings and the vents, to lay out in detail the branches, to indicate the currents at the point where they parted, to define the respective bounds of the divers basins, to sound the small sewers grafted on the principal sewer, to measure the height under the key-stone of each drain, and the width, at the spring of the vaults as well as at the bottom, in order to determine the arrangements with regard to the level of each water-entrance, either of the bottom of the arch, or on the soil of the street. They advanced with toil. The lanterns pined away in the foul atmosphere. From time to time, a fainting sewerman was carried out. At certain points, there were precipices. The soil had given away, the pavement had crumbled, the sewer had changed into a bottomless well; they found nothing solid; a man disappeared suddenly; they had great difficulty in getting him out again. On the advice of Fourcroy, they lighted large cages filled with tow steeped in resin, from time to time, in spots which had been sufficiently disinfected. In some places, the wall was covered with misshapen fungi,--one would have said tumors; the very stone seemed diseased within this unbreathable atmosphere.
Bruneseau, in his exploration, proceeded down hill. At the point of separation of the two water-conduits of the Grand-Hurleur, he deciphered upon a projecting stone the date of 1550; this stone indicated the limits where Philibert Delorme, charged by Henri II. with visiting the subterranean drains of Paris, had halted. This stone was the mark of the sixteenth century on the sewer; Bruneseau found the handiwork of the seventeenth century once more in the Ponceau drain of the old Rue Vielle-du-Temple, vaulted between 1600 and 1650; and the handiwork of the eighteenth in the western section of the collecting canal, walled and vaulted in 1740. These two vaults, especially the less ancient, that of 1740, were more cracked and decrepit than the masonry of the belt sewer, which dated from 1412, an epoch when the brook of fresh water of Menilmontant was elevated to the dignity of the Grand Sewer of Paris, an advancement analogous to that of a peasant who should become first valet de chambre to the King; something like Gros-Jean transformed into Lebel.
Here and there, particularly beneath the Court-House, they thought they recognized the hollows of ancient dungeons, excavated in the very sewer itself. Hideous in-pace. An iron neck-collar was hanging in one of these cells. They walled them all up. Some of their finds were singular; among others, the skeleton of an ourang-outan, who had disappeared from the Jardin des Plantes in 1800, a disappearance probably connected with the famous and indisputable apparition of the devil in the Rue des Bernardins, in the last year of the eighteenth century. The poor devil had ended by drowning himself in the sewer.
Beneath this long, arched drain which terminated at the Arche-Marion, a perfectly preserved rag-picker's basket excited the admiration of all connoisseurs. Everywhere, the mire, which the sewermen came to handle with intrepidity, abounded in precious objects, jewels of gold and silver, precious stones, coins. If a giant had filtered this cesspool, he would have had the riches of centuries in his lair. At the point where the two branches of the Rue du Temple and of the Rue Sainte-Avoye separate, they picked up a singular Huguenot medal in copper, bearing on one side the pig hooded with a cardinal's hat, and on the other, a wolf with a tiara on his head.
The most surprising rencounter was at the entrance to the Grand Sewer. This entrance had formerly been closed by a grating of which nothing but the hinges remained. From one of these hinges hung a dirty and shapeless rag which, arrested there in its passage, no doubt, had floated there in the darkness and finished its process of being torn apart. Bruneseau held his lantern close to this rag and examined it. It was of very fine batiste, and in one of the corners, less frayed than the rest, they made out a heraldic coronet and embroidered above these seven letters: LAVBESP. The crown was the coronet of a Marquis, and the seven letters signified Laubespine. They recognized the fact, that what they had before their eyes was a morsel of the shroud of Marat. Marat in his youth had had amorous intrigues. This was when he was a member of the household of the Comte d'Artois, in the capacity of physician to the Stables. From these love affairs, historically proved, with a great lady, he had retained this sheet. As a waif or a souvenir. At his death, as this was the only linen of any fineness which he had in his house, they buried him in it. Some old women had shrouded him for the tomb in that swaddling-band in which the tragic Friend of the people had enjoyed voluptuousness. Bruneseau passed on. They left that rag where it hung; they did not put the finishing touch to it. Did this arise from scorn or from respect? Marat deserved both. And then, destiny was there sufficiently stamped to make them hesitate to touch it. Besides, the things of the sepulchre must be left in the spot which they select. In short, the relic was a strange one. A Marquise had slept in it; Marat had rotted in it; it had traversed the Pantheon to end with the rats of the sewer. This chamber rag, of which Watteau would formerly have joyfully sketched every fold, had ended in becoming worthy of the fixed gaze of Dante.
The whole visit to the subterranean stream of filth of Paris lasted seven years, from 1805 to 1812. As he proceeded, Bruneseau drew, directed, and completed considerable works; in 1808 he lowered the arch of the Ponceau, and, everywhere creating new lines, he pushed the sewer, in 1809, under the Rue Saint-Denis as far as the fountain of the Innocents; in 1810, under the Rue Froidmanteau and under the Salpetriere; in 1811 under the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Peres, under the Rue du Mail, under the Rue de l'Echarpe, under the Place Royale; in 1812, under the Rue de la Paix, and under the Chaussee d'Antin. At the same time, he had the whole net-work disinfected and rendered healthful. In the second year of his work, Bruneseau engaged the assistance of his son-in-law Nargaud.
It was thus that, at the beginning of the century, ancient society cleansed its double bottom, and performed the toilet of its sewer. There was that much clean, at all events.
Tortuous, cracked, unpaved, full of fissures, intersected by gullies, jolted by eccentric elbows, mounting and descending illogically, fetid, wild, fierce, submerged in obscurity, with cicatrices on its pavements and scars on its walls, terrible,--such was, retrospectively viewed, the antique sewer of Paris. Ramifications in every direction, crossings, of trenches, branches, goose-feet, stars, as in military mines, coecum, blind alleys, vaults lined with saltpetre, pestiferous pools, scabby sweats, on the walls, drops dripping from the ceilings, darkness; nothing could equal the horror of this old, waste crypt, the digestive apparatus of Babylon, a cavern, ditch, gulf pierced with streets, a titanic mole-burrow, where the mind seems to behold that enormous blind mole, the past, prowling through the shadows, in the filth which has been splendor.
This, we repeat, was the sewer of the past.
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razzle-zazzle · 1 year
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Whumptober Day 03: hair's breadth from death
"Say goodbye."
1359 Words; Buried Beneath AU
TW for attempted murder
AO3 ver
Raz shouldn’t have rushed in.
He knew, from the memory vault, that Not-Dion had plenty of experience on him. He knew that Not-Dion was not above hurting him or anyone else.
But.
But it hurt so much, to finally find his brother again after two months of uncertainty. It hurt so much, to finally see him again—
Only to find out that it wasn’t his brother at all, but some imposter wearing his body. To have the one source of answers disappear in a literal flash of light, teleported off into parts unknown.
It hurt. If Raz had been a little faster on the uptake, or more aggressive in taking the imposter down, then maybe Dion would already be back.
As it was, though, Dion’s brain was still missing, and the only person who’d know where it was hidden was just as missing.
The psychonauts, though a government agency, had a sizable network of gossip. From psychics who didn’t have the inclination to join but had learned psychic safety from the agency anyway, to regular people who either owed the agency something or were just on good terms with some of the agents—the gossip network spanned the country and then some, providing information when and where it could.
Previously, this force had been utilized to track Deluginist movements. It still was, for the most part.
But someone had seen Not-Dion at a local park three weeks ago, and mentioned it to a friend in the agency. Armed with this starting point, the investigation frenzied; two weeks later, they knew Not-Dion’s location and a good guess as to where he was heading.
Agents Nein and Vodello were investigating the area. The junior agents technically weren’t supposed to be here, but Raz had bullied his way onto the mission by virtue of being Dion’s brother, and Gisu had bullied her way onto it by virtue of being just as capable as Raz.
Lili had almost gotten into the mission, too, but that had been the point that Truman had put his foot down. They didn’t know everything that Not-Dion was capable of, he’d said. They were going to try and avoid a direct confrontation, he’d ordered.
Well, Raz thought, springing up and over a park bench, so much for avoiding a direct confrontation.
He knew he shouldn’t have rushed ahead. And he hadn’t meant to—but then he’d just known where Not-Dion was, like there was a bright arrow urging him towards a nearby park—
And now here he was, standing at the edge of a basketball court, the concrete old and worn.
Not-Dion was sitting on a bench at the other end of the court, book in hand. He set the book down and stood up when seeing Raz.
Raz raised his hand, readying a psi-blast.
Not-Dion glared back at him, the quiet indifference completely wrong on Dion’s face.
“Can’t a guy be left to enjoy his day at the park in peace?” Not-Dion lamented, like Raz was the one in the wrong here.
“Not when you’re controlling my brother’s body!” Raz protested, eyes glowing softly behind his goggles.
Not-Dion hmphed. “This is my body now.” He insisted, pacing a slow circle around the court. Raz unconsciously matched his pace, the two of them circling each other slowly.
This was it. Raz was getting his brother back, right here, right now. He cracked his knuckles, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Look,” Raz urged, “You’re coming with us whether you like it or not, D—you.”
Not-Dion barked out a laugh. “Cute.” He shifted his foot, the scrape of his boot against the concrete matching the scrape of stone against stone as the concrete spiked in a wave towards Raz.
Raz backflipped out of the way, dodge-rolling to the side the moment he touched the ground. He shot back with a psi-blast, rolled, then shot again.
Not-Dion lifted his arms, mentally heaving a chunk of concrete up into the air to block the blast.
The concrete shattered with the second blast. Not-Dion swung his hands around in an arc, drawing the rocks to float around him in a loose circle.
Raz kept firing. Not-Dion retaliated by launching his rocks right back.
Raz caught one, two, three with telekinesis, throwing them to the side. He rolled out of the way of the next two, then shot back with a psi-blast.
The distance between the two of them was closing, allowing Raz to swing out with telekinesis instead.
A pillar of rock erupted from the ground at Not-Dion’s command, forcing Raz to backflip out of the way.
Raz sidestepped to put Not-Dion back in view. He shot again.
Not-Dion swept both arms to the side, tilting the pillar to catch the shot. A shove, and suddenly the entire court was pulsing, ground rolling like spiked waves.
Raz hopped onto a levitation bubble to avoid the sharp ridges, keeping his balance as the very ground rocked violently under him.
Not-Dion’s hands fell to his sides, his whole frame trembling so slightly that Raz almost missed it.
Glowing blue eyes flickered, like a lightbulb about to burn out.
Raz landed back on the uneven concrete, readying another psi-blast.
“Oh, enough of this.” Not-Dion summoned a rock to his left hand, sharpening it with a burst of mental effort and a squeeze of his fist.
The concrete under Raz’ feet twisted upwards, scraping at his ankles as it tightened around them. Raz struggled, telekinesis already working to pry the concrete off as Not-Dion approached.
He wouldn’t be able to get free in time.
Not-Dion brought the rock down with brutal swing of his arm—
Raz’ breath froze in his lungs.
Raz opened his eyes, heart frantically beating a hole through his chest.
The world had shrunk down to just Raz and Not-Dion. Nothing else existed but the rock mere millimeters away from Raz’ face, held in a trembling, white-knuckled hand.
Slowly, Raz managed to move his gaze from the rock to Not-Dion’s face, almost like shifting the focus on a camera.
The face that stared back at him—both Dion’s face and not at all his, all the details of Not-Dion’s expressions too wrong—shifted through cold anger to blank-eyed confusion to realization, incandescent rage burning behind blue eyes.
He didn’t get a moment to act on it before having to jump back out of the way of a psi-blast.
Raz faintly heard Gisu yelling something, faintly registered the sound of Sasha’s psi-blasts, faintly heard the grind of stone against stone as Not-Dion fought them off.
It was all distant, though, as though Raz was underwater and the fight was above the surface, muffled and indistinct.
A telekinetic hand pried the concrete away from his ankles. Raz registered the pain of scraped skin, the sting of small cuts being exposed to air.
“...do that for me, darling?”
Raz let go of the breath he forgot he was holding.
Breathing.
That was a thing Raz needed to do.
The sudden return of air to his lungs left Raz choking, doubling over as he gasped. Hands on his shoulders steadied him, Milla sending steady mental pulses of support and reassurance alongside the words she was saying.
Raz wheezed, leaning against Milla’s supportive hold. Oh god. Oh god.
He’d—
Not-Dion had—
Oh god.
Raz struggled to breathe past the sudden squeeze in his chest. His mind was a wall of hurt-loss-shock against Milla’s calm reassurances.
“Razputin,” Milla’s voice was calm, firm, “Can you breathe for me, filho? Deep breaths, sweetie, in through the nose, out through the mouth,” She demonstrated, “Like this. Match my breathing.”
Raz’s breathing stuttered, his heart beating wildly as he tried to do as he was told.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, his breathing evened out.
The sounds of the fight died down.
“There we go.” Milla crooned. “Let’s get those ankles looked at, okay?”
Raz nodded. “Yeah.” He rolled up the ends of his pants to give Milla more space to work with.
Gisu trudged over as Milla pulled out a medkit, expression dark. Sasha inspected the ruined court for a moment longer before following after her.
Not-Dion was nowhere to be seen.
Raz’ hands continued to tremble.
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seeliragh-fr · 2 years
Text
In the heart of the Carrion Canyon, there is a spring.
There are many springs in the Canyon, tucked into the recesses of short caves or buried just below the surface. For all that the Expanse seems hot, dry, or devoid of movement on sight, life blooms myriad under its skin.
In the heart of the spring in the heart of the Canyon, there is a tiny piece of clear-cut gemstone. It's lodged gently in the fissure from which the spring trickles forth, and cannot be seen from where the water runs down the dark rock. It glows with its own internal luminescence, but that is seen by nothing. The chip of the storm god's shattered eye is hidden from even himself, though he would be desperately searching for it.
The spring is not enough to sustain a lair- it is barely enough for one dragon to drink and be satisfied- but it is enough to stay alive in one place in the canyon. Enough for the beginnings of a settlement, or a stronghold. At the beginning of the fourth age, there was a warrior called Kalestryx the Red. She began the bones of a lair in the heart of the Carrion Canyon, shaped great halls of stone for her size, and vanished, after no time at all, along with any trace of the rest of her brood.
Veruka, Heretic and None, holds court in the second-highest antechamber in the Seeliragh lair.
The complex of caverns is small, beginning with a massive, vaulting one at the mouth of the lair, and branching upward and off into several smaller antechambers. All these bear the smoothness and whorls of Guardian tunneling, but there is a new cavern now, rough-hewn in the sandstone. Small vents bored carefully in the rock let sunlight catch on Veruka's scales, but neither she nor her consort need the sunlight to see underground. Outside, Veruka's first and most glorious daughter, red as the dawn, variegated as the canyon walls, flicks her tail over and over against the soft rock of her watch perch. Where there once was three unfinished caverns and the beginning of a shallow dished pool for the trickling spring, there is now the bare bones of a fortified settlement. Vents pock the canyon face, letting in light and air, the floors bear semblance of conscious forethought in creation. The ceilings are vaulted enough to accommodate the high arched necks and long wings of ridgeback dragons, with their albatross-like construction. Outcroppings of gritty stone above the lair have become vantage points for a watch to be set, casual and hidden to the eye on the canyon's floor. Even the short work that had been put into the lair so far was hard. Above, on a rocky spire some halfway to the top of the canyon's walls, a colony of stormseekers nests. Their unnerving cry echoes off the canyon walls, eight birds, eighty birds, a hundred birds. It is often thought in other flights that the Shifting Expanse is under the presence of a constant thunderstorm, a flat gray sky that stretches from coast to coast and makes it rain, where it can rain, on the edges of the Ashfall Waste and the sloping mountains that hem in the light flight's gentle plains.
This is untrue.
Though the desert is always crowned by a roiling mass of cumulonimbus clouds high overhead, and lightning strikes are frequent on the exposed ridges and the sweeping highlands, the Expanse can hardly by its nature settle into one pattern or another. Between the stormfronts that pass on high-altitude gales, the sky over the Highlands is so impossibly blue that it seems you can see the stars beyond it. In the haze of the day, it can be difficult to tell where the clear sky ends and the darkness of the ever-present stormclouds in the distance of the horizon begins. Today the storm threatens in the distance but does not come. Much of the weather rarely reaches the interior of the Carrion Canyon anyway, named for the oppressive heat that winds do not reach to lift away, as much as for the presence of caches left by the Expanse's more resourceful wildlife. On the northern and southern reaches of the flight the weather is less violent; the Stormcatcher does not deign to have his miracles spoiled by the lashing of the electric storms. But out here, everything that lives knows what the master of this land is, what truly brought the first life out from deep within the ground. The Shifting Expanse makes its own divinity. Veruka thinks rarely of divinity, or of the tithes that the ancient industrious southern lairs make to the Catcher, or that nomads leave to the canyon in little alcoves hewn into the fork between two branches of its towering walls. Her musings on it begin and end with the thought that anything can be killed, with a little forethought. The silver band on her last left talon gleams in the low light. The stone set into it is dull and bright red, like old blood on stone. Vizzarro stands, as always, with wings folded like he's not sure how to keep them closed. Bright markings that run up his spines pop even in the dimness; though the dry air here dulls his colors it can never remove them. He has few words in the most desperate of times; now, he simply follows her lead silently. It is not an uncomfortable silence. What Veruka is doing is transcribing. Carefully, with a talon inked in crushed red clay from the canyon floor's memories of an ancient river. Calligraphy is not a skill dragons as large as ridgebacks generally traffic in, but she is proficient in common. The paper is fine, old parchment. Very old. Found in the desiccated alcove in the back of the lair's ruins that must have once been a storeroom. The red clay is stark against its milkiness. Veruka thinks of the practicality of lighting these inner confines of the lair. Eventually she leans back. The fighting rings on the Redrock shore are fairly straightforward in their paperwork. At the bottom of the paper, there is a small square of milk-white left. A space for a seal of the lair. Carefully, she tears one talon across her palm, and presses a small stone seal into it as it wells with blood. The mark looks nearly identical to the clay ink when pressed to the paper. Old stone and blood. The glyphs are angular and concise. SEELIRAGH. The name carved into the rock in a cartouche as large as the height of the entrance itself, and more ancient than Veruka's bloodline. She nods to Vizzarro, and he retrieves the parchment, carefully. Corskuia, fast and fierce and long of wingspan like her father, will take it to the coast, where her ferocity and utter self-seriousness will discourage attempts at turning the prospects of a tiny, unknown clan away from the fighting pits. Veruka's two sons can be heard even now in the canyon, clicks of wingtips catching claws and the bright clash of scales on scales. Sparring. Luck does not favor settlement clans trying to make money at the fighting rings' game. Veruka has never had luck and never considered its benefits. Others, in her experience, had luck, and then they lost it. She has calculation, and has found it more reliable historically.
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Today we’re delving ever deeper into the future, as the dragon grows ever more impatient.
S02E11 — The Witch’s Quickening
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Mordred brings a warlock, Alvarr, to see Morgana, and they persuade her to steal a crystal with magical properties from the vaults of Camelot. Alvarr tells her it can be used to help people like themselves with special powers, though he really intends to destroy Camelot with it. Merlin and Arthur pursue him, returning him and the crystal to court. Mordred escapes, and Morgana (having disowned Uther), springs Alvarr from prison by drugging the guards. Merlin, having looked into the crystal, is alarmed by a vision of chaos, but Gaius assures him that it is far into the future.
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cruelprincae · 5 months
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@hen1chaer sent from 1989 (from the vault)
i'll pay the price, you won't.
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It would have made a fine sentiment, really, were it not foolish in its entirety ― or, at the very least, it is in the Prince's mind. ❛ I do not mind paying my end of the bargain. In fact, I rather encourage it. ❜ It is not something of significant importance; it never is with the solitary Folk.
They are much simpler creatures than the Fae inhabiting the Seelie and Unseelie courts in Elfhame, often demanding either gold coins, one's most beautiful dream, or something as mundane as clothes and silk ― or, in Cardan's case, the royal circlet he wears on his person since he fled from Faerieland. Reaching to undo the clasp from beneath a sea of raven-dark locks, slender digits slide the golden jewellery across the wooden bench into the eager hands of the goat-faced Phooka, who holds it up above his head to admire the way the moonlight shines through the amethyst connecting the two branch-like gold sides. Deeming it the best time to take his purchase and leave, the Prince slides the priced box into his leather bag and, linking his arm with Emerson's, he guides her further into the Faerie market where the music and laughter chimes, towards benches that hold silver daggers and swords, dresses and tunic made of spider silk that shine like tiny little diamonds, and perfumes with scents of the first days of spring.
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❛ A word of advice, and I am only saying this for you might you be one of us, you have not the first clue as to how the Folk operate, you never interfere between bargains, nor do you offer to pay someone's debt. It is considered the worst of offences, and something you most certainly will come to regret, kind as your intentions might be. ❜
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centralparkcollection · 10 months
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Where to Eat the Tastiest Street Food in London
London is often associated with high-end restaurants and posh eateries helmed by celebrity chefs. However, the English capital also has an exciting culture of street food through its long-stay markets and pop-up food courts. Furthermore, London has an exciting food scene that encompasses British, European and international cuisine. Find out what and where to experience the best of street food close to Central London hotels.
Southbank Centre Food Market 
Open on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays, the Southbank Centre Food Market is a convenient choice for tourists. It’s moments from the London Eye and Royal Festival Hall. 
Stalls represent British classics such as scotch eggs, sausage rolls, and Cornish pasties. However, there is an excellent variety of global fare including Japanese-style poke bowls, Korean barbecue, Polish sausages, Dutch pancakes, Greek souvlaki, North American sandwiches, and Portuguese custard tarts. 
The drinks offering is equally broad, with options ranging from bubble tea and hot chocolate to West Country cider and European craft beers.
Mercato Mayfair Food Hall
Convenient for those staying at hotels near Paddington Station, Mercato Mayfair Food Hall is one of the most unusual places to go for street food in London. 
Housed inside a deconsecrated church, the building is appointed with original stained glass windows, vaulted ceilings, and an altar. Spread over two floors, the venue has stalls serving worldwide cuisine, a rooftop terrace, and an atmospheric wine cellar in the crypt. 
Food on sale includes pad Thai, lobsters, homemade pasta, ramen, grilled meat, and Malaysian street food with an emphasis on sustainable practices.
Vinegar Yard
Next to London Bridge Station, Vinegar Yard brings together food, drinks, art, and a weekend flea market. 
Food is available daily with the offering changing seasonally. In general, you can anticipate such options as Asian street food, burgers inspired by Indian recipes, and Neo-Neapolitan pizzas.  
Draught beer sourced from local breweries is rotated frequently while cocktails reflect the season. 
Pergola Paddington 
Guests staying at hotels near Paddington Station should pay a visit to Pergola. This is a rooftop bar with a street market atmosphere. 
Food on the menu includes ciabatta sandwiches, hot chicken, loaded fries, duck pancakes, bao, and dumplings. The offering includes main plates and platters, perfect for sharing or experimenting with different flavours. The popular venue has scores of tables making it a wonderful option if you plan on making an afternoon or evening of it. 
Tipples inspired by the seasons include classic cocktails and spritzes with plenty of options for those who do not drink alcohol. 
Borough Market
Borough Market is the most famous spot for street food in London. This Thameside market springs to life early each morning with vendors selling fresh produce, pantry items, regional cheese, artisan coffee, and street bites. 
Typical dishes cooked at the covered market include Spanish paella, rock oysters from Essex, gourmet sausage rolls, curries from South Asia and Southeast Asia, and traditional apple crumble. 
There are several bars where you can sit down with an ale or glass of wine. In fact, these are the perfect destination for a date night while staying at Central London hotels.
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