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monstersandmaw · 4 years

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Non-binary lich x reader (nsfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

This has been up on Patreon for a week now on early release. New stories for Tumblr go up on Wednesdays at the moment and are available there for a whole week before they hit Tumblr, so if you want to have access to the next one (it just went up), make sure you’re on the $5 tier. I’d love to have you as the newest member of the Patreon supporters!

Anyway, contents: It's 7688 words long, features a non-binary, skeletal lich, is set in a fantasy setting, and I don't think it comes with any warnings. Looking forward to your reaction!!

“So, you’re the new librarian…”

The softly rasping voice behind you startled the life out of you, and you dropped the three-volume stack onto the thick, oak table with an undignified squawk. The boom rang out through the castle library and one or two scholars shot glares at you over the top of their research. Turning, you found yourself face to face with a moving skeleton and your eyes widened even further.

Wearing a long, unadorned, shapeless, black robe with the hood pulled right up over the bare ivory of the skull, the figure had a glowing green light in their eye sockets and one of their teeth had been replaced at some point by a silver prosthetic. More than that, you couldn’t say, but it was apparent that their entire body was just a humanoid skeleton beneath the billowing robes.

And then the penny dropped. “Oh!” you gasped, straightening a little. “You’re… You’re Avery… the court mage…” How many liches could one royal castle have after all?

They dipped their head in a curt bow. “Indeed.”

“I’m sorry, I just… wasn’t expecting…”

Another little bow. “It’s quite alright. I realise that meeting a someone like me for the first time can be somewhat… unnerving.”

You opened your mouth to counter them, but realised it was actually true, and just nodded. “How can I help you anyway?” you asked instead.

They seemed to appreciate the segue into safer waters, and told you the name of the tome they were looking for. “It’s essentially a compendium of plants and fungi that grow only on the fringes of Silver Perch Lake in Aragantia,” they added. “A somewhat… specialised catalogue, I’m aware.”

With a nod, you headed to the vast catalogue system and in almost no time at all, especially given how new you were to the post, you and the court mage were walking silently through the shelves of the royal library in search of the book’s location. Avery made no attempt to talk to you, and you assumed they preferred it that way. After all, you supposed, what could a humble librarian have to say to a necromancer and a mage as powerful as them anyway? In your relatively limited experience of mages, they tended to look down on anyone not powerful or supposedly intelligent enough to wield magic.

As you proceeded further and further into the dark stacks, the light dwindled to almost nothing, and in that moment you cursed the innate flammability of paper and parchment, longing for a lamp of sorts.

Slowing, and trying not to fumble, you squinted and ran your fingertips along the shelves to keep a straight course. During your interview for the position, you’d been told about the glowing crystals that the team of three librarians had access to, but apparently you were still too junior to warrant their secrets yet. It had not been expected, it seemed, that someone as important as Avery would require your assistance. Re-shelving returns in the main library was all you’d done so far in your short tenure after all.

“Here,” the lich said from behind you, the word spoken aloud making you jump all over again, and a moment later, a flickering ball of blue light wafted past you to float a pace or two in front of you. It moved when you did, bobbing slowly.

“Handy,” you grinned back at them over your shoulder. “Thanks.”

In the eerie pulsing light, the dark sockets of their skull and the smooth bone looked almost frightening, but you reminded yourself that this was not an old haunted castle from a horror story, and was in fact the hub of a great trading network whose machinations were aided by the work of the court mage, who also just happened to be a lich and, by extension, a necromancer.

With no expression at all to offer you comfort or reassurance, Avery just lowered their gaze and waited for you to move on again.

The book was right where it should have been - thank all the library gods - and once their skeletal hands had taken it reverently from you, little bones clicking softly as they shifted, Avery turned and left you in the stacks with a short ‘thank you’, the light light for company, and a thousand questions buzzing around your head.

Naturally, the first place you went after that was the section on liches and phylacteries, and there you lost yourself for well over an hour.

After that, the court mage found their way back to the library almost every time you were on duty. To your surprise, they were actually quite chatty, answering your tentative questions about their research with long and interesting answers, leafing through the book they’d just taken out to show you a diagram or ritual, constellation, or phase of the moon, and relaying its relevance to their work at the time without reserve.

“I’d always thought mages were secretive about their work,” you ventured one afternoon as sunlight flooded into the open study room at the back of the library where Avery had set up camp for the afternoon.

At your words, they looked up, an oddly tense and intrigued set to their head and you got the impression that, had they had the body to go with the bones, they might have been smiling curiously. “Why do you say that?”

“Well,” you began, feeling a little warm under the collar. Their close scrutiny made you shuffle and turn a little away from them to lessen it. “At the university, your lot always kept to themselves, you know? And no one else was allowed in their section of the library without a mage escort and a note of recommendation from about fifteen different tutors… I got it eventually, of course —”

“— of course,” they interrupted with a wry smile in their voice.

Their tone may have been light and joking, but it carried the weight of enormous respect too, and you choked for a moment before babbling on again. “I’m not suggesting that anyone should just go in and help themselves to dangerous magical texts, don’t get me wrong… It was just… frustrating to be treated like that, that’s all.”

You turned to find them still regarding you with that birdlike curiosity and for a moment you forgot that they were little more than an immense reserve of magic holding together a stack of humanoid bones and wearing a dark robe. It might have been comical to see them that way, but honestly, in that moment, their blazing intelligence and slightly off-the-wall humour endeared you towards them even more. It wouldn’t have been a secret to suggest you had the beginnings of an almighty crush forming. If you didn’t beat it back soon, it would become unwieldy and unmanageable, and it wouldn’t end well for either of you. A member of the castle staff you might have been, but the court mage was one of the most powerful figures in the entire kingdom, and not meant for the likes of you.

And anyway, who was to say that there was anything about you to interest them anyway? The whole point of becoming a lich was to strip away all earthly connections save for the absolute fundamentals - the skeleton - and become an entity largely made of magic, the better to channel it. There were, you had to admit, one or two cases of liches binding themselves to living lovers, and accounts detailing the fierceness and loyalty of those rare unions had left you breathless as you’d scoured the volumes on liches all those weeks ago, but you couldn’t assume that Avery would be such a person after all.

If they had given a reply, you didn’t hear it behind the buzzing, rushing disappointment in your ears at that thought. Closing yourself off a little, you excused yourself politely and returned to your duties in the library beyond, leaving them alone in the study room. After all, Avery still had to figure out a way to harness the power of the sea itself in order to reduce the risk to life of those currently engaged in preparations to dredge and deepen the large trading harbour along the coast. Such complex calculations were hardly in the realm of a librarian.

About a week later, as you sat in the servant’s parlour one afternoon, where most of the castle staff gathered during their time off, a bookish young satyr, with curly, ash blond hair and contrastingly dark brown skin and horns, the stoop of a scholar, and a pair of round, gold-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose, approached and asked for you by name in a warm, stutter-laced tenor.

“Yeah, that’s me…” you said, turning from your conversation with one of the naga guards. “What’s up?”

“Y-Y-You’re the llll… the lllll…” the words just died on his tongue or stuck there like treacle, refusing to leave one syllable and move onto the next, but he took a breath and on the exhale said, “Librarian…?”

“I am,” you said. “If you need something from the stacks though, I think Timothy is on duty today.”

He nodded. “I… I know. Avery… sss-sssent me to… to llll… to lllllook for you. They’d llllike you to… to… to…” At the repetition, his cheeks flushed a bit, but you waited him out and he rallied. “To attend them in their t-t-t-tower to c-c-consult on something.”

“Oh. Really? What… now?” you asked and the satyr nodded. He had a flighty, twitchy energy to him, but his features were kind and open and you decided immediately that you liked him. You turned back to the naga with whom you’d been sharing tea and easy conversation, and shrugged. “Guess I’ve been summoned. See you later.”

She nodded and hissed, “Good luck…” at you and you followed the young scholar out of the parlour. His large hooves clopped conspicuously on the stone of the passageways and he set quite the pace for you to keep up with.

“Are you… like… Avery’s… assistant or something? I’m sorry, I don’t know the technical names…”

He nodded. “Name’s D-Devon,” he said as he ducked left through a doorway and held it open for you to follow. “Apprentice m-mmage and runec-c-caster.”

“Sweet,” you said, impressed. “I studied some very basic runes for another project a long time ago, but I’m not really magical in any way, so… I didn’t pursue it. Is it as complicated as I remember?”

He smiled sweetly and shrugged. “Varies…”

You smirked and said, “That sounds like you’re being modest and generous, but I’ll let it slide. What does Avery need from me anyway?”

With a soft chuckle, Devon pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and shrugged, beginning to climb a tight, spiral staircase. “Nnnot sure. They’ve been di-di-distracted all morning.”

“Guess I’ll just have to find out. I’ve never been up to the mage’s tower.”

The staircase went on and on forever and you actually had to stop for breath twice, rather embarrassingly. Devon was fitter than his scholar’s physique suggested, but he didn’t comment. You supposed doing this every day would build up anyone’s cardiovascular system in no time. “The view had better be worth it,” you grunted as you started up the last stretch of spiral staircase, and Devon nodded.

“Oh, it is.”

“Thank all the gods,” you hissed.

The door to Avery’s study was open, letting light flood in from the room beyond. For some reason, you’d imagined it would be dark and intimidating, and possibly full of bats and spiderwebs and creepy cursed objects in display cabinets, but theirs was a chamber full of bright light and warm colours. Taking half a moment to catch your breath again, you paused on the threshold while Devon headed on inside with evident and easy familiarity to inform Avery that he’d found you.

“Ah wonderful,” came that papery voice from inside. As you heard it, you wondered how a skeleton - with no vocal cords - could produce sound, deciding to chalk it up to magic and move on. “Thank you, Devon. Would you mind running over the plans for the layline ritual one more time while we have a quick chat?”

“Nnnnot at all,” Devon smiled, and disappeared into another room out of sight.

The delicate tread of footsteps on the bare floorboards announced Avery’s approach, and you stepped inside, not wanting to be seen to be lurking nervously. “Hi,” you breathed, still a tiny bit winded, as they moved into view around the huge trestle table that occupied the centre of the room. It was littered with books and pieces of velum, scrolls, and ancient clay tablets, all stacked at frankly alarming and precarious angles.

“Hello,” Avery said with a real warmth in their voice. You could hear the smile, even if they had no lips to form the gesture. “I apologise for making you come all the way up here. I realise it’s a long way from your usual quarters and duties.”

It was true - the library was in an entirely different wing of the rambling old citadel, and your sleeping quarters were again on the far side of that from the tower.

You shrugged. “It’s nice to see a new bit of the castle, I suppose.”

They tilted their head, the movement almost birdlike. “You haven’t seen all of it?” they asked.

You shook your head. “Only the bits I need to. Besides, I’ve only been here a couple of months now.” And in that time, you’d seen Avery almost every day at your library desk. “What did you need me for?” you asked with no small degree of incredulity in your voice.

With a little chuckle that honestly sounded a little nervous, Avery turned to a small writing desk that was tucked up against the stone wall beside a window with a spectacular view. They picked up a scroll and undid the ribbon that held it together, and you found your eyes fascinated by the tiny finger bones of their hands. You wondered what they’d feel like against your skin and flushed hot again, unable to look Avery in the face.

“This is a copy of an inscription that was found in a tomb just north west of here, and while I am familiar with the writing system used, I cannot crack the meaning of it. I’m sure it’s right there, but… I wondered, since you mentioned you’d studied the Early Peoples, if you might take a look at it for me?”

You blinked. “You can’t read it?”

“I can read it,” they said, “But I don’t understand the words. I know the symbols upon which the language is based, but not the language itself.”

“I thought there was nothing you didn’t know,” you murmured fondly as you stepped over and took the parchment from their extraordinarily delicate looking hand. The urge to touch grew once more almost overwhelming.

A soft snort of laughter almost in your ear sent shivers down your whole right side, the skin prickling into goosebumps. “Please,” they scoffed good-naturedly. “Besides, if I knew everything already, I wouldn’t need to make such frequent trips to the library, would I?”

“And here I thought you were coming all the way down there just to visit me,” you quipped self-effacingly, turning your attention to the inscription and missing they way they went completely still before shaking their head ever so slightly.

It took longer than your pride might have liked for you to figure it all out, and you sent Avery scuttling about their office for three different dictionaries and half a dozen grammar tables before you were happy that you’d got it right. Devon had long ago excused himself for the evening, but you’d barely even noticed him leaving, though the murmur of their soft conversation had drifted around you for quite some time while you teased out a bit of odd grammar.

When you looked up at last, you found Avery standing alone by the window, bathed in the rosy light of sunset. The rich, warm rays made the black of their robes seem dull and almost drab - humble beyond what you’d have expected of a court mage with the coffers of the castle at their fingertips - and the angle of the light blazing into their face almost eclipsed the green, misty glow in their eye sockets. For just a moment, they almost looked like nothing more than an ordinary skeleton in an anatomy lab. When they felt your gaze on them, however, they turned - every bone animated and shifting fluidly, bone scraping with a soft, familiar whisper over bone.

They cocked their head again and you smiled. “All done, I think,” you said, standing from where you’d been hunched over the small, cluttered writing desk, and cracking the tension out of your neck with a grunt.

“Thank you,” they murmured. “I am indebted to you yet again, it would seem.”

You shrugged. “What’s it for anyway?” you asked. “I mean… I don’t really see how knowing that the sun will hit the back of the tomb on the winter solstice is of much use to anyone…”

They gave another little movement of their head that seemed like a pout to you, though you had only the bare skull to go from. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure. The tomb contained artefacts that thrummed with energy, so it would indicate that the Early Peoples had access to - and some degree of control over - magic too. Perhaps that date was of significance to them too. I will have to return to the site on the solstice to find out. Then we’ll know if it was of any ‘use’ as you say, or if it’s just interesting.”

“I see,” you said and your stomach chose that moment to growl at you like a spoiled house cat.

“Would… Would you like to stay here for some supper? I can have food brought up here to my chambers if you’ve missed out…” they said awkwardly, turning away from the window and back towards the central trestle table. As they moved the line of gilded sunlight slid from their delicate brow bones and plunged their skull into shadow again behind the hood. You’d never seen them without it raised. “It’s… later than I realised…”

“I’d have thought you could just magic some food up for me,” you grinned, honestly hoping it would disguise the fluttering nerves you felt at the thought of sharing a meal up here. Plus, their tone had gone inexplicably sad somehow.

They looked down at the table and said, “I could do that, of course, but transmuted food tastes awful, or… so I’ve been told. I don’t eat any more for… obvious reasons.”

“Do you miss it?” you blurted.

They stilled and trailed a bony fingertip across the wood. “Yes and no. I miss the pleasure that eating my favourite things brought me.”

“You still remember the taste…?”

Fixing you with a steady, if sidelong, look, they said, “I’m not that old, you know?”

“I…” you said and then stopped when they started laughing. “What?”

“I have to admit that I find it immensely entertaining any time someone assumes I’m a thousand years old. I’m not. I’m only thirty.”

“Thirty?” you gawped. “That’s… That’s so young to —” again, you cut yourself off before you said something truly insensitive, but Avery didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m used to it. And it is indeed young to have your physical form completely stripped bare in exchange for unfathomable magical power. It’s not a choice made lightly, and it’s not a choice that everyone would be prepared to make. It’s rare these days for someone to undergo it willingly.”

Horrified, you blinked at them. “Willingly? You mean it’s inflicted on people?”

They shrugged. “Rarely. It’s hard to control a person’s soul like that, but with the right runes on the phylactery, it can be done. Mercifully, that wasn’t the case with me though, and if you’re caught, the punishment is severe.”

“So… how does someone so young get the position of court mage?”

With another rasping laugh like dry autumn leaves, Avery said, “As opposed to someone so old and experienced, you mean?”

You shrugged, still kind of mute with surprise at the new revelation, and they laughed again. “Sorry.”

“I went to university with the princess. We became friends, and she saw what I could do. I was still an elf then though.”

“You’re… You’re an elf?”

“I’m a lich,” they corrected, “But yes, I was an elf when I was officially alive. Did my short stature and particularly fine wrist bones not give it away?” they joked self-deprecatingly, proffering their pale wrist towards you to examine.

When you actually reached out and touched them, however, a spark like static jumped between you and you both gasped.

“Excuse me,” they gasped, withdrawing their hand immediately. “I… That hasn’t happened in a long time.”

“What was it?” you asked, rubbing your fingertips and thumb together where the skin tingled. It hadn’t hurt, and it left your entire body tingling all over beneath the skin, and heat was rapidly pooling between your legs.

“My magic,” they said. “It’s usually not as forward and ill-mannered as that. I apologise if it startled you.”

“Forward? Ill-mannered?” you asked, amused and intrigued. “You say that like magic has a personality…”

“It does,” the lich sighed, the bones of their ribs creaking softly.

While, academically speaking, you knew what any elven skeleton looked like, you still ached to know the exact shape of Avery beneath the black robes that draped shapelessly over them; the exact way their bones fitted together; the exact colour; any breaks they’d sustained, leaving the evidence in their skeleton… “Alright, but why… ‘forward’?”

“And here I thought I was being terribly obvious,” they muttered.

“Obvious?”

A tilt of their head in your direction served perfectly as a rueful glance, the ardour behind it striking you in the chest with an alarmingly painful pang, and exactly as it occurred to you that you’d learned to read Avery pretty well by now, you also realised precisely what they’d been insinuating. “Oh…” you said, imbuing the sound with significance.

“Oh indeed,” they said bitterly. “Never mind. I quite understand that the attentions of a lich are not… not what everyone would aspire to after all… I apologise if… if I made you uncomfortable. I will not persist.”

“Wait, slow down,” you said, stepping forward suddenly and trying to catch their gaze with your eyes. It was hard to tell where they were really looking, given that all you had to go on was the rough direction of their head and the soft glow in their otherwise empty eye sockets, but when you got the impression that they were looking directly at you, you spoke up. “I’m sorry,” you began.

“Don’t be sorry,” they hissed, trying to turn away.

“No, wait, that’s not… that’s not what I meant!” Finding you had no choice, you reached out and latched onto their wrist. The bones beneath the long fabric of the sleeves felt so achingly fragile that you almost recoiled for fear of hurting them, but you made your fingers loosen just a fraction and stayed put. You needn’t have worried anyway; Avery was tethered and still at your touch in a heartbeat. “I mean, I am sorry, but I’m sorry for being dense, not that you… you know…”

“That I’ve been so poorly attempting to flirt with you for the last month?” they finished dryly.

“Now that I know, why don’t we start over…?” you said, releasing them and smiling hopefully.

Adopting a truly sarcastic pose and tone, they held out their skeletal hand and said nastily, “I’m Avery, I’m a lich, and I’m apparently an appallingly poor flirt.” The ugliness in their voice was not directed at you, however. Avery had turned it back on themselves and it galled you to hear someone so brilliant sound so defeated.

Unflinchingly, you took their hand and stared fiercely back at the lich who had become your friend in these first months at the castle, and perhaps something more. “I didn’t mean to start over that far back, but I’ll play your game.” You added your own name and profession, that you were human, and finished by saying, “And I’m very much open to being flirted with by you, however poorly you think you do it.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Avery said, their thumb playing back and forth over your skin before promptly changing the subject. “You never did answer me about dinner though. Would you like to stay here and eat? Or would my not partaking make you uncomfortable?”

Sensing that they needed a moment’s diversion, you allowed them to skirt around the issue of being interested in you, and shook your head. “Dinner here with you sounds lovely. Plus the view is spectacular.”

“I knew it. You want me for my advantageous chambers,” they moaned, still deflecting defensively.

“I meant that there’s something to keep you occupied while you wait for me to finish, that’s all,” you huffed in response to their teasing. “But if the view bores you by now, I’m sure you could always read to me from some dusty old volume you’ve nicked from the library and neglected to return…”

“You wound me!” they said, placing both hands over their heart, or at least, where their heart would have been if they weren’t just a skeleton anymore. “Is there anything you don’t eat? Would you like wine?”

You shook your head. “No, I’m good with most things, as far as I know, and…” you bit your lip and then reluctantly admitted that actually a glass of wine might be really nice. Your salary was not so meagre that you couldn’t afford a drink or two in the local taverns, but you suspected a wine from the castle cellars might be a little more special.

Instead of ringing for a servant, Avery picked up a quill and a small piece of paper, and dictated their message aloud after a quick flick of their wrist had brought the quill to life. It skimmed across the page like a breeze-blown willow branch trailing through a pond, and as you watched, you wondered if that was what Avery’s handwriting looked like, or whether the script was a result of magic, or the quill itself. Either way, it was beautiful, and you suddenly thought of the rather romantic notion of having love letters penned to you in that hand…

Their voice turned more confident as they dictated the note to the quill. “I am entertaining a guest in my tower tonight. Please have a fine supper for one brought up to the mage’s tower at your earliest convenience, with a bottle of Aktissian red too, if you please.”

“Avery!” you gasped, recognising the quality of the wine purely from it’s location.

They shrugged and finished off the note with another brief gesture, and you watched as it disappeared with a little pop. “I like to dictate my messages in case the person on the other end cannot read. Not all of the castle staff have been blessed with our educations, after all. In such a case, it will read itself aloud.”

“That’s thoughtful of you,” you commented.

They shrugged. “It saves me sending Devon, or going myself and terrifying the wits out of the kitchen staff, or ringing for someone to trudge all the way up here, only to have to go back and return later…” It seemed odd to you now that Avery could be frightening to anyone, but you recalled your own unease at your first encounter, and merely smiled at them again.

Wherever the note had gone, it must have reached the right ears, because twenty minutes later, a knock sounded at Avery’s door and a castle servant entered with a large tray.

“Thank you so much,” Avery said as the half-orc set the meal down on the table.

“Anything else you need, mage?”

“No, that’s all, thank you.”

You chimed in with your own thanks and the servant left.

Avery waved a hand at the table where they’d cleared a space amid the chaos of stationary and books, and you sat yourself down. They lifted the lid of the silver cloche and revealed a beautiful supper that looked fit for the princess’ high table. Eyeing Avery, you caught a little glint in their glowing eye sockets, and you assumed that they were pleased too.

In fact, Avery did not read to you while you ate, but they did watch you rather intently. “You’re going to make me all self-conscious,” you muttered. “This is delicious though.”

“Would you rather I not watch you?”

“No,” you said honestly. “I’m just not used to such… intense attention…”

“You’re gorgeous,” they murmured awkwardly, voice rich and husky, as though their magic was crackling uncontrollably beneath the surface.

After a pause, during which you encouraged your heart to beat normally, and the poor organ took absolutely no heed of your pleas whatsoever, you said, “So are you…”

If Avery could have rolled their eyes, you were sure they would have. Instead, they just pressed their hands to the table and leaned back in their chair. “I’m just a pile of bones and magic now… I’m honestly surprised you permitted me the indulgence of courting you.”

“It’s not an indulgence, Avery. Well, maybe it is, but it’s an indulgence for me. Each visit you’ve paid to the library has left me in quite a state, I’ll have you know.”

The lich went still at that and then very slowly tilted their head to one side. “Oh?” they asked, voice dipping lower with obvious intrigue. “Care to explain that?”

With a half smile, you set down your cutlery on your empty plate and pushed back a little way from the table to make yourself more comfortable. Crossing your legs, you said archly, “Any time you come close to me, you leave me tingling all over. I don’t know if it’s your magic, or you, or what, but… When you were leaning over my shoulder back there —” you nodded over at the writing desk, memories of their right hand pressed to the wood as they peered over your shoulder at your progress, the heady scent of incense and ozone swirling around their robes, the particular timbre of their voice as they hummed in thoughtful understanding at your translation…

“Yes?” they prompted, voice cracking.

Heat coiled between your legs and in your lower body, slowly filling you with a warm, glowing sensation that shot up your spine and made your head spin. “I could hardly think,” you whispered. “It’s a miracle I finished the translation.”

The light in their eyes guttered and flickered before returning with a new, brighter intensity. Where before it had been a pale, pastel green, it now burned with a searingly hot blue.

“Avery?”

The lich sat there and stared at you before twitching their head and shoulders a little. “Forgive me. We… We probably shouldn’t move that quickly…”

You raised your eyebrows. “How quickly?”

“Quickly,” they said. “You deserve to be courted properly.”

“And what if I’m as impatient as you are?” you asked, heart pounding. Gods, you wanted whatever they had to give you and you wanted it now. You ached, inside and out. “It wouldn’t stop you from still ‘courting’ me if you wanted…”

Avery stood and then stalled. “I…” They growled softly in frustration and started again. “I am… I haven’t… not since…”

“Avery… I know what you are. I know what you must look like under that robe, and I still want you,” you said fiercely.

“Gods,” they hissed, turning to face you, eyes blazing blue.

“Your eyes?” you asked. “They’ve changed colour. Is that your magic?”

They nodded. “What… What would you like from me?”

“Touch me,” you said honestly.

“I can conjure… uh… a variety of physical… um… shapes…” they faltered awkwardly and your brain supplied the rest, but they raised one hand and you found that where the bones had been before, they now supported a ghostly hand. They turned it over to show you their palm and then flipped it over again. You could still see the bones through the spectral hand that moved like translucent, living glass.

You shook your head, “Come here,” you said, and they did.

You stood up and ignored their new spectral hand in favour of running one fingertip around the orbital bones of their skull. Avery shuddered, joints rattling audibly beneath the robes as it shivered down their whole skeleton.

“Can I kiss you?” you asked. “Could you create… a tongue for me?”

With a mute nod, looking stunned, Avery opened their jaw and you saw a glowing, green tongue inside, translucent and glistening.

Pressing your lips to their teeth felt odd at first, especially when the cool of that single silver tooth caught your lips, but when the tongue immediately lapped at your lips, begging entry, you forgot the strangeness of it. You came alive again beneath that kiss as Avery’s hands found their way to your waist and then up to the back of your head where they let their bony fingers snake through your hair before gripping you tightly and tugging until you pulled back with a gasp. Panting and dizzy you let Avery nip at your exposed neck, tongue occasionally laving at your skin, shockingly cool and leaving it tingling.

One of Avery’s hands palmed your groin questioningly and your knees nearly went out from beneath you. “Yes,” you gasped. “Oh gods, please… I want… touch me… please…”

Your chest heaved and you let them steer you back into your chair behind you. When you landed, they tenderly began to undo your waistband, and you lifted your hips to slide a little way free of your clothes. Avery’s eyes blazed as they stared at you, your arousal evident with your clothes around your ankles. “May I use this…?” they asked, opening their mouth to reveal that long, thick, prehensile tongue.

“Gods yes,” you blurted, lifting your hips weakly again. “Please… Avery… I need you…”

The lich knelt before you and hesitantly placed their skeletal hands on your thighs. Looking down at them, nestled between your legs, you felt like you could come just from that sight alone.

“I’m not going to last long,” you warned them, practically shivering with arousal. “Gods… Avery, you’re…” Whatever Avery was to you in that moment, you never got the chance to tell them.

The instant their tongue touched you, lapping teasingly at you to start with, magic and sensation roared through you, ripping along your nerves and wiping your mind blank of all but intense pleasure. The slickness of their conjured tongue, supple and almost like a tentacle as it pleasured you, and the coolness of the mouth behind, set against the firm, unyielding pressure of their bare bones digging into the muscle of your thighs hard enough that it would bruise, drove you to the quivering edge in minutes.

Your hands scrabbled helplessly at the arms of the chair, your hips bucked unbidden up into the sensations Avery was offering you, fire danced along your nerves, and your blood sang in your ears. “Avery!” you screamed in warning, and then, with one final flick and press of their tongue against your most sensitive spot, you shattered.

With your mind blank, vision dark, Avery tore your release from you and prolonged it, either with their magic or just by their presence, until you whimpered and slumped in the chair, limp and spent and ironically boneless.

Finally, after lingering just a little longer, Avery sat back on their heels and stared up at you, one hand still on your quivering thigh. “Beautiful,” they rasped. “Gods above and below, but you come so beautifully.”

“I’ve never… come like that,” you croaked, throat raw. Had you come so hard you’d made yourself hoarse?

Avery summoned a goblet of water from the table to their hand and stood. “Here,” they said.

You drank, and as you set the goblet shakily back on the table, you glanced at them and saw a glistening droplet slide down their exposed ankle bone and drip onto the floor. Seeing where your gaze had gone, they chuckled. “Am I expected to remain unaffected by what you just gave me?” they said archly as you did your own clothes up again, just enough not to be completely exposed any more.

“How…? What…?” You began, but then shook your head and leaned forwards. Tentatively, you reached out a hand for the front of their cross-over robes and unbuttoned them at the waist. Drawing the fabric slowly aside, you felt them tense, but you kept going and they permitted it.

As the final fitting came loose, the robes hung open like a coat and revealed their skeleton beneath. To your surprise, they were not merely an empty ribcage and spine, hollow pelvis and slender leg bones. Constantly swirling inside them like a mixture of phosphorescence and ink, was a kind of magical core. Like an entity all of its own, it pulsed and coiled, writhing with tendrils of light and darkness that played along their ribs and teased up their spine like ivy. “Gods, Avery, you’re stunning,” you murmured and looked up to find their face tilted downwards, regarding you carefully.

Your eyes roved down their body to their pelvis, where the phosphorescent light seemed to have coalesced, spiralling around their hip bone like swirling liquid in a glass and… dripping tangibly down their leg.

“Can I… touch it?” you asked and they nodded. There was a long drip of it running down their femur almost to the knee, so you brought your fingertip up and trailed it cautiously through the strange, glowing wetness. “Is it magic?” you asked as your finger went numb and then began to tingle rather enticingly. Gods, what would that feel like against your body… even… inside you? Now there was an unexpected thought.

“It’s… akin to… oh gods,” they hissed suddenly, their hand flying to your shoulder as you traced a circle through it on the very edge of their curving hipbone.

“Mmm?” you asked, not relenting but not moving anywhere else.

Struggling to form words, Avery tried again. “Akin to when a ghost becomes corporeal.”

“Your magic is coalescing like ectoplasm?”

“In a way, oh… oh… ohhhh,” they moaned, staggering as you moved further up the wide scoop of their hip bone towards their spine and back again. “I can’t… I can’t keep upright… if you do that again… I’ll fall… I…”

“You want to move somewhere else?” you asked and they nodded.

Turning and leading you unsteadily without a word towards a closed door that led off from the study, Avery showed you to their bedroom and then hesitated, as though unsure as to quite what you wanted with them now that you had then naked.

“Bed?” you asked and they nodded, encouraged.

The fact that they seemed to be waiting for you to balk and run stung, but it made you more determined than ever to show them pleasure. Especially since they’d apparently not been with anyone since becoming a lich.

“Tell me what you like best,” you said.

“Your touch,” they blurted immediately.

“Alright,” you said with a tiny laugh. That was a start. “Lie back then.”

They lay down on the dark green blankets of the neatly made bed, their robes pooling behind them like ink, and stared up at you as you followed and sank down beside them.

Watching that swirling magical core for a moment, you reached out and traced their wrist first, working up to their shoulder, and then to that ever-present smile on their bare skull. The light in their eyes now burned a softer blue, occasionally flaring to the intense cobalt you’d seen before when you skimmed a particularly sensitive spot, and their jaw worked as if they were panting and gasping but couldn’t summon the magic to make the sounds.

The storm of essence in their ribcage swirled and crackled, tiny forks of lightning dancing through the clouds where their heart would have been, and you watched their spine flex and arch. The bones of their hands clenched the sheets into balls and as you moved lower and lower down their enchanted body, you watched the phosphorescent light begin to condense again as it hit their bones, running down in thick, slow rivulets to pool in the fabric of their robes, leaving only glittering, darker patches behind.

“Where’s most intense?” you asked, assuming you knew already. The point where the two halves of their pelvis met at the centre proved to be extremely sensitive, and as you ran your finger around it, they lurched wildly, the magic in their chest flaring and sparking again. “There?”

“Yes,” they gasped.

The magic began to grow, solidify, and as you circled the cool bone of their lower pelvis, a long, thick tentacle of magic coiled out of it and wrapped around your hand. It was real and tangible, corporeal, and slick as sin. “Avery,” you moaned as it clenched tightly around your wrist like an octopus’ limb.

“Want you,” they said. In the next moment, the tentacle released you and coiled back on itself, creating a soft passage inside them. Taking advantage of this, you slid two fingers into the channel and crooked them against the solid wall of pulsing magic.

Avery yelled with pleasure, spine arching again like a bow at full draw, magic expanding out through their ribs like a storm cloud, unable to be contained. Pressing hard against their walls, you rubbed intense and tiny circles while the magic flared and reached for your hand in return.

Flowing back and forth like waves of the ocean, Avery’s pleasure enveloped you and you felt it in your own mind as suddenly and as keenly as if it were your own. Their magic was reaching out for you and you allowed the connection without hesitation.

“I’m so close,” Avery whimpered, body taut and thrumming.

“I can feel it,” you whispered.

At that, Avery chanted, “I’m… Oh gods, there, like that… I’m… I’m going to… I can’t hold back any more… I…”

“Come for me, Avery,” you begged, and they broke.

Tendrils of black shadow shot out from their body like vines, filling the corner of the room and staying there like webs, while the core of their magic pulsed and throbbed, blazing with blue light. Liquid magic rolled over your hand as they came and came, body undulating and heaving, jaw open wide in a rictus of pleasure. The sight of it was almost enough to make you come too, but instead you simply stared at the magic you’d brought out and the pleasure you’d wrought in them.

Eventually, the black tendrils evaporated into a fine mist and vanished altogether, and the cloud of roiling magic settled down again and retreated back within Avery’s ribcage. The phosphorescent magic lingered on your skin, however, and as you moved to lie down beside them, you slid your hand down the waistband of your clothes and touched yourself with it still on your skin.

Avery was barely able to turn their head to watch as you brought yourself to another blinding orgasm, but their fingertips brushed against your free wrist just as you neared your second peak and you tumbled over the edge with a grunt and their name on your lips.

In the aftermath, you both lay there for a long time before either of you moved. Swallowing, you turned to look at them and found that the light in their eyes had gone back to green again, though this time it was dark and almost imperceptible. “Avery? You alright?” you asked.

They hummed softly in response. “Tired,” they admitted. “That… That was a lot of magic. I didn’t expect…” they huffed a laugh.

“Did I hurt you?” you asked, horrified.

“No,” they smiled, gripping your fingers in theirs for a moment before they lost the strength and went limp. “Quite the contrary. But I’m spent, in more ways than one.”

“Sorry…?” you ventured and they laughed. “Can I stay?” you added.

“Of course,” they replied. “I’m right in the middle of the bed, aren’t I? Do you have enough room?”

“I could use a little more, but if I lie on my side, I can manage alright.”

“I can’t even lift a finger at the moment,” they admitted. “I’m sorry. If you need me to move, you’ll have to lift me yourself.”

The vulnerability they were offering you struck you deeply. “Alright,” you said. “You sure you don’t mind?”

The tiniest shake of their head was all they could muster.

Sliding your arm beneath their neck and your other behind their knees, you tentatively raised them and nearly gasped at how light they were.

As if sensing your surprise, Avery managed a dry chuckle. “Elf, remember? Bones of a bird…”

You set them back down on the further pillow and nestled in beside them. “Can I put my head on your shoulder?” you asked.

“It won’t be comfortable. Bring a cushion over…” they whispered, nodding at the other side of the room where a modest chaise longue, upholstered in what looked like silk, sat against the wall, adorned with a couple of dainty pillows. The sight made you smile for some reason, and you took the opportunity to clean up a little at a washstand in the corner of the room. When you returned with a cushion, you found that the light was completely extinguished from their skull.

The magic still swirled away inside their chest, and as you laid the pillow down on their shoulder and watched their core shifting lazily - contentedly - you found yourself following them into a blank and blissful sleep.

___

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bibliocratic · 3 years

Text

a tale as old prompt: stories / wish pairing: aceMartin / aceJon (with a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it aroSasha)

A long time ago, stories made tell of a beast, living solitary and woodland-bound at the heart of the great forest. In the days before in the first age of the king, strange Powers beset the land and its people with all manner of terrors unnameable with the human tongue, and those afflicted were both revered and shunned in kind. This beast bore the aspect of a man, agreeable in face if not in manner, and was possessed of dark powers of knowing gifted to him by an unkindly denizen of the planes unseen. Rumour would have you believe that the beast had been a warlock, cursed through the rot of his allegiances, or a monk from some lowly church whose worshipful songs had summoned others listening from the clutch of the deep, or even a scribe in name and nature, a misbegotten soul who had read the wrong scrolls by the wrong candlelight. The truth of who he was before is little of our concern.

It was said, that those who ventured into the most unhallowed, shadow-snarled parts of the forest to retrieve him were never to be seen again, but tongues are free and mouths are wagging, and it is as likely that most feared the power of the beast too much to ever enter his domain.

There was, at that time, another young man, bestowed the name of Martin. The world in its wisdom had gifted Martin a kind heart easily bruised like the skin of apples, and strong shoulders as the oxen have with which to bear the weight of his small and heavy world. He lived for twenty-four summers with his mother, in a thatch-roofed farm on the edge of the great forest, and his days were the to-ing and fro-ing of a labouring life.

His mother had taken to her sickbed years afore, and while doctors and soothsayers and cunning men had hawked glistening potions and sweet-smelling pastes that they swore could cure all manner of ills, she had only worsened as time wore steadily on. Winter was approaching, the winding drop and stripping of leaves promising a long season of hard earth compacted with snow, and Martin worried his mother would not survive until spring.

He had heard, of course, about the beast of the Black Woods. The reputation laid before him, spoken of gravely with clucking tongues and shaking heads, of a silver-tongued sorcerer in league with spirits of the air and deep, who could summon forth the answer to any question in return for payment. The reckoning varied on the teller, and fanciful notions of first-borns and blood-tithes and betrothals abounded.

But the trees outside the forest had shed their clothes to bareness, and the welcoming touch of speckling frost had begun to settle upon the ground, and Martin’s mother grew weaker, developing a cough that rattled in her rickety lungs. And so, Martin of the Black Woods packed a small knapsack and ventured upon the winding pathways of the forest to seek out the beast who lived there.

The forest was not forbidding to his mind, though the knotted roots sewed themselves thick and wily through the undergrowth, disrupting the pathway. The branched canopy of trees which had sprouted from saplings in eras long lost from memory stretched tall and wide, forcing the sunlight to submit to gloom. There was the tremulous warble of birds as he walked, the shush of far-off water, and Martin chose to think upon these, rather than his fear of the task at hand.

He walked for hours, although he had no comforting vision of the sun to mark his time. Resting for a moment, he set himself at the base of a sturdy oak to gather himself, taking a sip from his waterskin. He closed his eyes but for a moment, lulled by the birdsong and the faint tune of the water, and when he opened them, the beast was there.

Eyes thronged unnaturally about his head as one would wear a coronet of fireflies. The beast was simple in garb, kept neatly, and all about his skin sprouted more pupils that mixed and intermingled as oil and water.

“You are far from the path, pilgrim,” the beast said.

Martin said nothing, his throat too bound in terror at the beast’s appearance, and the beast made a noise of annoyance, and his coronet of eyes spluttered out like water thrown on a campfire.

“I have no time for the lost of this world,” he said.

Martin was sore afraid, but he forced himself to stand, to look into the eyes of the beast for fear of offending so mighty a sorcerer, focusing on the pupils on his face that gleamed out like polished glass.

“If you please, Lord. I have come in search of you.”

“What do you seek that would have you search out my haunts and hollows?” the beast replied. “I have long grown bored of those who track me down to demand riches or wealth in abundance, those who desire power and might and lack the will or judgement to bring such things about by their own hand.”

“If you please, Lord,” Martin said. “A sickness has long ailed my mother, and I wish to see her cured.”

The beast considered this, and the awful visage of his form folded back into him begrudgingly, for the young man’s request had a tenor of honesty.

“There is no discount for your honour, however touching I’m sure it is,” the beast responded dismissively. “You know the price I ask.”

Martin considered the many stories told of what payment would be demanded of him, and fearing to cause the beast to anger by confessing his ignorance, replied instead:

“I would have you name it, Lord.”

The beast huffed, and rolled his eyes and said:

“Do not call me Lord. I possess no titles and desire none.”

Martin asked haltingly what name he would prefer.

“Watcher is my name and occupation. I am a devourer, my hungers bountiful and unceasing. My price, Martin of the Black Woods, is to taste a story told true from your lips. Should it satisfy, I will grant you what you ask.”

“What story should I speak of?” Martin asked. And then the beast turned every eye upon his trembling form, and bid him, in a voice sturdy as moonrise, insistent as drowning, crackling like leaf-fall, to tell of his first heartbreak.

And so Martin did as he was bidden, helpless as his tale spilt like water from his mouth, a breathless recount of first love and rejection, sacrificed to the eyes that feasted upon all the shadows his memory cast upon his soul. When he was finished, for the tale was woefully short in its particulars by merit of its simplicity, Martin attempted to bring himself up to full height and wipe away the tears that had begun to drip down the round of his cheeks, awaiting the judgement of the beast who stood expressionless before him.

Finally, the beast spoke, his words suddenly rusted with tiredness: “There is a flower. White as dawn-touched feathers. The roots are fragile and take poorly to most earth, yet it grows in a clearing in these woods not far from here. Pick a handful and return to your homestead. The roots you must boil. When the water cools, she should drink this for three nights, though the flavour is bitter. Her food, you should season with the crushed petals as you would salt. Then her sickness will be cured.”

The beast pointed a long finger to guide his direction and bade him safe passage, and then he was gone, and Martin was left with the stain of tears fresh on his face, his mind warring between fear and wonderment.

He did as the beast had told. And the cough that had taken up lodging in his mother’s lungs diminished apace until she breathed clean and clear for the first time in years.

For those three nights, and for many nights after, Martin dreamt of the beast. His striking eyes waxing and waning in the skin of his face. His restless gait and glowering manner. His demeanour proclaiming a strange kind of lonely, and within Martin blossomed a kinship for this soul, whose life was bordered by the edges of the forest, who had taken Martin’s story from his back as though a yoke for a little while.

It was not long before Martin returned to the great forest. Settling himself down at the foot of that elder oak, bowed regally by the press of the wind, and waiting.

The beast did not look pleased to see him return.

“These are for my thanks,” Martin said quickly, and from his knapsack brought out a clay jar of honey from his own hives.

“I thank you then. For your kindness,” the beast said after a while, and his speech was the awkward and stilting gait of a new-born foal when he continued: “Your mother? Is she better?”

“Her cough has left her,” Martin confessed. “Though she is still afflicted with a malediction of the bones that the winter brings on fiercely.”

“You know my price,” the beast said, and Martin nodded, and when the beast’s many eyes gazed upon him like a flaying and demanded the story of his greatest grief, squatting ruinous at the tender heart of him, Martin poured it forth without resentment.

“You should pick more flowers,” the beast advised. He had bought out a folded cloth from his pocket, promising that it was clean, and offered it to soak up Martin’s tears which trickled plentiful down his face when his payment had been satisfied. Martin took it with a wary hand, but it was an offering sincerely made and as such, gratefully received. “They are known as cat’s tongues in common parlance. They nestle in thickets amidst blackberries, and their petals are long and red and they will score your hands should you attempt to pluck them. They grow half a day’s walk from here. They should be ground into a paste, and administered at dusk, rubbed over the limb like a salve.”

Again, the beast soon disappeared amidst the branches of the great forest. And Martin followed the missive delivered to him, the cloth tucked away in his pocket, and picked the flowers known as cat’s tongues, which scratched and tore up the skin of his hands in his mission.

Martin served his mother dutifully night after night. Her legs grew stronger, and she could walk around the small farmstead with the gait of a maiden threescore years younger. And once a week, once his chores were done and the livestock attended to, Martin packed his bag with offerings for the strange beast of the forest who so occupied his dreams and waking moments, to thank him for his pains. To request another medicine, to see his mother whole and well.

The beast requested tales of hurt and shame and loss and grief, and Martin had many of those to offer upon his altar. After a drawn-out tale of miserable indignities, Martin was left shivering and swaying as a ship with storm-tossed rigging, his legs ill-equipped to carry him hence. After a pause, the beast had snapped at him to sit down, to take nourishment before continuing his quest.

Martin did as he was told, sensing no malice in the beast’s tone. Opening his bag, he offered the beast some of his bread and cheese. The beast blinked with all his eyes before cautiously agreeing, and their silence as they ate was companionable.

As time passed, the beast asked for different tales; those of quiet joy, warmth and comfort. Martin had fewer of those, but he delivered what was asked of him, and the beast rewarded his pains with the knowledge of where more flowers and berries and herbs were to be found. Gradually the beast tarried longer, as if unwilling to immediately depart, and they often broke bread and shared water under the soft shadow of the great forest.

When the touch of winter had passed into a chill spring, Martin visited the beast once more. He had crafted a woollen blanket from the fleece of one of his sheep, spun it on the wheel in the candlelight while his mother slept.

“For my thanks,” he said, like he always did, his face flushed the colour of strawberries, and the beast held the gift carefully in his hands to feel the weight and warmth of it. His voice was unsteady when he declared Martin was too kind to present him such a gift.

“How may I help your mother today?” the beast asked quietly.

Martin was silent for a long while before he spoke.

“My mother has no sickness of the body remaining,” he replied. “Her pains have been taken from her through your patient instruction. It is only a sickness of the heart, rooted as ivy in her. She sees in my face the ghost of my father’s follies, and her manner has long hardened towards me.”

The beast appeared sorrowful.

“This, I have no cure for,” he said.

“I would not ask one of you.”

“What would you have of me then?”

Martin did not look upon the beast as he stammered and stuttered that if the beast wished, Martin would have his company, to sit under the branches of the great oak. That they might share a small meal, speak without transaction, that Martin might ask questions of the beast if that would be deemed permissible.

The beast smiled, the gesture foreign to his face. It would take a long time before he was to realise that love, unbeknownst to him, had begun to seed in the soil of his heart left to fallow.

For months, Martin visited the beast of the forest, to break bread and share small tales not fed to any god, but kept as keepsakes within the memories of the other.

One day, it came about that a band of soldiers travelled through town, passing through to reach the port a few day’s south. They roamed in search of able-bodied souls to swell their number, and Martin was not unknown to the villagers, to whom he sold the produce from their farm and involved himself in the passage of their lives. And so, to his door came a man as tall and broad as a barn door. His handshake was a frost-bitten chill of a winter’s eve without candlelight, and he introduced himself as Peter Lukas.

Peter Lukas gazed upon Martin with eyes the colour of fog, and offered him an apprenticeship, serving upon his ship that laid wait in dock not two days travel. He spoke with feigned sincerity on how valuable Martin would be to his crew, how honoured such a title was, but while Martin did not trust his over-sharp smile nor his fool’s gold promises, it was true that the farm was suffering. His mother, while hale, was too old to work in the fields as she once had, and the money Peter Lukas promised was enough to keep her comfortable.

It was enough for a good dowry, Lukas chuckled, as if the idea was cause for merriment, should Martin wish to marry. Enough for a home, should he wish to settle down. Martin’s lot was a poor one, and would consign any beloved to gruelling hard-work all the days of their life. And surely, Peter Lukas chided, Martin would want to provide for those he loved, not damn them to a thankless life easily washed away by an errant storm or an ill-tempered season.

Peter Lukas cast himself in the manner of a liar, but his mouth spoke the truth well enough.

That evening, Martin visited the beast of the woods and told him he would be leaving. With the soldiers, and Peter Lukas, to make what fortune he could while his body was unbroken by time and labour.

The beast was angered and afraid. He had heard tell of Peter Lukas, who served a god much like his own, and in his heart flourished a fear of Martin’s fate, lost to the fog and sea. He snapped and goaded and snarled, tempestuous and terrified, but Martin had set his mind to it, and finally the beast relented. Beckoning Martin to follow him, he lead the young man deeper into the woods, his corona of eyes a light by which to see by, eventually arriving at a clearing and the cottage where the beast made his home.

The beast’s cottage was comely, ringed with warmth from the hearth, the brickwork soaked with heat. Martin perused the laden piles of manuscripts and scrolls that tiered from floor to the low ceiling, and he wondered what knowledge they spoke of, for no one had ever taught Martin his letters. The beast searched impatiently through disordered piles before he brought forth objects that shimmered in the glow of the firelight.

“I would make three requests of you,” the beast asked. “Though I have little right to.”

Martin bade him name them.

The first, was to accept the unusual treasures he had gathered in his arms. The beast gave Martin a compass, well-used by time, the glass splintered like a lightening bolt through the centre of its face, and told him to keep it upon his person, that he may not lose sight of land, for the hand would ever point homeward. Next, he gifted him a mirror, plain and foxed in the corner with black speckles.

“So you will never be lonely. Its twin is in my possession, and whatever is spoken in yours will be heard in mine. Alas, the charm is old and warped, and I have not the skill to mend it, for the same does not bare out in the reverse.

“What should I say to it?”

“I would have you whisper into the mirror,” the beast said after a moment’s thought, and his gestures were as the flight of anxious birds and his eyes for once did not meet Martin’s gaze as he spoke. “On nights becalmed and troubled, when you are heartsick. The domain Peter Lukas presides over is peaceful, in its own way, a place to soothe and numb and forget. But I beg of you, speak to the mirror and remember every blistering, joyous, terrible moment of being alive, and what you have endured to call yourself such. So that I know you breathe still, that I have not lost you to the fog.”

The second gift the beast bestowed was the knowledge of his name, long unspoken and unheard even to the ears of the beast. And Martin tasted the word Jonathan on his lips, and knew the knowing of it would warm him even on the coldest of nights.

“The final request is my gravest charge,” the beast said, and he stood before Martin, studying him with every one of his eyes, and touched his hand against Martin’s chest to feel the fragile motion of his heartbeat.

“Name it.”

“Come back to me,” he asked, and Martin’s eyes prickled with tears as he gave his solemn word.

Martin gifted him the last of his honey, and another garment spun in candlelight and dyed with woad and weld so its colour was that of the beast’s eyes.

The beast watched him leave, standing at the threshold of his cottage long after his eyes could not see him.

Martin’s lot was arduous, though he quickly rose through the ranks under the tutelage of Peter Lukas. He saved diligently every penny of his earnings, with a mind to build a home in the woodland, to buy a modest ring of silver, to deck himself in clothes worthy of a man like the beast and ask him for his hand. When it was his turn on lookout, he’d take the mirror up to the crow’s nest and speak gently into the glass as he sat curled under a bedrock of stars. His compass was ever in his pocket.

But the way of the Forsaken is a cunning one, the fog insidious in its beckoning. Martin struggled to recall the gift he had been given, and one day found the sea had taken it as payment for his continued service, and he was struck with a terror that he would forget the beast of the forest, and so he spoke the beast’s true name upon waking, upon sleeping, as a chant when the fog settled in low and their voyage was becalmed and there seemed nothing but emptiness from horizon to horizon. And in this way, he persisted, no matter how much of him the fog laid claim to.

It was many years before Martin returned to shore. Salt ingrained in his skin, a scattering of white to his hair like chicken seed. His apprenticeship served. The ship came to port far from his homestead, and he would have wandered lost if not for the compass which bore Martin true and back to the little village and his farm on the outskirts of the Black Woods.

It had been a long time since he had dreamt of the beast. And his return ate up his time and attention, amidst the newly made demands of his mother, grown more distant with age.

He had been returned some three months before he packed his knapsack and ventured along pathways his feet had never forgotten how to tread.

He waited patiently by the hollow all day. A jar of honey in his knapsack, and only one more story in his mouth. The beast did not appear, even as the day slid into night. He did not appear the next day, not the next, nor the next, but Martin made his faithful pilgrimage regardless.

He was rewarded for his pains on the sixth day. The beast appeared wreathed in eyes like a holly garland, his expression hard and hurt. His body had been struck and ill-used by time and events Martin had not been privy to, and he ached, to see him the bearer of so many scars.

“What would you will of me, Martin?” he asked, and his tongue was sharp to hide an anxious heart.

“I kept my promise,” Martin said, but the beast’s face did not soften at this, for he had endured years of silence, mourned and tried to forget the young man who had gifted him honey and blankets and promised to speak to him, even across the vast of the sea.

“I am glad to see it. I ask again. What would you will of me?”

“My mother would have me wed.”

The beast paused, before continuing with a sadness loosening the bricks of his heart.

“I see. Your apprenticeship has not left you a poor man, it was to be expected. And would you ask me for the finest silks, the cleverest bride or the prettiest groom or the gentlest spouse, the happiest matrimony in the kingdom?”

Martin did not flinch at the beast’s tone.

“My mother engaged me in a match while I was away,” he replied. “And although my betrothed is clever and dashing and would make me a happy man, I hold no love in my heart for her, nor she I. Her heart does not take to ardour as others do, though she cherishes my happiness and would be a steadfast companion. And I have never been mindful of passions of the sort expected from a husband.”

“It is not in my power to make people love,” the beast spoke harshly. “Nor is it to offer solutions to things that do not need fixing. The mechanisms of your heart are your own, as valued as any other, and I would not alter them.”

“That is not what I would ask,” Martin said. He approached the beast with open hands and an open face. “I ask only to tell you a story. The only one I have left to give you.”

Martin walked forward, and his eyes were not the grey the beast had feared but the blue of skies sighted through the canopy of the great forest. His hand, worn and calloused by his labours, reached out, and touched the chest of the beast to feel the rise and fall of his breathing.

“It is the story of my love,” he said, “for the soul who lives at the centre of the woods, blessed with the sight of a thousand eyes. Who gifted me his company, for a short time, and his name, which I have carried as a talisman to ward off all manner of evil. Of how I came to love him, and crafted gifts declaring my devotions when my tongue could not, and how my affections were not diminished by neither time nor tide. The man who whom I spoke my dreams and fears and hopes, even when I did not have the mirror though which he could hear me. Of the future I would hope for us, should my affections be returned. Of the life I do not dare to dream we could have, if only I knew he felt in kind.”

The beast took Martin’s hand and cradled it in a gentle grip.

“Such a request has a high price,” he said.

“Name it, Jonathan,” Martin said, and the beast’s face bloomed with a smile that lit up every one of his staring eyes.

“I would have the years of your life, Martin of the Black Woods,” the beast said. “I would have them to cherish and guard and hoard and share. And in return I would love you with all I have within me capable of such a task, and hope you found mind me worthy of the same.”

And so Martin embraced the beast, and swore to adore him all the years of his life. What further words and declarations they recounted to each other were not recorded. Years later, tales told of two beasts in the guises of men, who held court in their home at the centre of the forest. One, granted gifts of knowing, who would ask a story as the price for his learning. The second, a white-haired man untouched by time, who would find those lost upon the winding pathways of the forest and kindly escort them out, only to slip away amidst the trees like mist when his task was done.

But stories make tell of many things, and the truth of this tale is known only to the leaves and the trees of the Black Woods.

#aspecarchives #tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #fic #sorry Sasha #you got barely a cameo #folks need to know that first drafts of this had more Sasha and aceTim #because I adore them both and might write more for them tomorrow

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jmeelee · 4 years

Text

The Boy Next Door written for @averysterekfall

“Go burn that anger off doing something productive!” His father’s words squeaked past the front door before it slammed. Stiles flew down his porch steps, out onto the walkway, acorns cracking under his stomping sneakers. He halted in front of the garage, stabbed every number into the keypad.

“Why won’t you just let me get my license?!” He’d yelled moments ago. What more did his father want? Stiles had passed his permit test with flying colors, logged over 100 hours of practice driving, rocked driver’s ed, and taken three private, professional driving lessons. He was more than ready to get his provisional license, and his father's hesitation was downright insulting at this point. The garage door rolled up, exposing baby-blue paint inch by inch.

“Hey. What are you doing?” Stiles wheeled around, arms windmilling and heart racing.

The boy next door, Derek Hale, plopped a garbage bin at the curb in front of his house. Derek and Stiles lived next door to each other for years, since Stiles and his family moved to Beacon Hills when Stiles was five. Only a year apart in age, they’d been close friends once upon a time. Derek sat with him on the school bus and taught him how to play touch football. An extra place setting was always available at the Hale family dinner table for when Stiles showed up like an only-child moth drawn to Derek’s large-family flame. But when Derek left Stiles in junior high to move up to Beacon Hills High School, he’d left their friendship behind too. He’d grown muscles and facial hair and a social life that had no room for Stiles anymore. They still hung out occasionally at neighborhood barbecues, but it wasn’t the same.

“Jesus, dude. Someone needs to put a bell on you.”

Derek looked down at the bulky garbage can—the kind Stiles knew damn well sounded like rumbling thunder on it’s trip to the curb—and back to Stiles, raising one dark bushy eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing,” Stiles spit, breathing hard. “Don’t worry about it.” What would Derek care, anyway? He and his older sister, Laura, shared custody of a sleek black Camaro. No one forbade him from taking his road test. And middle-child Derek Hale had no idea how it felt to be the sole beneficiary of an overprotective parent’s ridiculous restrictions.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing,” Derek pressed. “You stomped out here like you were going to kick someone’s ass.”

Anger and grief settled in Stiles’ lungs like cement. “I’m just out here, admiring my car—” Stiles waved a hand at the 1980 CJ5 Jeep parked in his garage—“which I’ll never be able to drive because my father is a controlling prick.”

Derek cut across his yard until he stood in Stiles’ driveway. “He’s worried about you. In his line of work, he’s probably seen some terrible accidents, seen the cost of teenagers driving before they were ready.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “You’re all he has, Stiles. Soon you’ll go away to college, and he won’t see you every day, and a car means he’ll see you less now when he’s probably trying to soak up as much time together as he can. Try not to be too tough on him.”

It wasn’t like Stiles didn’t know those things. He did. But his mother had left Stiles the Jeep when she died. She wanted him to have it. She taught him about the clutch and the gear shift when he was seven years old. He just wanted to roll down the windows and hear her laugh on the wind again.

Stiles didn’t have the words to say all that to Derek, so he said, “Ew. I don’t want to hear your logic, Hale.” He reached into a dark corner of the garage, swatted away some cobwebs and grabbed two rakes with worn wooden handles, and a couple of pairs of work gloves. “Put up or shut up. I’ve got rage to burn.”

Energy spilled from him like oil from a smashed tanker. Leaves flung into the air. Within minutes Stiles stood in the center of a thigh-deep pile; immense, immediate progress. It felt good. He raked on and on, across the yard and back, until a multicolored mountain stood in front of him, the lawn a green swath behind.

Derek came and stood before Mt. Stiles, surveying it thoughtfully. Then he turned and, without catching himself, fell backward into the leaf pile. He sprawled comfortably, sinking to the ground, brown, red, orange, and yellow leaves sliding over his handsome face. Stiles stepped into the pile, sat down cross-legged. They were in a nest, hidden from the world.

He looked at Derek and said, “Every day I don’t have my license feels like another day I don’t have her.” He shrugged. “It might be stupid to feel that way, but it’s true.”

Derek’s eyes softened at the memory of Claudia. “Not stupid at all.” Derek put both hands around Stiles’ waist and pulled him down flat into the leaves with him.

The kiss was long. And serious.

Stiles stared awestruck at Derek’s stubbled cheek, which pressed against his, and with amazement, brought his lips together to kiss Derek again. To start their second kiss, and choose when to end it. Derek’s heart raced under Stiles’ palm, and his own picked up speed, keeping pace.

Very slowly, Stiles’ hand crept around Derek’s face, finding the back of his neck where his dark hair lay thick over his pulse. Derek’s hand, rough-surfaced, gently touched his face. He brushed the hair from Stiles’ forehead, traced his profile with the pad of his thumb.

“Derek!” Shouted his little sister, Cora, from the porch steps. “Derek, where are you? Isaac Lahey’s on the house phone. He says you aren’t answering his texts.” She waited a few moments, and when she didn’t get a response, she reentered the house and slammed the door.

They fell apart, each lying back on the crinkling leaves, staring up a blue, early October sky. “I’d better go take that,” Derek said.

“Sure. Yeah. Gotcha.” Stiles agreed. “That guy’s pretty needy.” Derek huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes. He stood first, brushing leaves off an ass that perfectly filled out his jeans. He reached down, grabbed Stiles’ hand, and hoisted him to his feet. Stiles could feel bits of leaf in his hair and down the back of his flannel shirt.

Derek kept his fingers intertwined with Stiles’, reached out with his free hand, and picked an oak leaf from Stiles’ shoulder. “Can I ask you something, Stiles?”

“Uh. Sure?” The words came out breathless.

“When you do get your license—and you will—could I be the first person you drive with in your Jeep?”

Stiles ducked his head, overcome, and stared at his feet for a few seconds. He looked back up at Derek from under his lashes. “Yeah. I think that can be arranged.”

Derek smiled. “Can’t wait.” He squeezed Stiles’ hand before letting go.

Stiles’ heart and lungs were working hard enough to power the entire county of Beacon Hills. Once Derek disappeared inside his house, Stiles picked up his rake again. Their two bodies had left imprints in the leaf pile, like angels in the snow. He raked the pile back together, until the prints were hidden, the evidence gone. Their little secret, at least for now.

If Stiles’ dad found out, he’d probably never let Stiles leave the house, let alone take a road test.

The boy next door, Stiles marveled, touching a finger to his kiss-swollen bottom lip. Who would have thought he’d be such a cliche?

Stiles stored the rakes back in the garage and briefly rested his forehead against the Jeep’s spare tire. “Soon,” he whispered. The word, the Jeep, and Derek, all held the promise of happiness. “Soon.”

He closed the garage door and went back inside.

__________

Thank you to @novemberhush for reading this over. This ficlet is based on the first kiss scene from The Face on the Milk Carton

#avsf2020 #sterek #eternalsterek #haleinski #sterek ficlet #sterek fic

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bubmyg · 3 years

Text

scarecrow - myg

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre/warnings: vampire!yoongi, fluff, couple blood mentions, death mention (brief), bit of protective yoongi, those previous three warnings sound a lot more dramatic than they actually are, non-chronological with the rest of my vampire yoongi series, this hints at some of the angst for future parts but only if you squint

word count: 1,612

summary: you’re going to keep telling yourself (and yoongi) that the maze is targeted towards literal children or the one where yoongi growls at a fake scarecrow.

“Whose idea was this?”

You contained your laugh by shoving your chin further into the pile of scarf fabric tucked around your neck and anchoring down on Yoongi’s clammy hand in yours.

“Uh, yours, babe.”

There was an acute chatter around your huddled figures, laughter too, and the faintest of startled screams coming from the dying corn stalks that clattered against each other in the late evening breeze. You, however, were only aware of the leaves crunching beneath Yoongi’s boots as he shifted next to you, arm occasionally brushing yours, tiny shoulder bag clacking against your hip.

“We can go home,” You reminded gently, casting a gaze behind you past the line that had quickly gathered behind you. “I think they’re selling cider near the entrance—”

“No,” Yoongi said quickly. Too quickly. Quick enough for a sheepish smile to form on his lips as he glanced at you. “I’m fine. C’mon, we’re next.”

You regarded the costumed attendants at the gate to the haunted corn maze with a muted giggle, squeezing Yoongi’s hand when the more bloodied of the two seemed to zero in on him with their pointed warning of, “Have fun…”

The group in front of you appeared as nothing more than some fuzzy shadows, disappearing as quickly as you thought you’d made them out until a small scream emitted from that general direction. You laughed again when Yoongi tensed, tugging him along through the beginning weave of the maze by means of threading your free hand around his elbow.

“What if we get lost in here?” He wondered out loud, seeming to calm when the first dozen yards weren’t lined with haunted jump scares.

“We can cheat the maze. Corn is planted in rows, we can just shimmy through them. The field has to end eventually...”

Yoongi was staring at you with a strange mingle of confused fascination. “Why do you know that?”

You saw the outline of a giant felt spider dangling at eye level before he did, letting your grin grow when the next succession of steps forward had him walking directly into it. There was a surprised yelp that came from his lips, higher pitched that anything you were accustomed to from your soft spoken, ancient boyfriend.

“Not funny,” Yoongi complained with a clear pout even in the haze of the evening, unlacing your fingers to drag his perspiration lain palm over the front of his jacket. The wrinkle at the bridge of his nose only worsened when you used your grip on his elbow to surge forward and peck his nose.

“Kind of funny,” You pointed out, regaining possession of his fingers in yours. “Haven’t you, like, killed people before?”

He groaned, dragging you past an actor’s arm that darted out from the corn in an attempt to snatch your heel. “Have I told you before that you’re ridiculously morbid?”

“You’re a two hundred year old vampire that just got scared by a fake spider made of styrofoam in a haunted corn maze marketed towards human children,” You cocked an eyebrow at him, “and I’m the ridiculous one?”

You didn’t need proper lighting to hear his cheeks pinkening. “I wasn’t scared…”

If there was anything about Yoongi you’d had to accustom yourself with, it was his consistent ability to be alert. Whether it was his inner survival instinct, his heightened senses, or simply a byproduct of his curiosity to understand the human world as it evolved around him, you weren’t sure. In fact, you began to hypothesize it was a combination of all three. Long ago had you stopped being startled when his nostrils flared at the sound of a loose dog two neighborhoods over, when his eyes flicked to a leaf rustling and breaking apart from its steam one hundred feet up in a one hundred and fifty year old oak tree.

Everything about Halloween themed amusements were meant to simulate a similar thing, pricking your ears to every movement, every scream up ahead, every rustle in the dirt part below the soles of your shoes. Somehow, the opposite effect had trilled through Yoongi, relaxing him when he began to anticipate the miniscule jump scares, progressively becoming less and less infatuated with anticipating them so as to mask his reaction. He’d started focusing more on you instead, calming only when he began to register the roar of your heartbeat in his ears was good, fear consented to rather than something he needed to try to curb for your safety.

You weren’t that scared by the scarecrow that catapulted from between the corn. There was an automated voice to the mechanism too, warning something about staying far away from it’s crop, encouraging you to run in some eerie monotone. You were near the end of the maze, anyway. You could see the lights of the festival at the end approaching over the stalks.

But in the moment, you jumped. It was unexpected, genuinely, as it was intended. Your shoulder blades bumped into Yoongi’s chest, your hand immediately coming up to cover the thrum of your heart underneath the layers of sweaters and jackets. The laughter of disbelief at your own actions fizzled when you heard a sound you’d only heard Yoongi make a handful of times.

A strong arm secured around your waist, heightening the growl that reverberated against your back, effectively pulling your stature backward until you were stationed firmly behind Yoongi’s bristling figure.

“Hey—” You touched Yoongi’s waist first, then his arm, using the tiniest budge you managed to get on his strength to touch his cheek, turning his gaze to yours. The shade of gentle brown in his warm irises had darkened red and, as you expected, the point of his fangs extended beyond his bottom lip, “—it’s okay. I’m fine.”

He blinked, an action that only softened the shade of his eyes but didn’t calm the rigidity of his stature, not as his gaze whipped to where the scarecrows animatronic had already retracted itself back into the corn. Gently, you took his hand, willing your heart to stop beating so fast so you could, with the utmost trust, settle his palm against the side of your neck where your pulse thrummed the loudest. “See,” You coaxed, triumphant when his thumb stroked under your jaw and his eyes swirled caramel, “I’m okay. Promise.”

Yoongi’s shoulders slumped, dragging his gaze away from yours but his hand remained on you, standing there huddled in a corner and dangerously close to a stray husk of corn that was dangling off one of the nearby stalks. You paid no mind, not when his hand traveled up from your neck to your cheek, brown eyes returning to you despite his fangs that still pressed small indentations into the plush of his, now pouting, bottom lip.

For a half second, you thought you were the one with the keen hearing when you heard him murmur, “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” You demanded, the laughter that started the whole incident bubbling back through the slight, genuine, fear that had settled high in your chest.

“Sorry,” He tried again. His arm curled around your waist, pressing you close enough to lay his lips to your forehead.

You couldn’t resist. “No, thank you, actually. You protected me from the big scary scarecrow.”

It was a whine that left Yoongi’s throat this time, “I’m sorry. I can’t help it, I—”

“I’m kidding,” You laughed, rubbing a soothing palm over his stomach until he glanced at you again. “Hey—”

“I ruin everything,” Yoongi grumbled and even if he looked almost comical with the pointed tip of his retracting fangs still poking out from between his lips, you sensed he was at least halfway serious about the statement.

“Hey,” The firmness in your tone made his eyes widen. “I love you. I love being with you. You were caught off guard, no big deal.” His eyelids lowered in solace, nodding a couple of times, mostly to himself.

“Besides,” You took to pinching his hip, “Would Jimin have growled at a fake scarecrow for me? No.”

At the mention of your human coworker and best friend who harbored a not so subtle yet mostly joking crush on you, Yoongi locked his grip around your fingers again and began marching off toward the exit of the maze.

“Wait,” You tugged on his hand, only to have narrowed eyes assess you seriously when he stopped walking. “Do not go girl who cried wolf on me,” Yoongi deadpanned, “I just got my fangs to calm down. That includes mentions of that human.”

You grinned, rolling on your toes to cup your hand around his ear, even if he could have picked out your voice among a million others if you were halfway across the world from him.

“There’s a real life human waiting at the end of this maze to scare us. I think they’re dressed as a scarecrow,” You whispered, locking him in place when his features scrunched and he tried to lean away from you, “I’m telling you now that I’m not scared of them. In fact, I’m sacrificing you to them. As an offering.”

“You’re infuriating,” Yoongi told you when you dropped away from him, still rocking your hands at a gentle sway between your bodies, “You know that?”

“I love you?” You tried again.

Yoongi’s entire being softened, tiny flecks in his eyes now mirroring the stars shadowed by the thinnest layer of clouds racing across the night sky above you.

“I love you, my angel.”

Then, a look of determination crossed his features as he began shuffling backward. “Let’s get out of here, I want a caramel apple.”

“...wait, you do?”

#bts imagines #bts reactions #bts x reader #yoongi imagines #yoongi x reader #yoongi fluff #bts fluff #fic: vampire yoongi

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endlessnorth · 3 years

Photo

accio love || requested by @anonymous & @the-end-is-kigh & @what-the-waterbear

check my pinned for the prompt list!

hogwarts!au + fake dating + “wait, no, don’t take kissing away from me.”

“So we walk in, and I kiss you.”

“No, no, no,” Arya says impatiently as she reaches over to swipe one of his Chocolate Cauldrons. “We walk in, and I kiss you.” Her cheeks are still flushed from quidditch practice, her broomstick thrown carelessly on the floor of the boys’ dormitory, and Gendry has to roll his eyes because this is so utterly ridiculous.

“Why does the order matter?”

“Are you the first English witch in generations to compete in the Triwizard Tournament?” she glares at him. “The order matters because I say it matters. And I kiss you, end of story.”

“I’m starting to think this a bad idea,” he grumbles. “Maybe there just shouldn’t be any of that at all.” Gendry’s nervous enough for the Yule Ball as it is; he doesn’t need any extra pressure on him.

“Wait, no, don’t take kissing away from me, that’s clearly the most important part.” He scoffs at Arya; she leans her chin on her hand. “What?”

“You’re not being serious!”

“I’m trying to be.”

“Are you really?”

It’s her turn to be scornful. “Gendry,” Arya complains, her tone a bit indignant. He looks at her archly; she sighs, folds her hands, and sits primly on his ratty comforter - flashing him a smile that he can’t help but mirror. “Come on. Just go over it one more time.”

And, well, he can’t say no to that.

“So we’re there in the Great Hall,” he starts off, “and you’re kissing me…”

–

The castle and its inhabitants transform on the night of the Yule Ball; there’s a kind of enthusiasm and anticipation in the boys’ dormitory that Gendry hasn’t felt since the first quidditch match of the year. The room is a flurry of robes, fussy collars, and envious first-years - Gendry hears a low moan from the other side of the room as Podrick Payne, in an attempt to magically fix his hair, ends up charming away most of his left eyebrow.

“You nervous?” Anguy asks as he tugs a pair of frilly stockings over his legs. Gendry wrinkles his nose at the sight of them, mostly dreading the fact that he’ll have to wear something similar as well.

He fixes his tie and forces his hair to stay down flat in the mirror with a touch of Sleekeazy’s. “Why would I be?”

“You’re going to the Yule Ball with Arya Stark, mate!” Anguy sputters. “She’s the Hogwarts Champion for the first Tournament in centuries, how aren’t you intimidated? And she won the First Task,” he adds, like that’s something Gendry could ever forget.

Although remembering is one thing; accepting, another trial entirely. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so frightened as he was the day of the First Task - watching Arya fly around her broomstick, dodging wayward claws and tongues of fire before swooping in to steal the dragon’s egg is something he hopes to never relive again. She’d nearly had to beat him off her after that, he’d been hugging her so hard. And he’d only stopped because her hair smelled like dragon spit and ashes.

“I was already dating her,” he says eventually.

Anguy frowns at him. “Yes, I realize, and I wanted to ask you - when exactly did that happen?”

Gendry grimaces. Three days after her name came out of the Goblet, he thinks, or about seventy-two hours after Ned Dayne abruptly decided he was in love with my best friend - at which point Arya decided she’d rather have me for a fake boyfriend than that prat for a real one.

He doesn’t have time to unpack all that though, and luckily, Samwell pipes up from the other side of the room.

“Well, I’m nervous!”

“Of course you are,” Grenn says. “Gilly wouldn’t even give you the time of day before this, and now she wants to hold your hand? I’d be bloody stunned too.”

Sam blushes. “That’s not true. She liked me plenty already.”

“And how’d you figure that out? By cornering her in the middle of Potions class? I saw the look on her face when you asked her out, by the way - like she spotted a shriveled newt.”

Gendry relaxes, realizing the conversation is shifting elsewhere. Someone puts the Weird Sisters on the radio; he finishes dressing with Sam and Grenn’s incessant bickering in the background and then walks, a bit self-consciously, down to the Gryffindor common room. Gendry doesn’t see Arya around, but that hardly surprises him. It’s still early in the evening. He’s sure she’ll find him at some point, maybe in the Great Hall.

“Oh, hello!” Gendry hears a voice say as he pushes the portrait of the Fat Lady open. He looks down and sees Sansa there, beaming expectantly up at him. She’s got a pretty periwinkle dress on, her hair all done up in fancy braids.

“Hello,” he replies, a bit startled. “Er, are you here for Podrick? He’s still getting ready, I think.”

“No,” she peeks around him, “I’m looking for Arya. I’m supposed to help her with her hair.”

“With her - you’re going to make her look like that?” Gendry exclaims. Sansa’s eyes widen, and she reaches up self-consciously to touch the complex hairstyle, a flush making its way across her cheeks. “Not - not that there’s anything wrong with that, you look very nice, it’s just-”

Sansa rolls her eyes at him in that way of hers, seeming especially disdainful tonight. “Gendry,” she interrupts him with a sickly sweet smile. “I’m going to go help my sister now, all right?”

“Right,” he says awkwardly, and holds the portrait open.

The Fat Lady titters lightly when Sansa’s gone. “It’s lucky she isn’t her sister.”

Gendry jumps in surprise. He’d almost forgotten she was there. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he says accusingly.

“Nothing at all.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Enjoy the Ball, dear!” the Fat Lady calls when Gendry starts towards the stairway in irritation. “Oh, and remember, there’s a new password after tonight - wattlebird!”

–

Ned Dayne’s dress robes are new, expensive, and dyed a deep lilac to match his eyes. Gendry glances at him, then down at the secondhand robes Anguy lent him. They’re not in bad shape, but they’re a bit old and moth-eaten and don’t fit him quite right around the shoulders.

As if hearing his thoughts, Ned sidles up to Gendry and leaves his date, Myrcella, chatting on the other side of the cloister with her friends.

“Waters,” he says, his voice surprisingly cordial.

“Dayne.”

“Arya isn’t here yet?” he asks, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “I hope she didn’t stand you up.”

Gendry grits his teeth, annoyed even though Ned’s tone doesn’t betray much malice. “She’s just getting ready,” he assures the Hufflepuff. “She’ll be here soon if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Oh, I wasn’t worried,” Ned says, chuffing himself up a bit. “Actually,” he looks past Gendry’s shoulder. “There she is.”

Gendry’s facing the other way, so he hears Arya before she sees her, her voice raised in tinkling laughing as she descends down the staircase. Still, at the expression on Ned’s face he has to turn - so does everyone else in the cloister, as if pulled by a magic thread.

His first thought is that maybe Sansa does have an idea of how to do things after all. Because Arya looks lovely. Not lovely in the way Gendry usually thinks of her, flushed and smiling at him on the quidditch pitch, or muttering quietly to herself as she leafs through One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, but lovely all the same. Her light green dress sweeps along the floor as she reaches Ned and Gendry.

Upon closer inspection, there are golden leaves and acorns embroidered into the sleeves, and her dark hair - left surprisingly untouched - is woven through with grass.

She says one last thing to Sansa and watches her sister make her way over to Podrick, who has luckily resolved his eyebrow situation.

Arya turns to Gendry with a sheepish smile on her face. She mouths a quick hello to him, looking pleased when he returns the gesture. Then her gaze flicks over to Edric, a small ‘v’ shape forming between her eyebrows. “Hey, Ned.”

He perks up as soon as she addresses him - probably the same way he does every time she turns his way in N.E.W.T. Herbology. Could he be any more obnoxious?

“Hi, Arya! We were waiting for you. You look nice tonight, by the way, and I was-” He opens his mouth to ramble on, but then Arya purposefully talks over him.

“Thanks.” She gives him a slightly uncomfortable smile. “It’s so good to see you. But I thought you were here with someone…?”

“Oh. Yes. Myrcella.” They all turn in her direction, and Myrcella, blushing, waves at them. Gendry thinks that it’s too bad she’s going to the Ball with a ponce like Edric Dayne - Cella is sweet and looks very charming in her rose-pink dress, but she’s clearly oblivious to the fact that Ned doesn’t like her half as much as she likes him.

“I suppose I should go over to her,” Ned says, his voice betraying the fact that the idea doesn’t quite appeal to him. “She said something earlier about wanting to dance.”

“That’s a good idea!” Arya replies with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Listen, the Ball will probably be starting soon…I’ll talk to you later, all right?”

“I wasn’t expecting that,” she confesses to Gendry once Ned has slinked out of earshot. “And I’m sorry I took a while. The dress wouldn’t zip at first, and Meera had to magick it a size larger, and it’s so bloody itchy-”

“It’s okay, Arya.”

“Not really. I feel like an oak tree, with all these leaves and acorns.”

“Well, you look pretty,” he tells her with a hint of stiffness. “Better than either of the dunces from Beauxbatons or Durmstrang, anyways. Or - I don’t know - like a proper Champion.”

Her face softens a little. “Thank you, Gendry. You clean up nice, too. Is that Sleekeazy’s?” she laughs, reaching up to touch his usually tousled hair.

“Yes, it is,” he swats her hand away. “And I spent twenty minutes trying to get it like this, so hands off.”

“Twenty minutes? Really?”

From there the conversation drifts towards schoolwork, eventually devolving into Arya’s description of an elaborate quidditch play she came up with while curling her hair. Once Gendry glances over at Sansa, who raises an eyebrow at him as if to say, I told you it’d be fine.

A few minutes later Headmaster Seaworth breezes by, instructing them that it’s nearly time for the first dance.

“Yes, Headmaster,” they say in tandem. Arya takes Gendry by the arm and pulls him towards the aforementioned dunces from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang - a remark that Gendry feels a little bad about making now, since the Beauxbatons Champion, Daenerys, beams warmly at the both of them. He takes solace in the fact that Durmstrang’s Champion, a boy named Drogo, looks as surly and unfriendly as ever, though he brightens a little when Daenerys turns his way.

“Remember,” Arya whispers to Gendry, “I’ll kiss you when the dance is over.” The student orchestra starts to play, and she steers him forward.

But Gendry can’t help but balk a little, even though Drogo and his date are waiting for them to keep walking. “What, in front of everybody?” he hisses.

“Yes, Gendry,” she says as the set of double doors open into the Great Hall. “That’s sort of the whole point.”

There’s a round of polite applause when the Champions enter the Hall, and though Gendry already knew the Yule Ball would look fantastic, he can’t help but echo Arya’s sigh of awe.

The ceiling has been enchanted so that snowflakes drift down elegantly from a brilliant white sky, vanishing before they reach the floor; the long tables they usually sit at are gone and in their place are elegant round tables, decorated with holly wreathes and fairy cloths.

Daenerys leads the way towards the dance floor, her silver head held proudly high. Naturally, she attracts the most attention, but Anguy spots Gendry and waves at him with a toothy grin. Gendry waves back and then drops his hand back to his black dress robes nervously.

And just as he suspected, Ned Dayne is lingering on the edge of the dais, staring mournfully at Arya. Poor Myrcella.

“Gendry, take my waist,” Arya says as a dance begins.

He blinks at her. “What?”

“Now!” she laughs, and just as the music speeds up he manages to get one palm on her side, the other holding her hand as she spins away from him.

He knows the steps, at least; Headmaster Seaworth had drilled all the boys for hours on the traditional Yule dance, and Gendry had spent many uncomfortable hours in his Transfiguration class practicing with Myranda Royce. Arya though - Arya seems to actually enjoy it. She’s light on her feet and swift and seems to always know where to step, executing the dance more methodically than if it were a pastime.

“You’re good,” he says, a bit surprised.

She arches an eyebrow at him as he picks her up by the waist and sets her down again. “I was always good at dancing.”

Other bedazzled figures join them on the floor, gleaming gowns and shiny coattails whirling every which way. Gendry spots the Headmaster dancing with Madame Melisandre - there’s a dysfunctional pairing he’d never thought to see - and Sansa twirls past them in Podrick’s arms, whispering something to Arya that makes both girls snort with laughter.

The music ends. Somehow they end up crossing paths with Ned and Myrcella. Gendry lowers his eyes to Arya’s, asking a silent question. Now?

She chews her lip, looks at Edric, and then lifts herself up on tiptoe.

Before he can even really process it, his best friend is kissing him. One of his hands moves to her hair. It stays there to cradle the side of her face, his thumb resting right on her jaw.

And this. This is different than watching Arya tell Ned, no I would not like to go out on Hogsmeade weekend with you, I’ve got a boyfriend now; this is different from holding hands between classes; this is different from enduring Sansa’s teasing smirks and giving false answers about their relationship. Even though Arya keeps her lips stubbornly closed, Gendry kisses her back, feeling the heat from her skin and sensing the blush that must be persuasive as his own.

Something longing stirs deep inside him.

He wonders if Arya feels it, too.

She pulls away from him and clears her throat, averting her eyes discreetly to the side. Then she licks her lips and turns towards Ned, anticipating his reaction.

“I - um -”

“They’re starting a new dance,” Arya says neutrally, “you and Myrcella should keep going!” She grabs Gendry’s hand, firmly, and addresses him. “Come on, darling. Let’s go get some punch.”

–

“Darling?” Gendry returns after a moment away, carrying two glasses full of something pale and pink that fizzes slowly at the edges. He offers one to Arya; she sniffs it cautiously. “That wasn’t in the plan.”

“It’s what my mum calls my dad sometimes,” she laughs, “sorry, first thing I could think of.” He smirks and rubs his jaw, feeling the ghost of her lips on his. “What is this, anyway?”

“Punch, as you asked for.” Professor Selmy had assured him of that, though Gendry has his misgivings. They both take a sip. The drink is cold and fruity. It reminds him of his mother and of hot summer days when he was young.

“Squash,” he says absently.

Arya raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Uh, just a Muggle drink,” Gendry explains. “My mum used to make it for me. It tastes a bit like this.” Arya nods in understanding, discreetly rolling up her sleeves so they don’t fall into her cup. She looks a little silly that way, but Gendry’s not stupid enough to tell her.

“Did you want to keep dancing?” she says when her glass is empty. There are plenty of other students on the floor, but a fair amount are just standing around like they are, smiling at the enchanted sky.

“Not really.” Gendry winces. “No offense or anything.”

Arya shrugs. “None taken.” Then her eyes light up, and she grabs his arm. “Let’s go to the courtyard, then.”

“Arry, it’s snowing outside.”

“I’m used to the cold.”

“It must be freezing.”

“If the owls can take it, so can you!”

“It’s your Yule Bale, Arya, you’re the Champion.”

“I don’t mind leaving it.”

And, well, Gendry isn’t the one who had to wait an hour to get his hair and dress done, so he follows her as she sneaks quietly out into the gentle snowfall.

It’s all whiteness out there, the castle blanketed in a layer of snow and ice; Arya’s nose pinks slightly as they seat themselves in the porte cochère of the courtyard. She doesn’t look terribly cold, really, but Gendry still feels obligated to put the outer layer of his dress robes around her bare shoulders, leaving him in a plain white dress shirt.

“Oh, I don’t need it,” she starts, but he waves her off, crossing his arms to ward away the cold.

“Please. All that winter is coming shit doesn’t change the fact that it’s freezing out here.”

“As if I’ve ever said anything to the contrary.” Arya pulls out her wand and moves it in languid, clockwise circles. “Focillio.” A warm glow emits from the tip of the wand, undampened by the snow. Arya murmurs under her breath and the heat intensifies, enough that it illuminates both her and Gendry’s face in ruddy light.

She turns to Gendry and waves the wand in his face. He leans back, a bit afraid she’ll burn his nose off. “Impressive.”

“First-year Charms at work.” She warms her fingers gingerly; they both chuckle, their voices seeming far too loud in the empty courtyard.

Gendry hesitates, watching her profile in the moonlight, so long and reserved and elegant. He hopes his next question won’t irritate her. “So - have you had any luck with the clue?”

“The clue…” Arya frowns, brushing a snowflake out her face. She knots her hands together, her wand balanced between her knees. “Oh. No, not really. But I do have time, Gendry.”

“Not much.” He’s been counting the days on his fingers, the hours she has until the Second Task. “There’s only a few weeks to go now.”

She nods in acknowledgment. “I know that, and I am trying - but what am I supposed to make of it? It’s an egg, and it doesn’t tell me anything, just some bloody useless screaming. And Daenerys and Drogo don’t seem to understand it either, although-” she glances around and lowers her voice. “Daenerys did mention something to me about putting the egg in a bath.”

“A bath?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs. “She told me just this morning, actually. Apparently, something happens when you put it underwater.”

“So she took the dragon’s egg,” Gendry says skeptically, “and bathed it?”

“Yes.”

“It worked. That’s the clue.”

“Apparently. I know it sounds ridiculous.”

“Yeah, honestly, it does.” She’s usually so sharp. “Arya, have you ever heard of a thing called derailment?”

“Shut up.” Arya punches his shoulder, half-defeated. “It could be useful! More useful than whatever I’ve been doing, anyway.” She looks nervous, clouds of white seeping slowly from her lips. “Could we not talk about the Tournament, Gendry? Just for a day, and then I promise you can go back to badgering me about it.”

“Sure,” he says easily. “What else is on your mind?”

“Nothing.” That’s a lie. “All right. Something.” She turns towards him, fidgeting slightly, and it really is too cold out here. “I haven’t had time to thank you, Gendry.”

That, he hadn’t expected. “…for what?”

“For being my date tonight,” she explains, “and for being such a good boyfriend the past few weeks - fake boyfriend, it doesn’t even matter - when that was probably the most stupid, inconvenient thing I could’ve done to drive Ned away. I know you probably hated it. All the pretending we had to do. Plus the dancing,” she adds with a small laugh. “That was probably the worst part, right?”

“I didn’t hate the dancing,” Gendry says uncertainly. “Not really.”

“Well, that’s good.” Her voice is a bit thick. “But I also need to thank you for keeping me company during this stupid Tournament. My dad, when he…well, you know how hard it’s been without him. I only ever wanted to do this for him. I only ever wanted to win for him. And you’ve just been so wonderful.” She shakes her head. “My point is, real boyfriend or not, you’re the greatest person that I’ve ever met. I don’t think I’ll ever meet anyone who’s better.”

“You don’t mean that,” Gendry says, more to himself than to Arya.

“Of course I do,” Arya says. “I’d do anything for you. And you’d do anything for me, right?”

That’s almost too simple. “Obviously.”

“Then,” she sucks in a quick breath of air. “Then would you kiss me, Gendry? If it’s all right with you?”

She had spoken so softly, he isn’t sure he heard her. “What?”

“Don’t make me say it again.” On some bizarre impulse, he reaches up, brushes away a stray strand of hair. Lets the soft pad of his thumb gently press on Arya’s cheek. Her eyes flick nervously to his. “I’d just - I don’t know. You did it earlier, and I liked it. Not because of Ned. I liked it, that’s all. I wouldn’t mind doing it twice. If that isn’t what you want-”

She’s rambling again, and Arya does not ramble. Before his mind can catch up to his racing heart, Gendry presses his lips to Arya’s, warm and soft and perfect. It’s not a deep kiss, no tongue, no biting. Just lips. Just lips and the feeling of Arya, of his best friend, of Arya and everything she is and can be.

She pulls away softly, straightening up tall once more. Her cheeks are tinged pink. Her smile has never been brighter.

“Did you really not mind the dancing?” she says inquisitively.

Gendry has to laugh. “I would’ve had to do that either way, Arya.” He leans forward, resting his forehead slightly on hers, and holds her small, small hand. “I’m glad it was with you.”

She nods and covers his palm with her own. Around them, the snow keeps falling.

–

a/n: this is not an ~amazing~ fill but high school finals are approaching (!!!) and i wanted to bang out one more prompt before i’m forced to commit myself to constant studying :/ my request box is always open if you like my writing - happy tuesday, and much love to you all 💖

#gendrya

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twilights-800-cats · 3 years

Text

<< Allegiances || Prologue || Chapter 1 || From the Beginning || Patreon >>

Prologue

The full moon hung heavy in the black night sky, turning the backs of the ShadowClan patrol to silver. The small group of warriors stuck together, whiskers brushing and eyes darting from side to side, looking for some unseen enemy.

It shouldn’t be like this, Rowanclaw thought, unease prickling his paws. Normally the journey to a Gathering was peaceful and easy, even though ShadowClan had to cross beneath a Thunderpath to make it to Fourtrees. There was no feeling as if something were watching from the shadows, ready to spring out from the silence at a moment’s notice.

Rowanclaw glanced at his Clanmates. Orre and Wolftooth stood guard at the patrol’s flanks, while Blackfoot took up a position in the rear, his ears pinned back. Ahead, Nightwing jumped at the hoot of an owl, and Pinewhisker snapped his teeth when she trod on his paw.

“Enough.” Russetstar turned her head, green eyes blazing. “Be silent, or do you want to tell everyone where we are?”

This is a patrol heading to the Gathering, Rowanclaw wanted to whine. Not a battle party!

“Ease up,” Pansytail meowed, brushing her plumy tail along the Clan leader’s spine. Her eyes were soft on her mate. “Twolegs don’t work at night, every cat knows that.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Wolftooth growled a pawstep behind Rowanclaw, his tail-tip flicking irritably. “These Twolegs aren’t like the ones we knew, Pansy.”

Rowanclaw swallowed. Wolftooth and Pansytail had once lived in the nearby Twolegplace, part of a group of violent cats called BloodClan. That terrible group had broken apart after being defeated by the forest Clans, and moons later Wolftooth and Pansytail’s small group joined ShadowClan. If any cat knew Twoleg behaviors, it would be them.

“What are you going to tell the other Clans?” wondered Littlecloud, as if to steer the topic away. The small tabby medicine cat looked more anxious than usual. “The Twolegs are invading the Black Fens – we're lucky they haven't reached the tunnel beneath the Thunderpath yet! When they do...”

We might be cut off from the rest of the forest, Rowanclaw finished glumly. His fur prickled at the thought.

Rowanclaw looked at Russetstar expectantly. What would she say? Every Clan was being affected by the Twolegs, from what their patrols had seen from over the Thunderpath – Rowanclaw himself had watched a group of WindClan hunters cower helplessly in a bush while Twolegs plodded along their torn land, scaring away every rabbit. Would she mention that?

Would she mention the hunger? Rowanclaw couldn’t recall the last time his belly had known a full meal. He supposed, grimly, that there would be no need to talk about that – it was fairly obvious in their shrunken frames and poking ribs.

“I will tell the other Clans only what they need to know,” Russetstar answered simply. “I see no reason to involve them in our affairs, especially if they’re facing their own problems as well. ShadowClan can protect itself.”

Can we? Rowanclaw wondered.

“Wherever Stoneheart went, the rest of us should’ve followed,” grunted Pinewhisker. “He got out before it got bad.”

Nightwing bristled beside him. “If he knew, he should’ve told us! What kind of warrior just abandons their Clan like that?”

“Well, he left ThunderClan...”

Rowanclaw stared incredulously at Pinewhisker. “How dare you!” he spat, the fur along his shoulders rising. That’s my mate you’re meowing about! “You don’t know Stoneheart at all, do you?!”

Pinewhisker blinked, as if he hadn’t recalled that Rowanclaw was right there. Nightwing, whiskers trembling, turned her muzzle away to stare at a passing birch as if it were the most interesting piece of landscape in existence.

Rowanclaw dug his claws into the earth. “That’s what I thought,” he growled.

He felt Russetstar’s tail lay across his shoulders. “Blackfoot, go on ahead,” Russetstar meowed. “We will join you shortly.”

Blackfoot twitched his tail in response, pushing through the crowd. Rowanclaw felt frozen to the spot as his Clanmates awkwardly stepped around him. No one said anything to him as they disappeared into the undergrowth, leaving only Rowanclaw and Russetstar behind.

What can they say that they haven’t already said? He wondered as Russetstar took a step away from him. When the Clan had resigned themselves to Stoneheart’s absence, Rowanclaw had endured so much of their sympathy that he felt sick at the thought of yet another cat expressing their sorrow for his loss.

He was painfully aware of Russetstar’s gaze – was she upset with him for bursting out like that? He dared to meet her eye, only to find that her whiskers were twitching with amusement, not annoyance.

“It’s all right, Rowanclaw,” she said. “If some cat were badmouthing Pansytail, I don’t think I would have reacted any differently.”

Rowanclaw breathed a sigh of relief. If this were any other Clan, Rowanclaw expected he’d be reprimanded for his outburst – in ShadowClan, however, there was no such silliness. ShadowClan cats said what needed to be said... sometimes regardless of who it might offend.

“I asked this before, but... do you know anything?” Russetstar wondered. She tipped her head. “Have you seen any sign of Stoneheart since he left?”

Rowanclaw swallowed around a lump forming in his throat. “No,” he answered. “Nothing.”

Russetstar stared at him a moment longer, as if she doubted him – and then, sweeping her tail through the night air, she meowed, “I miss him, too, Rowanclaw – but we’ve a lot more to worry about than one missing cat. I’m sure you understand that.”

Rowanclaw’s tail puffed. “They’ve no right to doubt his loyalties!” he snapped. “Stoneheart is ShadowClan to his core!”

“I know,” Russetstar meowed patiently. Rowanclaw eased off – Stoneheart had been Russetstar’s apprentice for many moons. She knew Stoneheart as well as Rowanclaw did. “I’ve never doubted Stoneheart’s loyalties - but you have to admit that the timing of his departure...”

“It looks bad,” Rowanclaw finished, turning his muzzle away. “Believe me, I know that.”

“... Regardless,” Russetstar swept on, “we’ll be late if we hang about here. The other Clans will start without us.”

Rowanclaw got to his paws and followed Russetstar along the trail to Fourtrees, barely paying attention to where he put his paws. His mind was buzzing and his heart was aching. Soon I might be the only cat left with any faith in Stoneheart!

It didn’t help that he was the only cat that knew of real reason why Stoneheart left: Rowanclaw didn’t know why, but StarClan had chosen his mate for a grand, dangerous journey with cats from every Clan. He had gone off to fight some unknown darkness that was going to threaten the Clans and the forest they lived in.

Rowanclaw longed to tell the others; but without knowing the true nature of Stoneheart’s dreams, what use would the explanation be? What cat would believe that StarClan had chosen simple warriors to do this great task? He hardly believed it, still. But Stoneheart was gone, and so were other warriors from the other Clans – that had to mean the dreams were real.

The doubt gave Rowanclaw pause again. He had to hope that the dreams and signs were real, otherwise... Otherwise, they were just an excuse to get away from me.

He shook his head of the thought. Stoneheart was not that type of cat!

Blackfoot was waiting for them in a bed of ferns. A few steps beyond were Fourtrees, a small clearing in the forest bordered by the four largest oaks in the forest. Rowanclaw craned his neck to peer over the bushes and into the clearing ahead.

“No one else is here,” Littlecloud meowed, his ears twitching. “What’s keeping them?”

Rowanclaw frowned, lowering his chin. What was keeping the other Clans? Normally a Clan wouldn’t hesitate to be the first ones to step into Fourtrees on a Gathering night. Some Clans even loved to brag about it.

A chilly wind cut through Rowanclaw’s pelt. He shivered. There was a strange tension in the air tonight, so thick he felt like he could pierce it with a claw. What did that feeling mean?

Russetstar curled her lip. “I don’t know what’s stepped on the other Clan’s tails, but I for one don’t want to wait here until leaf-bare. Come--”

A loud growl, louder than any predator Rowanclaw had ever heard, erupted from within the trees, interrupting Russetstar’s call. Littlecloud whimpered, covering his ears. Pansytail was bristling from ears to tail.

“A monster!” she cried above the noise. “In the forest?!”

“What in StarClan’s name?” Wolftooth cursed, unsheathing his claws.

Another monster roared to life, this time on the other side of the ShadowClan cats. Rowanclaw’s heart beat in his ears – they were surrounded! He looked to Russetstar and Blackfoot. What should they do?

A third monster sounded from the opposite end of the clearing, and suddenly the clearing of Fourtrees was flooded with bright yellow light. Rowanclaw’s eyes watered from the intensity, and as he ducked his head below the ferns he yowled, “They’re waking up!”

“ShadowClan, fall back!” Russetstar called, her eyes flashing in the light. “Hurry!”

Rowanclaw pulled himself to his paws, pushing Nightwing ahead of him as his patrol retreated back the way they came. The roar of the monsters was grumbling and rattling now, growing louder and louder as Russetstar led them up a nearby slope.

Down below, in the clearing, Rowanclaw could make out the shapes of Twolegs walking through Fourtrees - long, odd shadows in their harsh and unnatural light. They pointed with their strange paws at the oaks, moving out of the way as large, boxy monsters, their shells a bright yellow, crawling forward.

“What are they doing?” Pinewhisker panted, eyes wide.

“Russetstar, we need to leave,” Blackfoot advised, an edge of panic in his voice. “If they see us...”

Russetstar was bristling. “I need to know what they’re doing to Fourtrees!” she snapped, pushing her deputy aside.

The boxy yellow monster raised what looked like its tail – but it was unlike any tail Rowanclaw had ever seen. It had long, sharp talons at the end, and with those talons it gripped one of the old oaks by its trunk. The tree rustled, some leaves falling softly into the night.

Another monster approached, and it pressed its strange front-end tail into the trunk of the oak. A harsh whine split the air, like the sound of some dying beast, and the smell of sap and wood flooded Rowanclaw’s senses.

“StarClan help us!” Littlecloud wailed. He stared at the moon imploringly, his eyes wide to their whites. “Stop them! Please!”

Rowanclaw was transfixed as the tail drove deeper and deeper into the oak. Moments later there was a loud snap, and a groan, and the oak gave way, falling into the embrace of the taloned monster. The taloned monster raised its tail, taking the oak with it, and, slowly, turned and dropped the tree to the side unceremoniously.

Twolegs swarmed over the tree like flies to a corpse. Rowanclaw felt bile rise in his throat as the monsters fired up again, crawling across the ground on their strange paws to the next oak. The third monster, another taloned one, trundled in and, like a badger, used its talons to pull up the Great Rock as if it were searching for beetles beneath.

In that moment, Rowanclaw understood the darkness that his mate had left to fight.

The horrors dragged on through the night, until Rowanclaw was cold and stiff and deafened by the noises of the hungry monsters. The ShadowClan cats watched, speechless, as the Twolegs and their monsters tore apart one of the oldest, most sacred places in the forest.

Stoneheart... Rowanclaw thought, mouth dry, wherever you are...

Please... Please, save us!

#tb au #tb dawn #warrior cats

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theshy1sout · 3 years

Text

Inseparable - Chapter 12

Tags: Broppy, Not rated, Trolls Mythology Au, Slow Burn Fluff

Ao3 here

Notes: This chapter... is twice longer than usual. I just didn’t see a reason to cut it in half. That would be cruel tbh

________________________________________

Everything is fine. Isn't it?

Every day and night is the same, as they used to be... Poppy walks on the hill, this very specific hill they used to climb on to pass the Staff along. Then she meets Branch. He asks for one more night or day to finish the thing he works on. And she agrees. He walks away, with the Staff or without it, and Poppy always watches him for so long.

Why.

Why does this feel so bad? Why does it hurt so much? Everything is fine. Poppy didn't lose anything - she still has her wonderful job, amazing friends, and basically everything the Immortal could dream of. Her teamwork with the god of the Night is just... Temporary pendant. Nothing to worry about. Branch is just making some surprise...

The goddess doesn't know how long she has to wait. Two weeks passed, but what is just two weeks for Immortals? Poppy knows it should be nothing... But it feels like forever.

Why. Why she can't just patiently wait? Why the feeling in her heart, so warm and pleasant earlier, now is so heavy and painful. She can't enjoy anything as much as she used to. Her sweet job becomes a boring routine. She realizes she smiles way rarer.

Why?

Poppy feels like a little child with those feelings. So pitiful. She sits every Night under this oak where Branch showed her a shadow. She plays with an oak leaf in her hand, watching lightning bugs flying around the meadow. Or watching the stars above her. They always make her even sadder. No matter how long she sits there, she never sees Branch. She can see him only for a minute on the hill.

And why? Why is this so sad for her? She used to live without him for so long. She doesn't need him to live or be happy, she used to be happy without him too. Didn't she? It's not the end of the world. It's not even forever. It's temporary, isn't it?

And why, why is Branch so into something? What is this? What did the rainbow inspire him to? What is he making? Maybe something with colors... Poppy remembers a spark in his eyes when he stared at the rainbow. He was so amazed by its colors. Yeah, he is making something colorful for sure. Maybe he dreams about colors visible in the Dark. Cause it is known that during the Night colors fade and almost everything is black or grey. Poppy feels her heart getting filled with new hope. Maybe if she makes something with colors that are visible in the Night, she will get a little bit more of Branch's attention? Maybe he would leave his project and come back to her? She imagines his gentle smile on his pretty blue face. His azure eyes meeting hers. She reminds herself of his touch on her cheek. Cold but so tender and affectionate... She misses him so much...

The goddess of the Day stops the thing she is doing and walks toward the Palace. A hope pushes her in this direction. She wants to believe that not in vain.

* * *

- I don't know - Smidge frowns at a flower. - I'm still not sure about the spikes.

- It needs them to protect itself from critters! - Meadow explains.

- Yes, hurting the critters - Milton adds, putting his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. - I'm also not sure about them.

- But the spikes create a good arrangement with its carmine petals - Satin points out, touching the flower carefully.

- Disagree, sister - Chenille crosses her arms on her chest. - It's too edgy for me.

- It's poetic beauty, not so obvious. I'm bored of doing boring things, let me experiment a bit, sis!

- Well, I really like how it looks now - Meadow, the goddess of plants, gets down to the flower. - If we can make spikes less sharp, can we keep them? I want it to be safe, not like other of my mites.

- Let me think a bit about it - Milton grabs his head with both of his hands. He sighs heavily. - But please, later, not now, I'm so tired of thinking about this flower.

- Oh, you - Smidge pats him in his elbow. She is too short to reach any higher. - We do take a break. Let's just change the topic a bit.

- Thank you...

- Hi, guy!

Immortals turn to the pink, bright lady waving to them on the horizon.

- Poppy! - Satin beams at the goddess walking to them. - What perfect timing!

- Why is it so perfect?

- We need to talk about anything else than that flower - Chenille points at the little plant on the ground.

- What is this?

- We want to create a flower with Rose's name - Meadow explains. - Just for sentimental reasons.

Poppy gazes at slender leaves on dark green stem with little spikes. The carmine petals draw around themselves, creating a beautiful red mosaic.

- It's wonderful - She says, but in her voice and her mild smile is hidden a note of gloom.

- Is everything okay? - Smidge asks, looking at her with worry.

The goddess of the Day forces herself to rise the corners of her lips a bit higher.

- I'm fine, everything is fine. Nothing wrong happened, I'm just... a bit tired.

Immortals look at each other. Poppy is known as a very, very, VERY energetic, vivid, and loud person. At least as a person who never gets tired, especially of her job. But no one says anything.

- So, what do you need from us? - Milton asks carefully.

- Well, I need something light and colorful - The pink face brightens a bit. - Something really visible in the darkness. Something like, I don't know, colorful safe flames? - She turns to the twins. - Can you design something like that?

- Let me guess - Chenille clicks her tongue and lifts her eyebrow. - Another 'surprise' for Branch?

- Well...

- Last time we painted with you the whole sky in blue! - Smidge chuckles. - I mean, it is so gorgeous now, white clouds look amazing on it, but damn it, that was a huge thing!

- Yeah, not mentioning the rainbow - Satin adds. - Poppy, isn't that too much?

- What are you talking about, those things are breathtaking! - Meadow protests.

- She means, giving gifts - The tiny, yellow goddess of Honesty crosses her arms, looking at Poppy. - Do you really need those things?

The pink lady stares at them blankly during their talk. She looks up joylessly at the Gold Sphere. “Do they need those ‘surprises’?’’ she asks herself in her mind.

- I don't know - She says, shyly gets her sight down. - But I like it...

- I mean, gifts aren't a bad thing - Smidge corrects herself. - But if the friendship is only giving gifts, so there's gifts, no friendship, am I right?

Poppy doesn't say anything for a long while.

- Hey - The tiny yellow goddess gets close to her. - I just see, you are sad. And I'm asking what's happening? Maybe I'm wrong...

- Actually, you're right - Poppy interrupts her firmly. Then she closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths. - I'm sorry, that was too firm... But you're right - She hides her face in her hand. - You are so right...

The awkward Silence falls among them and passes a minute or two.

- So... - Milton tries to ask again. - What happened?

- Nothing - The pink goddess sighs. The wave of helplessness hits her right into her heart. - Absolutely nothing. And I don't understand... Why is it hurt so much...

- What specifically? - Meadow asks shyly.

- This... This nothing... - She gets her head up and looks at her friends with eyes full of tears. - This Silence... Between me and Branch.

- I know it's a really bad question - Chenille frowns. - But why is Branch so important?

- I have no idea! - Poppy speaks a bit too loud. Her lips vibrate, her sight is already blurry. All she knows now is a hint of sadness.

- Okay, okay, calm down - Smidge says softly. - Just tell us what you know, okay? What do you feel?

Poppy sniffs. She wipes her tears from her eyes. Her knees become weak, so she sits down, not caring what the rest thinks about it.

- What I know - She repeats blankly and takes another deep breath. - I know that nothing wrong happened. We created the waterfall to make some kind of infinity rainbow... And then Branch just walked away... He said he works on some big project... Every time I meet him, he begs for a bit more time to finish it... - She clenches her hands on the Staff so tight. - And now... I don't talk with him too much... I mean... At all...

Poppy sniffs once again and wipes another tear from her cheek. Her words are quieter and quieter the more she speaks.

- It's been two... Maybe three weeks. I know it's nothing, so short... And I know it's not forever. He'll have done what he's doing and everything will be as before...

She sighs heavily.

- But that hurts for some reason... I don't know why... I miss walking with him and... And talking and... And just him. I miss him... - She hides her face into her hand once again. - Not sure if he feels the same although...

- Well, that's a weird kind of friendship - Chenille says after a long while of Silence. - I've never heard about friendship that can hurt.

- So the lack of Branch's presence is painful? - Smidge wants to be sure.

- Yeah... - Poppy sniffs, still avoiding eye contact.

- So let me guess, you wanted to make another gift to catch his attention? - Satin asks.

- I guess so...

- So If he comes back to you, you will be happy again?

The pink goddess gets her head up at Milton's questions to look at him humbly. She takes a long, snatchy breath.

- Yes.

- Well then, what happened that he came to you in the first place? - Smidge continues analyzing. - I mean, what did make you talk or something?

Poppy glances at the Staff, reminding the last months.

- I told him what I felt - She says after a while, with a much stronger voice. - About the situation... You know, this whole "greeting" awkward situation I told you a lot.

- You have to tell him what you feel right now about THIS awkward situation! - The goddess of Honesty jumps up with a sudden hit of energy. She throws her little fists in the air. - You have to tell him! You have to fight! - She grabs Poppy's blue dress and yells right into her face. - I don't know what is between you and Branch, but I saw you happy that you were never before and I saw him smiling and laughing and taking part in Sharing like he NEVER was expected to do, and whatever it is YOU HAVE TO FIGHT FOR IT, GIRL!

- Okay! Okay! Calm down - Milton grabs Smidge with both his hands and takes her away from Poppy.

- Well, maybe that was too loud - Satin takes a look at the tiny yellow goddess.

- But It was all true - Chenille ends her sister's sentence.

- Yeah - Meadow adds. - I think... Well, I'm not the god of Friendship, but I'm sure it's not like Branch just gives up on your relationship. As Smidge said, it makes him happy too.

Poppy looks at her with hope. Her heart starts to beat warmer at those words.

- Sometimes a friend gets lost in something and needs a friend to get him out - Smidge puts her hand on Poppy's shoulder. She's much calmer now, she gives her friend a really wide smile, making the pink goddess chuckles.

Poppy takes a deep breath and her face brightens with a little, but real and genuine smile.

- Thank you. Thank you all - She looks around at her friends. - I'll do that.

- And we'll design this colorful-light-thing - Chenille announces with a smile.

- Just because we like challenges - Satin chuckles.

- I feel like we should call R and B to that project...

- But first, we have to finish a rose! - Meadow protests.

Milton chuckles at his friends and then glances at Poppy.

- It's almost twilight - He tells her. - Go talk to him

- You know where to find us! - Smidge adds, with a little hit in the pink arm.

The goddess of the Day chuckles slightly and stands up with the Staff of the Light in her hand. She looks at the horizon, fearing the first step. Her heart beats with hope and doubts, but she doesn't let her mind think of "what-if"s. She wants to try what her friends advised her. She wants to try, she wants to fight... She wants Branch back...

* * *

Poppy is standing. Oh yeah. She is standing like she never did before! Standing so hard, standing so firm, standing so desperate. The pure bold beams from her statement. She is standing with a goal, she is standing on the hill, on that specific hill, ready to fight, ready to everything. The bloody sky fades behind her back. Oh, the goddess looks like a warrior, no, like a winner already! And all her strength is almost touchable...

...until it washes over her and soaks into the ground with a very first sight of the black hair of the Night.

Weak. Weak is the word her whole shaking body is screaming at her. You are so weak, Poppy.

Branch arrives at the hill without a word. So naturally for the god of the Silence. He views her face blankly. His blue eyes are painted with tiredness. He... He looks so exhausted. So pure. There's not a slightest shadow of a bad intention in his husky voice:

- Poppy... - He clears his throat, and continues calmly. - I know it's a lot to ask... But can you give me one more night and day?

The goddess feels her heart melt. How could she be firm to him looking like that, asking like that?

But then, she knows, it looks like that every twilight, every dawn, and it will still be like that as long as she agrees. So when the blue hand reaches for the Staff, she sets it back, giving him a firm look.

- No - She announces.

- Poppy, I have to start the Night...

- I don't care - She throws and feels her lips shake already.

Branch looks at her with a real puzzlement.

- You don't care? - He frowns. His voice gets a bit husky again. - What does it even mean?

- I am not giving you the Staff - She emphasizes every word.

- But why?!

- Because - Her lips vibrate. - I don't let you hurt me like this anymore.

Her voice cracks a bit. She swallows slowly, not being able to look at his face anymore. But she started it, and she wants to finish, no matter how this conversation will end.

- Listen, Branch - She keeps her breath and voice calm, but her sight is already blurry. - It's... Almost three weeks until our last talk. I feel avoided, ignored. Forlorn. I know it's nothing for us, Immortals, but... After the whole time we spent together... After... Many things we shared... - And now her voice cracks. - I miss you so much...

She gets her head down, not knowing what she is looking at anymore. She just closes her eyes tight and feels a few tears streaming through her cheek. She hasn't known she is that weak.

- Do you even still feel... the same heart thing... Do you? - She whispers.

- No! I mean, Yes! I mean... Oh my goodness...

A gentle touch on her chin gets her head up. His cold hand gets her hair from her face behind her ear. It cups her face and starts drying her tears with a thumb. With a still blurry vision, Poppy feels her hand lift without her purpose and suddenly it touches something. A fabric. And she feels a light warm. And a heartbeat. Rushing, loud, strong heartbeat, so similar to her. Something cold is pressing her hand to that. She blinks a few times and sees... It lies on Branch's chest. Covered by his big, strong, and gentle hand.

- I do - The god speaks, kinda rushing. - I do. I feel. I still feel the same. Please, don't cry.

His hand constantly rubs her cheek. His thumb carefully wipes her eye from tears. His tired eyes are filled with genuine misery.

- Please, don't cry. Please... I am so stupid. I am such an idiot. I was so into... - He sighs heavily, closing his eyes. - ...this dumb project, I... I miss you so much too...

His despairing blue eyes dive into her. He cups her pink cheeks with both of his hands. They are cold and shaking slightly. Oh, they are so cold. Poppy can stop enjoying them, his big blue hands covering almost her whole face. She sniffs and smiles at him. Her heart is beating fast and warm, and she feels Branch's under her hand too. She gets much more than she was wishing for, and she can't help, can't help but smile widely and warm at his beautiful blue eyes.

- You were an idiot - She announces like the happiest news of the year.

- I know - He starts shaking his head with disappointment for himself. - I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you...

- It's ok - She sighs deeply, still smiling. - I mean, It wasn't ok, but now, now it's ok... Just... - She closes her eyes. - Can we stay like that for a minute? I really need this now... - She says, snuggling her face into one of his hands.

Branch doesn't answer, but she doesn't mind it. As long as she feels his beating heart in his chest and his hands embracing her face. The beatific smile doesn't leave her lips. All the worries wash over her. A great pleasant sigh of relief is everything she can say right now.

- Grab the Staff or I never let you go off my face - Poppy threatens, which doesn't sound grimly with her serene voice. She hears a slight chuckle of Branch, and the sweet cover, almost warm now, leaves her face. He takes the Staff from her hand and she lets go of his shirt.

The goddess gazes at him to meet his eyes, to give him a warm smile. But he doesn't glance at her. His head is down, his face is still full of tiredness and misery.

- Branch?

He closes his eyes tight and twists his face. He hesitates a bit after he heaves a sigh.

- I can't hold the fact that I hurt you... - He rubs his eyebrow slowly and leaves his hand like that, covering his eyes. - That was so dumb... So absurdly idiotic... I was too much into this thing, you know, I felt so... Inspired. And...

Poppy steps close to him. Her little pink hand turns his head to face her. He drops his hand and shows her his weary eyes full of tears.

- I just wanted to deserve such a person like you - Words sneak quietly from his lips. He is gazing at her so miserably, deeply disappointed.

But the goddess smiles at him even wider, her eyes are sparkling with sheer enjoyment.

- I don't need gifts - She puts her other hand on his cheek to cup his whole face. - I already have all I need. Right in my hands.

The god blinks. He laughs aloud and genuinely. A single tear drops from his eyes and streams down his blue cheek until little pink fingers wipe it away. He sniffs.

- I miss you so much - He whispers warmly and gruff, smiling, smiling endlessly, smiling so hard and so dumb at happy, sunny Poppy's face, beaming with honest happiness.

She let go of his face, but not of his eyes. The bags under them make him look a little bit different. She wants to let him rest as quickly as possible after she'll fully enjoy his company.

- Can you show me that thing you were working on? I want to curse it for keeping you away from me.

The god chuckles.

- Whatever you want.

They don't walk so far. The cave, where they arrived, is big and dark, only thanks to the Gold Sphere Poppy can see anything. And there are many, many bags filled with weird, magically sparkling substances.

- Go ahead - Branch encourages, seeing curious in her eyes. - Touch it.

The goddess goes to the nearest bag and sinks her hands into its silver content.

- Silver sand!

- Yep, I call it 'glitter'. Cause it's little and it glows.

Poppy chuckles.

- What is this for?

- You take a bit of it - Branch presents. - And powder somebody's eyelids during sleep. It creates dreams.

- Dreams?

- I mean... You can see your dreams during sleep. You can even feel them as if they are real life.

Poppy looks at the glitter flabbergasted.

- And the sleep will never be boring again...

- Exactly.

- That's so amazing! - She cheers.

- Yeah, but it has two faults - He heaves a sigh. - First, it's disposable. After one use it does nothing. Just glow silverly.

- Does it stay on eyelids?

- No, it falls on the ground. It smooths into the soil actually and masses deep under the ground.

- Is it dangerous or damaging?

- No.

- So why is this a fault?

Branch wrinkles his nose.

- I mean, if trolls find it, they would just play with it! - Poppy suggests.

- Play with it?

- Yeah, look - And with that word she throws a bit of glitter in the air. It sparkles so magically, slowly falling on them. She grins at the god's displeased face, making him chuckle.

- Okay, maybe you're right - He dusts the glitter off his capote. - But disposable still means I would have to make it more and more of it... - He looks away, twisting his mouth. - And that's... That's also the part of its second fault... If I want to use the glitter on trolls, I will have to spend all the Night running through the Land and powdering their eyelids...

Poppy blinks at him and then looks down at the glitter on her hands.

- That's why I was kinda desperate about it - He murmurs tiredly. - I wanted to be able to use it every Night... And still, have time for my main responsibilities... - He swallows and looks into the goddess's eyes. - But the most important was for me... To still have enough time for you.

She melts, smiling warmly at him.

- Oh, Branch...

- I know... It came ironically stupid...

She chuckles gently.

- You could tell me.

- I will do it next time - He carefully dusts the glitter off her nose with his finger. - I promise.

- What if we powder it together? - She asks after a while of thinking.

He frowns and hesitates.

- Then I guess, I will have time for my main responsibilities - He gazes at her. - But still not for you...

- I mean, we'll be spending the whole night actually.

- But rushing with my duties, that's ridiculous...

- Well... - She starts slowly and calmly. - The glitter is a genius invention, and if you want to use it and this is the only way, then that will be enough for me.

Branch blinks tiredly before he turns his sight at the bags full of glitter. He is staring at them for so long, thinking in Silence. Then he starts slowly shaking his head.

- No - He decides firmly. - I'm not choosing anything over you.

Poppy smiles widely, even giggle a bit with joy, feeling her cheeks turn red and her heart gets warm.

Suddenly something flares on the night horizon and both of them turn to see what it is. It walks to them unhurriedly, and soon they recognize Immortal's silhouette. His silver, sparkling skin shines like a diamond in the darkness. He stands in front of them with his hand on his hips and grins at them.

- Hi! - His voice echoes in the cave in a weird, extraterrestrial way. - Who are you, guys?

- Who are you? - Branch asks with clear confusion on his face. He turns to Poppy. - You know him?

- No, but... It's nice to meet you! - The goddess tries to be polite and welcoming to the stranger. - My name is Poppy, I'm the goddess of the Day and Light. The guardian of the Staff of the Light and the Gold Sphere on it. And this is Branch! - She points at the god.

- Yeah, I'm also the guardian of those - He shows the Staff in his hand. - As you can see. I'm the god of the Night, Darkness, and Silence.

- Sounds cool - The silver stranger cheers. - And who am I?

Poppy and Branch look at each other confused.

- You don't know? - The god asks.

- I've just come from this weird black hole at the end of the world.

- Oh, the Chaos - Poppy recognizes.

- Ha! So that hole has a name? - The stranger chuckles, and then frowns. - So you don't know who I am?

- We can give you a name! - She beams. - What about Diamonddd....

- ....Guy? - Branch ends. - Guy Diamond?

- Oh, this is a really good name! - The silver god bucks and poses like a model. - It fits me perfectly.

- Okay, let me guess - The blue god interrupts his rhapsodizing. - You're the god of the Glitter?

Guy freezes at those words.

- I have weird deja vu - He points at the bags. - This is the glitter, am I right?

- Yep - Poppy nods. - You know what is it?

- I feel like I know it more than myself - He sinks his hand into silver sand with amazement. Then after a moment, he grabs one bag and shoulders it. - And I know exactly what to do with it!

- Should I warn you that you will have to create more...

- I can produce glitter much faster than you think! - Guy interrupts Branch. - You can leave me all of this, I take care of it. - He points at the cave filled with bags. - And now, excuse me, I have so many trolls' eyelids to powder! - He yells enthusiastically and walks away with a bag full of glitter. They watch his wandering silver silhouette until he disappears on the horizon. Branch turns to Poppy with his tired eyes and shows her a smile full of relief.

- I kinda start liking Chaos - He jokes, making her chuckle. - So... Now when I'm truly free... What do you want to do?

Poppy looks at his weary face, his weak smile, his half-opened eyelids, and grey bag under his faded blue eyes...

- Come with me. I know exactly what to do - She smiles encouragingly.

The goddess brings him to the meadow where she was spending the last few weeks.

- The oak - He murmurs, looking at the huge tree. He recognizes the place where he showed her a shadow and for the first time he took off his capote in front of someone. It is a place with a beautiful view of the stars and the whole Land around. Many little lightning bugs are flying casually above the grass. He yawns loudly when the wave of tiredness hits him without a warning. - What do you want to do with this oak?

Poppy grabs his arm without a word and pulls him down to sit. He doesn't protest. He needs to sit right now. He slumps against the wide oak's trunk and leans the Staff against his shoulder. Then he notices that little warm hands are still holding his arm, so he turns to her with an asking sight.

- You need to rest - The goddess says calmly and warmly, and her sound voice makes his eyelids heavier somehow. - Take a nap.

- But what about the Night? You can't touch the Staff now...

- I won't - He feels his breath get calmer when she speaks like that. Quietly, warmly, softly. - I'll stay awake. You need sleep, even an hour or two. I'll wake you up, so you’ll be able to do your duties later.

He blinks slowly, staring at her little glowing freckles.

- You have a heart of gold...

- Stop talking, you dork, just sleep!

The god smiles amused. He closes his eyes and slumps his head against the tree. He breathes a deep, glad sigh. But before he falls asleep, he feels a warm touch on his cheek pulling his head down, and soon his chin lands on Poppy's shoulder.

- Are you sure I'm not too heavy for you? - Branch murmurs quietly.

The goddess smiles gazing at his blessed face.

- Your head will fall anyway - She whispers, feeling him briefly purring with a sleepy pleasure on her shoulder, like a big tired cat. - Good night, Branch.

She sees him sighing blissfully. Yes, his head is huge and heavy, but Poppy doesn't care. His arm is cold, as much as his cheek, but it gets warmer under the goddess's touch, which is weirdly satisfying for her. It is so pleasant, although she doesn't dare to touch him more, even if it lures her. She respects him so much, she would never do anything without his awareness and agreement.

But to be honest, now, now is a really huge dose of happiness, of adoring and enjoying their company, their talks, and touch. Her heart is filled with peace, with peaceful happiness.

Oh, she missed him. She missed him so much. It is so, so good to have him back.

____________________________________________

Index

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years

Text

Eye of the Beholder

Warnings: non-consent (fingering, vaginal sex)

This is dark!Heimdall and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Heimdall has a secret.

Note: Well, another character I haven’t written before. Here ya go! I dunno what came over me but this is what happened.

Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

Thor

Thor had caught him again. He wasn’t disappointed or irritated by any means, merely intrigued. He had rarely seen the Asgardian as anything but the stoic and diligent sentinel of the realm. Yet he could tell when the watchman was not at his duty. When it was not the bi-frost he watched but some other mystery. Thor only wondered what it was that so entranced the vigilant Asgardian.

The warden stood with his sword gripped between his hands, his head lowered as his eyes glowed. He was silent and still but for the subtle movement of his lips; as if he were speaking to someone. He was entirely enamoured by whatever vision swirled within.

“Heimdall,” The prince boomed and the horned-helmet slowly rose as the protector greeted him with his golden eyes. “Rapt at work, I see.”

“Unlike you,” Heimdall let forth the hint of a grin. Unshakeable as ever. “You see to use the bridge?”

“Not today,” Thor said. “Merely to visit a friend.”

“And your visits do grow frequent,” He countered. “I think your father might be wary of his realm going unwatched on account of his son’s whims.”

“You have ears. Strong ones, I’ve heard,” Thor strode along the window that overlooked the bi-frost. “Not even I could keep you from your duty.”

“Oh but you do challenge my competence.” Heimdall chuckled. “It is quiet this night. Asgard is but another star in the sky it seems.”

“Surely the brightest,” Thor stared down at the glowing bridge and hid his smirk from the other Asgardian.

Heimdall was ever clever and a skilled liar, only because he was known to be an honest man. For all his years alongside his brother, Thor could read a fib. Even one as subtle and inconsequential as that which floated unacknowledged between the immortals. Perhaps the watchman didn’t know he had been caught or perhaps he was content enough to let the prince wonder.

It didn’t matter for Thor would discover what distracted the watcher. What immaculate attraction had drawn his eye from his service after centuries of chaste devotion. The prince hadn’t an idea of how he would uncover the secret to light but he knew one who would. The very person who had honed him to the knack of dishonesty.

Loki had his bag of tricks and surely one of them could affect the unaffected sentinel.

⚔️

Loki

Loki twiddled his long fingers as Thor paced behind the curved chaise before the hearth. It wasn’t often the golden prince visited his brother within his own chambers. He had learned long ago that it was there he was most vulnerable to the trickster’s wiles. The younger prince grinned as he realised whatever had his brother so anxious also had him desperate. It must have been delicious indeed.

Loki draped one leg over the other as he reclined in the velvet chair. He wore a black robe over little more than his linen shorts. He had been readying for bed when the knock came. His brother was only fortunate he had been alone otherwise his raps would have gone unheard. Well, Thor did seem to be in his cups so he might have made himself known even then.

Metal clattered to the ground as Thor knocked one of the ornaments from the mantel and Loki sighed. It was easily repairable but if his brother opted to make a full tour of the chamber, he might be left with not but mangled silver and gold.

“Brother, do sit before you fall on your ass,” Loki slithered. “I should like to attend to whatever menial concern has brought you to my rooms so late. I was only about to retire.”

“Oh ho, but I think you might not be able to sleep once I’ve told you what---” Thor paused and let out a belch into his fist as he stumbled his way to the chaise. “Once you know what has brought me here.”

“And in such a state,” Loki taunted.

“Well, that had really nothing to do with it and more to do with the Asgardian ale I was forced to drink unto myself.” Thor laughed. “Heimdall, ever abstinent from pleasure, did move my hand to drain a whole cask.”

“I am certain you could not have put the cork back in and done so another day,” Loki huffed. “Truly brother, it is late and I have as little patience as I do interest in your indulgences.”

“My indulgences?” Thor wondered. “What about Heimdall’s?”

Loki perked up suddenly and straightened in his chair. “What do you mean by that, brother?”

“Well, I am not entirely certain what I mean but I know there is something that has caught his all-seeing eye,” Thor belched again and waved away the cloud. “Which is what brings me here.”

“You want me to trick Heimdall,” Loki blinked. “You are truly mad. He was likely off on some far planet watching the leaves blow.”

“Some mighty fine leaves they must have been,” Thor intoned. “I’ve found him twice as such. He does not look upon a blade of grass or the wing of a bird. Brother, that look is one reserved for a more rapturous beauty.”

Loki’s brows shot up and he tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. He considered the thought of the great watcher’s desire. He could not imagine the valiant protector coveting anything more than what he had. And Thor was drunk. Still he was intrigued.

“And I suppose you want me to figure out what it is that has baited him so fervently?” Loki asked.

“Yes!” Thor clapped. “Yes. That’s exactly what you need to do.”

“Besides the obvious question of how I would do that,” Loki said, “Why would I?”

“Because, brother,” Thor smirked, “You are just as bored with this tedium as I am.”

⚔️

Loki had figured it out. It had taken some time but he had found a way to follow the watchman’s eyes. The only issue at hand was keeping him distracted long enough that he could do so. Surely Thor could help with that.

What Thor couldn’t do was wrap his head around what Loki was about to do. All the better as the dunce was of better use ignorant.

Heimdall had a natural gift for seeing but Loki had discovered that upon his duties, his ability was amplified to make him truly all-seeing. The bi-frost was not merely the only path into Asgard, it was the only path into that Asgardian’s mind.

There was a single strand upon the bridge among the hues of pinks, purples, blues, and blinding yellows that would betray him. A strand which would hold the secret he held so dear. Loki could draw a map from that strand and retrace every single thing Heimdall had ever seen. From that, he could surely uncover the watcher’s favoured fixation.

They only needed to make their little ruse believable. To draw the eye of Heimdall was hard enough, to keep it looking where you wanted was more so. And Loki was to trust in the daftest man he knew to pull it off.

⚔️

Loki was mostly sure this wasn’t going to work. Not if Thor kept thumping around so carelessly above. Not only was the trickster focusing on finding this elusive thread among millions, he was fighting to hold the illusion of himself that danced overhead with his brother.

The fight had drawn in the watcher quite easily as they had caught him by surprise. Loki suspected they had distracted him from the very secret they sought to oust. The only issue was that Thor was making this all too believable and Loki was close to being knocked away from the underside of the bi-frost. If that happened, he wasn’t fond of finding out where he would end up.

Finally, with his hand buried in the tendrils of light, Loki had grasped the single thread. That one, miniscule golden thread which varied only by the glimmer from the yellow ones. It burned his palm and he struggled not to scream. He clasped the metal ring around it and struggled to keep it on as the power surged into his arm.

He tore it away as he hissed and his hand shook as he clutched the tiny ring. Relief washed over him even as his entire being buzzed from the deluge of energy. He might just fall into the void anyway. He was dizzy and his eyes wouldn’t stay still.

Slowly he crawled up the underside of the bridge and pushed himself off. He barely caught himself at the bottom of the watchtower. Once he was clear of view, he sent up the signal and fell against a golden-leafed oak tree as he struggled to keep his illusion in place. He’d let Thor end it, hopefully before he passed out.

⚔️

Much to Loki’s shame, Thor had to as good as carry him back to his chamber. He shoved himself away from his brother as they entered and he stumbled over to the crystal orb that sat central before his hearth. He fumbled with the metal ring that vibrated inside his pocket and clinked it atop the glass. He fell back and caught himself on the chair. Slowly his strength began to return to him.

The crystal ball projected the energy of the ring across the chamber, a map of the universe all around them. Loki caught his breath and shakily stood as he shook off the haze. Thor’s forehead wrinkled as he looked around at the galaxies and the constellations.

Loki dragged his finger along the crystal ball as the stars moved and different parts glowed brighter. He pinched his fingertips together along the glass and a particular spark came into focus. He pulled back and neared the speck. He squinted, then chuckled.

“Midgard,” He purred under his breath. “Curious,” He turned back to Thor and smirked. “It does amuse me how those beings seem to have such a hold upon our kind.”

“Midgard!” Thor lit up as bright as the stars.

“No,” Loki pointed a finger at him. “Not her. We’re there for Heimdall.” He neared the crystal again. “Let us just figure out exactly where he’s been spending so much time.”

⚔️

She was no extraordinary being. In fact, he found her quite plain. Loki shook his head as he watched her. Thor had stayed upon Asgard to further divert the watcher. As long as the prince was around, he wouldn’t think to look in on his little toy.

It was late and she seemed to be the only in her building who was still awake. The drone of music filled her small apartment as she bent over a low table. Her fingers were dark with the charcoal she used to sketch upon the paper.

She was clueless. She didn’t hear a step or see a shadow. He stood right behind her as her charcoal dusted across the thick sheet.

She sat up and yawned and grabbed the cloth beside the sketchbook. She wiped her fingertips and reached for her phone. She checked the time and swore to herself. She piled the charcoal into a small box and pushed aside the half-finished drawing. He was on her before she could stand.

She was easy enough to subdue. She didn’t put up much of a fight before his magic took effect. These mortals always were so weak. Perhaps that was part of it. As he wrapped her in a sheet and tossed her over his shoulder, he could imagine the thoughts that kept Heimdall enraptured. The fantasies that dirtied his pious mind. Oh, how naughty.

Loki stepped out into the glare of streetlights and looked up into the night sky. He smirked and snickered. Heimdall would be surprised at his call to enter the bi-frost, having not even noticed his departure. Oh, but he would be so much more surprised at the creature slung over Loki’s shoulder.

⚔️

Reader

You awoke to voices. An argument. You grumbled and gripped your spinning head as you laid across the hard stone. Your eyes shot open and you sat up with a whimper. You felt as if you would fall back down as your vision sparkled.

Where the fuck were you?

You looked around the golden chamber and struggled to keep yourself up on your shaky arm. Three figures stood feet from you as they continued to argue. Your chest felt heavy as your nerves swelled there. You were about to panic, astounded that you were not already.

“What are you two doing?” The man in shining armour spat. “How did you even--”

“So you admit, you want her,” A slender man with dark-hair interjected. “So, what’s the issue?”

“You took her from her home.” The first hissed.

“Where you’ve been watching her,” The second countered and the third man, a towering blond nodded. “And we know you were not doing so for not.”

“Where my eyes see is of none of your concern, Loki,” The man snarled.

“You would spurn our gift?” The man called Loki replied. The name and the face were strangely familiar. “You’ve earned it. You work so hard.”

“You should take her back before she wakes.” The first man insisted.

“Too late for that,” Loki slowly glanced over at you. “Besides, you are an Asgardian, you know our ways. We prize those who serve us often with flesh. Many warriors partake in the tradition.”

“You weren’t supposed to--” The first man took a breath and dared to peek over at you. “I was waiting…” He lowered his voice. “The two of you have spoiled it all.”

“We have done what you were too cowardly to do yourself,” Loki insisted. “So, here she is, she’s yours.” He shrugged. “To do with as you will. Though I can only imagine what plans you’ve been devising behind those eyes.”

The man in the gold armor gulped and looked at you again. His eyes were just as bright as his garb and you were startled by them. You drew your knees to your chest and hugged them.

“What’s going on?” You asked.

“Oh, sweet girl,” The slender man neared you and knelt before you. “You’ve been chosen by the gods to serve them personally. Specifically the one we call Heimdall.” He nodded over his shoulder. “The one with the horns but be assured, they do come off and he would have another which I think you’d much prefer.”

“Loki,” The blond growled as he came close and wrenched him up to his feet. “Do not frighten her… that is not your pleasure.”

Loki scoffed and wriggled free of the other’s grasp. “Of course,” He sneered. “Heimdall, she is all yours. Let that Asgardian blood flow freely…” He neared the armoured man again and flicked his mailed shoulder. “I’m sure you do tire of just watching.”

With a final grin in your direction, Loki followed the blond from the round chamber and left you alone with this man known as Heimdall. He sighed and watched them go. When he turned to you, his eyes glowed and he snapped them shut. He tilted his head as he turned his back to you and lifted the large helmet off. He set it down as he rolled his shoulders.

“They should not have brought you here,” He shook his head. “I am sorry that they did.”

His fingers tapped on the stone table beside the helmet.

“Please, tell me what’s happening.” You begged. “I don’t understand.”

He took another deep breath, shaky and uneven. He pressed his hand flat to the table and growled.

“As the watcher of this land, I have abstained from my desires for thousands of years. It has not been easy but it is what I had to do.” He began and you trembled at the timbre of his deep voice. You pushed yourself up to your feet and crossed your arms protectively over your chest. “But I am of Asgardian blood and we have hunger in our veins. Restraint is not bred within us and it is hard to muster.”

He turned slowly and unbuckled the sleeves of his armour. They fell slack and he slipped them off. He laid them down beside his helmet. He did the same to his breastplate and worked at shedding his armour one piece at a time. His golden eyes clung to you as you swayed nervously.

“”I admit, I have been watching you, and just that minor diversion was a betrayal of my duty. Yet, I could not stop. My eye always fell back to the little Midgardian in her little nest. All alone.”

He set the last piece of mail aside and stood in a pale tunic, matching beeches, and a pair of leather boots. He seemed both hesitant and impatient to near you. He hesitated and paced across the chamber before you.

“If I kept you far away, I’d only watch. I wouldn’t… I couldn’t succumb to my instincts.” He continued. “But they… they conspired against me and now… now…” His fingers curled into fists and he stormed towards you. You retreated until you were against the wall. “Now… you’re here and I feel it rising in me.”

He opened a hand and it hovered over your shoulder as he trembled. You cowered against the stone as you tried to press yourself flat. As you tried to wake up from whatever terrible dream this was. You didn’t.

“I have protected you as I’ve watch you but there is one thing I cannot protect you from,” His hand settled on your shoulder and slipped down your arm. “...Me.”

He grabbed your elbow and spun you past him. He released you so that you collided with the stone table and it knocked the wind out of you. His breaths were like growls as he closed in. You turned to him and his hand stretched over your throat.

“I tried… I tried,” He ranted. “I truly did but… I promised Odin… I tried.”

His other hand grasped the strap of your tank top and snapped it easily. You tried to slap him away and his grip tightened around your neck. His body was trembling almost as much as yours.

“I won’t hurt you… if you don’t make me,” He warned.

Your eyes rounded and you stared up into his glowing eyes. There was something sinister within them that wasn’t there before. You dropped your hands and braced the edge of the table.

A shuddered “Please…” was all you could manage.

His tongue slid over his bottom lip as he tore your other strap. He pulled the top down to your waist and hummed as his gaze fell to your bare chest. You wanted to hide from him but you could barely move. The hand at your throat sapped all your resistance. Your skin buzzed as he cupped your tit.

He flicked a thumb over your nipple and then the other. He watched his hand as it explored your flesh and began to crawl lower. He crept over the crumpled tank top and his fingers pushed beneath the waistband of your shorts; the old faded pajamas were a poor shield against his ardour.

He tugged them past your hips and let them fall down your legs. A rush of fear flowed through you and you grabbed onto his thick arms. His hand squeezed your throat just a little.

“Stop,” You rasped. “Please, I… I…”

“I can’t.” He snarled.

He released you but only to grasp your hips and lift you in a single motion. He was so strong, you felt little more than a feather on the wind. He sat you on the table, his cold armour against your back. He pushed between your legs and bent to cover your mouth with his. His hand stretched across the back of your head as he held you to him.

You grunted and struggled against him. It only seemed to rile him as he shoved his other hand between your legs. His thighs kept your knees apart as he pressed on your clit until you squirmed. You slapped your hands down on the table and moaned.

His tongue pushed past your lips as he slid his fingers inside of you. You squeaked into his mouth and your legs tingled as he curled his fingers. You clawed the stone beneath you as he played with you. He pressed the heel of his hand to your bud and squeezed as he began a steady pace.

His other hand fell from the back of your head and you gasped as you drew away. His hand moved faster and faster. You shuddered as your core thrummed and ripples tingled along your spine. You panted wildly as you tried to resist the steep and undeniable rise. Your hips bucked as you came and your back hit the tall horns of his helmet as you quivered helplessly.

He withdrew his hand as you groaned and struggled not to fall back entirely. He quickly fought with the laces of his breeches and ripped them open. For a moment, the terror returned to you and you thought of escape. He pulled his cock from beneath the leggings and you gulped. He grabbed your hip as he stepped closer and stifled your fears.

He dragged his tip along your folds and you pushed on his chest. The ecstasy drained as he pressed against your entrance. This was a stranger, a man you didn’t know, a being you were certain was inhuman. You didn’t want him. You didn’t want this, did you?

He impaled you sharply as if he could sense your doubt. You cried out and scratched at the fabric across his broad chest. You gripped it tightly as your walls quaked around him. He was big and thick and the delight of his girth was laced with pain. Tears pricked your eyes and your legs hugged his hips without thought. You didn’t know if you wanted him to stop or keep on.

All restraint slaked away from him as he rocked into you. His hands snaked around to grope your ass. He pulled you closer to the edge as he pounded deeper and deeper. Beastly snarls whisked from his lips and he lifted you entirely. You draped your arms over his shoulders as he moved your body against his.

You couldn’t help the pressure as it mounted once more. Couldn’t help that this man was stealing this pleasure from you so easily. You blamed it all on this man. It couldn’t possibly be you. You couldn’t like it. You couldn’t.

You came again and he turned and leaned against the table. He lifted your knees up to rest beside him and rocked your hips against his. He sank into you over and over until you were wrapped around him. Your heavy breaths nestled in the crook of your neck as you weakly clung to him.

He slammed you down harder than before and let out a strangled grunt. He slowed and rode out his climax until you were completely still. You were breathless and weak against him, your body covered in sweat. He wrapped his arms around you as your limbs fell and held you against him.

“I…” He breathed over the crown of your head. “I tried.”

#heimdall #dark heimdall #dark!heimdall #dark heimdall x reader #heimdall x reader #dark!heimdall x reader #fic #dark!fic #dark fic #au #loki #thor #mcu #marvel #one shot

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riverxr · 3 years

Text

Blooming Part 2

Part 0 Part 1

Stefan Salvatore x Reader kind of Klaus Mikealson x reader

Warninng;Hanahaki Disease,blood And badly written :/

IMPORTANT A.N; Another short episode :/ I know the episodes are short but I have lots of projects.I am a graphic design student so I leave the rest of it to your imagine. So I want to know do you want short episoed but often or long episodes but seldom. Don’t worry the breaks won’t take that long!

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Mint means suspicion.

The person who was standing in front of her was Klaus.

‘‘Klaus? Is he has it too?’’ (Y/N) asked.

‘‘No love thankfully I do not have it.’‘

‘‘Then what are you doing here Bonnie what is going on?’‘ She was afraid.

‘‘I have a book about hanahaki and I knew someone who has it.’‘

‘‘What happend to them?’‘

‘‘Long gone.’‘ Bonnie was speechless. She did not even said anything in the road and still her eyes speaked.

‘‘Bonnie told me everything Are you gonna talk with Stefan?’‘ Klaus asked.

‘‘I don’t know...’‘

‘‘(Y/N) Excuse me but why are not you talking to him! It could cost your life.’‘ Bonnie finally talked.

‘‘He is happy with Elena! I can’t-’‘

(Y/N) felt the pain again. She could not breathe and she started to puke again. It was mint. Mint burned her throat. She started to cry. Klaus look something in his pocket It was an oak leaf he gave it to her and everything stopped she looked down to her blood. Klaus washed her face with some water he was gentle

After a few minutes later she dared to ask

‘‘Why did oak leaf stop it’‘

‘‘Oak leaf means strength. Keep it with you it will give you strength ’‘ Bonnie said while she had a small smile. and she handed her Klaus’ book.

‘’Now it is your turn Bonnie to give me what I want.’‘ Klaus said with a smirk.

‘‘Bonnie what did he want.’‘

‘‘Don’t worry about it please it is about me.’‘

‘‘Right the night is taking in so I think we should go.’‘

‘‘Come on (Y/N) I won’t bite. Hey ‘Bon’ don’t glare me like that.’‘

‘‘You should not test my patience Klaus.’ Bonnie looked at me ‘‘Let’s go (Y/N)...’‘

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Now here I am standing in front of Salvatore boarding house to tell Stefan everything before cypress leaves comes in my lungs.I am not gonna die. I am not gonnie die because of this. I knocked the door and waited for Stefan.

Taglist; @lilsalvawhore

#Stefan Salvatore #kalus mikealson #angst #Hanahaki disease #x reader #the vampire diaries #the vampire diares imagine #stefan salvatore imagine #stefan salvatore x reader #klaus mikealson x reader #The Vampire Diares #klaus mikealson imagine

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springtimebat · 3 years

Text

The Autumn Meeting (Part 1/4)

Six suns peer down from perching clouds, leaving heavy, gilded dents on the heavens. They watch with amused, greedy eyes, their eyelids soft and rusted. They sit and wait for a hymn to be sung.

The city of tomorrow arrives in the early morning, on a thousand dying legs. The crow is beginning its call as the sun sets in the east, and the queen begins to cross the old town bridge just as the sky turns pitch black. The queen is young and full of life. Her hair is dark and wild. Her eyes are electric green. Naturally, the shadows clamber over each other, desperate to touch her skin. They claw at her footprints, grasp desperately at her diadem. The Queen places a shawl, a piece of midnight, careworn and devoid of stars, around her shoulders. She places galoshes on her feet. They snap against the cobblestones. The shadows attempt to bash her brain in. The queen pulls the shawl tighter around her neck and carries on. She must begin her quest before it's too late, before she misses her window. She pulls apart the ghoulish bonds restraining her and slips into the forest, the heavy frame of her home balancing on stilts behind her.

When the clock strikes the right time, three pilgrims meet deep inside the bowels of the forest to tell stories they stole off of wanderers backs. One is skull and bones, the second is more shark than man, the last is cast in iron and gilded armour, kept together with unsteady bolts and springs. The three are old, dear friends with different destinies that lead them to separate for months on end. Still, now they gather for a night in. They gather for the stories and for listening.

The forest is a protective shield, swarming with thistles, brambles and decaying pieces of junk. Years before, during the days of the dust, a king set up booby traps in the forest, hoping to capture some kind of beast. Now spikes and barbed wire festered among the moss, weary of a world full of colour beyond the tree trunks. The queen notices flashes of silver as she races through the trees; simply shadows against the bruised sunset and the sad oaks. Her feet dance around the puddles and quicksands. She flies through the grass and the rock until she comes across the meeting place from her stories. In a clearing stands a roaring fireplace and three men, huddled together like three fates. One stands up and hurls wood onto the fire, his back muscles tensing. He is a fish-man, with silver scales framing his brow and giant saucers for eyes. He wears the same strange uniform the Queen had seen him wear in an engraving once, all frills and ridiculous trimmings. The second man sits watching the third as they recite a poem. His body is masked by a suit of metal armour. Atop his helmet sits a boar’s head, its eyes closed, bored. The final man shakes their bones and clacks their teeth. He disguises his lack of skins with a cloak, similar to the Queen’s. He is standing by the fire, whistling a strange sonnet:

“-so the little girl set off to win back her foot. But the ogre’s own pair of feet were large and heavy. He was quicker than the little girl and it took her months and months of travelling to catch up-”

“Didn’t her parents worry about her?” Interrupts the fish man from his space at the mantle-piece, “Poor girl out on her lonesome.”

His friend groans and stamps his foot.

“She had no parents Abram. She was all on her lonesome to begin with and that’s how she lost her foot. Haven’t you been listening, you knucklehead?”

“Surely she has friends who would wanna know where she is...right? I mean, surely one of you guys would wanna know about my fins being cut up? Or my scales being punctured-”

“Enough! I have a story to finish Abram. Leave questions ‘till after the workshop.”

Abram lets out a tiny squeak but speaks no more. The skeleton grins in the firelight and begins again:

“The little girl carried on, always searching for her missing foot. She asked everyone she came across and slaughtered the many who tried to take her for their own, with their nets and their traps and their cages. By the time she finally found her foot she was covered in blood and guts and body parts. Still, she had found her foot and that’s what truly matters-”

“Where’d she find it Emil?” Abram asks, his eyes widening.

“I’m getting to that! Now where was I- oh right! The little girl, all alone and bloody in middle of a winter wood, found her foot on the low branch of a great oak much like these-” The skeleton waves his arms at the trees encasing the three storytellers, “The bone was still brand new, like a new pair of shoes elastic new. It had been left there many, many moons before by someone very tall.”

“What did she do then?”

“Well, she grabbed her foot from the oak tree and put it back, snapping it into place so to speak. Then she began the journey back home. As she did she thought to herself, “The ogre must have not needed the foot as much as I did.” The End.” Emil raises his skull to the sky, grinning proudly.

His friends give awkward coughs.

“What happened to the ogre?” Abram asks, frowning, “Surely something interesting happened to him.”

“Unimportant.” Emil growls.

The suit of armour gives a squeak and stretches his wiry arms. Emil rolls his head to the side in annoyance.

“What the girl did once she got home does not matter Gus. Not in the slightest. Don’t you understand what I was trying to get across? What I was trying to convey?”

“Not really.” Abram says, poking at the fire with a stick.

“The moral of the story, of the stanzas, was that quests of revenge, of bloodshed, are simply pointless. The journey is important and needed. All the other benign details are just...unnecessary!”

“It was good ‘till the ending. You just need to rework the ending.”

Emil scoffs, “Amateurs! Both of you! And Francis, Boris and Johnson and…all of the folding folk at the board up in the mountains! I cannot compromise my masterpiece with...amateurs!”

“I enjoyed it.”

The three men turn to see a young girl approaching their campground, her eyes an electric green, her pupils dancing. She has an amused smirk on her face. Her hair is a dangerous dark brown. Abram just stands there, blinking, confused. Emil turns his back on the visitor, muttering some obscenities about damned fairy folk under his musty breath. Gus on the other hand, recognises the queen immediately and falls to the ground in a bow, his chest plate and helmet clinking. The queen’s smirk grows into a grin and she pats the knight on the shoulder.

“I enjoyed the blood and the guts...and the body parts.”

“Yeah you would,” Emil growls, “You and your tasteless, tasteless people.”

Gus gasps and places himself in front of the queen, as if Emil’s words can pierce her skin. Emil simply laughs.

“Look at this old fool! This old, old fool! She doesn't care for you at all my boy! She looks at you as she looks at the bugs swarming around her feet. Learn that Gus! Learn these young girls only want to look at you in amusement and never want to settle down!”

“I want to settle down,” The queen replies, and she strides towards a chair the men have manufactured from fallen Autumn leaves, “I am going to settle down.”

“Ah see! I knew it! I knew you were that queen I’ve heard gossip about!”

“Gossip?” The queen’s eyebrows raise, “Gossip about me?”

“Oh yes. I’ve heard quite a lot of tall tales about you. Stories about you eating babies, stabbing your own knights with their own swords-” At that, Gus swallows and sits back down on the forest floor, shaking, “-stories of you charming snakes and cobras. Stories of you sleeping in their coils.” Emil stares at the queen, goading her to respond. The queen tuts and stretches her short, stubby legs. They were tired from hours of running as their owner searched the dark places. Her skin stretches and shifts in the firelight.

“I only ate one baby. The rest is just nonsense.”

“Hmmm. All the gossip came from your kind so I never took any of it seriously. Seeing you now makes me think it wasn’t so far fetched.”

The queen furrows her brow and rolls her eyes.

“Are you all telling stories?” She asks, focusing on the dirt beneath her leaf throne instead of the man in front of her, “ When I was little I read stories about you telling stories together. In an endless loop.”

The men fall silent. The queen sighs.

“I would like to join you all. For just one night.”

Emil growls. Abram roasts a marshmallow. Gus shivers in an invisible wind. His legs make a strange croaking sound and detach themselves from his waist, stumbling about on the rocky terrain.

“What are you queen of, exactly?” Emil asks.

“All sorts of things really.”

“Like what? What do you do? What are your day-to-day ac-tiv-teees?”

“I look after the lost ones most of the time.”

“The lost ones?”

“Folks made of time and sand. They come to us, my husband and I, full of regrets and sorrows. They lose themselves in our corridors and become our subjects. We transform their troubled minds into something sweet.”

“Sweet for the monarchy, one supposes, but not for everyone else,” murmurs Emil, picking at his cloak,“ I heard you two aren’t married already.”

“We will be soon.”

“Once your quest is complete, I’m guessing.”

“Yes. Once I return.”

“Do you take babies?” Abram asks, sitting cross-legged on the milkwood grass, “I heard you take babies.”

“Sometimes.”

Emil clears his throat, which makes his bones rattle in a very unattractive way. He then nods to Abram, who nods back. He turns to Gus, who by now is just a bunch of scraps flailing about in the mud. Gus’ head, however, has enough time to tilt his head back in agreement.

“Very well. You may join the club for a night. A single solitary night-”

“No baby eating!” Abram shouts from his corner. The Queen tuts and crosses her heart with a wicked finger.

“I promise. No baby eating.” She grins.

“-And you’ll be the last to go. No cuts!” Emil growls.

“Very well.” The Queen sighs and closes her eyes, listening to the whispers in the breeze.

Emil looks to his companions, sitting by the campfire as they always do, and shrugs.

“Now that…compromise has been met I suppose we can continue with the workshop.”

“Finally,” Abram mutters.

And as the four take their places in the storyteller’s guild, the woods begin to shiver with excitement.

The annual Autumn meeting was only beginning.

#creative writing #my story #a devil's palm story #fantasy #monsters #parallel worlds #cryptids #cryptidcore #weirdcore #oddcore #american gothic #surreal #southern gothic #character study #ongoing series #a rough draft #part one of four

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avaria-revallier · 4 years

Text

Chapter 1: The Beginning after the End

The smell of iron lingers in the air. Muffled cries of pain and rage are dancing over the battlefield. Salty tears are rolling down her cheeks. Leaving light trails between the blood and dirt on her skin. Holding a familiar person in her arms. With shaking hands she gently brushes a dark strain of hair out of the kings eyes. His breathing is weak.

„Thorin, you damn stubborn dwarf! You can’t die now! Pull yourself together.“ A heavy sobbing shakes the little hobbit.

Azog is dead, so why, why couldn’t Thorin live to celebrate this victory?

Rough fingers brushing over her cheeks, as if they want to wipe away the tears, the sadness.

„Bella, Bell… don’t cry, my dear.“ Thorin looks her in the eyes. A small smile on his lips. He wants to help her ease the pain, make her feel better. He wants to tell her how he feels, now, that he finally is ‚King under the mountain‘ again. Now that he is worthy of this kind little hobbit. Now, that it is to late. Her crying breaks his heart and lets his soul ache.

„You know I am not very good at comforting, amrâlimê.“ With his last strength Thorin sits up and kisses his hobbit. He wouldn’t want to leave her, not like this, not crying.

Absent minded Bellas fingers touch her lips. How long has it been? One year? Two? No, longer, a lot longer. Her eyesight isn’t as good as it used to be. She can’t take long trips anymore and her memories begin to slip away.

„Bella… Belladonna.“ Startled turns the hobbit around.

„Lord Elrond. What can I do for you? Is it time to go already?“ The elve smiles gently down on her. He hasn’t aged one bit in all the time she had spend with him.

„Yes my dear, I believe it is time to go. We are the last ones to board a ship.“

She stares a moment into his eyes, searching for a hint of… of what? With a deep sight she turns back to the window. The boats had already left or where about to leave. The fog over the lake was getting thicker and thicker as time goes by.

Another deep sight left her mouth. Unconsciously her fingers reach up to her lips again to lightly brush over them.

The hobbit rummages through her pockets to hand a heavy letter over to Lord Elrond. In clear black letters the names of Lord Elrond’s twin sons where written on the envelop.

„Give them the letter once you boarded the boat and you are to far from the shore to turn around.

I will miss those two. You of course as well, Lord Elrond. But I have a feeling that this shouldn’t be. Even thought all my traveling and adventures, I still haven‘t found my place. Maybe I never will.“ With a sad smile on her face she stands up, grabs her backpack and leaves. Hoping that he would understand, but knowing she herself didn’t either.

Belladonna Baggins knew she couldn’t go back to the shire. Bag End, the home her father Bungo Baggings build for her mother wasn’t anymore hers, it wasn’t home. Home was somewhere else, somewhere, maybe someone…

Neither could she go to the lonely mountain. To many memories would await her there and only few of them where good. Her fingertips brushes her lips again, before she angrily banishes them into one of her pockets.

Mirkwood wasn’t that pleasant either, so maybe… yeah, why not. Somewhere where she hasn’t been before. Somewhere without memories, with lots of adventures. Somewhere where the earth is still singing.

A shy smile on her face, Sting on her side and a wooden stick in one hand Bella starts wandering to the woods where tree giants, ents, said to be living.

While feeling a familiar joy rising in her heart the smile on her face widens and the stick in her hand starts growing little leafs and flowers. The grass under her feet seems to grow greener and healthier, while the flowers start to bloom and are tilting their heads towards the humming hobbit.

Between two large oaks Bella set camp for the night.

Her trip didn’t took as long as expected. She reached the forest a week earlier. The journey wasn’t much of an adventure either, she didn’t encounter orcs or wargs, nor trolls. Apart from some minor obstacles like wolves and your every day bandits it was a rather pleasant trip.

Leaning with the back on the rough bark of the oak the hobbit looks up into the starry night-sky. Searching through her memories she found what she was looking for. The memory of a similar night. She was on the road for not more than roughly a few month, together with Thorin and his company. They didn’t light a fire, as it was warm enough without. Just like tonight. Bofur had first watch. With a sad smile she remembers how she tossed and turned that evening, until she finally gave up and joined Bofur. He had been smoking his pipe, silently starring into the night. With that ridiculous hat of his, which he never seemed to take of. That night he wasn’t joking around with her. They both had a lot to think about.

As Bella opens her eyes, she could almost see the sleeping dwarves in front of her. Fíli and Kíli, right next to each other, always worried that they would wake up alone. Bifur, muttering in Khuzdul and sometimes kicking at the invisible enemies. Bombur, who seems to eat even in his sleep. Nori and Dori, tucked together with Ori in their middle. Gloin, Oin and Balin right next to an overhang, snoring one louder than the next. Dwalin, not far from Thorin, the weapon always in reach, ready to protect his king and friends. And Thorin, sleeping without a sound, no movement and even frowning in his sleep. Worrying about more than he should. At first the snoring, the movement and muttering had irritated her, but soon she couldn’t find sleep without these familiar sounds. It is one of those memories that would help Bella sleep. Help her to ease the pain in her heart.

With a sight she closes her eyes for a moment. Holding back the tears she lets the image fade away. A growling not far from her left lets her freeze in the very moment. She knows this particular sound. Warc. Slowly her fingers creep over the ground to reach the hilt of Sting. Her eyes are searching the darkness for a sign of danger. Two dim glowing eyes are penetrating her from where the sound came from. Her back against the tree Bella stands up, not breaking eye-contact with the foul creature.

“Well, well, well. Who do we have here?” a voice like metal on stone.

An Orc, uglier than the ones Bella saw before, steps into the moonlight. The blue shining blade in one and her staff in the other hand she eyes the creature.

“No answer? Well, none needed. We had specific orders for whom we are looking for. An old hobbit lass.” A screeching sound echos through the woods. It might have been a laugh.

“With something very special in her possession. A ring. Give it us! Give it!”

Bella is running. Running for her life.

Another arrow misses her just barely, setting the tree in front of her on fire. A howl from behind motivates her to run faster. Smoke stings in her eyes and lungs, making it hard to breathe. Half blind she lets her feelings guide her. The trees all around are screaming in pain. The forest is burning.

With her last strength, she climbs an old tree.

“I am sorry. I am so sorry! This is all my fault. They where right. I am poisonous, always bringing bad luck to all around me.” The words were no more than a whisper, hidden behind heavy sobbing. The tears just wouldn’t stop flowing and the screams got only louder.

For the second time this night Bella freezes, as someone right next to her clears his throat.

“My dear, not all poisons are only used to kill. With the right dose and understanding they can become the best cure.”

With a shocked squeak Bella lets go of the branch she was holding on to. A large hand catches her in the middle of falling and places her gently back on a save spot.

“What is a child of Yavanna doing here in my forest?” wise eyes are looking at her from between the bark, moss and branches.

“My, my name is Belladonna Baggins, Mister Ent. I came here looking for a place to stay, a place filled with life and the grace of our creator. I was hoping to meet an Onodrim like yourself. Sadly all I found where Orcs, Warcs and bad luck. And again I managed to poison the things I love. It is my fault that the forest is burning. I am so very sorry for this, Master Ent. I regret that I ever set foot out of my door. If it wasn’t for me, they all would have lived.”

The ent listens to her, moving slowly out of the raging fire. Bella clings to the bark, heavily sniveling, finally letting all the tears flow, together with the pain, grief and sadness.

A sudden pain in her chest ends the weeping of the hobbit lass. An arrow hit her from behind and all the way through. Disbelief fills her eyes, followed by pain. She tries to scream, but only muffled sound come out. Hard she hits the ground. In a split second the orc archer gets smashed by a giant wooden hand, the warc kicked against a tree. The screaming of the surrounding trees is getting quieter, till it is completely still. The giant face of the ent appears in her field of vision, only a small distance between them. As Bella tries to say something, only a cough and some blood comes out. Pain rages from her chest and back through her body, blurring her vision. The question of the ent she could only hear like he was speaking into a pillow.

“Child, you are blessed by the goddess Yavanna. I will help you, take this chance and change your fated path. In return, I want you to take this with you. I want you to plant the hope of our race.”

Gently he places a small object in her cold hand. She couldn’t really see it, but what does it matter? Again she tries to speak. Another cough makes her spit blood. Her vision goes dark and she can’t hear the last words of the ent. What did he mean, another chance?

‘If I could just see his face one more time, I’ll die a happy death. I am sure. All I want is nothing more but to hear you knocking on my door. I would give it my all to do better next time. All and everything of me.’ She sends her silent prayers to Yavanna.

Strangely the memories of her first encounter with the grey wizard pops into her mind. The picture of a familiar hole forms in her head.

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with paneled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats—the hobbit was fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill—The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it—and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another. No going upstairs for the hobbit: bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries (lots of these), wardrobes (she had whole rooms devoted to clothes), kitchens, dining-rooms, all were on the same floor, and indeed on the same passage. The best rooms were all on the left-hand side (going in), for these were the only ones to have windows, deep-set round windows looking over her garden, and meadows beyond, sloping down to the river.

A knocking on the door made her look up from the book she was reading.

A guest? At this hour?

Slowly the small Hobbit stood up to answer the door.

„Dwalin, at your service.“ A dwarf. A dwarf on her doorstep.

A dwarf she knew a long time ago. A dwarf who died in battle, proudly swinging his weapon.

With a blank stare she scanned the dwarf.

‚Oh Yavanna, how cruel of you‘

Another moment the hobbit stood in the half open door, slowly realizing what was happening. In her empty eyes a spark lit up, after a long and cold winter. A single teardrop ran down her cheek, breaking her numbness.

„You are alive?“ She whispered under her breath.

Before Dwalin could react the small hobbit jumped at him, hugging the big warrior and sobbing at his chest.

A dream, it must be a dream. Maybe Yavanna granted her this dream to mend the crack in her heart. And even if it was just an illusion, she would be more than happy just to see them again. But still, for a dream this was kinda real.

Embarrassed she separates herself from the confused dwarf, wiping away the tears.

“Please, do come in, supper is almost ready. Would you be so kind and leave your shoes near the door? What is with the others? Are they all coming?!” Followed by an even more confused dwarf she heads to the dining room, seating him on the long table.

“Please do wait a moment. I will have to empty my whole pantry to feed thirteen dwarves and a wizard. We also have to save some for Thorin, as he will be running late.” Muttering to herself the hobbit lass vanishes in the direction of the pantry, leaving Dwalin behind. Another knock at the door announces the presence of an additional visitor.

“Master Dwalin, would you be so kind to answer the door? I have my hands full.”

Dazed the tattooed dwarf stands up to answer the door. In the meantime Bella sets the table and prepares some dishes that are easy and fast made.

“Evening, brother!” it echoes through the hallway, followed by the sound of two heads banging together. A dwarf with a long white beard enters the dining room and bows.

“Balin, at your service.” He states.

“It is good to see you again, Master Balin. Please bring the remaining food from the pantry here. I will have to answer the door. Fíli and Kíli will help you move the table.” She cleans her hands on a piece of clothes and goes to open the door for the two younger dwarves of the line of Durin.

“Fíli and Kíli, at your service!” both of them look so young.

Bella has to suppress another flood of tears, as she sees these two familiar dwarves. Before she could restrain the reflex, she hugs both tightly.

Hasty she lets go, brushing her hair out of her eyes and wiping the tears away. To stop her voice from cracking she clears her throat.

“You can leave your shoes and weapons here. I will have to excuse myself to look after the supper.” As she hurries towards the kitchen she scolds herself for reacting like this. They might think she is mad, or worse, unsociable.

Dwalin stops the two irritated dwarf lads from shouting questions at their host by assigning some tasks to them. He even answers the door a second time, just to find the eight missing dwarves literally falling inside. Behind them an amused Gandalf.

They are, as she remembered them, loud and not very well mannered. Yet as familiar as her own home. While the dwarves ate and drank, Bella was busy refilling the glasses and pints, restocking the empty plates on the table and keeping an eye on the portion she saved for their leader.

Gandalf watched the hobbit lass for the better part of the evening. She seems to behave strange, offbeat from the day before. Somehow like she became a different person over night.

She didn’t even flinch when they threw the dishes through the halls, only a slight smile on her face. Also she looks like glowing from time to time, nearly magical… Well, maybe he made a mistake.

Gandalf wasn’t the only one watching Bella. Dwalin, Balin and most of the company eyed the hobbit with curiosity and interest. How would she know about them?

They all went quiet as a someone knocked at the door.

There he was. Standing on her doorstep as if this was their first meeting. Broad shoulders that look like carrying the problems of the world. Sharp blue eyes, that pierce through hers, dark hair with some braids. Sadly without the small bells Bella gifted him.

“Gandalf… You said this place was easy to find. I got lost. Twice.” Completely ignoring the host of this home Thorin enters the hobbit hole.

“So this is the hobbit?” His attention shifts to Bella. “Tell me Mistress Baggins, have you done much fighting? Axe or Sword? What is your preferred weapon?”

Bella watches him, unsure how to answer.

“Thought as much, she looks more like a grocer than a burglar. And a lass non the less…”

“If this is a joke, it is of very poor taste!” She angrily stares up to Thorin. The relief and disbelief turns into anger. With her finger she pokes into Thorins chest, ignoring how muscular he is.

“After all we went through? You think you can just cast that aside? Do you have no shame? Do you even know how much I suffered? Just because you were to proud and stubborn to accept help!” With every sentence she pokes him again, urging him to take a step back.

“This wasn’t funny the first time and it won’t be…”

A whispered comment interrupts her angry speech. Bellas burning gaze finds Bofur.

“Oh, so you think I am cute when I am angry? Well, get ready because I’m about to be GORGEOUS!”

The whole company flinches under the angry gaze of the little hobbit. As she turns around she finds Thorin taking another step back.

“The wild is no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves.” He tries to allay her anger.

The gate broke and the tears are rolling down her face. Her anger has vanished and a sharp pain strikes within her heart. This was no dream, no illusion or trick of her mind. Nor was she in Yavanna’s garden. Something happened to her. It isn’t them who are acting curious, it is her.

“This isn’t possible.” She takes a step towards Thorin. Careful she touches his cheek, looking him doubtful in the eyes, as if he could vanish any moment right before her eyes.

“Y-you are okay?” she gasps quietly, one hand over her mouth.

“How in the world is this possible? By Yavanna, what is going on? No, this is wrong…” unsteady she takes a small step back, then she faints.

Chapter 2

Masterpost

This is the first chapter of my story, what do you think?

#hobbit #hobbit imagine #hobbit headcannons #thilbo #king thorin #thorin x bilbo #female bilbo #fanfic #thorin oakenshield #the hobbit #my story #just my stupid idea #tolkien #middle earth

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amethystpath-writes · 3 years

Text

A Gentle Blade Part 25

Part 24 here

Okay, originally there was going to be one post today, but this chapter would have been enormous so I found a way to split it into two. So, you get two updates today!

@tears-and-lilies

******

Goosebumps rose along Leera's arms. It had been summer when she was forced to kneel in front of the hanging king. She shuddered at the memory, but moved on quickly- thankfully, at that.

Now it was autumn and the leaves were turning- turning not just in colour, but some through the air as they fell. It was beautiful and when Leera saw it, she cried. She didn't want to cry, didn't want to show any more weakness now that she was out of Rennera's control, but it was impossible.

Kastion didn't mind it. He was happy for her. The prince didn't care at all that he had escaped. He didn't matter at all in comparison to Leera.

He held her when they were away from the palace, in the woods, where Leera once escaped to. She wept here, at the magnificence of autumn, and at the reality of their freedom. Kastion held her, and almost cried with.

It wasn't as if Leera hadn't seen fall before. She'd seen it many times, suffered the cold nights while sleeping on hale bales, but she felt differently about it now, loved it like nothing else only because she feared she would never experience it again. Like anything else now, Leera would appreciate it as if she was seeing it for the first time.

"We should continue," Kastion said. His voice was harder than usual, not angry, but calculated. He was being prince, shoving away the delicateness Leera valued in order to gain a more strategic mind. "The palace Guard might have realized by now that we are missing. I'm not sure what the queen will be able to do to stop a pursuit."

With her cheek still on his shoulder from their embrace, Leera nodded. Still, she asked, "She's Queen. Can't she just tell them not to search for us?"

"If they admired her, yes." Kastion released her from the hug, but lightly held her shoulders at arms length away. "There's more to this all than just a surviving queen. I'll explain along the way. We really need to go."

As the prince and assassin saddled up, the air became colder with gush upon gush of wind. Leera, having never ridden a horse before this day, struggled to get atop her mount. Kastion had to hop off his own horse to help her and later supposed it might have been best for the two of them to only take one horse. It would have been easier to manage. Feeding two horses with only the woods offerings would be a challenge. Then again, if they only had one horse it would mean more breaks due to double weight.

Kastion explained what he learned about Crooked- or Harvin. Every detail that he could remember, though there wasn't much. The biggest ideal he could express was that he was a threat to Queen Rennera and Mesenian as a whole. Given how the dinners went, the general from Eliaph and king from Termine would support Harvin if he did decide to take the throne. That would be three kingdoms allied together to destroy whatever they felt like destroying.

Changing topics, Kastion asked, "Before, you didn't deny marrying me." He quickly added, "I don't mention this because I think we should marry right away. In fact, I wanted to ask- well...Do you even intend on staying in Thharewood?"

"Thharewood," Leera breathed. This wasn't the first time she realized where Kastion came from, where he would rule. No, that moment came when he handed her Dogars' ring. Leera didn't observe it right away, but rather when the guard escorted Kastion away.

Thharewood's seal was less complex compared to the other kingdoms of the lands. Theirs was a single great oak with sprawled branches and a falling leaf on the right side of the image. It was supposed to represent virtue and unity. When one leaf falls from a tree, it decomposes and offers a further life to the tree. Not to say Thharewood was completely at ease with death, but a soul born in Thharewood would always remain a part of Thharewood. Upon every death, the passed citizen's name would be scrawled in books kept within the center of the palace.

Kastion stopped his horse and Leera's came to a stop with his own. "Are you...okay?" the prince asked with squinted eyes. He cocked his head to the side. They never discussed the seriousness of this topic, of what the two of them would do upon escaping. "I don't expect you to come with me, although I'll admit it's what I hope for. You can do whatever you want, Leera."

"I'm...I don't know what to do," she said. Her horse stamped the ground with an impatient foot. Leera wished the horse could tell her where it wanted to go, whether it only wanted to run or if it knew to go to Thharewood. "I want to go with you," Leera told him, and it was perhaps the most confident she ever sounded. "I'm just afraid. What does going with you mean? Do you really think we could be together if we wished?"

Kastion thought about it before answering. "I suppose that is more up to you than me. I already have my life laid out in front of me. I'm to be the next king and I'm to fulfill the responsibilities that come with the title." Now it was his horse that stamped. It even let out a neigh.

"I'm an assassin, Kastion. I don't think I'd ever be fit for a queen."

"Rennera was a tormentor."

"And an awful queen," Leera returned.

He tilted his head back and forth before nodding it at the general woods. Kastion clicked his tongue at his horse at the same time he slightly pushed his heel into its side, a command for the horse to walk. Leera did the same. They continued to walk their horses side by side. "Rennera has a more difficult scenario to fit her title," Kastion explained. "She would have been ripped apart limb from limb by her Guard if they knew she was kind."

"Kind?" Leera scoffed.

"She wishes to be kind. She let us go knowing fully that she could be tied up again, forced to watch as a new king tears everything and everyone apart." He commented further, "I'm not saying she's a saint, but I think she's better than you give her credit for."

Leera laughed. "Better than I give her credit for, huh?" She shook her head with a clenched jaw. Her knuckles were white as she grasped the rein of her horse. "When you look at me, how many scars do you see?"

"Leera-"

"How many?"

"I get it, okay? I'm not saying she's a good person. What I am saying is that she didn't want to be a bad one. Nothing that she did was okay, but it was the only way she knew to protect herself."

The assassin took a moment to recollect herself, to think of how to respond to the pile of horse rubbish Kastion was handing her. As she thought, her horse veered to the left to go around a thin tree before centering itself again.

"There are other ways. She could have done anything else."

Kastion peered at her. "Like what?" he asked. "You kill the ones you deem bad. Would you have rather her killed you?"

"Yes," Leera replied coldly. Almost immediately, she regretted saying it. She would have rather died than have met him. It wasn't what she meant, but that's how it sounded.

"I never had a scar before Rennera," she began to explain. "I would have liked to trip in the woods running with a boy I was in love with and get a scar on my knee before...before I got the scars that I have now." Leera touched her cheek. Somewhere on her face there was a line where the queen dragged a sharp nail. She corrected herself from before, "Before you, I would have liked for her to kill me, yes."

Kastion wanted to get back to their original question, but at this point he couldn't even remember what it was. What had they been talking about before Rennera's tortures? He wasn't sure. It seemed so long ago, whatever it was.

Since neither was sure what to say next, they said nothing at all. The horses walked casually through the woods after first having sprinted away from Mesenian. They could probably afford to run again, but both Kastion and Leera's mind was unprepared for anything fast-paced. Their minds were struggling to grasp onto a single thought. Holding onto a horse while it ran between trees would only complicate any thought process they managed to achieve.

"Tell me about yourself," the prince said. It wasn't a demand, even if it sounded like one. It was a sudden thought, a sudden wish, and he blurted it out.

"What about me? You know who I am, or at least who I was." Leera didn't know who she was anymore.

Could she still call herself an assassin? Sure, she could always call herself one. Once an assassin, always an assassin. If no one knew her name or face, the statement would be false. But they did know her and so she would always be infamously known for her darker occupation.

Leera could be something else if she wanted. After all, there was a prince riding alongside her. Leera could be the next queen of Thharewood. The idea should have sounded brilliant, and a part of her thought it did, but it was also terrifying.

Being queen meant...what did it mean? Leera thought she knew everything about royals. They were stuck-up and thought they could do whatever they wanted. And they could. Royals could do whatever they wanted. That was...until someone stood up to them- like Leera, though she was the first in the lands to assassinate a king. Two kings at this point in time. It didn't matter. She killed them because they needed to be killed, because they were hurting people, whether through torture or neglectfulness. Every royal Leera had known was like this, all except Kastion.

Knowing she wasn't willing to be like Rennera and like...the king of Termine...Leera had to wonder what a good queen would do. Obviously she would live in a palace and she would have her own room- or would she share with Kastion?

Sharing a room with Kastion... They would be married. King Kastion and Queen Leera, crowned and wedded. How odd it sounded in her mind. She never imagined herself marrying except when she was little and saw the way her parents interacted. When Leera was younger, it was all she ever wanted to meet a man someday that loved her as much as her father loved her mother and vice versa. Now, though, it seemed impossible.

How could someone love her? How could a prince love a low-life assassin? How could a prince love an orphan? How could- how could he love anyone who was barely acknowledged by anyone of their own social level? Leera was an assassin and it was all she would ever be known for. No one gave her a second glance unless they needed someone taken out, so why would Kastion? The answer, she knew, was because he was different, which brought her back to her original question: what would being a good queen look like?

"I'm sorry," Leera whispered.

Kastion hardly heard her, but did enough that he responded, "No need to apologize. I can tell there is a lot on your mind."

"You asked to know about me. I don't know what to tell."

The prince laughed lightly, having already given her a question to accommodate for her absence. She was too taken back to hear him, and that's when he decided to let her think to herself. She deserved as much. It was the only thing Kastion could give her for now. "Do you have siblings?" he asked.

Leera shook her head, not needing to say anything.

"An only child," he hummed. "Did you ever want siblings or did you feel okay being the only child?"

The assassin- possible queen- shrugged. "I never gave it much thought. I made friends within my village that were siblings enough. We would do anything for one another, defend one another until the last day, but at the end of the day, it was always possible that someone lost a tooth because they stole a doll." She laughed, a genuine laugh that felt delightful in her chest. Leera didn't think about her childhood often, or she did, but never before her parents died. It was always after their passing that her mind gripped with an iron fist. "What about you? What's it like having real siblings?"

Kastion blew out a long breath. "Interesting," he settled for after much thought. He shifted in his saddle. "My older sister- not older than me, but older than the youngest, if you understand. My older sister is...a brat, to put it kindly." He shook his head with wide eyes. His forehead crinkled. "She and I were given trainers when we were young. Mine were physical, hers were psychological. After my training, I was sent to cry with my mother and father whereas she was sent to her room, where all of the ladies taught her to be poised. Wouldn't be so bad if my youngest sister didn't follow her around like a lost puppy."

"I would offer to take her under my wing if I didn't think my own influence wouldn't be bad for her."

"I think you could teach her a few things."

"Kastion, you do realize I am probably just as bad as your first sister?" Leera squinted and bit the corner of her lip. "I was an assassin for- for years."

"That doesn't mean anything. I hired you, yet you still like me. The act of hiring is just as bad as the act of killing," he reasoned, then shrugged.

"You don't mind that I've killed?"

He shrugged again and tossed his head to the side. "I wouldn't say I don't mind it. I think, like you said about Rennera, that there are other ways of dealing with seemingly bad people. I convinced the queen to let us go, didn't I?" Kastion looked at Leera, who nodded slightly. "We have all led different lives. We have all had different people to influence us in those lives, and I think- deep down- you understand that. Maybe I'm playing the gods' games by saying this, but I'd like for you to be in my younger sisters' lives."

Leera nodded. She wasn't sure what she would do if she met and befriended the princesses, but she supposed she could cross that bridge when she came to it, just like she had done with most of her life already.

Whatever happened, whatever she decided to do, Leera would be okay. And if not, Kastion would be there to guide her. Her reins were her own, but it couldn't hurt to have another horse in front.

******

Part 26 here

#leera and rennera #part 25 #long post #original series #escape #freedom #captivity #political conflict #scars #a gentle blade

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