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j-graysonlibrary · 6 months

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The Xiang Chronicles: Book Three Chapter 39

Title: The Xiang Chronicles: Book Three

Author: Jay Grayson

Word Count: 107k

Genres: Fantasy, adventure, drama, LGBT+

Available on: my website

Synopsis: Only one Xiang remains and her name is Merra. She hopes to unite the land by force and plow down anyone in her way—especially the people of Agni who she deems faithless and the native people of Terra who refuse to cooperate with her.

Raine continues to serve his Lord but he has taken to alcoholism to soothe his grief—a fact he keeps out of his letters with Heidi. Baiya has returned to mercenary work in order to keep his family safe while Kira is on the warpath. He, fully, takes on the title of Chaaya and means to defeat the Xiang he sees as false.

And, in a guarded castle in Enlil, a stir-crazy Princess dabbles in the dark arts, setting in motion something even Tiandi cannot see.

Full chapter 39 under the cut

Chapter XXXIX:

Despite there being no water for either Kyrie disciple to use to their advantage, Bofu was still as arrogant as ever. The young man smirked as he set eyes on Raine and he took from his hip an unexpected weapon. The leather coil rested in his hand for a second before he let the bulk of it fall to the ground. His eyes bored holes into Raine as he stretched out his arm and cracked the whip.

“It is not a cane but I am sure it will give you much worse scars,” Bofu taunted.

“Can you even use it?” Raine asked and kept his trident poised and at the ready to deflect anything thrown at him.

“I am a weapons master, you moron!” he snapped and cracked the whip again. “I can take anything—even your stupid trident—and conquer it in just a few hours.”

Raine highly doubted it and knew it was just the boasting of an over-confident teenager but he also did not want to argue the point. Really, he did not want to fight Bofu at all. If he could knock him unconscious and help Kira with Kubja, that would be ideal.

The old man was a strangely difficult opponent, Kira found, but not because he was particularly vicious. In fact, he had yet to send any energy directly at him at all.

Rather, he was disrupting the ground underneath the entire battlefield. He was trying to give his army the better ground or open up chasms under Phay’s men to quickly win the fight.

Kira was constantly fighting against the energy he was pouring into the ground, pushing back against his attempts to sway the battle.

It was an invisible fight but quite draining.

“Why not just take me on, fisticuffs?” Kira tried goading in order to get him to let up.

Kubja kept his arms folded behind him and his eyes closed as he attempted, again, to pull the earth down under where Pangu was standing.

As if Kira would ever allow that.

He held the energy firm, like blocking a fist intent on striking down its target. Sweat started to form at his hairline and he knew he needed to do something to stop the old man.

“You have impressive stamina for one so poisoned by miasma,” Kubja mentioned as he met the solid wall of energy that was Kira.

“I could say the same to you about your age, grandpa,” Kira winced as he replied.

“You know, most people probably would not have realized my methods until it was too late.” Kubja smiled and walked to the side, light on his feet. “If you were not Chaaya, I might be impressed.”

The wording made Kira realize something all too obvious. He started to laugh as he let up, a little, on his pushback. “You are right. I am Chaaya…why did I not think of it sooner?”

He kept some energy pushed against Kubja’s but also sent out a wave of miasma. Tendrils shot up from the earth and latched onto the old man’s legs before yanking him into the air, disconnecting him from his element.

“Can’t do shit from up there, huh?” Kira laughed and recollected himself, using only as much energy as it took to keep the man suspended.

“Kubja!” Bofu called out the second he saw his body be ripped up into the sky.

Raine took that same second to close the distance between them and knock the butt of his trident against Bofu’s head. There was a rather loud crack before he collapsed, unconscious.

“You know, it is taking a lot of willpower not to stab you through the middle right now,” Raine said and let out a ragged breath. “Those cane scars still hurt.”

“Should I kill him?” Kira asked, joining his side. He was prepared, more than prepared, to kill any of them on principle alone but, after seeing Raine’s back and hearing what had happened to him, he was ready to torture the little bastard a bit first before finishing him off.

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Raine raised a brow with the hint of a smile on his face.

Kira encased Bofu’s body with miasma and hoisted him up to join Kubja, wanting to make a spectacle of killing them both before Merra’s eyes. She even stopped her fight with Pangu to look over, mouth gaping.

The tendrils closed in around their throats, slowly squeezing the life out of them but, in a flash, they were blown away and the bodies collapsed to the ground. Kira, himself, fell back but was caught by Raine. Although, even Raine had to collapse onto a knee and cover his eyes.

The bright light was too much for anyone to look at.

***

The battle raged all around them, soldiers killing each other with nothing more than hatred and the need to stay alive in their minds. Pangu could almost taste their desperation as the air began to smell of blood and waste. He had truly never experienced anything like it but he could not afford to focus on anything besides the other Xiang.

The last time he had stood in front of Merra and gotten such a good look at her, he was about to marry her.

It was almost funny.

“You cannot summon any spirits,” Pangu pointed out the obvious as they began to step in a circle, not breaking eye contact. Neither wanted to make the first move—not yet anyway.

“I am aware.” Merra cupped her hands at her sides and two small fires burned in her palms. “Your precious Chaaya will kill them.”

“My disciple, you mean,” he corrected.

Her brow furrowed and she looked like she could spit at him. “You have no disciples! You are not a Xiang! You are an animated corpse brought back through dark, evil magic! How can you even think of yourself as being on my level, Pangu?!”

“I do not.” Pangu watched her intently. “I know I am not the same kind of Xiang as you but that is because I do not take orders blindly. It is why they killed me—because I had my own thoughts and ideas.”

“You were selfish! That is why they killed you!” she did spit then. “You were a danger to Tiandi and all He worked for! You betrayed ALL of them! And then you came back?! Against the natural order?!”

“Not by my choice,” Pangu said, offhanded, “But, yes. I cannot let you suppress the free-will of the world under Tiandi. He is wrong—he is just a tyrant!”

“LIES!” Merra threw her fire, finally, but of course Pangu absorbed it easily. “You…You are worse than any Chaaya, Pangu. You have set Tiandi back decades—centuries even—we will be overrun with miasma and faithlessness because of you.”

Pangu sent a wall of air forward but she matched his energy and they pushed and pulled it between them. He set his jaw. “Miasma…is a natural substance that can be regulated without a Xiang, Merra.” Even if it was a futile attempt, he felt he had to at least try to explain things to her. Even if there was a miniscule chance of her listening, it was worth it. “Tiandi creates Xiangs to be his mouthpiece, to re-spark faith in him—we have no real purpose, we are just tools! He only cares if you do exactly what he says, otherwise he will kill you!”

Merra dissipated the air, sending out a shockwave between them. She huffed and attempted to switch to earth, creating a ridge that shot toward him. Pangu dodged and then thought better of it when the spike of earth continued on into the crowd. He redirected it at Merra and, before he knew it, they were fighting over a singular spike in the ground, pushing their energy back and forth again.

“You…” she growled as she exerted herself, “You allowed yourself to be corrupted…maybe you were good at one point, given how much the Heavenly Princes cared for you, but you are an irredeemable villain now! The choices you have made…they cannot be forgiven!”

Pangu realized he was not struggling as much as her and had half a mind to send another spike toward her—perhaps into her back while she was not looking. But, if he did, would he not be proving her point?

He clenched his jaw as he realized he was just as stuck in their struggle as she was. There was only one more thing he could think to tell her. One thing that could, possibly, plant a seed of doubt in her mind.

“You know Merra…” he let his energy waver for a moment, allowing her to think she was gaining the upper hand, “The second you do something out of line, even something small, Tiandi will be liable to kill you. Maybe not in the direct way he killed me but he will punish you. Do you ever wonder why no Xiang lives past thirty? Why they all die either during their mission or right after?”

“Shut UP!” Energy exploded from all around her but Pangu was able to shield himself from the blowback. And, from the looks of it, not many others were affected by it either, save a few soldiers who had ventured too close.

Nearby, Raine and Kira were still fighting Bofu and Kubja. Or, they had been. Pangu noted the old, Terran disciple hung in the air by miasma. He was quickly joined by Bofu and that was what finally caused Merra to look over.

Her mouth hung open and she tensed as the miasma clamped down around their throats.

Pangu was sure he was going to see them breathe their last but the bright light, emerging from nowhere, caused him to shield his eyes. No one was immune, it seemed, as a chorus of groaning and shouting filled the air. The soldiers stopped fighting and Merra’s disciples—those who were not knocked unconscious—shuffled over to her side. Similarly, Kira, Raine, Baiya, Kaz, and Fujin all started to inch closer to Pangu as the light dimmed.

“How has it come to this?”

The voice sent a chill down Pangu’s spine while it ignited a fire in Kira’s gut. Baiya and Raine both tensed, being taken back to that terrible morning in Gnoma. Even Viren, from his position on the outskirts of the battle, heard the booming voice and gripped onto Oli tightly.

Kaz and Fujin had no attachment to it but they could certainly tell that something was wrong. May, as well, noticed the color leave Viren’s face.

Pangu gulped as the light retreated back into the Prince’s skin. “Zhu…” he said quietly.

“Tianzhu!” Merra called out. “Finish him! Now is the time!”

The Prince’s lip twitched and he raised a hand, quickly. A white glimmer raced through the air and slapped Merra against her temple, causing her to grunt and hold herself in obvious pain.

“Do not order me, Xiang,” Zhu snapped but did not move his eyes away from Pangu, “I will do what must be done. And whoever stands in my way will be eviscerated.”

Kira was not given the chance to charge forward and begin his rematch with the holy man since, the second Zhu launched his attack, another bright light appeared. This one, however, was directly in front of Pangu and blocked the beam that Zhu cast out.

Sparks of bright light flew to the sides and the figure became clearer after a moment. His robe still covered all of his face but Pangu could tell who he was based on that alone.

“Cuad?” Fujin asked first, sounding as confused as the rest of them.

Zhu’s cheeks puffed as he struggled against the hooded man. “You traitor,” he cursed before the two went to blows, sending streaks of light back and forth.

It was difficult to look at—the brightness was painful to the eyes—so no one else continued their fight. Merra even muttered to Gongji something about recalling the troops.

Kira was not ready to pack things up so easily, however. As painful as the lightshow was, he could squint and see through it. He did not, necessarily, trust the hooded man since he clearly had the same or similar abilities as Zhu but he had protected Pangu when it mattered so he was willing to give him a pass for now. More important, at the moment, was that he was keeping Zhu distracted.

So much so, in fact, that Kira was able to sink his miasma into him without being detected. He added a good deal of Shakti’s miasma, just to ensure he had a deep hook in his core.

The light faded and the situation became clear to everyone. Merra’s eyes all but bugged out of her head and Kira smirked.

“See this, Merra?” Kira poured even more into Zhu, immobilizing him. “You…are not a real Xiang. The real Xiang could stop me but you? You are worthless. And you…”

Zhu’s eyes narrowed as he glared down at Kira. He opened his mouth to speak but black blood poured out instead, becoming lost in his beard.

“Did I not tell you?” Kira curled his fingers, forming a loose fist as he approached the man, frozen in place and coated in a thick mist. “Did I not say I would kill you?”

No one dared to intervene. No one on Merra’s side wanted to be infected and, on Pangu’s side, no one wanted to stop him.

It was a terrifying feeling—one Pangu was not intimately familiar with. He wanted Zhu to die. And, not just because having one less Heavenly Prince to deal with would make their upcoming missions go smoother but, because he wanted him to suffer for what he had done to him.

For leading him to his death, Pangu also wanted him to die.

Zhu coughed up more black blood and reached his hands up, placing them over his chest. “N-no,” he croaked out before a dark hole formed under his fingers.

“Die.” Kira said, as a command, and the miasma spread out through Zhu’s body, leaving nothing behind. A burst of light came from where his chest had been and the particles spread out, as if they would fly up into the sky like the fireflies but they grew dim as they traveled and, eventually, they fizzled into nothing.

Merra cried out in agony while Pangu watched, fascinated. He was unsure if his old teachers could die—truly die—but he was certain he would not be seeing Zhu again.

“Come,” Gongji growled and waved his hand up, making a spirit portal. He all but threw the other disciples inside before dragging Merra into it as she wailed and thrashed.

To Pangu’s surprise, Kira did not try to chase after them. He merely let them go. In fact, no one threw a weapon or shot their element as the portal closed. But then he realized they were all staring at Cuad.

#the xiang chronicles #my novel #my writing

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ancestorsofjudah · 7 months

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1 Kings 13: 31-34. "Between Kings."

In Eden, God said "wait", but otherwise, hurrying past the past is one of the God of Israel's most strenuous bits of advice. The question of "hurry off to what, exactly?" has held us back. The reason we anoint kings and elect presidents is to provide God and man with a vision to which we can all capitulate.

For this, the king or what have you maintains a Court or a standing government that consists of historians, scientists, specialists in every branch of humanology to assist in preventing the sins of the past and molding the shape of the incoming present.

What was tried, what worked and what did not should be the topic of discussion between all of these at all times during policy formation in any kind of government.

Let us change gears to the "step mother" of Judaism, Hinduism for a moment and examine the most famous moment the past needed to be laid to rest during the epic poem called the Bhagavad Gita.

During a process designed to form a line of succession, two princes competed for the role of King and one cheated. The courts of both men were heavily involved.

The court of the rightful winner told him to draw his sword and cut down the cheater right then, and he declined. The court of the cheater started a vendetta against the rightful heirs and society was rended to bits.

Then came the god Krishna, the "scourge of the wicked" and told the losers to get up off their asses and go fight for what is right. Hindus, like other religious pilgrims have always had strict ideals for what is just and unjust, pure and impure, and carefully defined what is duty and what is naughty. What happened on this history making Election Day in ancient India should have resulted in clear decisive action but alas, it did not. And we have not learned much from it.

We learned about this in the Septuagint and are seeing similar in the Melachim. Somehow, things in royal courts one day just seem to unzip, especially around the time of transition. Instead of going from better to better, they go from bad to worse, bad to worse.

WHY would God call Moses up the Mount, send him back to Egypt and then deign to let numnutz run the people backwards into the sea and the dust?

He suggested no such thing, no not once. Every time a limpdik has surfaced to trouble the people, God has sent a revenger, a deliverer to help out. Then things quiet down, then they go right back where they came from again.

The solution is nigh- here in this section of the Tanakh "the perpetual water of God's Attributes" called the Melachim, "the exchange of knowledge between kings."

Time can pass, kings can come and go, but the knowledge must stay the same:

31 After burying him, he said to his sons, “When I die, bury me in the grave where the man of God is buried; lay my bones beside his bones.

32 For the message he declared by the word of the Lord against the altar in Bethel and against all the shrines on the high places in the towns of Samaria will certainly come true.”

33 Even after this, Jeroboam did not change his evil ways, but once more appointed priests for the high places from all sorts of people. Anyone who wanted to become a priest he consecrated for the high places.

34 This was the sin of the house of Jeroboam that led to its downfall and to its destruction from the face of the earth.

The key to this section is found in the word Samaria, "the residue":

The verb שמר (shamar) means to guard or to exercise great care over. Noun שמרה (shomra) means guard. Noun שמר (shimmur) means night watch. Noun אשמורה ('ashmura) or אשמרת ('ashmoret) refers to the night watch as unit of time.

Noun משמר (mishmar) describes the "place or agent" of guarding, which may come down to either a prison or a guard, but it may also describe the keeping on some religious observances or something like that. Noun משמרת (mishmeret), literally meaning "with the function of watching," used in the sense of a charge or obligation; an official function of guarding. Noun שמרה (shemura) describes an eyelid.

Noun שמר (shemer) describes the dregs or residue that collects at the bottom of a bottle of wine. This word may stem from a whole other root, or it reflects the similarity between patiently standing through a night watch and a bottle ageing in a rack.

This word may also describe a stagnant heart, either as a heart in which dregs settle out or a heart that's carefully guarded.

Noun שמיר (shamir) describes some kind of wild, thorny vegetation that covers large areas. Again, this noun may stem from a whole other verb, but a hedge of thorns is not unlike a perimeter peopled by armed guards, or even a tender heart that's guarded by sarcasm and a proneness to insult.

The high places are where we develop our understanding of what is right and wrong. If they teach cheating is fair, that climate change is a myth when it is as deadly as a disease, if they direct us to worry about other person's panties or the going's ons in their uterine canals, while war, poverty, and impropriety are making everyone insane, then this is a sign the chain is broken, the residue is leaking away and things need to be shored up.

God says over and over throughout the Tanakh- throw the high places down, smash the asherah poles, and destroy the idols of persons who defy God and proclaim false dogma.

In our times, these are the Republicans, Mormons, Evangelicals and persons affiliated with Fox News and the Pro-Life movement. They are the cause of all that is unjust and deleterious in this world.

Even after everything George W. Bush put us through- we went back to the Republican Party and let it threaten life on earth again by championing and then cheating an utter scoundrel Donald Trump and his partners in filth into power.

None of us are ignorant, it has to be stopped for good. Observe the Gematria for verses 33 and 34:

The value is 11000: This means we apply the sacred wisdom of the meaning of the number 11 across the millennia, never to be forgotten:

Eleven refers to the conveyance of the Divine light which transcends the limits of the world within the limits of the world.

“The world was created with ten utterances.” Eleven, thus, refers to a level above the limits of that set. Nevertheless, since it is also a number which follows in sequence to ten, we can understand that it refers to the fusion between the transcendent Divine light and the framework of limited worldly existence.

Eleven indicates an excess, a spillage, an over-doing or wasting of divine energy.

Jeroboam mixed church and state, and in doing so, made them over in his image and obfuscated the truth regarding all the morals and ethics that were important to the society he was chosen to govern.

The Melachim prescribes a remedy: upon even a tincture of such a thing in the future: eradicate it, scour it from the face of the earth for all time.

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thebadtimewolf · 2 years

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👀

Send a 👀 and I will describe how my muse sees yours / what they think of when they look at them.

how my muse sees yours.

The Vigilante saw such weariness in muted green eyes - a weariness she was oh so familiar of - and yet such ferocity. Such anger. Such darkness. From forgotten regret or from the aftershocks of war - they were all to her hypnotising. His brow seemed to hood over said eyes as if they were sunken in - eyes like emeralds burrowing into her. Such small yet acutely shapely lips that broaden into a closed oval-like rounded grin but, only falter ever so slight. she could kiss him and her own lips will never fail to envelop his. Her hands cupping his sunken yet shaped face, feeling strong jaw and protruding cheeks in a certain light; he had unintentionally akin to the likeness of death. And that - the time lord found - was enchanting as simultaneously made her enamored with him. The tuff of deep brown that bordered near black in some days made her always want to comb back, run fingers through, bury and rest her fingers in. His willowy hands, long and delicate fingers, always trying to keep it's opposite warm whilst in thought or of plauging nervousness. They were her favourite. Such slim wrists that were rather a facsimile of the rest of him - like his clothes that bordered near 1700s or 1800s fashions - gave him a false slim build. Her - and she hoped not the only one - being able to see that despite appearences of his own eons of making: he was not a frail person to knock about or discount as anything lesser in the common earth stereotypical concepts of physical statuesque of men nor women or of a gender far beyond than what humans could summarize or label. His body - oh, she could go on essays on that - every crevice curve where they should, cave in where it needed and his skin soft. Softer but, then again one could say the same for her own. His temper, as with any other emotion he exhibited - as for lack of better word - was arousing to her. Still is. It was electric and unlike most, she reveled in it than fear it. His need, his obedience, his love, his happiness, sadness, lust (wander or sensual) were all magnetic to her. If only she could make it last than just a brief moment here and there - get him to open up more. Expand their mind beyond than what was once known by ghosts of their own creation from long. To her: He was - is until the foreseeable future of this face - unchangingly beautiful.

what they think of when they look at them.

for everything and simultaneously nothing, you are both stand alone and yet of multitudes beyond even your own recognition and for that - i love you.

#answered #ch: the vigilante #v: tbd #ic #bw: caress the queue #thedoctornumber11

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kissmethroughthebone · 3 years

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the high school obsessive broke virgin ex hitting me up again, just to ask what i would have charged to take his v card, then suddenly turning whorephobic upon realizing he cant pay me the amount i said.

"wow you'd really hoe yourself out for 3k? you seem so desperate lol"

ok, now say it without crying.

#id literally never ever fuck you unless you had thousands to give me #wow thats such a low amount to be a hoe for fuck you #ive got a fridge of food and a purse of cash im doing fine #and he's still never gotten laid #and has 150 in his account #or even if he had more still couldnt afford me #broke men are the only ones to complain about swers because they really just want to fuck for free but cant #which was the point of me saying 3k #a specific #and his only rebuttal is crying and going #ok bud #youre the one throwing a fit in my messages over not taking ur v card out of the kindness of my heart #which youve done for years....#and you were gonna pay #and im the desperate one?#lord you need to send some better men to earth

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lunnybunny12 · 3 years

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Sandor Clegane x Reader (Wildling)

A/n: The reader is a wildling in this story and has never heard of the hound before.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of death and no fluff

Word count: 1338

Master List

The East watch had been getting colder and colder as of late. The winds would whistle through windows and the snow would pile against the black, stone walls.

"It's your job to talk him out of stupid fucking ideas like this, Davos," Tormund said.

Jon had just returned from Dragonstone with both the dragon glass and the "stupid fucking idea" of getting a white walker to Kings Landing. It was a ridiculous idea but you understood where Jon was coming from. If he was going to get Cersei's army to fight against the night-king she'd need proof.

"I've been failing at that job of late." Davos joked in return.

The table was quiet and had a few new faces.

One was a young man. It was clear that he had never set foot in the north before, and you knew that the second you saw him walk through the gates. His cloak was pulled right up to his nack and his hands were violently shaking due to the lack of gloves. As far as you knew he was a bastard like Jon, but a southern bastard... one of the water.

The other was an old soul, he had walked the earth for a long time and he had the scars to prove it. He was clad in silver armour that was made to fit, a clock with a thick collar of fur around it and a big fucking sword. A Targaryen guard maybe?

"How many queens are there now?" Tormund asked.

"Two" Jon answered

"And you need to convince the one with the dragons or the one who fucks her brother?" Tormund asked.

"Both,"

You shuffled in your seat a little bit and sighed. "How many men did you bring?"

The men at the table look quick glances at each other, answering your question quite clearly.

"Not enough," Jon said quietly.

"The big woman?" Tormund asked earning a chuff from you. He always did have a knack for liking women he couldn't have.

When a deep voice emanated from the Targaryen guard, you all turned to listen.

"We were hoping some of your men could help." The man said gently and Tormund hummed in thought.

"You really want to go out there... again?" You asked, looking Jon right in the eye.

When Jon gave you a silent nod that he did indeed need to go past the wall, Tormund leaned over the table to look at the men in front of him.

"You're not the only ones."

"What?" you asked in clear confusion.

"The scouts found them a mile south of the wall," Tormund said, guiding you all down to the cells.

"And you didn't think to tell me of this?"

"You just got back from castle black a day ago and I have people to look after so forgive me for letting some prisoners slip my mind," Tormund answered a bit too quickly for your liking.

You growled in anger and then lingered behind the men as they continued walking.

The cell was colder than you expected it to be. With the little light that managed to come through the window, you saw 3 men. 2 of them were small, huddled together in a corner, clinging to whatever warmth they could, while the 3rd was large, wrapped in a thin layer of fabric and splayed across a bench.

"You're the Hound" Jon breathed. " I saw you once at Winterfell"

The Hound clutched his fabric closer to him as he pulled himself to sit properly on the bench. On closer inspection, he had a scar that took up almost half of his face. His eyes met yours and stayed there for a while with the same mix of annoyance and curiosity yours did.

You had seen bigger men than him, stranger and scarier men... so why were you looking at him?

"They want to go beyond the wall too," Tormund said to Jon before being cut off by another one of the men.

"We don't want to go beyond the wall we have to. Our Lord told us a Great War was-"

"Don't trust him" The bastard of the water (who you found out was called Gendry) growled.

"Don't trust any of them. They're the brotherhood... and the last thing their Lord told them to do was sell me to a red witch to be murdered."

"Thoros... I hardly recognised you" The Targaryen guard said to one of the men, who leaned forward to get a better look.

"Ser Jorah Mormont, they won't give me anything to drink down here. I haven't been feeling like myself."

At hearing the name Mormont, you and your brother snapped your heads to the guard. He was a fucking Mormont?

"You're a Fucking Mormont... like the last lord commander?" Tormund asked.

"He was my father-"

"He hunted us like animals" You seethed.

"Any you returned the favour as I recall" Jorah retorted calmly.

A moment of anger passed the 3 of you before the one-eyed man broke the silence.

"Here we all are... at the edge of the world, at the same moment, heading in the same direction for the same reason."

You turned to the man and looked him dead in the eye.

"Our reasons aren't your reasons"

"It doesn't matter what we think our reasons are, girl. There is a greater purpose at work, and we serve it together whether we know it or not..." By that point, he had stood up and made his way to the front of the cell.

"We may take the steps but the Lord Of Light-"

"For fuck sake shut your hole. Are we coming with you or not?" Said the hound looking at the group.

"Don't you want to know what we're doing?" The Mormont asked.

At the back of the cell, Thoros piped up.

"Is it worth us sitting in a freezing cell, waiting to die?" Thoros smiled.

It was true, regardless of the reason you all had the same goal of stopping the walkers.

"He's right," Jon said,

" We're all on the same side... were all breathing."

And with that, Tormund slapped the keys into Jon's hands and the men went to collect their weapons and clothes for the wall.

-------------------------------------------------

You all exited the wall about half a day ago but it didn't feel that long.

Not all wildlings did well in stone walls and you were one of them. You were a hunter at heart and you always had been. Going out of the camp and getting a rabbit or rogue deer to feed your people, was what you lived for and the walls of castle black made you feel trapped.

"It's rude to stare, dog," you said tying your bootstrap with shaking fingers.

"Piss off. You looked first." The Hound replied, kicking up snow as he walked.

He walked right up to you and got in your face. He was easily a foot taller than you, his hair was frozen to his face and his beard was littered with snowflakes.

"What are you trying to do here?" you asked

"What?"

"You know, getting close enough to my face that I can smell the last dick you sucked in your breath so YOU piss off" You laughed and pushed past him towards the rest of the group.

The hound grabbed the hood of your fur jacket and swivelled you around to look at him with fire in his eyes.

You just laughed at him and said "Ooo, You southern men, so stoic. Even your women, you'd think that they had their cunts sewn shut,"

He never said a word to you and usually just a glance his way would send people fleeing like children but you were laughing? He had you in his hands and you weren't scared?

You saw the confusion in his eyes as you freed yourself from his grip.

"I've seen bigger, killed stronger and fucked scarier men than you, dog. If you want to scare me you're gonna have to do better than that."

#sandor clegane x reader #sandor clegane #sandor clegane x you #sandor the hound clegane #sandor x reader #the hound x reader #the hound #rory mccan #sandor clegane fluff #sandor clegane deserves the world

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how-masterful · 3 years

Text

To Have Your Cake (And Eat It Too)

Dhawan!master x Reader

Summary: The Master has gotten himself tied up. On your birthday of all days. Stuck in a straightjacket and with no idea how long its going to last, you decide to treat your Time lord with a share of your sweet and sinful birthday desires

Notes: for the second year in a row, this is the official how masterful birthday fic™ for her absolutely beloved @plethora-of-imagines . happy birthday, my love! I hope through all the chaos of losing the first draft, flaky internet connections, and a crippling desire for this fic to work out, you hopefully enjoy your birthday gift! 🥳❤💫

this fic was partly inspired by this piece of artwork by @/thoscheii

The Master tugged angrily on his arms, for the fifth time that minute. He grit his teeth together, yanking his shoulders downwards.

It was a fruitless effort.

The straight jacket still refused to budge.

“I’ve tried everything, Master. You really are stuck in there until those time locks fall off.”

He tugged once more, before sighing and sinking back into his chair.

“Great. Absolutely magnificent.”

It was a stupid idea. You’d told him as such. The planet of the bachelors, solo men that thrived on their isolation from women. Females within the species simply didn't exist. The Master had seemingly decided the best idea in the universe, something he’d say about every new plan, would be to try and blend in in order to steal some exciting world destroying weapons (and obviously refuse to tell you about the details). It would be an absolute piece of cake, he’d decreed as soon as he’d planned it- sneak in, steal the plans, sneak out. It would only take fifteen minutes or so. That was 7 hours ago.

However, in his pride and… underestimation of the species’ intelligence, he’d made a single, glaring oversight.

He hadn't taken the bloody wedding ring off of his finger.

“Have you really tried everything?”

You turned from your position leant against the console, sending him an offended expression. The Tardis hummed and whirred in your defence.

“Yes! Every single idea you gave me!”

“Are you sure?”

You widened your eyes in an expression that hopefully conveyed to him it wouldn't be wise to ask again. The Tardis beeped rapidly, hoping to dissolve the tension. Still leaning against the console you folded your arms, looking down at your husband.

“Yes, Master. I promise. I really think you’re just gonna have to wait this one out.”

The Master let out a loud and rather obnoxious groan. He let his head fall back, scrunching up his face in a look of pure annoyance. But even that expression of disappointment, and most likely rage, couldn't be fully executed. The thick red collar that sat around his neck propped up his head like a neck brace.

To his credit, taking off his ring wasn't something he had to do often. Since the day he’d put it on for the first time it never seemingly came off. That was part of his overt sentimentality that you secretly adored. Plus, it hadn’t caused any problems for the pair of you. The ring, a golden band engraved with endless circular Gallifreyan, sat snugly on his finger and often shone, even in low light. It acted as a symbol, a sign to other creatures great and small that he was indeed a taken Time Lord. It matched your own, your wedding band sharing the same design that comfortably nested itself upon your own hand. Of course, yours had to share a finger with the engagement ring- a white point star, shrunken perfectly to sit and shimmer in a band forged from the oldest nugget of gold in the universe.

You looked down at the ring, smiling fondly at the glimmering star that sat on your finger. It shifted and refracted at even the smallest of movements, even in the low light of the Tardis. From there you looked up to see the Master still trying to flop back his head, grumbling and muttering something most likely threatening to himself. You tilted your head, watching him struggle, before carefully making your way over to sit yourself down in his lap. Taking his face in your hands you carefully brushed over his cheeks with your thumbs, the anger and rage that simmered in his expression slowly melting away as he stared up at you with a rare, rather defeated expression.

It wasn't often that the Master was the one in need of saving. At least in the typical, damsel in distress sort of way. It was no secret that the Master had a history of getting in over his head, especially when it came to the Doctor and their centuries long rivalry- from the Autons all the way to the Kasaavin, the Master would sometimes need that extra helping hand. But with you, he was always so proudly in command. The Master of the situation, one could say. With you he would stride in, proudly taking control over every situation: if you were in danger he’d burst in burning with unstoppable rage, guns blazing- more likely TCE blazing, and would happily destroy anything and anyone that was in the path between you and him. Only now it was him that required the whole rescuing thing.

Seeing him like this, bound in a jacket with timed locks that simply refused to budge, almost made him look humbled. But of course he wouldn't let something so small destroy his persistent (And slightly enjoyable) egomania.

“It suits you, y’know.”

The Master rolled his eyes.

“Is that your way of making me feel better?”

“I’m serious. I never thought I'd say it, but you suit a collar and straight jacket.”

The Master bit back a laugh, sending you an incredulous expression.

“Really? Is that so? Because I feel like a knock off Houdini. Even I don't deserve that.”

You pouted dramatically, sticking out your bottom lip. Your hand reached up to ruffle his already messy hair, earning an even angrier scowl.

“You’re enjoying yourself far too much. Just you wait until I get out of here.”

“Aw, is the big bad Master angry he's got his collar on and matches his wife?”

The Master gave a reluctant laugh, narrowing his eyes like a cat. You tickled under his chin with your fingers, enjoying watching him attempt to squirm away. You could tell he was trying so hard to seem offended, but the way he subtly titled his head to grant you more access to the strip of skin under his chin made you believe otherwise.

It was also undeniable that the thick red collar that sat around his neck matched your own. It seemed, to the Master, that his collaring of you was a pre marriage arrangement. Your own was a rich, purple leather that curved around your throat, lined with golden velvet that sat flush against your skin. Golden hardware, buckles and rings decorated the piece, making the thing look incredibly lavish and expensive- and judging by the Masters taste, it probably was.

“Don't patronise me, love.”

The Master was scowling again. It looked rather cute. You placed a quick peck to the top of his forehead, watching him scowl in return.

“I can't help it Master, you look like a kicked puppy. All grumpy and angry. You know Its your own fault you got into this mess.”

The Master opened his mouth, ready to argue to the ends of the earth as to how he wasn't responsible for the consequences of his own actions. This argument was neither new, nor something you wanted to get into again.

Suddenly, you had a thought. It was a naughty thought, rather nefarious.

Though not deadly, the thought was slightly dangerous. If only for what the Master might do when he finally got free. Yes, this was an ample opportunity for you to follow through, and use the new situation to your advantage. He’d be so proud, you thought, if it wasn't him in said situation.

You pushed your finger against the Master's lips, catching the Time Lord slightly off guard. Once again, his eyes narrowed.

“Move. Your. Finger.”

“I’m pretty sure this is the universal symbol of shut up and listen, Master.”

The Time Lord pressed his lips into a thin line, glaring absolute daggers in your direction. Slowly you pulled your finger away from his lips, moving your face so close your noses almost touched.

“Fine, I'm listening.”

“Of all the days, Master. You had to choose today. Lucky for you, the Tardis thinks there's not much time left on those time locks. Lucky for me, it gives me just enough time to have some fun with you.”

If the Master's eyes were narrow before, now they were creeping wide. You could see the calculations his brain was performing behind his eyes, all the thoughts and possibilities swirling around in his head like brain soup. Rarely was the Master ever in a situation where somebody intended to have fun with HIM. Usually it was the other way around. This was a new sensation, a feeling of which the Master in all his years of existence had yet to fully comprehend.

Was this… what nervousness felt like?

It wasn't long until he was about to find out.

In all his time, cataloguing his thoughts and trying to figure out what you could possibly mean, the Master failed to notice you slipping from his lap and heading off towards the kitchen. With a skip in your step, you quickly made your way towards the piece of delicious, freshly baked cake that sat under the crystal glass dome on the counter top- grabbing a fork on your journey back as you circled, returning to the door from which you came.

Quickly scarpering back to the console room, you could see the Master still thinking, his eyebrows furrowed as he tugged at the jacket once more. He really did look like a curious cat, sneering at the problem at hand while also being absolutely fascinated. You carefully made your way towards the Time Lord, letting out a small cough to break him from his focus. Suddenly, his head snapped up towards you, his mess of hair flying backwards as he looked from your smug expression to the plate in your hand, before turning back to your face with a knowing look.

The large triangle of birthday cake, decorated in thick frosting and rainbow sprinkles, sat upon the fine china plate.

“What are you up to now?”

“You decided to get yourself tied up on my birthday. You’re going to enjoy this slice of cake with me even if I have to feed you it by hand. Now open.”

The Master watched intently as you held the fork to his lips, sending you an unimpressed expression.

“There's nothing on it.” he deadpanned.

“I know that,” you sighed. “Hold it for me while I get myself comfortable.”

The Master rolled his eyes, before opening his lips and taking the fork between his teeth. He looked like those flamenco dancers that would brandish a rose in their mouth while dancing, only slightly less flamboyant. Though the Master definitely was no stranger to flamboyance, if his past regenerations and even more recent plans were anything to go off.

“What on earth are you planning?” he mumbled through gritted teeth, watching you precariously place the plate upon his thigh. His eyes watched with absolute wonder as he saw what you were doing.

Carefully, in front of the Time Lord, you began to tug at the hem of your underwear from beneath the already rather short dressing gown- the pile of clothes you’d rescued him in already sat in a pile in the corner of the room. You slowly shimmied your panties down your legs, his eyes never leaving your body as you purposely drew out your movements. You could tell the Master was fascinated, the way his chest had begun to rise and fall slightly faster than usual. Methodically you teased him, slipping the underwear from your legs and throwing them on to the pile. Your hands then slowly wandered to the Master's knees, the Time Lord taking in a deep breath as you fiddled with the zipper of his trousers, pulling it down to expose his underwear. You took hold of the plate on his thigh before it toppled, using your other hand to pull down the waistband of the Masters underwear, carefully freeing the Masters hardening cock. You could hear him let out a low, guttural groan behind the fork.

Without breaking his gaze you straddled over his thighs, pushing your body against his own as you sank yourself down to sit on his now firm cock. You gasped softly as you felt him inside you, the Masters left eye practically twitching as he bit down on the fork in his mouth. You rocked backwards and forwards a couple times, settling yourself down in his lap, before you brought the plate to sit between your chest and his own. Soon after, you finally reached to pull the fork from between his teeth. The Master was staring at you, wordlessly, lightly panting for breath as you smiled oh so innocently.

“There,” you teased. “Much comfier.”

The Master was working his way towards catching his breath.

“You know… if you were anybody else… I'd kill you for this.”

You laughed lightly, measuring out the size of the first bite with the prongs of the fork.

“Good. Because if anybody else did this to you, I'd kill them as well. You’re my husband after all.”

“You’re getting far too cheeky, love. I think you need reminding who's in charge here.”

You leant forwards in the Masters lap, purposely shifting your hips. You couldn't help but smile at the involuntary gasp he gave.

“What are you going to do, Master? Spank me? With what hands?”

The Master met your gaze, matching your expression. Your faces were mere inches away from each others, your eyes daring each other to make the next move.

“You’re in so much trouble after this.”

“You can't punish the birthday girl, Master. That's just plain old rude.”

The Master chuckled fondly.

“Forgive me for misplacing my manners, dearest. I must’ve left them with my hands.”

“Apology accepted.”

You nipped at the end of his nose with your teeth, before giggling cheekily and leaning in for a kiss. The Master, in all his superiority and domination, couldn't help but kiss back. He always failed to stay fully angry at you. Your noses brushed together as you stole a kiss from each other's mouths, the pair of you dissolving into quiet laughter once you parted.

“Let me have this moment, Master. Please.”

The Master pondered for a moment, tilting his head dramatically to the side and watching your hopeful expression blossom onto your face. He huffed out a sigh, looking up at you with another defeated expression. Only this one was full of genuine fondness.

“Fine.” he sighed finally. “Because it's your birthday.”

Your smile was absolutely beaming. You pulled the end chunk of cake onto the fork, holding it up to the Masters mouth. The frosting was almost dripping back onto the plate from the fluffy, bite sized piece. He parted his lips, waiting for you to place the cake into his mouth.

“Say please, Master.”

“Don't push it, Y/n.”

You simply shrugged in return, before placing the cake into the Master's mouth. As he chewed you gently began to circle your hips, lightly moving atop his cock, generating a small amount of friction. The Master gave a quiet moan, letting his eyes flutter shut as the cake melted on his tongue. He licked at his lips, catching the small trail of frosting and sprinkles that had remained on his lips.

“How is it?” you purred softly.

The Master smacked his lips together, before giving a lazy smile.

“I’m enjoying myself more than I anticipated.”

“Poor Master, did you think I was going to torture you?”

The Master chuckled as you offered him another piece of cake, parting his lips and watching you intently as you teasingly pulled the fork slowly from his mouth. You continued to twist and circle your hips, the Master's eyes watching you almost hypnotically. You could feel a hot flush begin to creep up your face, the apples of your cheeks blushing a sweet red as your shoulders began to relax. The Master smirked, watching you break off another chunk of the sprinkle covered cake. Only this time you placed it into your own mouth.

You could see why the Master reacted so positively. The flavours swirled and collided in your mouth, your taste buds exploding with sensory pleasure. Your hips swivelled and rocked, much like clockwork, as you rolled your head over your shoulders and gave a deep moan of pleasure.

“Shit, that's a good cake.” you admitted, fluttering open your eyes. The Master was licking his lips, hands lightly tugging on the straightjacket as you licked the frosting from your teeth.

“It's almost as nice as our first wedding cake.”

“Go on, take another bite.”

Weakly, you nodded, breaking off another chunk with the fork and placing it on your tongue. The ‘yes Master’ you gave was almost a whisper.

You did the same for your husband, feeding him another chunk of the cake while continuously building a rhythm of motion atop his cock. The Master was groaning, harder than before, a light sweat beginning to form on his brow. He couldn't help but notice how much closer you’d pressed yourself to his torso, the cake almost sliding from the plate that was now practically diagonal against your chest.

“Y’know, it's not the first time I've worn something like this.” the Master admitted between mouthfuls.

“Seriously?” your voice was almost lost behind a moan.

“White straightjacket, red collar, I think they- fuck- chose something from my personal history to cage me in.”

The Master was now beginning to thrust his hips up against yours, jostling your rhythm and causing you to give a shocked gasp of pleasure. The plate almost fell from your chest, barely being caught by your spare hand and the edge of the fork.

“Master, yes-”

You bit your bottom lip to suppress the guttural moan you wanted to give. The sweetness of the cake mixed with the burning deep in your belly was causing your senses to go into overdrive. The Master was methodical, thrusting up as best he could with the top of his body tied in place. His movements were sending chills shooting up your spine, knowing exactly how to make you gasp for breath and beg for more. He always knew exactly what you desired, his body and mind instinctively understanding every primal desire you had. Maybe you were just obvious. Or perhaps he was more sentimental than he let on.

Soon the once imposing slice of cake was nothing more than a single section. Crumbs and sprinkles poked from the corners of your mouth and onto your lips, the Master's teeth gnashing upwards in a bid to lick them away. Your speed and ferocity had increased to the point where you needed to stabilize yourself atop the Masters thrusting cock. Both of you had begun to sweat. Something needed to give.

“Master, I need, fuck-”

“I swear to god, let me taste you.”

The Master was panting like an animal.

“The plate-”

“Fuck the plate. I’ll buy you as many as you want. Come here, do as you’re told.”

You gave an inhumane snarl as the fork clattered to the floor, your fingers grasping hold of the last square of cake. Frosting oozed down your fingers as you relented your grip on the plate, the small black plate crashing down onto the hard wood and shattering into thousands of shards. The Master opened wide as you bucked your hips, your fingers pushing the cake firmly against his mouth. Sprinkles and crumbs smeared over the Masters lips as you abandoned all inhibition, your own mouth diving in to follow as your lips crashed together in an animalistic kiss. Teeth and tongues slashed and battled for control as the sweet concoction oozed down your throats, the taste of the frosting melting into the taste of each others mouths.

Crumbs and sticky decoration stained the clean white straightjacket as your fingers clasped hold of the Masters shoulders, your forehead pushing against his as he snarled into the kiss. Your hips thrusted furiously against his own, the pair of you rising and falling against the back of the chair as you begged for friction and every sensation you were willing to share. Your fingers fisted into the back of the Master's hair, the other hand stroking down his back and running over the intricate set of time locks that connected the jacket together in an intricate lattice of latches. You tugged on them as you went, growing deeper into the kiss as you bounced yourself up and down in the Masters lap.

You could feel yourself getting close to the precipice of satisfaction, the Master's teeth nipping at your bottom lip as his tongue licked over the mess. Your noses pushed together as you hissed in delight, your body clamouring for release as you whined pathetically in his ear.

“Master, so close” you begged, tugging on his earlobe with your teeth.

The Master snapped his teeth together, pushing his forehead against his own.

“Don't you dare cum” he barked, groaning as you licked down the side of his face.

“Please, please I can't-”

“Listen to your Master” he growled in your ear. As if that would do anything but make it worse.

The Master continued to thrust and groan, his face flush almost as red as his collar as he edged you closer and closer to release. You struggled to even control your mouth, groans and cries of pleasure escaping your throat as you completely fell apart in the Masters lap. Everything was building up inside of you, your body absolutely ready to feel the warm wave of release course through your very being. All you were waiting on was the Masters word.

And then it finally arrived.

“Cum”

You felt your whole body ricochet from the sudden release of pressure. Your scream was painfully desperate as you felt yourself fold into nothingness in the Masters lap. You gave in completely, the warmth spreading through your entire body as you climaxed hard and fast upon the Masters still hard cock. Tears were mixing with the streaming sweat as you slumped forward against the Master's chest, the Time Lord chuckling as your exhausted eyes fluttered shut on impact. You were about to sleepily flirt, much like usual, sweetening the already malleable Master with your flattering words and praises, when a loud bang sent your eyes flying wide open.

One by one, the time locks that ran up the Masters spine unclasped and plummeted down to the floor, collecting in a heap as they slid through the back of the chair. You picked your head up to look at the Master, sweat dripping from his brow and sprinkles caught in his stubble, watching as the Time Lords face slowly began to spread into a dangerous grin. You felt a chill go down your spine as he slowly began to unfold his arms, forcing you to sit up in his lap, supporting yourself by pushing down on his thighs.

“Well then”

The Master purred, pulling his arms free from their clasps. His fingers wriggled within the triangle shaped tip of the sleeve, his hands reaching up to slickly unclasp the thick red collar from around his neck. It fell to the floor, joining the locks, fork, and what was left of the plate. He looked down at you with a typical, Masterful, Cheshire cat grin.

“Would you look at that?”

Instinctively you gulped, looking up at the Master as he lifted your chin with his cloth covered fingers.

“Now I don't know about you, love, but I've noticed you’ve been getting a little bit too cheeky for my liking.”

At best, you sent him a weak smile. You knew what was about to happen.

“And I have hands now. Lucky, lucky you.”

“I'm guessing you’re going to punish me now, aren't you Master?”

The Master shushed you, tutting as he shook his head. He still clasped your chin in his hand.

“You said it yourself, dear. I can't punish the birthday girl. But I can encourage her to help me get the release I so lovingly provided for her. It's only fair, after all. If there happens to be a lesson or two learned in the process? Call that an added bonus.”

You chuckled weakly as the Master guided you to stand, supporting your still twitching hips as you sent him a wry smile.

“Y’know Master, there's a phrase we have on earth. You can't have your cake and eat it too.”

The Master tilted his head, his mouth making a small ‘o’ shape as he crooked an eyebrow. It soon melted away into a gentle smile, his fingers tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“Oh, my love.” he grinned, a chuckle building in his throat as he pecked the top of your forehead.

“I just did.”

All of a sudden you felt yourself being lifted into the air, the impact of the Masters shoulder against your stomach knocking the wind out of your system. He barked out a proud laugh as he raised a hand to spank your already reddened ass, his teeth nipping at the soft flesh of your hip as you gave a surprised yelp.

“Happy birthday, Y/N!” he cried, laughing as he carried you towards the bedroom, where god knows what painful pleasure awaited you.

“I hope the birthday girl has room for seconds!”

#doctor who #sacha dhawan #the master #bbc doctor who #dhawan!master #bbc #sacha!master #spymaster #doctor who season twelve #dhawan!master / reader #dhawan!master x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #x reader #master x you #the master x you #the master x reader #reader #reader insert

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systlinsideblog · 3 years

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Part 7

The fall of the great walled city of Turia came on a day shimmering with heat, but with storm clouds building on the horizion, looming heavy as they built into great mounds over the prairies. The air smelled of the promise of rain; that was good, Systlin thought. A good heavy rain later would wash the blood off the streets.

Turia’s towers glittered white in the sun. The walls were high and proud and in excellent repair; the warriors manning the top of it were said to be skilled. Everyone she’d spoken to had told her the same; Turia was home to a million and a half people. Turia was the jewel of the prairies, the Ar of the South. Turia was home to marvelous markets and one could find any luxury one wished there. The people of Turia were grand and wealthy and proud, and though they loved luxury their fighting men were excellent.

Its walls were high and thick. Its wells were deep and never ran dry. There were food stores to outlast the greatest of sieges. The nine gates were thick and strong and guarded zealously; while attackers died at the walls, the people of Turia would relax in their bath houses and dine on delicacies and laugh.

Turia was splendid. Turia was rich. Turia had been sieged many times, but never once had Turia fallen.

Systlin rolled her neck and shoulders, cracking any tension out.

She remembered Myr. Turia reminded her strongly of it. Myr too had been rich, and strong, and undefeated. Myr as well had thought itself safe behind tall, thick walls and strong gates, guarded by skilled fighters. Myr as well had laughed at the army camped on the plains before it. The walls of Myr had famously been bound in Power, power laid so deeply and thickly by generation after generation of Myrish earth witches that there had been more power than stone to the walls. Breakers before her, born to the desert, had tested those walls. Breakers before her had exhausted themselves against them and failed and died.

She had tried herself against them anyway. She had not failed. There was a hundred foot gap in the walls of Myr now, named for her. “The Mitraka’s Gate,” they called it. The legend of how she’d brought down the famously unbreakable walls of Myr had spread north to the Skyfire reaches and south to Sielauk before she’d even left the deserts.

Turia’s walls were not as high or thick as Myr’s, and they were not spelled for protection. Against a Breaker of the least power they’d be useless, and Systlin was the strongest Breaker ever to live. She eyed the warriors on top of them, still out of bowshot, and for a moment felt a flash of pity for them.

It was gone quickly. She wondered how many of those proud men had women chained to their beds. A million and a half people, but that number did not, she knew, count slaves. Counting slaves, it was said that the number was at least twice that, and likely higher.

Foicatch was watching her. He had not been at Myr when it fell, but he had been there since. He’d ridden through the Mitraka’s Gate. He knew, of course, that she was remembering.

“Been a bit,” He said at last, as they waited for Myr to send out its famous tharlarion cavalry, and honestly though she found herself growing fond of the kaiila the Wagon Peoples rode and could admit that the vicious reptilian tharlarion were impressive, she wished she had a good, normal horse. “Since we had a real battle before us.”

“Hmmm.” She agreed. The last time, indeed, they’d been fighting a mad god and his creatures. She’d killed a god, in that battle. Killed one god and threatened another. “Do try not to die. I’d hate to have to find a new royal consort.”

A snort. “I’ve no intention of dying today. I want to see you on the throne of that city.” A pause. “I’ve always had rather a fantasy, actually, of you on the throne of freshly conquered city, and me on my knees…”

Oh. Well. That did sound interesting. She gave him an appraising look. “Have you? You could have said something.”

“Well. It’s always been so busy when we’re breaching a stronghold, and things were all happening so fast at the time. You were so intent; I wasn’t sure you’d take it well.” A shrug. “Early days of us and all. By the time I knew better, you had the North in line again, and when we fought the Fallen One there weren’t many strongholds to breach or thrones to make use of.”

That was fair. “I’m going to hold you to that.” She said thoughtfully, even as the great gates ground slowly open and ranks of fighting men on those two-legged sharp-toothed reptilian beasts began to file out. She eyed the gleaming lances they carried disapprovingly; those were, of course, going to be the first thing she did away with once things got going.

Using her power in pitched battles was risky; she did not like doing it to kill. Not more than needed. But shattering some lances was no issue at all.

He grinned, that familiar and beloved flash of white teeth against that dark beard. “Oh, excellent.” He shot the enemy cavalry a look, and then looked back at her and raised an eyebrow. She nodded once. He leaned over, and she leaned to meet him; they exchanged a kiss, brief but sweet, and he peeled his kaiila away and headed to take command of the left flank.

She looked back over the prairie. There were several thousand riders now, forming ranks. A few men wearing particularly gleaming armor with extra gold leaf seemed to be conferring in a huddle; she waited.

“Ubara?” Dina said softly, from her side. “Ubara, should we…” There was nervousness in her voice.

“Not yet.” Systlin was the veteran of many battles of this scale; Myr was much larger than Turia, and that had been only the first city she’d taken. Dina was not. Even in a seasoned warrior, nerves before battle were normal, but Dina had taken up a spear only a year and a half past. She’d fought and killed, but the other tribes and towns and cities they’d taken were nothing on the scale of Turia. “They’ll send someone to talk, like all the others have. I’ll either kill him or send him back, like all the other times. I’ll break their lances; that will be the signal to charge.”

She looked to her side. Dina’s face was drawn tight. Systlin remembered that Dina, before slave chains, had once been a free woman, and had been born in Turia.

“You have a father, don’t you?” Systlin said, more softly.

“I do.” She whispered. “He never took a slave. He loved my mother, a Free Companion, and never took a slave; he has mourned her since her death. He is of the baker’s caste, as was my mother. He makes sweet rolls and gives them to children, and the best bread and pastries. I do not brag; he was famous in the city, and rich women and men came to buy from us. He and my brothers and I worked hard and were proud of our work.” She paused a moment. “I do not know if my brothers have taken slaves. And if they have…” Another, longer pause, and she looked away. “If they have, I will not beg mercy for them, but I will mourn what they might have been had their minds not been poisoned.”

Systlin thought of her own brother, dead so young. Of laughing and competing and playing with him, of the friendly fighting between close siblings. Of his smile and his laugh, and his sharp wit. She wondered, if her place and Dina’s had been switched, if she could have watched him killed for slaving and rape.

She probably could have. She knew it in the deepest place in her heart, where she worried sometimes at her own coldness. She probably would have done it with her own hands, at that. She’d executed her uncle and aunt with her own hands, in that battle to bring the warring lords tearing the North to bloody scraps to heel. But she was a famously hard and coldhearted bitch when it came to matters of justice, as any noble in the North of Ellinon would tell. “The Iron Bitch”, she knew they called her behind her back. “The Iron Bitch with the frozen heart.”

She’d have done it, yes. But she’d have mourned intensely after, for what might have been.

Dina was loyal and dear to her, a good friend. But if her brothers were rapists and slavers, Systlin knew that even if Dina begged, she would not grant mercy unless the offended girls asked it. It ran counter to everything in her to do so.

Goddess of Justice. The Lady’s voice whispered in her head.

Fuck off, she thought in return. I’ve shit to do.

“We can hope,” she said. “That they take after your father. And we’re not here to loot; if your father is in his shop and not with the fighting men, he’s quite safe.”

That seemed to ease Dina slightly. The woman was still used to the Gorean idea of war, where taking a city meant sacking it utterly, looting and burning and slaving. No army under Systlin’s command would ever fight so, though. She’d kill the soldiers responsible with her bare hands.

“Baker’s caste,” Dina said. “Do not fight, not unless they must. They will not be on the walls. Those on the walls and on the field here are warrior caste.”

Systlin would have to investigate this caste system more thoroughly. She did not like the idea on principle, but it seemed a force of social stability that most Goreans were very attached to. From what she’d gathered there were provisions for moving through castes if one wished. However, she’d heard that some, such as weavers and spinners, were considered ‘low caste’.

Systlin had attempted such tasks before; her mother was fond of spinning and weaving, though she was Queen Mother and needed never touch a spindle if she didn’t wish. After fifteen minutes spent at it, Systlin had come to the conclusion that the work that went into cloth was absurdly complicated and skilled, and had never touched a spindle since. She did, however, have a reputation for never haggling when it came to buying cloth or paying her seamstresses.

Low caste her arse. The idea of any of the most essential tasks…potters, farmers, fishermen, herders…being lower than any others raised her hackles. Perhaps the idea of low or high caste could go…

Across the grassland, a small party of men, led by one of the men in gleaming gold-chased armor began to ride towards them. Systlin put aside other concerns and nodded once to Dina, who nodded back and went to lead the right flank.

Her kaiila could sense that battle was coming, and shifted under her, tossing her head in eagerness. Systlin held her steady, and waited.

They headed, of course, for Foicatch. Systlin sighed and rolled her eyes, and nudged her kaiila forward. The creature sprang forward in that long, loping predator stride, and she headed them off in moments. They glared at her, all hostile intent. She regarded them in what was probably a dismissive manner, but so far as she was concerned these men were already dead. They were nothing that she had not seen on this world already, in the smaller towns that lay outside Turia. She’d killed a thousand like them since coming here.

“You know full well that I lead this army.” She said bluntly. “You’ve heard the stories.” She sighed. “It makes me curious…”

“Stories of trickery and nonsense about sorcery.” The man with the glittering armor said loftily. “A few villages might fall to some unnatural woman, but this is Turia. We will not be afraid of a tribe of women who think themselves the equals of men.”

“…As I was saying,” Systlin raised her voice slightly. “It makes me curious as to the full degree which you, meaning men on this world, are capable of deluding yourselves. I’ve been halfway through conquering towns and tribes and the men would still be telling me that I couldn’t hope to carry through, because I was but a woman.” She shook her head. “Almost sad, really. I’ve an army of twenty five thousand camped before your gates. I know you have heard the stories of how I’ve conquered cities across the prairies and brought all the tribes of the Wagon People under my rule. I am Ubara-Sana of the plains, by my own hand, and I’ve crushed every force sent against me. And yet here you are, still claiming the same old tired thing.”

She looked him in the eyes. “This is the part where, if you are smart, you will confer with your people and you will open the gates, lay down your arms, and have a chance to survive this.”

He scoffed. Entirely predictably. “This is Turia, woman. The plainsfolk may not have been able to humble you, but Turia will. We’ve ten thousand cavalry, and that is not counting the fighting men on foot. You and your slave girls with swords can batter yourselves to ribbons against us, and we’ll put collars on those of you not killed.” A slow, lewd smile, because apparently he felt he hadn’t dug his own grave deep enough. “Maybe I’ll put mine on you, woman, and teach you to obey a master’s word.”

“Well.” Systlin shrugged. “I did give you a chance.”

She’d learned knife throwing from Stellead, but the Arms Master of the Bloodguard had been dubious of its effectiveness and the instruction had only been basic. It was at the Iron Mountain, under the tutelage of the master assassins of the Master of Knives, that she’d learned how to properly throw a knife.

She’d killed the Master of Knives, of course. He’d taken the contract on her father, and sent out one of his Shadow Hands to kill a king. She’d killed the Brother of Shadow who’d wielded the knife, as well, and many others besides. The Iron Mountain stood empty now, the bones of those she’d killed gathering dust in the halls.

Her knife took the golden-armored warrior through the eye. He looked quite shocked as he slid from the saddle and fell. His men started in rage, and went for their lances.

Systlin smiled at them. Her power rose, a cold sweep through her bones, tingling under her skin. She raised her hand, and flicked her fingers negligently at them, mostly for show.

Their lances shattered into splinters. So did at least five thousand other lances of the leading ranks of the famed thalarion cavalry of Turia.

A great confused sound went up, and thalarion shied at the strange scent of Power in the air, sharp as ozone. And as fighting men scrambled for their secondary weapons, Systlin’s forces charged.

Ice took the first man before her just under the chin. She didn’t quite behead him as her coal-black kaiila shot past, but slashed the big artery on his neck open. Blood pumped, and the sound he made as he fell was a terrible gurgle.

She wheeled her mount and ducked the frantic sweep of a sword. The riders were startled, off balance, and that was death when facing a warrior of her caliber. Her kaiila darted in and took the throat of one of the slower High Thalarions, tearing it open. The beast went down, and its rider with it. Systlin kneed the sides of her kaiila and it leapt; the final warrior managed to parry her first blow, a slicing cut at his neck.

She twisted her wrist, reversed the grip on Ice’s hilt with a little twist and clever movement of her fingers that Stellead had made her practice ten thousand times, and drove it into his chest under his ribs. Drew it back with a sharp jerk as she wheeled her kaiila again, and flipped it back around in her hand. She did not have to think about the motion; she had not missed the catch on the twist since she had been a child training under Arms Master Stellead.

Then her kaiila was running, and she pushed it hard for a few paces until she regained her place leading the center. Lances glittered to either side of her, and she felt a fierce pride in the women she’d trained.

She eyed the gates of Turia, behind the regrouping lines of thalarion cavalry. Arrows arched from behind, as her mounted archers began picking off the front ranks of the Turian forces as they came into range.

Arrows returned, from on top of the walls, and one bounced off of her wraithen-scale armor. She lashed out with her power, still simmering under her skin, and five hundred bows shattered. Cries of dismay went up a second time.

She eyed the great gates of Turia, even as her kaiila gathered itself to leap and the first of her lance-fighters neared the front lines of the Turian cavalry. She eyed them for a half a second before she hit the front lines of the Turians, and she Broke them.

The great gates of Turia, and fifty feet of the wall to either side, crumbled into splinters and sand. There was a great cry of horror and dismay from the city, and cries of “UBARA! UBARA!” from her own warriors, delighted.

And then her front line was smashing into the Turian cavalry, and there was no more time for thought.

The Turians were skilled, but they were off balance, had lost the advantage of their long lances, and had not truly been expecting a proper fight. Systlin and her best lancers hit them like a hammer, and pierced deep into the ranks before the Turians quite knew it was happening. The Turians were down to swords now, and only a few of the rear ranks still had lances. Systlin’s riders had long lances with reach, and their kaiila were faster and more nimble than the high thalarion the Turians rode.

And, of course, they had her.

Systlin was no stranger to mounted combat. She’d ridden with the tribes of the desert at Sura’s side for years, and was as deft a hand at mounted combat as any Rider. She’d never have been accepted, otherwise.

It felt, she had to admit, as she turned a sword aside with Ice and flicked the sword around, down, and up, taking off the man’s sword hand at the wrist, very good to be at it again. The man screamed, but she was past him. A lance glanced off of her armor, and she wheeled her kaiila. The beast snapped, catching a leg, and tore the man off of his mount. His thalarion turned and went for her mount, but her kaiila shook its head and was leaping away before it could do any damage.

Systlin fought with all the skill and speed and cunning she had. She fought viciously, the whole time willing that her army would not fail now, would not quail because this battle was larger and closer-fought than any before. She willed it, imagining that she could throw wide her arms and take under her shadow all of her proud free mounted warriors, and through sheer will alone keep them fighting.

And she did what she had always done, in battle. She led on the front line, and fought like nothing the Turians had ever seen before. Men rose before her and men fell; she was past Power now, and killed with pure hard-won skill and naked steel. She cut faces, necks, torsos, limbs. Ice’s blue-tinged blade was purple with blood, and blood spattered her all over. She killed, and killed, with all the skill of those long hours of training and decades more of fighting for her life. She fought, and killed, her blood sang with it.

You were never made for peace. The Lady’s words. It was true; she knew it was true. She loved battle, though she knew it spoke of her basically coldhearted and vicious nature that she did. She was a warrior born and trained and blooded, and she was at home on the killing field.

She’d fought three wars, leading from the front. She’d won each, and the sight of her at the forefront of her warriors, in her element, bloody and screaming and bringing death with her, was absolute horror to the men of Gor.

The sight that horrified the men of Turia stiffened the spines of her warriors, and to the endless horror of the men of Turia, the former slave girls, now screaming warriors with lances and swords, cut into them with a fury they’d never seen.

With her at their front, her mounted warriors smashed the Turian lines apart, just as the left flank led by Foicatch drove hard at the gap left at the rear, pushing the cavalry of Turia away from the broken gates and cutting them off from retreat into the city. Foicatch himself set himself in the middle of the smashed gate, and Systlin caught glimpses of him engaged in fierce close fighting now and then as foot soldiers pressed forward from the city to try and relieve the cavalry she was driving like a herd of sheep across the prairies before Turia.

But the fighting men of Turia were skilled, and proud, and they began to regroup. Men were shouting orders, and the remaining lances managed to form up defensive lines. The fighting grew vicious, even after Systlin Broke more lances, and their advance ground to a crawl. Their armies were nearly matched; Systlin’s warrior women had better armor and better reach, but the Turian fighting men had more experience, and it began to show as they got their feet under them. Systlin’s troops fought like mad wildcats, and she was so proud; they were still winning forward, inch by inch, but she was not about to spend more lives than she had to.

The Turians began to press back, and her advance ground to a halt. Systlin smiled, because she heard the galloping of the kaiila, and knew.

Dina’s mounted archers swept past, and the women turned on their kaiilas with those short but powerful recurve bows of wood and bosk horn. Strings slid from thumb rings, and three thousand arrows hammered home through that light leather armor that the men of this world favored. The kaiilas wheeled, and the women turned again, as they’d practiced a thousand times, sitting backwards on their mounts. Strings sang again, and arrows flew as thick as rain.

Turians died. Systlin yelled and plunged forward again, and to shouts of “UBARA! UBARA! WHIP-BURNER! CHAIN-STRIKER!” her warriors followed.

The Turians had nowhere to retreat from Dina’s archers, except back onto the lances of Systlin’s mounted spear-women. No rescue came from Turia; Foicatch was stacking the bodies of fighting men four deep in the ruin of the shattered gates.

The fighting outside the city drug out a big longer; it took time to slaughter ten thousand cavalry and their mounts. But caught between Dina’s wheeling mounted archers and their storm of arrows and the lances of Systlin’s cavalry and Systlin’s own sword, they were cut to bits.

It was then that Systlin regrouped her lancers and led them to the shattered gates, where the foot soldiers of Turia were approaching more cautiously than before. The shattered gates themselves were a charnel house; fighting men and women both lay dead alongside wounded and dead and shrieking kaiila, and blood was red over the stones of the road and the rubble of the gates and walls. Foicatch and his warriors held, and the fighting men of Turia seemed reluctant to approach within reach of Foicatch’s sword.

They parted to let Systlin through, and her lancers flowed around to guard the sides of the ranks of warriors.

Systlin joined Foicatch at the front lines. She must look a terrible sight; she was head to toe blood and mud, the colors of her wraithen armor dulled under the coating. Foicatch’s own set of wraithen scale armor was similarly filthy. There was a cut high on his temple, a glancing blow that was not serious but bleeding freely. Even as she joined him she felt a trickle of Power as he flicked droplets of blood away from his eyes.

A lull in the fighting; the soldiers of Turia drew back, appalled at the sight. Foicatch eyed her, gaze flicking head to toe to check her for injuries. She gave him a slight reassuring shake of her head, doing the same to him. The cut on his temple seemed to be the worst of it. She turned to eye the soldiers before them.

“Your cavalry,” Systlin informed the fighting men before them. “Are dead. My throat slitters are making short work of any survivors this very moment. You did not hear the offer I made before, I think, so I will make it one more time. Lay your weapons down now, and you may find mercy. I will not give you another chance.”

Not one fighting man moved, save for the one who yelled in defiance, pulled a knife from his boot, and hurled it at her head.

It was a good throw, she thought, as she twisted her head to the side even as his hand swept up with the blade. It was a good throw. Had she not been taught by Stellead and the Shadow Hands of the Iron Mountain, it might have struck home. As it was, it simply scraped her cheekbone in passing; a shallow cut that would heal quickly and cleanly.

Answer enough, she supposed. Foicatch was already moving, and fell on the knife-thrower with a single-minded viciousness that was poetry to see. Systlin was moving almost as quickly, and that was where the battle in the city began.

It was nasty work. Street by street, driving the fighting men before them. Many of the freed slaves in Systlin’s forces had been from Turia, and as planned they now took the lead. As Systlin had suspected, their knowledge of the city was invaluable; meeting places and baths where warriors gathered were found out. Attacks from small alleys were anticipated. Cobbles went slick with blood. A nasty dagger opened a long cut into Systlin’s left forearm, and some of the slick blood under their boots and the kaiila’s paws was her own. She bound it with a strip torn from her own shirt, cinching the knot tight with her teeth, and pressed on.

Turia was a city of millions; it took hours to work their way through, even with the size of her army. It was late afternoon when at last she realized that any warriors found out were fleeing rather than fighting, and being quickly ridden down by archers. Systlin stopped, at last, sitting high on her kaiila, and knew that she was Ubara of Turia, and by extension all of the plains in truth, by right of conquest.

Dina was staying close now, guiding them through the streets. She saw the same realization dawn on Dina’s face; Foicatch was already smiling that grim satisfied smile she remembered well.

“Take me to the throne of Turia.” Systlin said, and Dina did.

The first drops of the storm hit the bloody dust and thunder growled low when the reached the great palace of Turia. It was in a vast central building, half law chambers and half a throne hall. It was all in the same white stone that the city seemed to favor, with a great dome over the hall where the Thrones of Turia sat. They were very fine; there was, Systlin was sure, wood somewhere under the silver and inlaid semiprecious stones, but it was difficult to make out. She left footprints of blood and mud across the spotless tiled floors.

She’d made instructions clear before the first spear was lifted; her warriors knew what to do. One part of being a leader, her father had said long ago. Is finding competent people that you trust, and then trusting them to do their jobs without your having to hang over their shoulder.

He’d been right. Her people were competent, and she did trust them. So while she waited for her warriors to ferret out the various guild and caste leaders and other important persons, Systlin ascended the nine steps to the dais…it was gorgeously carpeted, and inlaid with ivory and gold…and sat herself down in the larger throne, the throne of the Ubar of Turia.

Foicatch eyed her. There was an answering warm pulse that went down her spine and pooled insistently between her legs; there was nothing like battle to get the blood up. But…She raised her eyebrows back at him. “Not yet.” She said, somewhat reluctantly, and motioned with her chin at the smaller throne, the throne where traditionally the Ubara sat. “Not quite yet. It’s not properly conquered until I explain things to the important people, is it?”

“I suppose not.” But his eyes were lingering on her lips, and slid down over the length of her legs and the curve of her hip even so. She could feel the heat of it, and dearly wished to answer it.

But it was about at that point that people…some of them bedraggled, some begging and pleading, some silent and apparently numbly shocked into silence, all led by her fierce and triumphant warrior women, began to file into the great throne chamber. All were drenched; Systlin could hear rain rattling against the roof now, and thunder rumbling quite often.

They stared. Systlin knew what she must look like. She sat, and waited. Her shoulder ached; she’d been slammed into a wall at one point, and probably had a spectacular bruise. Her arm where she’d been cut stung. Her muscles burned from exertion; she’d been fighting on and off for hours. The cut on her cheek had scabbed, and pulled when she moved or spoke.

None of it mattered. Victory was pounding in her veins along the adrenaline. Even now, she knew, her warriors were removing chains from slaves; she could taste it on the air, and it was as sweet as honeyed wine.

Goddess of justice and war.

She ignored the voice of the Lady whispering.

Dina was conferring with the other women native to Turia. They looked fearsome; all were armored and armed and bloody. Most of the blood, to Systlin’s immense pride, was not their own. They had wounds, true, but most were not serious, and every warrior will earn scars. They were standing and moving and speaking with a new edge of confidence that had not been there even this morning, and Systlin knew why.

Stories would be told of this, she knew. Stories would be told, and the warriors who’d fought with her to take Turia would be legend in their own right. And they knew it as well; had proved something to themselves that could never be taken away.

Yes, these warrior women would say, years from now. Yes, of course I know of the Fall of Turia. I was there. I fought at the Ubara’s side. There would be looks then, as awed as any Systlin herself had ever received, and she knew in her bones how the legends would be told in decades to come.

Dina of Turia, who led the Ubara’s archers and broke the Turian cavalry with the Ubara.

Sabra of Turia, the first of all who had her chains struck off, who rode with her lance at the Ubara’s side, in her honor guard, and who fought so fiercely that none could stand before her. Never in the battle for the city did she leave the Ubara’s side, and she walked through blood ankle-deep that day.

Hula of Turia, Doreen of Turia, Hireena of the Tuchuks. Tamra of Ar…

The list went on and on, and pride was a bright warmth in her chest.

Dina said something to Sabra, who nodded and turned to cross the hall and climb the steps. Systlin remembered that first day; Sabra clutching, terrified, at her sleeve. There was little trace of the frightened and beaten slave girl now; Sabra was one of her best with a spear, and she wore thick bosk-hide armor sewn with metal plates. Her arms and shoulders were strong, and her blonde hair braided tightly back. There was blood and mud crusted in it, and a vicious bruise showing around one eye. Her nose had been broken at some point, and hastily reset,. The dried blood from it was still on her chin. She was smiling a smile of victory.

“Ubara sana.” She said. “The guild leaders, councilors, and other important leaders of the city are assembled.”

“Thank you, Sabra.” Systlin smiled back, just as fierce. “And well fought. Fierce as a she-panther.”

The grin widened. “Thank you, Ubara-sana!”

“I told you,” Systlin said, still smiling. “You doubted me, but here you stand. When I secure the treasury, you are to take as much as you can carry, as a mark of my esteem. I name you now to my personal guard, for as long as you desire the post, but you must promise to tell me if you ever wish to leave. You were the first to have her chains thrown off, and I’ve no wish to ever bind you with others.”

Sabra blinked rapidly, and Systlin realized that she was blinking back tears. “I will, Ubara sana.” She said. “But I do not think that day will come.”

“Well. If it does, let me know. And I’ve another duty for you; you were the first to take up weapons, even before Dina. If you will, once things settle more in a few days, go among the women of Turia and tell them your story. And if any of them wish it, bring them to me, and help me train them as warriors, as you trained yourself.”

A light like fever lit in Sabra’s eyes. “Ubara sana,” she whispered. “You honor me, and I will do this.”

“You won your honor yourself, with your own hands and by your own actions.” Systlin said. “I merely handed you the tools to do so. Bring them all forward, then.”

Foicatch, she realized, was staring at her with an intensity that was scorching.

“You will never have any idea,” he breathed, very quietly, as her warriors herded the frightened rich and powerful of the city to the base of the raised dais the thrones sat upon, “the effect you have on people. What it’s like to see, from the outside.”

“Hush.” She murmured back, just as softly. “You’re biased.”

“I am. But I’m also right. Every woman in your forces would have followed you to the death this morning, but after this they’d follow you past it as well.”

“Hmm.” She allowed, but it was a pleased sound. “I try only to be what they deserve.”

“Yes.” He said. “Yes, and that’s why.”

She eyed the small crowd at the foot of the dais. They were frightened and soaked from the storm, bedraggled and sullen.

“Foicatch, darling.” She said. “Our guests appear to be soaked. Could you give them a hand?”

He made an agreeable sound and lifted a hand. She tasted Power on the back of her tounge, ozone and burnt cinnamon.

There were gasps and screams as the water streamed and spiraled off of the huddled leaders of Turia. Foicatch pulled it into a hovering globe above his hand, and then rather negligently flicked it aside. It splashed to the tiles, leaving the people in the crowd quite dry.

Dina clicked her tounge against her teeth. “Are you all sorcerers, on your world?” A year and a half of following Systlin, one of the strongest fire witches and the strongest Breaker ever to live, had rubbed the novelty off of seeing Power worked.

“Not all of us.” Systlin lifted a shoulder. “But a good many.”

“My mother’s a stronger water witch than me,” Foicatch said absently. “I’ve only half her gift.”

“Wait until you see him really angry,” Systlin said. “And see him tear the water from a man’s blood.”

“I have.” That was Hireena, herding the Turians forward. Her voice was low, and she looked at Foicatch with deep respect. “At the gates, as we fought.”

“Did you?” She said, with interest. Systlin had seen it done before. It had been….compelling. Hmmmm.

Later. Later. More important things first.

“Turia.” She said, her voice clear. “I greet you.”

Furious, frightened faces looked up at her. Mutters went around. Systlin remembered well what she’d been told.

“I greet you,” she said. “As Ubara Sana of the plains, won by my own hand. But of course, you are Turian, and the power in Turia lies with the merchants.”

“It is so.” One veiled woman said. She was looking up curiously; her robes were of exquisitely fine silks, and embroidered with gold. Pearls hung from the edges of her sleeves, and crystal beads glittered across her gown.

“That,” said Systlin. “May change. I understand, of course, that you’ve already well established trade routes, and I’ve no wish to interfere with them. But I am Ubara Sana now, and the old laws will change. You may have heard that, on the plains, slave chains have been outlawed, and all slaves freed. It is true, and as of this moment by my decree every slave in Turia is freed.”

There was a roar of arguments and shouting and disapproving noises.

“…cannot simply…”

“…My business is slaves! How am I to…”

“…an outrage!...”

Systlin waited them out, patient. As she did, another of the Turian women jogged in through the great door; the rain had washed away most of the mud and blood, but she was limping, a strip of cloth bound around one thigh. She murmured something to Dina, who nodded once and took the nine steps up to the dais two at a time.

“There is a problem.” Dina said. “Saphrar, a wealthy merchant, one of the leaders of the Merchant’s Caste in the city. He’s a fortified compound, and has walled himself up with his mercenary forces.”

“Tell everyone to pull back.” Systlin said at once. “Keep an eye on the compound; let no one escape. After I finish here, I’ll come and tend to his gates myself.”

Dina smiled thinly, and went back down, murmured this to the other woman. The other woman grinned like a wolf, and hurried out, swift despite her wounded leg.

“Have you all finished?” Systlin raised her voice above the crowd.

“I will contract with the Guild of Assassins for this!” A man with thick dark hair and wearing gold and white robes said furiously. He had a hand raised and was shaking a finger at the sky. “I’ll have your head in my vault. I swear it on the Priest-Kings! “

“I take it that you deal in slaves,” Systlin said dryly.

“I do! It is an honorable trade, and I have been dealing in slave meat for…”

Systlin nodded at Dina, who moved quickly. Her knife gleamed, and the man’s throat opened ear to ear. A gurgle, and a red rush of blood, and utter shocked silence.

“Slavery,” Systlin said mildly. “Is one of the greatest crimes, and slavers are condemned to death. Those who procure and deal in slaves for their own wealth are doubly damned. Throw his body to the kaiila; they must be hungry after the fight. What was his name?”

Silence.

“I asked,” Systlin said, voice going cold. “For his name. I expect an answer.”

Another moment of silence dragged out, and then…“Kazrak.” The veiled woman who’d spoken before said. “Kazrak of the Merchant Caste. His mansion is next to mine, and his warehouse is in the low streets, near the slave market.”

“Did he have a Free Companion, any children?”

“Both.”

“Then half of his estate shall go to them, and they shall maintain their home. The other half of his assets are forfeit, and will be redistributed between his slaves, who are now free.” Systlin raised an eyebrow. “Might I have your name?”

“Aphris.” Said the woman. “Of the Merchant Caste. I deal in silks and wine, not people.” She shot a somewhat vicious look at the dead Kazrak, as he was dragged off, leaving a smear of red on the tiles. “And he was cruel, and it does my heart good to see justice done him. I take it then that we, the free women of Turia, are not to be put in slave chains?”

“Bloody pits, no.” Systlin said, repulsed.

“I did not think so.” Aphris said, cool and collected, a point of calm in the angry and terrified crowd. “But many freewomen feared the worst. It is, after all, how war has been done on Gor for a very long time. You can understand the worry.”

It was a reasonable worry, Systlin supposed. “Of course. But have no fear, no hand will be raised against you. You are free, and will remain free. Aside from that, by my laws it will be punishable by death if anyone, from anywhere, ever attempted to enslave you, and I would hunt that man down and kill him for daring to put chains on one of my subjects.”

There were many free women in the crowd, and at the words there was sort of a sigh that ran through them, and a sense of some great tension lifted. The men looked startled. Systlin gestured, taking in the concealing robes all of the free women wore.

“It is no longer required,” she continued. “That you wear full Robes of Concealment in public. A free woman may dress as she likes and go where she likes. If you feel more comfortable in your robes, of course, then you are welcome to wear them, but it is not required. If you choose to set them aside and experience difficulty from anyone, you may make a formal complaint and the matter will be dealt with. I will make people and resources available to deal with such matters.”

A murmur. More looks of outrage from the men.

“Many,” Aphris said. “Will welcome this. But for myself, Ubara, I think I will choose to wear the robes, at least for some time longer.”

“Of course.” Systlin inclined her head. “And I am afraid, of course, that Turia will be judged.”

“Judged?” One man snapped. “Like you judged Kazrak?”

“Yes. Precisely how I judged Kazrak.” Systlin smiled unpleasantly. “There are three great crimes; the murder of an innocent who has done no harm, the rape of another, and enslaving another. The penalty for all three is death.”

Silence. Dead, horrified silence. And then,

“You cannot mean,” another man said, carefully. “That every man who held a slave will be killed.”

“No.” Systlin shook her head. Sighs of relief, but she continued. “Because some slaves, for whatever reason, beg mercy for those who held them. It will be up to any slaves you hold what your fate is. But,” and she grinned again, more horribly. “If a single slave you’ve held and raped chooses death for you, I will put a knife in her hand and hold you down myself for the sentence.”

“What.”

“You cannot mean…”

“Not all…”

“All.” Systlin said, merciless. “Every man in Turia. If a freewoman held male slaves…I’m told it happens…then her life is forfeit as well. I will not abide it. Have no fear; I will establish many courts to see to it. It will take us months to work through the city, but it will be done. And those of you who are guilty, I will hang your bones from the white walls as a warning.”

“You,” Said one man, who had until then been silent, staring angry daggers at her from the front of the crowd. His robes, she noted, were the finest in the room, and edged in purple. “Are mad.”

“Not the first time I’ve been called that.” Systlin said easily. She looked him over, matching up features with descriptions. “Phanius Turmus, I presume?”

“Ubar of Turia.” He confirmed, chin high. “You are defiling my throne, woman.”

“You were.” She shook her head. “But you lost. You’re simply Phanius now, and you’ll be judged with the rest.”

“I think that perhaps I shall contract with the Assassin’s Caste for your head.” He didn’t flinch or break eye contact. “Your head would look well in my vaults, I agree with Kazrak.”

“Oh, please do. I ought to make their acquaintance. It’s been some time since I trained with the assassins of my own world, and tore their master’s throat out with my knife. So yes please, do. It would be an exciting challenge.”

Foicatch sighed resignedly. “Really, love?”

Phanius was giving her a stare of pure and utter horror. “What are you?” He almost whispered. “What terrible hell did you crawl from, to plague us? Have you no respect for those of high caste?”

“My mother would be terribly offended by calling her a ‘terrible hell’.” She made steady eye contact with each person in her horrified and enraptured audience. “The terrible hell is her sister, who taught me to fight. And no. Every caste. From low to high. All will be judged the same. If any have offended in these ways, I will see justice done upon them. No one is exempt.”

“You’ll kill thousands!” One man cried. “Tens of thousands!”

“Oh,” Systlin said, cold as steel in winter. “Hundreds of thousands, I expect.”

“You cannot…”

“Poor choice of words.” Foicatch sighed again. “I could have warned you; there’s no better way to get her to do something than to tell her, earnestly, that she can’t.”

Systlin stood, and let Power rise. Not the terrible cold of Breaking, but her other gift, hot and furious and wild. Fire bloomed around her for a moment, and was gone too quickly to set fire to her clothes. But it had the desired effect. Silence fell. Horrified silence.

“I am not bargaining with you.” She said softly. “I am not suggesting. I am not your old Ubar. I stand here by right of conquest. I breached your walls and killed my way to this throne, and I am going to kill a great deal many more before I am through. The merchants and caste-masters are not ruling Turia any longer; I am.”

She moved a step down, drawing closer to them. “To put this in terms you understand, which I gathered from women you had kidnapped from a world not yours and forced into slavery; you had best get used to this new way, or you will die. I am telling you how things now are. You can flee the city, if you wish, but I will not stop here and I will find you. Be it when I take Ar, or Ko-Ro-Ba, or any other city, I will come. I am going to end slavery on this world, and I fully expect to do it at the point of a sword. I am Ubara Sana of the plains. I rule this city now. These are the great crimes that will be punished, and how they will be punished. This matter is not open for negotiation. If you dislike these words, you are free to take them up with any of the twenty thousand of my soldiers in your city. They’ll be thrilled to discuss them, I am sure.” She descended another step. “Until the courts are established and judging begins, no one is to leave the city. I control the entirety of the plains and other bands of my warriors have seized trade routes. I have the wealth of Turia at my disposal; you will not go hungry. And now, you are free to return to your homes; I have things yet to do tonight. One of you has decided to fight tooth and nail; I’m off to crack him out of his nutshell. Dismissed.”

She swept past, not looking back, and felt their eyes on her back as she went.

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sukifans · 3 years

Note

Can I request a small Zuko x Fem!Reader, where the reader can't fall asleep and Zuko offers to cuddle with her, and she falls asleep very quickly?

SLEEP // zuko

WC: 1.2k

WARNINGS: none, pure fluff

A/N: my first request!! let’s gooooo!! hope u like this anon, i am so soft for warm zuko. perhaps i wrote this instead of studying for my lab practical... don’t look at me. also i didn’t proofread so don’t come for my ass okay

⇦ 𝘔𝘈𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘓𝘐𝘚𝘛

The flimsy silks of your night robes whipped around your calves in the frigid evening wind. Being from a village not too far outside the Si Wong Desert, even the Fire Nation’s winter was enough to chill your bones. As much as you disliked being cold, you still preferred the tropical seasons to the constant abusive desert heat you grew up with. Lucky you that a group of insane kids came through your town talking about finding Wan Shi Tong’s Library all those years ago.

The memories made you smile fondly to yourself and you made a mental note to write Katara in the morning and ask her to send some warm furs. Sure, you could probably get something much quicker from a local vendor, but Sokka always boasted about how his people make the best blankets. You folded your arms across your chest and shuddered in the biting wind, leaning forward against the balcony railing as you looked out over the sleepy city.

The sound of footsteps behind you made you glance over your shoulder and you smiled at the sight of a rumpled-looking Zuko. “Evening, Fire Lord,” you hummed.

“It’s far too late at night for you to address me by my title, Advisor.” He ran a hand through his already mussed hair and came up to stand beside you, leaving a respectable distance between you. Even so, you could feel the warmth radiating from his body and you subconsciously shifted closer.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“Not really,” he sighed. “You neither?”

“Nope.” You shook your head. “Too cold.”

He looked at you out of the corner of his eye with a wry grin. “So you decided to come stand outside, in the cold?”

“The inner machinations of my mind are an enigma, Zuko. Don’t try to keep up.” You laughed at his eye roll. A particularly harsh burst of wind blustered across the balcony and you pulled your arms in tighter around yourself, shivering.

“C’mere, idiot,” he chuckled, reaching out to pull you closer. Your mouth dropped open in faux-outrage.

“That’s an awfully rude way to speak to your top advisor on Earth Kingdom relations,” you huffed. You still let him move behind you and hug you to his chest, wrapping his arms around your middle.

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, leaning down to rest his chin on your shoulder. “You’re shaking like a leaf, (Y/N). You need to go back inside.” Despite his words, neither of you made to move away from the railing. You started to feel warm and sleepy, closing your eyes and leaning your head back against his shoulder as you melted into his embrace. He clasped your hands in his own, clicking his tongue when he felt your freezing fingers. You could still feel goosebumps along your skin, but now it was from the way his hot breath danced across your exposed collar bones. He flinched a little when you turned your head to press your cold nose against his neck. You could swear you felt his pulse racing just as hard as yours under his skin.

You opened your eyes again and moved so your lips almost grazed his ear as you whispered, “are you having those nightmares again?” You knew your friend went through sleepless spells plagued by terrible dreams of his father and the war and losing his loved ones. When he’d joined you and the Avatar and your friends, you were the first to notice how he’d sometimes jump awake at night, panting and sweating. One night, not unlike this night, during his first year as Fire Lord, he’d bared his soul to you and described the horrors he faced in his sleep. Ever since, you’d often sought out each other out when rest was evasive.

He simply nodded and buried his face into your hair, declining to elaborate. He didn’t know how to tell you that recently he’d been dreaming about losing you; that sometimes he’d wake up with your name caught in his throat and his cheeks wet with tears. You hummed in understanding and removed one of your hands from his to card your fingers through his hair soothingly. The gentle motion of your nails scratching against his scalp was almost starting to lull him into a trance state. You giggled when he let out a little contented sound.

“Don’t laugh,” he grumbled, “it feels nice. You know what you’re doing to me.”

“You’re like a happy, cute little turtleduck getting a head scratch.”

“I’m one of the most powerful men in the world, (Y/N); please don’t call me a ‘cute little turtleduck.’” He lifted his head from your shoulder with a groan and you turned in his arms to face him, not missing the way the moonlight illuminated the blush on his cheeks.

“Don’t act like a cute little turtleduck and I won’t call you one.” You raised your arms to drape around his neck and pressed closer to his warmth.

In moments like these, when Zuko looked at you like that, you wished he would just throw caution to the wind and kiss you already. You two had been toeing the line of “more than friends” for years at this point. It all drove you crazy—the lingering glances, the brushing fingers, the comforting touches, the tender embraces, the sweet smiles. You loved him and you knew that he loved you but any time there looked to be some progress he’d shrink away. With Zuko, your relationship felt like a complicated waltz of one step forward, three steps back, nine steps forward, twenty steps back. All you could do was follow his lead and wait.

His hands skimming up and down your sides made your heart do somersaults in your chest, knocking around your breath. “You’re lucky I have a soft spot for you.”

“You and I both know you’re all bark and no bite,” you laughed, poking his muscular chest. “All warm and squishy under that big, tough Fire Lord exterior.”

“Just don’t let the bad guys hear you say that.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, my lord.” He felt a pull in his stomach at your use of that title and you again noticed the pink tinge of his face that usually accompanied the nickname.

“Alright, Advisor (Y/N),” he slid his hand down your arm to lace your fingers together, “let’s get you back to bed.”

“You gonna keep me warm, Lord Zuko?” you asked as you walked beside him back inside and through the torchlit palace halls.

“Of course. Can’t have you getting sick, now can I?” Neither of you mentioned that you both slept better with the other in bed.

He led you into his chambers, where the bed was bigger and the sheets were softer and a fire always roared in the hearth. You laid your thin robe over a chair in the room, leaving you in just your nightdress as you followed him under the covers, snuggling up against his chest with his arm around you. As soon as you laid your head down on his shoulder you started to nod off. You smiled to yourself, happy that you were awake enough at least to feel the kiss Zuko pressed to the top of your head and hear the whisper into your hair that sounded suspiciously along the lines of, “I love you.”

ATLA TAGS: @hotgirlazula @octophopi @simpinforsukka

ZUKO/SOKKA TAGS: @fiantomartell @buckywiththagoodhair @hypercakeiii

#zuko x reader #zuko x you #zuko x y/n #prince zuko x reader #firelord zuko x reader #zuko fic #zuko fluff #zuko #mine #requests #avatar the last airbender #atla #avatar fic #atla fic #atla x reader

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lilyofthesword-writes · 3 years

Text

Anomaly (Haldir Oneshot)

Summary: Haldir meets you, a member of the Fellowship seeking passage through Lothlorien. Though not a fan of humans, he is curious about you.

Pairing: Haldir x F!Reader

Word Count: 5,111

Warnings/Disclaimers: A curse word. Some violence due to the Battle of Hornburg/Helm’s Deep and Minas Tirith. Injury, mentions of blood.

A/N: This is told more from Haldir’s perspective. Based off another weird dream I had. Threw in a bit of the book as well. Really wanted to get this out cuz my boi needs more love.

Masterlist

Haldir gazed at you from afar while he was on watch that evening. You were... peculiar to him. When he came across the Fellowship trying to pass through the Golden Wood, he never expected to find a human woman in their midst. The world of man was an anomaly to him despite his numerous interactions over hundreds of years. Human women were not granted the same rights and privileges as the men, a foreign to him. This was not the way of Elven culture. Meeting you there was refreshing in a way.

In conversing with Aragorn, he learned you were a soldier of Gondor who had traveled alongside Boromir and joined the Fellowship. You were a fierce warrior but kept a calm air about you. The few human female fighters he had come across, be it on purpose or part of their nature, generally overcompensated, feeling the need to prove themselves constantly. You did not. When the Marchwarden and his company initially surrounded the Fellowship, everyone drew their weapons, ready for the next challenge. You opted to place your hands on Frodo’s and Sam’s shoulders to calm them while Merry and Pippin stood at either side. Instead of fear or anger, Haldir saw an analytical curiosity gleaming in your eyes.

Even now as he kept you in his peripheral, your eyes held a certain light, a light not caused by reflecting the bright moon. It was a kind of serenity most humans rarely portrayed. It didn’t break even as pounding of ambitious orc feet hit the forest floor below. All you did was gently shift your arms that held two sleep-ridden hobbits.

Since the platforms amongst the trees were not large enough to contain both the Fellowship and Haldir’s party together, you had to be split apart. Aragorn kept you, Legolas, Frodo and Sam while Boromir, Gimli, Merry and Pippin rested on a neighboring platform. You had taken to the Hobbits just as much Boromir had, your arms wrapped around them with their heads resting on either shoulder. How you bonded with the curious creatures so well, Haldir would never know. You managed to bring a semblance of peace to their aching hearts, enough so they could rest. He could not imagine it was an easy feat considering all the Fellowship had been through. It made him wonder what Lady Galadriel would make of you.

Upon reaching Caras Galadhon, you practically vibrated with childish delight. Although you had been to Rivendell, you had never seen anything quite like the capital city, that much Haldir was certain. The corners of his mouth tugged into the faintest of smiles when he saw your elated face. He turned away to restore his stoic facade, but unknowingly caught the attention of another. Aragorn shot him a knowing smirk as their eyes met momentarily. Haldir said nothing and continued to lead the way up the stairs spiraling the ancient trees.

Up the stairs, across some bridges and the Fellowship was in the presence of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. Haldir bared witness to the interactions from the sidelines. He knew when Lady Galadriel entered each of their minds through their minute expressions. While most struggled to remain slightly neutral to her ministrations, others had a difficult time hiding their horror. You, on the other hand, parted your lips with an acute tilt of your head, not bothering to mask your wonder or amusement.

The meeting came to a close shortly after. Lady Galadriel’s gaze swept over the group, ultimately landing on you. Haldir knew she would call upon you later that evening. Until then, he was tasked with guiding the Fellowship to where they would be resting.

It was long after the others had gone to bed, after Frodo returned from the mirror, when Haldir learned he was correct. He spied you and Lady Galadriel wandering the halls, speaking softly amongst yourselves. What about, he could not say. He swiftly took the next pathway so as not to intrude on your private moment.

Marchwarden. Please come.

Always the obedient one, he turned himself around to join you both.

He greeted the pair of you with a bow.

“Marchwarden,” Lady Galadriel responded with a smile. “Would you be so kind as to escort our guest back to her company? The hour is late, and she deserves just as much rest as her friends.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Haldir held out his arm for you to take which you did after properly bidding Lady Galadriel a good night with a bow. He led you along the walkways, taking his time in doing so. This would more than likely be one of the few times he would be able to speak with you alone. The Fellowship would continue on their quest as soon as possible.

“These woods are truly a wonder. I have never experienced anything quite like it,” you started, breaking the quiet between you, voice so delicate it was hard to believe you were the warrior Aragorn made you out to be.

An agreeing hum quietly rumbled in his throat. “It is a gem of Middle Earth.”

“I must agree. I think I can understand your fierce desire to protect this place, your home.”

“I am sure you wish to protect Gondor just as much. Your dedication to the Fellowship is proof of that.”

“Despite the hardships,” you tried to hide the way you sucked in a breath, “I am glad to be a part of this. They have all become like family to me.”

Gandalf.

Hearing the grief lightly laced in your voice, Haldir stopped and pulled his arm away just enough to take your hand, turning to stand in front of you. With his free hand he cupped your cheek to catch the stray tear that had escaped your lashes. He was at a loss for words. Comforting others was not a skill commonly taught to Marchwardens. You caught his hand before he had a chance to think about retracting it, leaning into his touch. He closed the last bit of distance between you two and stroked the swell of your cheek with his thumb, your eyes shutting to bask in the moment.

An eternity or mere moments passed. Neither of you could tell by the time you finally spoke. “Thank you.”

The day your company was set to leave, Haldir felt a small pang in his heart. Why was he so bothered by your departure? He had only had the one major interaction with you. The rest of his time was spent either training or on patrol, and on patrol really meant him keeping an eye on the Fellowship. You just happened to be around when he took watch, or so he tried to convince himself.

He stood aside as Lady Galadriel offered her gifts to the travelers, giving them each something they would need or want. She bestowed on you a small Elven dagger, tiny enough to conceal in a boot with little discomfort. The Marchwarden, though content you had some extra to defend yourself with, hoped you would never need to use it.

Haldir then brought the Fellowship to the boats where everyone’s belongings were already packed and settled. He couldn’t bring himself to look at you while everyone said their proper farewells, but nothing stopped him from following down river to the borders. He and his troupe had orders to make sure you all reached them safely anyways.

Despite being hidden amongst the trees, it was like you knew he was there. Your head turned towards him as you passed the borders, not making eye contact but still unnervingly close to it. A tiny smile graced your lips before returning to the task at hand.

Helm’s Deep was not where the Marchwarden wanted to be, but he still had his orders. He was charged with leading an Elven army to help defend the kingdom of Rohan. Entering the gates, he was speaking with a perplexed King Théoden when what was left of your party rounded the corner. Your grin shone brightly in the dark when Aragorn surprised him with an embrace.

Haldir found himself both pleased and upset by your presence. While you looked to be in good health, he did not know your full battle prowess and as such was unsure how you would handle the soon-to-be battlefield. However, he never had the chance to voice his concerns as he needed to position his soldiers.

The rain poured when the standoff with the Orcs and Uruk-hai began, pinging off of helmets loudly. Haldir stood among his fellow Elves. Aragorn spread the rest of you out, sending you to the opposite end of Helm’s Deep where Haldir’s view was partially obscured. He could at least see you standing proudly alongside the other men. He could only imagine the fire in your eyes.

When the battle began, it raged with seemingly no good end in sight. A section of the wall had exploded with Aragorn near enough to be caught in the blast. Haldir could hear you bark your clear and concise orders to the men as you rushed to help Aragorn. Upon reaching his feet, Aragorn yelled out the order to retreat further in to better protect the caves the women and children were hiding in. Haldir belayed the orders in his native tongue to his soldiers.

He made sure the soldiers retreated but was unable to do so himself. Surrounded by the enemy on a high ledge, he slashed through them in an attempt to make a path for himself. His weariness had caught up with him as he was hit in the side with a jagged weapon.

“Marchwarden!”

He spun around as someone called him, ready to slice through his assailant. It fell to the ground as he faced it, revealing you with a now broken sword which you cast away. You stepped over the dead enemy to get a better look at him. Haldir clutched his side when you tried to check on his wound.

“How bad is it?”

“You should be retreating,” he tried to dodge the question.

“As should you,” you answered sternly, locking eyes with him. “Are you still able to keep moving?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We must go quickly.”

You reached out to help him when your breath hitched. You lurched towards him, grabbing his free arm to pull him forward, the motion catapulting you behind him. You ripped the dagger from your boot as you continued towards the Orc that had snuck up behind Haldir, and shoved it between the layers of its armor. In the creature’s last breath, it brought down its sword on your shoulder, forcing you to your knees.

Haldir rushed to your side, stabbing the Orc once more for good measure before shoving it off the ledge. He kneeled in front of you, clenching his jaw to ignore the pain in his side, and held you steady by your upper arms. Your eyes were glassing over while you desperately tried to keep your head up to look at him.

He called out your name. “We need to follow the others. Are you able to stand?”

You blinked a few times before hoarsely whispering, “I... I don’t... know.”

Your shoulder bled profusely as Haldir tried to help you stand. He took on most of your weight with your arm over his shoulder. You wouldn’t last much longer without a healer’s attention. Biting back his own pain, he practically carried you down the stairs to solid ground where Aragorn met you. He and what little was left of the soldiers who had not yet retreated formed around the two of you, furiously slicing at the Orcs and Uruk-hai that would stop you from reaching the main halls.

Soldiers who were protecting the doors ushered you inside immediately where Haldir brought you into the caves for the healers to watch over. One tried to make him sit momentarily to tend to his own injury, but he brushed them away. He could still continue. His ribs were probably bruised, if not broken, but his armor kept the damage from being life threatening. He promptly left to speak with Aragorn about the next plan of attack. He would be damned if he allowed any of those foul beings to pass into the caves to finish the job.

The battle was won, Gandalf having arrived with reinforcements right when they needed him most. When victory was assured, the Marchwarden wasted no time in returning to the caves where you lay unconscious. The healers bandaged you to the best of their abilities given the circumstances, and you were at least breathing steadily.

Much to the surprise of his fellow elves and your company, Haldir rarely left your side, even during the trek back to Edoras. He was still there when you woke safely in the Golden Halls of Meduseld.

Your eyes struggled to open as you stirred awake. “Wh-what happened?” Your voice was hoarse from sleep and lack of water.

“You were struck down, Mellon nin.” Haldir brushed a rogue strand of hair from your forehead and placed his hand on yours. “We were able to retreat to the caves.”

“And the battle?” Your arms shook as you tried to sit up and lean your weight on your good side. “The outcome?”

The Marchwarden tried to settle you back down, but you would not relent. “We were victorious. Gandalf arrived with reinforcements at dawn and drove the enemy out.”

You began to relax at that before another question flooded your mind. “What about-”

“Your friends are well,” he chuckled at your persistence. “They are preparing to leave for Isengard soon. Word has returned that it has fallen.”

Before you had a chance to ask another question, he helped you sit up the rest of the way so as not to aggravate your wound further with your stubbornness and handed you a glass of water. You drank it slowly despite your need to relinquish your thirst.

“Thank you.” You passed the glass back to him, your voice clearer now. “When do they leave?”

“Tomorrow morning, I believe,” Haldir answered and coaxed you to lay back down.

You nodded with a hum. “I suppose I should rest more, then. If there is a chance that Merry and Pippin are there and well, I would like to be there.”

“Mellon nin, your injury is not yet healed.”

“A mere shoulder wound will not prevent me from riding to Isengard,” you huffed.

“It is nothing to scoff at. Mellon nin, you almost died,” he pleaded with you, taking one of your hands in both of his.

“Haldir, I still have my duty to the Fellowship. I cannot abandon them.”

“Tending to your health is not abandoning anyone,” he spoke softly as he ran a thumb across your knuckles. “You will still be able to continue your quest when you have healed.”

You sighed deeply, looking to the ceiling as though collecting your thoughts. “I just... This is something I feel like I need to do.”

A deafening silence showered the room. Haldir studied you for a moment, your unencumbered hand fiddling with the sheets. Your mind was made up, and there was nothing he could do.

“Mellon nin,” he breathed, reaching for your face so you would look at him. “You will not let this go, will you?”

You shook your head with determined yet pleading eyes.

He squeezed your hand gently. “Then, I suppose all I can ask of you is to get your rest tonight.”

“Thank you.” With a smile, your thumb glided over his.

He made to stand so you could sleep in peace without him hovering. As he pulled his hand away, you gripped it tighter.

“Haldir? Will you stay? At least until I fall asleep? I am not sure I wish to be alone right now.”

Taken aback, he stood there dumbly before retaking his seat. “Of course, Mellon nin.”

The next morning, the remaining members of the Fellowship gathered at the stables. Aragorn was in the middle of trying to convince you to stay behind. Gandalf stood out of the way with Gimli, biting back a laugh at Aragorn’s futile efforts, while Haldir and Legolas prepared the horses.

“You will only worsen your injury,” Aragorn chided.

You folded your arms defiantly across your chest. “One trip on horseback is not so arduous.”

“She has already made up her mind, Aragorn. I doubt you will be able to change it,” Gandalf chimed in.

Haldir was tightening the saddle on the horse that would carry you so it was more secure when Legolas silently sidled up to him. “You have already said your peace, have you not?”

“What makes you say that?” Haldir twisted the saddle to test it.

“You have barely left her side since our victory. You must have spoken with her before now,” Legolas quipped.

“Indeed, I have.”

“Then, surely in your fondness of her you would have tried to convince her to stay behind.”

“Fondness?” Haldir stilled a moment before adjusting the straps again. “We are friends, Legolas. Nothing more.”

“Then why is it you have been meticulously preparing this one horse whilst I have already saddled three?” Legolas shot him a pointed smirk.

The Marchwarden felt himself flush all the way to the tips of his ears. “She is still injured. I- We cannot risk her hurting herself further.”

Legolas held his chuckle in his throat as a hum. “The sooner you stop attempting to fool yourself, Mellon-”

“Alright, you may join us!” Aragorn growled with a huff, stealing the attention of the bickering elves. “However, the moment a battle should arise, you are to return here.”

“Of course,” you complied, a stubborn edge to your voice.

Aragorn’s heavy sigh was littered with grit. “Are the horses ready?”

Haldir and Legolas nodded swiftly.

“Good. Let us be on our way.”

You made your way to the Marchwarden who was beckoning you over.

“Are you sure there is nothing I can do to change your mind, Mellon nin?” he asked softly.

“I am, yes.”

You flashed a smile at him before placing a foot in the stirrup. Haldir remained hovering near you. Your shoulder strained as you willed your arms to reach the saddle, steadying yourself as you pushed down on the stirrup to lift yourself up. Midway up, you lost your grip as your shoulder suddenly gave out. Haldir was quick to press a hand to your back to stop your fall. He noticed how your jaw tensed to grind out what was obviously the pain of your wound, but you were still determined to mount the horse.

“Here.” He gripped your waist. “I apologize if this seems forward.”

He raised you enough so you could swing your leg over the saddle, letting you go the moment you had your balance.

“N-not at all. Thank you.”

You held the reins tightly as you settled down, knuckles turning white like it could make everything better. Haldir felt his chest tighten and covered one of your hands with his own, eyes filled with concern. Your head snapped down to meet his gaze. With a reassuring yet forced smile, you attempted to relax your muscles to conceal just how much your injury hurt, but he saw right through it.

With a heavy sigh and shake of his head, he took hold of the saddle and hoisted himself up behind you.

“What are you-”

“If your pain is that severe, you shall not ride alone,” Haldir interrupted, finality in his tone.

“Haldir, this is not necessary,” you argued as he pulled the reins from your hands.

Legolas slinked by with Gimli on their horse, sending you two a knowing smile. The Marchwarden’s blush bled to his ears again. He didn’t notice your own flushed face.

Haldir cleared his throat. “Let us go before we fall behind.”

The journey to Isengard was quiet and uneventful. Partway through the trip, you finally allowed yourself to relax, not realizing you were leaning back into Haldir. Though bemused, he was not about to protest.

Collecting Merry and Pippin was as simple as it was amusing. They were most excited about reuniting with their companions. It was on the ride back that you and Haldir overheard their teasing about you sharing a horse. Aragorn and the others bit back grins and commentary of their own.

The festivities that followed upon returning to Edoras were no better, the ale at least partly to blame. The Marchwarden and what remained of his soldiers were settled near Legolas who was currently in the middle of a drinking match with Gimli. You had yet to arrive. Eowyn was the only reason Haldir was not at your side forcing you to rest. She tended to your shoulder, promising to return you for the celebration. He would have preferred you did not come for the sake of your health, but as long as you were not overexerting yourself again, he would not complain.

He swirled the ale in his mug after taking a swig, mulling over recent events. Usually he was not one to allow his emotions control his actions, and yet he was doing that much more often now. He felt like he couldn’t help himself. There was this overwhelming desire to keep you safe, keep you close, regardless of the fact that you were perfectly capable of handling yourself. Haldir had caught a glimpse of your abilities at Helm’s Deep. There was a reason you had gone to Rivendell with Boromir and joined the Fellowship.

As if to break him of his spiraling thoughts before they grew out of control, one of his neighboring elves nudged his arm, winking and motioning him to look up. He lifted his gaze, about to make a remark for the elf’s teasing, when he saw Eowyn stepping into the room with you close at her side.

The music, shouts, laughter - they all faded away from his ears. You practically radiated light despite your nervous self on display. Eowyn had lent you one of her dresses, the fabric draping differently on your frame from hers yet no less perfect. She caught Haldir’s gawking and whispered something in your ear with a smirk. You glanced up to see him but dipped your head back down to where your hair curtained your tiny, bashful smile. Eowyn was quick to tuck the offending hair behind your ear. She giggled and murmured to you again, resulting in your flustered rush to join your companions.

Haldir focused on his ale once again. The elf who had coaxed him into looking up bumped his arm. Without saying a word, he was fully encouraging his captain to go to you. The elves in his company had never seen their normally reserved, stoic Marchwarden act like this before, and they thought it a fantastic development. They all joined in pestering him to at least ask you for a dance. It took a while, but his stubbornness crumbled, and he brought himself to his feet only to notice you were missing from your company. He scanned the crowds, hoping to spot you. Maybe someone else had already asked you to dance. That theory was thankfully doused when he spied the swish of your dress through a door leading outside.

Following and stepping out into the cool night air, he found you leaning forward on the wooden railing, gazing up at the stars. Your hair sparkled under the dim light. He realized tonight was the first time he had seen you without it tied or braided back out of the way.

“Mellon nin,” Haldir called to you softly so as not to startle you. “Are you alright?”

You turned to see him just outside of the door and nodded with a tired smile. “Yes. I just felt I needed some fresh air and a moment away from the crowd.”

“I apologize for disturbing you. I will-”

“No!” You cut him off quickly. “I mean... You did not disturb anything. You can stay if you would like.”

The corners of Haldir’s lips tugged upwards ever so slightly as he approached you, joining you in your previous stargazing. The peaceful quiet of the night muffled the festivities in the building. He felt you cover his hand with your own accompanied by a gentle squeeze.

“Thank you, Haldir, for everything,” your voice was just above a whisper.

“I should be thanking you, Mellon nin,” he shook his head, his other hand coming to grasp yours. “If you had not come for me, I would not be at your side now.”

A breathy chuckle passed your lips. “I suppose we are even then.”

Haldir hummed questioningly.

“Had you not brought me with you whilst retreating, then I would not be at your side now.” You parroted the last words with a grin.

The Marchwarden’s shoulders shook with a quiet laughter. “I cannot argue against that.”

You set your free hand on top of your conjoined ones as you leaned against his shoulder. A comforting silence befell you both. That is until you heard chittering giggles from behind. The pair of you turned to see Merry and Pippin poking their heads from the doorway, followed by Aragorn who proceeded to drag them back inside and shot you a wink as he did so.

Gondor had called for aid. Rohan answered. The army’s camp was set up, and Aragorn had a plan. Haldir received orders for his company to continue helping Rohan and meet with Elrond to receive more explicit directions.

The morning for departure arrived, and Aragorn was set to travel to the Paths of the Dead. Legolas, Gimli, Haldir and you were to join him. Haldir’s soldiers were to follow King Théoden into battle. You all stood wearily at the start of the trail, feeling the ominous air seeping down to the bone.

Haldir brushed his hand against your elbow for your attention. “May I speak with you privately?”

You looked up at him with worried eyes and nodded, probably guessing what this was about. He pulled you to the side just out of earshot of the others.

He steeled himself with a deep breath. “I must insist you do not join us, Mellon nin.”

“But Haldir, I-”

“Please, Meleth nin,” he desperately pleaded, not meaning to let the new term of endearment slip. Tenderly cupping your face with both hands, he continued, “None of us know how this will end. We... We may not come back. I beg of you to please stay with Eowyn.”

His voice was hushed, afraid it would break if he attempted to speak any louder. He knew his emotions were on full display, but he could not bring himself to care. What mattered was keeping you safe.

“Haldir...” you trailed off, grasping at his wrists with the utmost care to keep them in place. You gave a quick nod and tried to conceal your worried frown. “Alright. However. You had better- You all had better return.”

He pressed his forehead to yours. “I will do everything in my power to do just that.”

The Marchwarden was among the Fellowship in Minas Tirith when he saw a barely conscious Eowyn being carried into the Houses of Healing. Panic coursed through his veins. You were nowhere to be found. He rushed over to her as she was laid on a bed.

“Lady Eowyn, what happened?”

She nearly didn’t recognize him. All of her effort was put into focusing on his words.

“Lady Eowyn, please. Where is she?” He held his breath like it would help him hear better.

With a tiny shake of her head, she croaked quietly, “I am sorry... We... We were separated... in battle... I know not... her fate...”

Haldir stepped aside to allow the healers in. His heart was at a standstill. Had he known Eowyn was going to sneak her way into the army, he would have pleaded with you to return to Rohan. Your injury did not have the time to fully heal. Fighting in such a strenuous battle would do you no good. He needed to find you. He needed to know that you were well.

Bursting through the doors, he raced down the stairs for the lower levels, Aragorn shouting something after him. He did not hear a word. Canopies were set up and homes were open near the gate for the soldiers who were unable to reach the Houses of Healing. Haldir weaved through the injured in a desperate attempt to find you. He’d rather discover you here as long as you were among the living.

After a fruitless search under the canopies, he began entering the opened homes. He asked anyone able for a person matching your description. Nothing. Nothing until he reached the last home. There you were towards the back of the room. An older woman had just stepped away from helping you. The armor you had borrowed like Eowyn was in a pile to the side. He could see the bandage on your thigh through the tear in your trousers, but other than that you came away from the battle fairly unharmed. How you managed that with a preexisting injury was a mystery to him.

“Meleth nin,” Haldir breathed, making his way to you. This time he meant to use the term.

Somehow, you heard him over the throng of people, your gaze meeting his. “Haldir!”

You rose to your feet a little too quickly and swayed unintentionally to put your weight onto your good leg. Haldir darted to you just in time, bringing you into his embrace.

“You’re alright...” He rested his forehead on yours just like before you departed, completely forgetting those around you. “I was beginning to think my search was for naught.”

Wrapping your arms around him, you buried your face in his chest. “Haldir, I... I’m so sorry. I know you meant to keep me from harm-”

“Shhh,” he cooed, settling his chin on the crown of your head. “I know. There is no need to apologize. All that matters is that you are here and well.”

Your light chuckle vibrated through him. “You are much too patient with me.”

“I assume you are not familiar with that.”

“You would be right.” He could feel your cheeks lift as you smiled. “Most tend to leave when I grow stubborn.”

Haldir shifted his face so it rested in your hair, murmuring into your scalp, “I am not going anywhere, Meleth nin.”

The world of man was still an anomaly to him. You were an anomaly within that world, and he wouldn’t have you any other way.

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atruththatyoudeny · 3 years

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Happy 28th! I read shockingly little fic this month so I’m going to support some fic fests that are currently running.There are so many amazing new fics all around so make sure to check them out and leave lots of love for the authors ♥ @onedirectionbigbang: Big Bang Round 4 just finished this month but you can find a complete round up of all the fics on the blog | AO3 collection here @1daboficfest: you can also find some rare pair a/b/o’s here | AO3 collection here @hlmpregficfest: The mpreg fest just started posting last week | AO3 collection here @wipsanonymousfest: support authors to complete their wips here | AO3 collection here

The eight fics I actually finished this month are under the cut:

The Earl and His Duke | QuickedWeen | Regency - historical - friends to lovers - light angst - smut - 53k Lord Tomlinson, the elusive Duke of Leeds, has suddenly emerged in London for the first time in six years. He is believed to have been abroad. He is believed to have been widowed. He is believed to want to withdraw from society. Harry doesn’t know what is true and what isn’t. He only knows that the older brother of one of his best friends is back in town to stay, and that time has taken him from merely the most beautiful man Harry knew, to the most handsome man to ever walk the earth. A man whose gaze probably still skips over Harry like he doesn’t exist the same way it did when they were young.

Double Trouble | Beanno28 | mpreg - canon divergence - smut - 23k Exactly five minutes later, Harry walked out of the room with his head down, focusing on doing up the last of the buttons on his shirt. “There you are,” a familiar male voice startled Harry. “What were you… oh, I see you must have found some poor stagehand to sneak off with.” Harry smirked, thinking about his time with Louis, “I guess you could say that.” “You’d better make a quick stop in the bathroom before joining everyone else on the bus, you stink,” Paul, one of their security guards, advised. Or the one where Harry and Louis start secretly hooking up while on tour and Harry ends up pregnant.

eucalyptus | docklands | a/b/o - kid fic - scenting - lactation kink - breeding kink - 46k Harry didn't mean to get pregnant at all. When little Agnes comes along, his bachelor life takes a turn and he has to figure out how to single parent, with the occasional help from his best friend and co-worker, Zayn. Everything is running smoothly until Agnes starts acting strange, crying non-stop, sleeping at the most unconventional hours and not caring that she's ruining Harry's life. Her doctor says she's just an infant and that there's nothing wrong with her. Harry's instincts tell him the doctor's wrong and that he needs to seek a second opinion. Agnes' new paediatrician, Louis Tomlinson, is enthusiastic, passionate about his job and a little too charming for Harry's lonely heart to take. More than figuring out what's wrong with her, Louis ends up revealing secrets about Harry's life he had never even dreamed about.

Lunar Waltz | outropeace | a/b/o - 19th century - marriage of convenience - hate to love - mystery - enemies to lovers - angst - deception - smut - 57k “You want me to seduce an alpha,” Louis hissed. “I want you to marry an alpha. It’s the only way I could ever get back on my feet. You didn’t think a few dances at a ball would do anything to Alastair’s reputation or mine...” “And what if Alastair comes back? Have you thought about him in all of this? You’re going to marry him to an alpha he doesn’t even know!” “Oh he does know him, in fact... he’d be ecstatic to know he got to marry him.” Louis’ blood ran cold, already suspecting who was the alpha the earl was talking about. “Who is he?” he asked anyways, hating how fragile and almost scared his voice sounded. “Lord Harry Styles.” Louis' stomach dropped, the words came smelling like danger, sending a bolt of fear down his spine, the Earl wanted Louis to seduce The Duke of Death. Or Louis has to replace his (missing) twin brother and marry one of the most dangerous alphas of the kingdom.

Unveiled | phdmama | a/b/o - royalty - magic - 60k The train grinds to a halt and Harry leans forward in his eagerness to take it all in. It’s a gorgeous Spring day, the sky the same intense blue that he knows from home, which comforts him. There’s much here that looks almost familiar, but then so much that is new and strange to his eyes. The bustling station platform and winding streets beyond paved in cobblestones look much like home. There are vehicles ranging from small to very large, some with strange and unusual shapes of which he can only guess the purpose. But most surprising are the people. There is a crowd gathered, filled with men and women, some in what looks to be a military uniform, some in what must be the street clothes in this Land. There are no robes. And not a single one of them is veiled.

Stubborn Hearts | Rearviewdreamer | social worker Louis - kid fic - foster care - adoption - angst - 33k Louis’ job description as a child social worker doesn’t cover half of what he does, but he doesn’t mind going above and beyond and putting his whole heart into it, especially when it comes to Sydney.

The Money Mark | brightgolden | a/b/o - Sugar Daddy/Sugar Baby - exes to lovers - pining - nesting - age difference - smut - 52k Harry's heart beats faster in his chest as the name sinks in. The Tomlinson name is awfully familiar, and he isn’t sure how many rich Tomlinsons are out here in London, but he knew one. Seven years ago. Like all fine things in the world, Louis Tomlinson ages exceptionally well. OR Where Louis is Harry’s first sugar daddy who dumped him over text and their paths cross, seven years later.

Is it a sign? | bluegreenish | a/b/o - deaf character - 25k “Also, I didn’t mean it literally,” Harry continues his rambling, gesticulating to support his point. “You don’t owe me a beer and I surely don’t expect you to buy me anything, it was just to start a conversation but you’re obviously not interested in that. Which, again, maybe next time an omega, or anyone really, approaches you, you could convey -” To Harry’s surprise, he’s interrupted by the handsome stranger, who’s been weirdly fixated on his lips the whole time. What a creep! “You speak so fast, I can’t read your lips like this.” What? Harry’s frown deepens and he just stares at the man, waiting for him to explain. Because why the hell would he need to read Harry’s lips? They’re not in some detective movie. The man rolls his eyes at Harry’s obvious lack of understanding. “I’m deaf,” he huffs and points to his ear. And oh. Yikes. That’s kind of embarrassing. or, the one where Harry meets a certain handsome alpha at his sister's wedding and learns that speaking verbally doesn't have to be the only means of communication.

#28th appreciation #fic rec #my fic rec #my reads #monthly reads #monthly fic rec

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wall-maria-fritz · 3 years

Text

Calm the Fuck Down, Itadori

Yuuji Itadori x Jennifer Lawrence

Summary: Where Yuuji manages to drag Megumi and Nobara to a Tokyo Comic Con.

A/N: I took this way too seriously, jeezus.

“Calm the fuck down, Itadori”

Megumi wanted to shoot himself in the foot.

He absolutely loathed conventions.

Especially when you got a bunch of idiots with a complete disregard for deodorant and personal space simping around in costumes as if they aren’t fully grown men.

Idiots like Itadori, who was currently wasting his life savings on X-Men stickers.

“Yeah,” Nobara piped in, already side-eyeing a man in a green cape with white and blue wings, and funny looking swords that look like box cutters—he was asking her if he could take a picture with her Petra Ral look.

Who the fuck is Petra Ral anyway? Nobara is SURE she looks way cuter though.

“How are you still so gaga over X-Men anyway?” she continues, with a flip of her ginger hair. “You’re literally a sorcerer, Yuuji. You fight curses in real life.”

Almost like whiplash, Yuuji turns on Nobara with an intensity she’s only seen in battle.

“Never. Disrespect X-Men.”

Yuuji was wide eyed; one hand pointing at Nobara, another clutching a handful of stickers and keychains (when did he buy those?) with a very blue woman on them.

Is she… naked? Nobara wonders, but is immediately interrupted by Yuuji’s incoming sermon.

“X-Men is a poignant commentary on society, Kugisaki. It is a masterpiece that only people with taste can appreciate, with characters so well written—“

But Yuuji’s fanboying gospel was cut short when a smattering of whoops and applause erupted from onstage, as a man dressed as… Thanos in a thong—Thongos, he called himself. Ok.—officially started the day’s most awaited event, and that was to meet X-Men’s Hollywood actors, in the flesh!

It was then that Megumi verbalized what everyone was thinking at this point.

“I didn’t know Itadori knew what ‘poignant’ meant”

Yuuji Itadori raced towards the front of the crowd like it was an orgasm out of reach, tightly clutching onto the barricade (also like he was clutching his [redacted]).

He didn’t know when and how his friends managed to catch up to him, but when X-Men’s glittering line up of beautiful people came out on stage, both Nobara and Megumi looked to each other in complete understanding beside him-- of course Itadori was here to simp for Jennifer Lawrence.

And of course he’d spend every yen to his name just to catch a glimpse of this woman in nothing but a skin-tight blue spandex that left no curve nor valley to the imagination.

“I LOVE YOU JENNIFER LAWRENCE”

Yuuji proceeded to fucking shriek in broken English.

“I EAT AMERICAN FOOD FOR YOU”

Megumi and Nobara both took a step from Yuuji.

‘Nope! The weird guy? They don’t know him.’

To their horror, they watch a grinning mouth appear at Yuuji’s cheek, already salivating.

“Gotta give it to ya, punk. That IS one fine ass,”

Sukuna’s mouth let its long tongue lick around his lips.

“I hope you got us some backstage passes, kid”

Megumi and Nobara shivered.

But clearly, Itadori and Sukuna weren’t the only ones going absolutely bananas for the X-Men, it might have very well been the entire building cheering for the cast.

It was until a bald guy in a wheelchair signaled for the audience to quiet down, did the sea of sweaty geeks calm down.

After a few introductions, and further hyping, the mic was finally passed to Jennifer Lawrence, whose character was apparently named Mystique.

Like a child showing off to his parents, Yuuji looks at Megumi and Nobara, pointing at Jennifer Lawrence as if saying, “Look! It’s her! That’s her! It’s actually her!”

Yuuji then proceeds to kiss three fingers raised up like he was doing a Boy Scout’s pledge, and raised those three fingers in there air, whistling three drawn out notes.

The idiot was giving her the Hunger Games salute, Jesus fucking Christ.

“Ehehe. Yeah, show her which fingers you’re gonna fuck her with,” Sukuna chuckles.

Which Yuuji responds to by forcibly jockeying Sukuna’s mouth off his cheek, shutting the curse up;

Yuuji Itadori drinks enough Respect Women Juice to give the Sahara a year of rain, alright.

Soon, everyone was giving Jennifer the salute.

Jennifer waves away the salutes, and stage-whispers into the mic with that raspy and sexy, according to Yuuji, voice of hers, and says, “Psst! Wrong fandom guys!”

The crowd laughs, as Jennifer awkwardly prattles about how she’s contract-bound to only talk about X-Men today, and that she really needs her job, ok?

And to be honest? Megumi and Nobara are starting to like her! I mean, who wouldn’t? Jennifer’s such a sweet, and down-to-earth girl. They’re glad that if there was anyone Yuuji was going to simp for, it’s Jennifer Lawrence.

“It’s such an honor to meet you, Tokyo!” Jennifer greets charmingly. “I was so excited to meet you guys, I didn’t even need to take a shot before I got here!” Jennifer shrugs with an exaggerated look on her face.

The crowd ate it all up.

“In fact, I was SO excited that I pumped myself up with enough anime references to say,” and in that magical moment, Jennifer Lawrence send finger guns down Yuuji’s way and winks--

“That’s one HECK of a JJK cosplay, man!”

And oh my Lord, it was like Yuuji died and went to heaven.

Even Sukuna was speechless.

But if Yuuji had to guess, Sukuna might have even been proud of him if only wasn’t you know, a jackass.

Megumi and Nobara couldn’t really remember what happened for the rest of the segment, because they might as well have leashed Yuuji with the way he was going crazy for Jennifer, hollering to her that he got her lasagna and Cheetos in his backpack in more broken English.

In the end, the two are left to rein Yuuji in as he eagerly waits for Jennifer out the backstage entrance, fully armed with an X-Men comic book and that lasagna he promised.

Yuuji was practically vibrating in excitement.

“Yuuji, it’s been two hours. Let’s go back to campus,” Nobara groaned, moaning to Megumi how Gojo better pay for their babysitting hours.

“She's almost out, you guys--!” Yuuji cries back, as the stage doors finally open to reveal Jennifer Lawrence in a much more sensible outfit of dress pants and a smart, low-neckline blouse.

“Eyes up, Itadori,” Megumi mumbles at Yuuji, who was already getting slack jawed at the sight of Jennifer’s cleavage.

Yuuji swallows the massive lump in his throat, and snaps his eyes back up to Jennifer’s hooded ones.

“Oh hey! You’re that JJK guy!” Jennifer greets good-naturedly. She was smiling radiantly at Yuuji and his friends, first shaking Nobara and Megumi’s hands as she laughed, “Damn, you even dressed up as the main character’s friends! You’re all like Hermione, Ron, and Harry Potter except… well, your characters won’t actually die, eep”

“Do we tell her?” Nobara nudges Megumi.

“Don’t you dare.” Megumi hisses back.

The dark-haired sorcerer then turns to Jennifer with a polite smile, and says in perfect English,

“Ooh, we’ll try not to spoil it for you, Jennifer.”

Nobara snaps her head to Megumi.

“Since when did you speak White???”

“Shut the fuck up, Nobara,” Megumi grits out.

Jennifer winked at Megumi, giving him an ‘I-get-you’ look and finally turned to sign Yuuji's comic book, only for him to freeze.

They both blinked at each other for a moment. One almost as awkward as the other.

Jennifer Lawrence though, god bless her, took this all in stride.

“No worries, dude, I freeze up, too,” she says while pretending to freeze up in jest. “Do you want me to sign your comic book?”

And if Yuuji wasn’t absolutely head over heels in love with Jennifer before, he certainly was now.

“I-- I…” Yuuji stammered.

Megumi and Nobara looked worriedly to their friend, there was no way in hell they were gonna let Yuuji fuck up now. Not after a whole afternoon of body odor and overpriced tentacle art, no way.

“Calm the fuck down, Itadori and give her the comic,” Megumi whispers to Yuuji.

And in a snap, Yuuji Itadori was bowing as low as possible, arms out with his offerings, exclaiming to the highest simping power-- “I BROUGHT YOU YOUR FAVORITE JENNIFER!”

Jennifer’s face lit up at the sight of the lasagna, “Oh wow! You got me food! Thanks for remembering!”

She takes the lasagna gratefully, and quickly signs the comic, “What’s your name?”

“Errr… Y-Yuuji.”

Jennifer returns the comic book to Yuuji, now signed--

‘Thank You for the Lasagna, Yuuji! You know me soooo well!

Stay Sweet <3

-J Law.’

And as if each and every one of Yuuji’s dreams came true, Jennifer leaned forward and gave Yuuji a quick peck on the cheek.

Yuuji couldn’t even react, because in a whirlwind, Nobara was taking a picture of Yuuji and Jennifer, a coral kiss mark on Yuuji’s wide-eyed face.

“Calm the fuck down, Itadori,” Megumi groaned for probably the hundredth time now.

But Yuuji didn’t care.

Jennifer Lawrence just kissed him.

He’s pretty sure he can be a little manic with disbelief.

“Yuuji, I swear to god, if you don’t stop, I’m deleting the photo from my phone.”

Nobara was done.

“NO--”

In the end, Yuuji may not have anything to eat for the next two weeks, but it was totally worth it.

He managed to convince Megumi to lend him some money.

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today-only-happens-once · 3 years

Text

clarity

Word count: 5463

Summary: Hakoda had been hearing rumors about the Fire Lord's son for years. That doesn't mean he is ready when the truth finally comes to light... especially when the truth only confirms the worst. Companion piece to “out of focus” but can be read separately.

Warnings: injury/burns, angst, some mentions of trauma and PTSD, canonical child abuse/mutilation, Sokka gets angry protective and yells a little, blink-and-you-miss-it mention of nausea, please let me know if I missed anything.

A/N: Turns out, I really wanted to explore Hakoda’s POV of the events in “out of focus”. So much so that not only did I write this, but’s longer than the original. Woops. Hope you enjoy it!

Read on AO3.

...

His son is good at many things, Hakoda thinks, but his poker face is not one of them.

He’d had never been particularly good at it, if Hakoda is being honest. He’d usually been able to tell with one glance when Sokka was at fault for something breaking and would blame Katara, and Kya had been even better at reading the micro-expressions of their son. Sokka is older now—and in more ways that Hakoda is comfortable with, he carries those extra years around like a weight on his shoulders—but he still hasn’t quite mastered the art of subtlety. It was something he’d need to work on if he wanted to be chief of the Southern Water Tribe one day.

Sokka shifts in his seat across from him, his brows pinched slightly in evident annoyance. Hakoda sees the shared glance between his son and the Fire Lord. Zuko’s mouth twitches in something like amusement.

“I want immediate release of all war prisoners,” the Earth Kingdom ambassador, Bashi, beside Sokka demands.

Hakoda inclines his head. “I second that. I have men in those prisons that haven’t seen their family in a decade.”

Hakoda couldn’t imagine what that would be like. Two years apart from his children had caused him to feel like he’d already missed out on so much of their lives. The idea of going five times that without any news from the outside… Suffice it to say that Hakoda did not envy those men.

“Of course,” the Fire Lord says, but his voice is nearly swallowed by the loud demand down the table, “Absolutely not!”

The hard glare that Fire Lord Zuko sends down the table at the Fire Nation Admiral makes Hakoda grateful that he is not on the receiving end of it. “Admiral, people who were arrested as prisoners of war have no need to remain so after the war has ended.” Zuko meets Hakoda’s gaze, the heat in his glare lifting at the redirection of attention. “I’ll draft that mandate tonight and will ensure its circulation as soon as possible.”

The Fire Lord—dressed in the traditional royal robes and his hair pulled into a top knot—is a stark contrast to the first time Hakoda had met him back in Boiling Rock. At the time, Zuko had been Fire Nation public enemy number 2 behind Aang. The tattered red tunic of Fire Nation prison uniforms had hung off his thin, borderline-malnourished frame. He looks better now, a little. Zuko is still lean, but not quite as gaunt as he’d looked in the Fire Nation prison. Hakoda’s biggest concern when it came to the Fire Lord’s well-being these days was the dark circles around his eyes that, though he tries to hide it, indicate too many sleepless nights.

“This is an outrage!” The admiral slams his fist against the table, leaping to his feet.

Hakoda feels his jaw clench in frustration. He has little patience for men who try to assert themselves through aggression and yelling rather than calm rationality. Even so, it doesn’t surprise him, exactly. Hakoda had been around long enough to know that Fire Nation men had long been taught there was power through anger, and to wield it as they see fit.

Zuko rises to meet his feet, slowly and deliberately. “Admiral--”

“Where is the justice for the Fire Nation families whose sons and daughters were slaughtered by those criminals?”

Hakoda presses his hands together to keep them from curling into fists. Did the Admiral not realize just how many Fire Nation soldiers walked free after slaughtering innocent people, let alone soldiers? Even the person who killed Kya--

“Admiral.”

“I remember a time when you cared about Fire Nation soldiers! And it’s hard to believe you’ve forgotten, seeing as you ought to be reminded every time you so much as look in the mirror--”

Hakoda frowns. The comment rings vague bells in his head, though he can’t remember why…

“Enough!” Zuko snaps sharply. “You will watch your tongue or you will be escorted out. You approach insubordination.”

“You are a child,” the admiral says, spitting the word child like it disgusts him, “though one that ought to know a thing or two about insubordination, given your father’s attempts to brand you with a permanent reminder of its consequences--”

“Warriors!”

“Then again, he always was twice the leader you never will be. Long live the Phoenix King!”

Sokka is suddenly on his feet. “Zuko—!”

“Sokka—!”

Hakoda leaps up just as the admiral punches a fireball at the space between his son and the Fire Lord. His heart jumps to his throat, but Zuko is fast. He shoves Sokka’s shoulder down with one hand and dispels the fireball with the other. Hakoda leaps over his chair as he sees the glint of his son’s boomerang hook through the air.

The admiral’s gaze locks onto him for a moment and Hakoda instinctively ducks, diving underneath a bolt of scorching flames. He feels the ground tremble, hears the roar of dying flames above him. Hakoda risks a glance towards his son just in time to see Zuko step in front of him, bending the burst of flames to split on either side of them, rather than hit Sokka straight on.

The door ricochets open. Two Kyoshi Warriors spill into the room, and in a flurry of quick strikes, the admiral drops to the floor. Limp.

Bashi unbinds his feet with the bending from earlier—it’s only now that Hakoda realizes that tremble in the ground a moment ago had been earthbending—and the admiral hurls insults at Zuko as he’s dragged unceremoniously through the doors.

The silence that follows echoes in the room.

Hakoda takes a quick, calculating sweep of the room. Kovrik, the Northern Water Tribe ambassador, is wide-eyed but appears unharmed. Bashi is panting but standing upright. Sokka is hidden behind Zuko who shifts awkwardly in the silence.

He clears his throat. “Apologies for the, uh, disruption. It won’t happen again.” He looks, for all the world, genuinely apologetic. Embarrassed, even.

Which is foolish, Hakoda thinks. Zuko couldn’t reasonably be expected to have weeded out all of the Ozai sympathizers in a month. Ozai may have been one person but there was an entire ideology and system that allowed his tyranny in the first place. A sixteen-year-old couldn’t be asked to single-handedly dismantle it all, and certainly not so quickly.

“It’s not your fault, Fire Lord Zuko,” he tells him.

“I appreciate that, Chief Hakoda,” Zuko says. Behind him, Sokka sucks in a breath through his teeth and Hakoda feels his chest twinge in concern. He had fought in a war long enough to hear the pain laced through the noise. Zuko turns around to look at him, then turns back around sharply to address the room. “We will adjourn the meeting for today. We will reconvene tomorrow.”

Zuko hides it well, Hakoda thinks, but there’s an urgency to his words hidden behind a carefully constructed mask of stoicism that leaves no room for doubt in Hakoda’s mind. Sokka is hurt.

“But Fire Lord Zuko—”

“I think we could all use a breather, Kovrik,” Hakoda jumps in, not eager for another argument to break out. “Coming back tomorrow with a clear head is a good decision.” Besides, the sooner he can clear the room of other people, the sooner he could check on Sokka who Zuko was—almost protectively—keeping from view.

“Yes,” Kovrick acquiesces, though Hakoda can tell he’s still not pleased. “Yes, I suppose that’s fair.”

Zuko nods his appreciation. Kovrik, Bashi, and the few other dignitaries that had been in the room bustle out the door. Hakoda waits until it’s latched shut behind them before he turns his full attention towards his son. Zuko has already turned his full attention to him, saying something in a low voice.

Hakoda can sees the clench of his son’s jaw and the slight wince as he places his hand in Zuko’s. Hakoda steps up behind the Fire Lord, peering over his shoulder. His chest tightens a little in sympathy when he sees the blistering, angry red skin on the back of his son’s hand.

“Do you have anything that can help?” he asks of the Fire Lord, frowning. He thinks briefly of calling Kovrik back in before he remembers that the Northern Water Tribe’s men, even when benders, didn’t typically learn its healing abilities.

“Yes, sir,” Zuko replies, not taking his gaze from Sokka’s hand as if he could heal it by staring at it hard enough. “Though it’s not quite as immediate as waterbending healers. But it should help with the pain and prevent infection. Follow me.”

Hakoda follows as Zuko guides Sokka by the elbow out the door of the meeting room and through a network of hallways. There’s something almost jarring about it to Hakoda. The image of the Fire Lord leading his Water Tribe son through the palace to get him help, rather than as a prisoner, has a part of Hakoda’s mind reeling. Sokka’s blue clothing stands out against the dark reds and blacks that adorn the walls and pillars around them.

How quickly times had changed.

Hakoda thinks back to the conversation in the meeting a few moments ago as he watches the back of Zuko’s head, moving quickly down the corridor with Sokka in tow. Rumors and propaganda about the Fire Nation, and especially about its leader, flew quickly amongst the ranks of soldiers in the war. It had been difficult to know fact from fiction, especially as it related to the royal family.

A year ago—the memory comes crystal clear to Hakoda now—one of the men on his crew named Horrak had told him what he’d been certain was an exaggerated, hyperbolic story. Something about the Fire Lord and his thirteen-year-old son. On Tui and La, I swear it’s true. Heard it from the mouth of a Fire Nation soldier myself who was actually there.

He’s a tyrant and cruel, Hakoda had said, rolling his eyes because the idea was just… incomprehensible, but there’s no way Ozai would do that to his own flesh and blood. He’s too proud of his bloodline anyway.

Zuko glances over his shoulder at Sokka, and Hakoda sees the angry scar across half of his face. The words of the admiral in the meeting whisper in the back of Hakoda’s mind in a way that makes his stomach turn. Your father’s attempts to brand you… Hakoda had thought that surely, surely, even Ozai had a line in the sand when it came to his own family.

He’s less confident of that now.

Zuko says something to two of the guards stationed at the set of double doors that Hakoda doesn’t quite catch, and then slips through the door. Hakoda follows close behind.

“Wait here,” Zuko says, and then vanishes through a door on the far side of the room.

Hakoda glances around the room. It was a bedroom, but Hakoda had a hard time believing it was Zuko’s. It seemed too simple of a room to belong to the Fire Lord. Then again, Zuko had been full of surprises from the very first time Hakoda had met him.

He looks to his son, noticing the tight grimace to his face and the very slight sway and grabs the chair beside the bed to get his son to sit before he falls face first into the floor.

“You had good reflexes in there,” Hakoda says. He’d dealt enough with injured Water Tribesmen to know that distraction was usually the best way to help them deal with the pain of a burn. He had no doubt that his son was no exception to that.

“Lots of practice,” Sokka replies, obediently taking a seat. He hisses out another breath as his grip around the arms of the chair stretches the skin across the back of his hand. He swears under his breath.

“Easy,” Hakoda says softly, bracing a hand on his son’s back.

The comment from his son makes his chest twist, but he can’t very well deny it. His son had seen more combat in the past year than he’d hoped he’d have to in his lifetime. Hakoda knows that it was an unreasonable expectation for his son to somehow be the exception to generations of pain. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Sokka would be able to handle the fight—Sokka always been able to hold his own—but could you blame a father for wanting to spare his son the experience of waking up from nightmares, haunted by the people he couldn’t save?

Hakoda dealt with that enough for the both of them.

“Wish Katara was here,” Sokka says.

“I know,” Hakoda tells him. “Unfortunately, I don’t think she’s coming to Caldera for a while. She’s still in Ba Sing Se with Aang.” She and Aang were working on their own negotiations of reparations and treatises. Caldera was only one location of many that were in the middle of such conversations.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Sokka sighs. “Her magic water comes in handy, though… Get it? Hand-y?”

Hakoda snorts. That’s the kind of joke he used to make to get Kya to smile.

The door across the room opens again. Zuko emerges with his arms wrapped around a giant tub of water, several vials and rags gripped in his hands. He’d also pulled his hair out of the top knot so that it falls into his face, shaggy and unbrushed. It makes him look younger somehow.

Spirits, he really is only sixteen, isn’t he?

The Fire Lord seems to be studiously avoiding both his and his son’s gaze as he crosses back to him and sets the washbasin at Sokka’s feet. The realization twists uncomfortably in Hakoda’s stomach.

“Can I see your hand?” Zuko says in what is perhaps the softest voice Hakoda has ever heard come from the teen’s mouth.

Sokka blinks. “Yeah. Sure.”

Hakoda crosses his arms over his chest and watches as Zuko examines his son’s hand. The Fire Lord handles it with care, mindful of the injury even as he inspects closely. His brow is furrowed in concentration and there’s a long beat of silence. Sokka is almost uncharacteristically quiet, but Hakoda doesn’t miss the very slight way his shoulders seem to ease. There’s a familiarity between them, Hakoda realizes, and it makes him wonder in the back of his mind if maybe this wasn’t the first time they helped each other.

“I don’t think it’ll have permanent damage,” Zuko says eventually. “But I still need to treat it so it doesn’t get infected. It… might hurt a little. But then it should feel better.”

Hakoda sees his son swallow. “No permanent damage. That’s good.” He nods, evidently steeling himself. “Okay.”

Zuko looks for a moment like he’s about to say something else, but seems to change his mind. Instead, he busies himself with wringing a cloth in the basin of water, into which he had emptied the contents of the vials. Hakoda’s gaze flickers again to the scar on his face and wonders if he might be so intimately familiar with the care of burns from his own experience.

Hakoda wonders if there was someone else to help him and teach him. Perhaps that uncle that he and Sokka had mentioned. Iroh, Hakoda thinks his name is, though that would mean the uncle was General Iroh, as in the Dragon of the West. That seemed unlikely to the chief. No way this “wise old guy” who apparently spent his free time giving advice and making tea was also the same person who laid siege to Ba Sing Se for six-hundred days.

He watches Zuko press the rag gingerly to the back of Sokka’s hand and Sokka yelps, yanking his hand back.

“I’m sorry,” Zuko says immediately with a bit of a grimace. “This part is painful, but it’ll stop hurting in a minute.”

Hakoda listens to the strained breathing of his son, taking a step towards him before Sokka manages, “Right. Right, sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Zuko tells him. “I know it hurts.”

Hakoda watches from behind Sokka as his son places his hand back in Zuko’s, who slowly but gingerly presses the rag back to his hand. There’s a casual intimacy to the way that Sokka willingly gives over his injury to the Fire Lord. An assured immediacy to Sokka’s movement combined with the extraordinarily careful way in which Zuko handles it that surprises him. He’d known, intellectually, that his children had become close with the Fire Lord. But the moments in which Hakoda got to be witness to that friendship sometimes still caught him off guard, even all these months later.

It even folded into the way they fought beside each other. Hakoda had gotten very fleeting glimpses of it back in Boiling Rock, but he’d seen it more clearly in the meeting room a few minutes ago. They watched each other’s back, protecting one another without getting in each other’s way, like it was a rehearsed dance. Hakoda had watched the way Zuko stepped in front of flames to protect his son and had seen the way Sokka had timed his boomerang through to ensure the next fireball directed at Zuko would be kicked wide.

For a long moment, the only sound heard in the room is the quiet splash of water as Zuko submerges the rag again and wrings it out. Hakoda glances at the Fire Lord’s face and wonders if Zuko had always had a habit of facing flames head-on.

“What did the admiral mean,” Sokka blurts out suddenly, breaking the silence, “when he talked about insubordination?”

Hakoda’s lips press into a thin line, his gaze flickering briefly to his son before flitting back to Zuko. Zuko’s eyes had gone wide, the rag in his hand frozen half-out of the bowl. He blinks. “What--uh. I, uh.” Hakoda sees his hand clench around the rag and the way he takes a careful, intentional breath. “When I was younger, I spoke out at a meeting.”

Zuko busies himself back to tending to Sokka’s hand. Hakoda, however, feels something sink like an anchor in his stomach. He goes very, very still.

“After the stuff at Ba Sing Se? When you went home?” Sokka asks, and Hakoda realizes that he hasn’t heard the same rumors he had. Rumors that were at least a little bit true, but surely not all of it. Surely--

“No, I uh.” Zuko coughs a bit. “Before that. Before… yeah. Earlier.”

“What happened?”

Hakoda stays quiet but he keeps his eyes on Zuko, who looks for all the world like a wild snow leopard caribou that had been cornered. His shoulders tense and Hakoda wonders, very briefly, if he might make a run for it. His jaw clenches, and he shifts to the balls of his feet.

Zuko doesn’t run.

Instead, he seems to focus even more on the administrations he’s giving to Sokka’s injury, as if healing something else might be able to protect him from his own old wounds coming under scrutiny.

“My uncle allowed me to attend a war meeting,” Zuko begins after a long beat as he wraps a fresh bandage around Sokka’s hand, “where they were talking about some battle strategies to use against an Earth Kingdom battalion. There was a general that wanted our newest fleet to serve as a distraction while we mounted an attack from the rear.”

Hakoda feels for a moment like he’s standing on cracking ice. He heard about that attack. The few members of that battalion spoke of how victorious they’d felt, decimating an entire fleet of rookie Fire Nation soldiers only to be attacked from the rear. Hakoda had spoken two years ago with one of the Earth Kingdom soldiers that had escaped, had listened as she recounted the bloodbath it had been.

They must have known, she’d been saying with a haunted, far-away look to her eyes, that we’d win against a bunch of newbie soldiers. It was like they were served up as goat-dogs for slaughter. Just a… distraction. Ozai doesn’t even care about his own people.

That conversation had been two years ago. Which meant—

“That’s not fair,” Sokka says. “Your newest recruits? They’d be slaughtered by an experienced battalion like that.” Hakoda feels a brief flicker of pride through the growing tightness in his chest. His son is far smarter than he gave himself credit for.

“Exactly,” Zuko sighs, bitterness dripping from his voice like venom. “And that’s what I told them. I wasn’t thinking. I just… yelled at him.” Zuko secures the end of the bandage to Sokka’s palm slowly, as if reluctant to be done with the process. “My father didn’t… take it well. I was challenged to an Agni Kai, and I thought I would be facing the general in it, so I accepted.”

The steadily growing tightness in Hakoda’s chest snaps around his lungs like a steel band. So even the worst rumors—the ones he’d been certain couldn’t possibly be true, not about that, not even Ozai—had been true. And it was all because he tried to save people’s lives.

Hakoda does not have a weak stomach, but it rolls with the lead weight of realization.

Zuko still doesn’t look at either one of them. Unable to keep his attention on helping Sokka’s injury, he turns his attention instead to gathering the basin of water and the empty vials and used rags. Something to keep his hands—his attention—busy. Hakoda had seen some of the men he fought with do the same thing when talking about stories they mostly tried to forget.

“No…” Sokka says in a low voice, and Hakoda knows from the horror in his voice that his son is starting to put the pieces together too.

“It wasn’t the general,” Zuko confirms, his voice quiet and heavy in the silence around them. “It was my father.”

“You faced your father in an Agni Kai?” Sokka asks.

“Not exactly. I…” Zuko stares down at the bowl, his gold gaze looking a thousand miles away. “I couldn’t fight my own father. Instead, I begged him for forgiveness. I was met with a fist full of flames.” Zuko waves a hand towards his face.

I begged him for forgiveness.

Hakoda thinks of the version Horrack had told him. I heard the kid was kneeling in front of him when it happened—

“He--” Sokka also sounds at a loss of words, his voice choking off.

“I was banished after that,” Zuko continues and his voice is hollow in a way that ricochets like shrapnel. Hakoda watches him meet his son’s gaze. “I was told to bring the Avatar back and all would be forgiven, or to not come back at all. That was before you and your sister woke Aang up from the iceberg.”

He hears what Zuko won’t say. It was before there’d been confirmation that the Avatar was still around at all. He’d been banished from his home and told to chase a ghost. It was an impossible task. Ozai didn’t want his son to come home at all, Hakoda realizes. And from the tight way Zuko swallows, he’s pretty sure Zuko knows it too.

Hakoda clenches his grip into a fist to mask the tremble to his hands. Zuko had done the right thing at that meeting—had tried to spare lives—and had still asked for forgiveness. Begged for it. And Ozai had lit his hand on fire and… and… painfully mutilated his own son and then kicked him out, telling him to chase a legend. In some ways, Hakoda thinks, it was crueler than telling him not to come back at all.

Zuko is sixteen. But he is still a child, though saddled with the weight of righting a century of conflict on his back. And Hakoda knows that the Agni Kai had been three years ago.

“How old were you?” Sokka asks tightly.

Spirits above, he was only—

“Thirteen,” Zuko says, and Hakoda sighs, shutting his eyes against the confirmation.

“Thir--” Sokka cuts himself off, his voice strained. “Thirteen. Tui and La, when I was thirteen--” he breaks off again.

Hakoda knows what Sokka is thinking about. Sokka was thirteen when he’d left to join the war effort. He’d tried so hard to keep Sokka as safe as he could. Protect his childhood from being stolen more than the war and the loss of his mother already had. He’d seen the stubborn set to Sokka’s jaw when he’d chased after him onto the ship gangplank, and Hakoda knew that Sokka was just as protective as he was. He’d asked him to look out for the village, for Katara.

Hakoda would have done anything in the world to keep Sokka safe. He still felt that way, despite all the ways that Sokka had proven he could hold his own. He couldn’t help it. He wouldn’t want to. Sokka was his boy. Not so little anymore, not so innocent. He’d seen and been through too much, and Hakoda had missed most of it. But he’d tried. He’d tried to keep him safe for as long as he could manage.

At thirteen, Zuko had been hurt by a person he’d loved and then thrown out into the world with barely a second thought. The Fire Nation had robbed him, too, of so much. Too much.

Sokka takes a sudden step towards him and Zuko visibly tenses as if expecting a blow. Sokka freezes in place. “Zuko…”

Zuko shakes his head quickly, and there’s a small part of Hakoda that uncoils when he sees the way Zuko’s gaze doesn’t look quite so distant anymore. “Anyway. That’s--that’s what the admiral was talking about.”

“You…” Sokka sounds close to tears. “You were his kid.”

“Yeah, well.” Zuko looks at Sokka again. “He spent most of my life wishing I wasn’t.”

Hakoda’s jaw tenses. He looks at Zuko who looks, for all the world, like a sixteen-year-old kid, with his shaggy hair falling into his face and in Fire Lord clothes that are maybe just a touch too big for him. At thirteen—barely a teenager—he’d spoken up out of an intense desire to keep more people safe. To save lives. In Hakoda’s eyes, Zuko was a hero. Just for that.

How anyone could look at him and not be proud was far beyond Hakoda.

“Zuko,” he says, and Zuko’s gaze flashes over to him almost like he’d forgotten Hakoda was there in the first place. “I… hope you understand that you didn’t deserve that.”

The words fall short of what he wants to say, of what he means. But they feel important to him. Zuko deserved better from his nation and especially from his own father. Hakoda doesn’t know very much about the former royal family, but he doesn’t get the impression that Zuko heard that a lot. And if nobody else was going to make sure Zuko knows that he deserves better, Hakoda will at least try.

Something softens a little in Zuko’s gaze. “I know, sir,” he says. “It… I didn’t at first. It took me a long time to understand that it was wrong of my father to do that. But I know that now.”

Hakoda inclines his head. It is a small mercy against the tremendous pain the kid carries on his back, but it’s something. And as far as Hakoda is concerned, it’s not a small thing, either.

“Where is he?” Sokka demands in a near growl.

Zuko blinks, looking far more surprised by Sokka’s outrage than Hakoda is. “Where’s who?”

“Ozai.”

“Sokka, what are you going to do? Fight him?” Zuko looks completely bewildered. “He already lost.”

“Against Aang, not against—did Aang even know?”

“Um, I guess I don’t know. I never told him. I… never told any of you.”

“Yeah--and what’s that about, huh?” Sokka takes a step forward. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Hakoda takes a step towards his son. “Sokka,” he warns.

He wants to explain to him that sometimes things are hard to talk about. Spirits know there were things Hakoda had seen in his days involved in the war that he didn’t want to talk about and hoped he never would have to. He wanted to explain that events like that, things that linger on the edges of your nightmares and follow in lock-step with your shadow, had a nasty habit of strangling in your throat so that the words don’t come. That it is easier to carry those things close to your chest rather than lay them bare for the world to see.

But Sokka is fuming and cuts his father off. “What, did you think we wouldn’t care? That it wouldn’t matter?”

“It doesn’t matter!” Zuko hurls back at him, waving a hand towards the bedroom window. “My father already lost to the Avatar, Sokka. The war is over. The fighting is over. Aang took his bending. And that—I don’t know about you, but that’s the best, most justified end to his legacy I can think of.”

There’s a long, heavy moment of silence. Hakoda watches the way his son’s shoulders heave with angry breaths, his non-injured hand curled into a fist. Sokka had always been fiercely, desperately protective. It runs in the family, Hakoda thinks idly. But this wasn’t something Sokka could protect Zuko from. The damage had already been done.

Hakoda thinks, perhaps, that such a truth only makes it harder for his son to deal with.

“Wherever he is,” Sokka growls, “I hope he rots. He deserves worse.”

Zuko blinks, his eyes wide. Hakoda wonders briefly if Zuko has ever had someone be angry on his behalf, rather than angry with him.

Sokka evidently doesn’t understand his surprise. “Don’t tell me you disagree—”

“No,” Zuko says quickly. “I just… nothing.” He offers the barest hint of a smile at Sokka. The reminder of the familiarity between them relaxes some of the tightness in Hakoda’s chest just a fraction.

There’s a long beat as Hakoda hears his son suck in a deep, slow breath. Zuko’s gaze falls from Sokka’s, drifting back to the basin of water beside him. Zuko’s fingers twitch at his side. He looks suddenly uncomfortable, Hakoda thinks. Nervous, almost.

“Thank you for helping Sokka’s hand, Firelord Zuko,” Hakoda says suddenly, and maybe it’s a foolish way to convey to him that this didn’t change their opinion of him. At least, not for Hakoda… and from his surge of protective anger, he’s pretty sure the same goes for his son. Zuko was still Zuko. And if maybe he made sure to call him Fire Lord as a quiet reminder that Hakoda did not think him less of a leader either, then maybe that was okay too.

Hakoda sees the slightly pink tinge to Zuko’s cheeks as he meets Hakoda’s gaze. But he reads the understanding in those gold eyes as well. “Oh. Uh, of course, sir. And… just Zuko is fine.” Thank you, is the unspoken words that flit across the teen’s gold eyes.

Hakoda smiles a little, inclining his head. “Understood.” He turns his attention then to his son. ”I should draft a letter to Bato tonight to update him on the treaty. Will you be okay without me?”

Sokka rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth is tilted up in a half-smile. “Yeah, dad. I think I can manage.”

Hakoda gives Sokka’s shoulder one last squeeze and a nod to Zuko before he ducks out of the room to give them both a moment to talk more. He closes the door behind him, pausing long enough to take a breath.

Generations of conflict had been ended a few months ago by a bunch of kids with too much weight on their shoulders and too many shadows clinging to their edges. But at their heart, they were good people trying to do good things. Spirits know they all had plenty of reasons to be otherwise. War had a nasty habit of bringing out the worst in people, of demanding sacrifices to who you are. It could latch onto the darkest parts of you and pull until it was all that remained. He’s grateful that the group of kids that ended the Hundred Year War managed to keep the best of themselves despite everything, and that they continued to do so.

Hakoda had learned a long time ago that goodness is a choice. And he’s grateful that the world was in the hands of people like his kids, like Aang, like Zuko. Kids who, despite everything and all the ways people tried to pull their darkness out of them, continued to make that choice.

#atla #zuko #avatar the last airbender #atla fanfiction #hakoda #zuko fanfiction #hakoda fanfiction #injury #argument #child abuse #mutilation #please heed warnings #ptsd #trauma

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colormeyondublue · 3 years

Text

Chapter 8: Trenvik

Chapter 7 Here - Chapter 9 Here

The next morning, you wake up feeling a little nervous. Yondu’s words and anxious behavior are still fresh in your mind. You wonder to yourself who these disloyal men may be. You have an idea who a few might be, but they’ve never really bothered you apart from the occasional catcall. Most of the time if you made a snide comment back, they would leave you alone. You idly get ready and fix your hair in a braid. This morning feels strange.

A knock at your cabin door breaks your train of thought. You head toward the door, putting on that silver bracelet Yondu got you. You open your door and find the most unexpected face there to greet you.

It was Trenvik.

Trenvik was a race that you had never seen or heard of before boarding the Eclector. Kraglin told you he was Chorak. Apparently, they were an isolated kind and they were not sociable. He was…odd to say the least. He has lemon yellow skin, with puke green blotches covering his neck and face. His eyes are a piercing green with yellow speckles, and he has goat-like pupils. His facial features are sharp and hollow, and he is totally hairless. Trenvik leans against the doorframe with two of his 4 arms. The other two arms are above you, all 6 fingers gripping the ledge over your head. He was tall – very tall. You would guess around 7 feet. His body was lanky and lean. You recall he has a very unnerving gait to his walk. Something about him always made you very uncomfortable. Maybe it was the croaking sound that always seemed to seep from his throat when he would pass you on the ship. It could have been the fact that you had caught him staring at you a number of times in the mess. He’s never spoken to you – until now.

“Y/n.”

“Uhh…Hi. Trenvik – right?”

“Why are you hiding – in your room?”

His words are measured and unnerving. You begin to fidget with your feet, gripping the door handle tighter.

“I’m not hiding, I was actually getting ready to get some breakfast.”

“Breakfast? My dear, it’s almost halfway through the day. You are a bit late for that.” His mouth spreads into a nauseating grin. Sharp, needle-like teeth showing beneath his thin lips. He leans in closer to you.

“Oh my gosh! It’s that late?! I had no idea! I’m sorry, Trenvik, I really need to go.” You try to push past him through the doorway and pull the door closed behind you. “It was nice speaking to you!”

“Not so fast.” He grabs you by your wrist and pushes you against the wall next to your door. “Why are you in such a hurry to get away from me?”

“I – I’m not. I’m just late. I have to get to w-work.” You stutter.

He slowly releases his grip on you. His eyes travel up and down your body, as if he is trying to decide if you’re lying or not. “Very well. We can finish this later.” He finally says.

He takes one step back and you turn to run down the walkway toward your office. Trenvik watching you as you flee.

As you reach your office, you slam the door behind you, breathing rapidly. You start to feel tears welling in your eyes when your wrist comm dings. It’s Yondu.

“Yondu?”

“Hey Darlin’, you alright? I haven’t seen ya all day.”

“Yondu! Umm…yeah. I slept through my alarm. And I’ve been dealing with some weird anxiety today. I just feel strange. On top of that, Trenvik came to my door a little while ago.”

“What did he want?” He asked with clear aggravation in his voice.

“I don’t know. He was just trying to talk to me I think, but it felt creepy – like there was something else. His whole demeanor was sketchy.”

“You in yer office?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Stay right there honey, I’m on my way.”

The comm beeped again, and Yondu was gone. You let out a heavy sigh, and sit down at your desk. Music…I need music. You reach for your holopad and pull up the music files that Kraglin got you a few days prior. You begin to find more and more American music. That was a huge comfort to you, regardless of what era the music was from. A song that came through your speakers almost broke you. “Devil’s Backbone” by The Civil Wars. You heard some of their music when you were back home, but this song was new to you.

Oh Lord, Oh Lord, what have I done?

I've fallen in love with a man on the run

Oh Lord, Oh Lord, I'm begging you please

Don't take that sinner from me

Oh don't take that sinner from me

Oh Lord, Oh Lord, what do I do?

I've fallen for someone who's nothing like you

He's raised on the edge of the devil's backbone

Oh I just wanna take him home...

You begin to think about the events that unfolded that morning with Trenvik. What if something does happen? What if Yondu does make me go back to Earth? I can’t leave him. He’s everything I never knew I needed. He’s brave and strong and true. Sure, he’s a criminal…but I don’t care. Sure, he’s a pirate, but I love him. I don't want to live a life without him in it. You look up at the screen of the holopad and the tears begin to fall. The last thing you want is to be the reason that Yondu runs into trouble with his crew. You don't want to be the reason someone freaks out and he gets hurt. You definitely don't want to put him in a situation where he would have to hurt someone else. He’s been through so much in his life. From being a battle slave all those years ago, being exiled by Stakar, and now he’s questioning his crew’s loyalty.

...Don't care if he's guilty, don't care if he's not

He's good and he's bad and he's all that I've got

Oh Lord, Oh Lord, I'm begging you please

Don't take that sinner from me

Oh don't take that sinner from me

What you didn’t know, is that Yondu was already in the room. He’s been silently standing inside the door listening to the music, hearing the lyrics along with your short breaths.

“Y/n?” His voice is barely above a whisper.

“Yondu!” You whip around, tears evident on your cheeks. “I didn’t hear you come in. What did you need?”

“Baby…what’s wrong? Did Trenvik bother ya?” You think his words over and absentmindedly rub your wrist where Trenvik grabbed you earlier. Yondu sees this and he raises his voice, “Did he put his hands on ya?!”

“Well…yes. He grabbed my wrist in the walkway. I’m a little scared of him, but he didn’t say anything hurtful or inappropriate. I just don't like the feeling he gives me. It’s…intrusive and creepy.”

Yondu's expression then turns angry. Eyes flashing with a seething light. Just as he is about to speak, the comm on his wrist beeps and Kraglin could be heard. “Cap’n, the crew is gathered in the mess fer the meeting.”

“Thanks, Kraglin, I’m headed yer way.” Yondu’s eyes meet yours, and he sees how worried you are. He forces his emotions to calm. “I’m gonna go talk to the crew. I’ll get this settled sweetheart, just ya wait and see.” He caresses your jaw with his hand, and places a single kiss on your lips. “Do ya wanna come with me? Ya can stand by me if that makes ya feel better ‘bout the whole thing?”

“I guess so.” You shrug.

“C’mon, darlin’.” He leads you out the doorway and toward the mess. Once there, you and Yondu walk up toward the officers table at the front. The platform you follow him to is raised and Yondu leans in close to you.

“Stay close ta me, I don’t expect much trouble, but I’d rather be safe in case anyone decides to get stupid.”

You take one small step back, but stay near Yondu’s side. The men in the mess are talking amongst themselves loudly. Kraglin approaches the Captain and murmurs, “Everyone is here sir, they’re all yers.”

Yondu clears his throat and lets out one loud, sharp whistle. His arrow flys up to his ear, and the room is immediately silent. Your heart is beating quickly, and you put your hands behind your back so you can fiddle with your fingers without being seen.

“Now…I bet ya’ll are wonderin’ why I called everyone here. It’s been brought ta my attention that some ‘a y’all think that I am keepin ya on a short leash around y/n fer no reason. It ain't fer no reason. Y/n is off limits, because she’s mine! It’s safe fer ya'll ta assume that she is my girl. I don’t want ta hear another complaint from anyone on this ship about y/n being off limits. If anyone has a problem with that, you are free to depart one of two ways: at our next port, which would be Knowhere, or out the airlock! If I get even the tiniest wind of more talk regarding y/n or this mutiny crap that’s been floating around, I will not hesitate to send this arrow straight through yer skull! Is that clear!?”

A resounding “Yes sir!” echoed through the mess.

“Not a single one ‘a ya is ta lay a hand on her. You do not speak to her in a manner she doesn’t like, and if ya do ya’ll can believe that I will know about it, and I will skin ya alive.”

The murmurs began again as Yondu turns to say something to the first mate. You scan over the crowd nervously. You catch Trenvik staring straight through you from the back of the room. His icy stare sending the worst chills down your spine. You overhear some mention of the Captain going soft, and something about you being his personal whore. The word “whore” lights your blood on fire, and you begin to see red. The murmurers start to get louder and the room is clouded with harsh laughter. The noise starts to get overwhelming. Without thinking, you yell into the room as loud and you can manage. Yondu snaps his head in your direction at the sound of your voice.

“SHUT IT!!” Your fists are clenched and your arms are shaking. Yondu can see the rage burning in your eyes. Anger is an emotion he has never seen you wear before. He isn’t sure if he should stop you, or let you continue. He keeps his eyes on you while you speak.

“Most of you in this room only know me as the Secretary – so to speak. Some of you have never spoken to me, where as some of you,” you glance in Tullk and Geff’s direction and smile softly, “talk to me on a regular basis. Yes, I am in a relationship with the Captain. Yes, I am his girl. Now, I have no authority here, but because I am his girl, I will not tolerate any mention of the Captain going soft! Some of you may have no idea what I am. Some of you might not be familiar with where I’m from. Sure, I’m Terran, but I’m more than that. I am human. We care for our own, deeply. We love, we defend and we protect. We Terrans may be small, we might be weak, and hell, we may not even be that smart by galactic standards – but back on my home planet, we have a saying: It takes a village. The meaning is simple…in order to survive, we have to work together. We have to care about each other. For thousands of years, my people have been beating the odds left and right. We’ve survived hostile environments, fierce predators, and devastating plagues. Just 4 Earth years ago, our global population reached over 7 and a half billion people! We survive because we figured out a long time ago that love is our strength, not our weakness.”

Apart from your words, the room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. You take a big breath in, and continue.

“The point is, this crew could be a whole hell of a lot better off if you guys would trash this idea that caring about someone makes you soft! It’s absolutely ridiculous! Love can bring on a strength in each and every one of you that you never knew you had. It doesn’t even have to be romantic love, it can be something as simple as friendship and respect for one another, and for your Captain. Just know that this entire crew would be so much stronger and much more resilient if you would consider my words. With this knowledge, and with Captain Udonta at the helm, this crew could do anything!”

The crew just stares back at you, with a mixture of bewilderment and confusion on their faces.

“However, Rome wasn’t built in a day. So…just think about it.” You smirk confidently, and cross your arms.

Yondu just stares at you. It’s hard to read what he’s thinking, as he remains expressionless. He looks back out over the crew. “Yer dismissed. Get back ta work!”

Kraglin discreetly says something to Yondu, and he glances at you before leaving the mess as well. Shit…I might have way overstepped my boundaries. Yondu is probably pissed. Great.

Yondu turns to you. “Yer done with yer work fer the day. Come with me.” You follow Yondu out of the mess and straight to his quarters.

#Yondu and The Secretary #Yondu Udonta #yondu x reader #marvel #fanfic #gotg #gotg fanfiction #ravager #kraglin obfonteri #kraglin #eclector

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