#she died in the line of duty alongside her husband?????? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sotwk · 9 months

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Can you tell us more about Mirion's wife and children 👀

Hello Anon! I believe this is the second time you've asked me about Crown Prince Mirion and his family, and appreciate your interest so much. 🥰 Mirion is my personal favorite of the OC Thranduilions, so any inquiries about him are dear to me.

I have been keeping the details about Mirion's family under wraps for so long, but I no longer see a good reason to keep them secret, so here we go: some basic headcanon info that will hopefully satisfy your curiosity. 😉

For those who might care: some SotWK AU Spoilers ahead!

SotWK AU Headcanons: Crown Prince Mirion and his "Golden" Family

Although Mirion tragically died in his attempt to free his homeland from the Necromancer (his efforts did drive Sauron out of Dol Guldur for a time and gave Mirkwood four centuries of respite), he left behind a beautiful wife and two children to continue his legacy. His son gave Thranduil a new heir and continued hope for the future of their line and kingdom.

Because Mirion's wife was an Eldar of powerful lineage and incredible strength in her own right, she and their children helped Mirkwood to stay strong and protected through the dangers the realm faced in the Third Age.

And when Thranduil's grandchildren took over the rule of Eryn Lasgalen in the Fourth Age, it ushered in a new Golden Era for the last remaining Kingdom of Elves on Middle-earth.

MIRION'S WIFE - PRINCESS ITARILDË

SotWK Fancast: Teresa Palmer (A Discovery of Witches)

Mirion's wife is Princess Itarildë, an elleth with a rare mix of Noldor-Vanyar-Teleri blood with "royal" lineage on both sides of her family.

Itarildë’s mother is Nimeithel (a SotWK OC), the younger sister of Nimloth and niece of Celeborn.

Nimeithel is featured in my ongoing Thranduil x Maereth series, Sins of Our Fathers. She grew up with Thranduil in Doriath, and was the one who introduced him to Maereth.

Itarildë’s father is Maranwon (SotWK OC), the grandson of Glorfindel and his wife Elemírë (SotWK OC), who was the sister of Elenwë, late wife of King Turgon.

Itarildë has a high Eldar "pedigree" due to her lineage, but that was not what attracted Mirion to her. On the contrary, her noble background nearly caused the Crown Prince to decide against pursing her hand in marriage, despite their deep love for each other.

Before ever meeting Itarildë, Mirion had intended to choose his wife and future Queen among the Silvan elves of Greenwood, out of love for his people and his wish to honor the land's native race. (Something Thranduil was unable to do by marrying a Noldor.)

Mirion agonized over this conflict between his duty and his heart until his parents persuaded him to pursue his own happiness.

Itarildë is older than Mirion by a few decades, born in Lothlorien but raised in Rivendell. Her father died in the War of the Last Alliance fighting alongside his surrogate father, Gil-galad.

She takes after her father's side of the family; she is passionate, joyful, strong-willed, and has a radiant presence that commands and captivates every room she enters. She has a compassionate heart and a determination to effect good changes in the world.

She adores her husband's brothers and counsels and cares for them as an elder sister.

She is a fearless and skilled warrior (what else would you expect from the great-granddaughter of Glorfindel), who more than holds her own whenever she marches into battle alongside the princes.

It is later discovered that something about Itarildë’s presence causes the Spiders of Mirkwood to flee; just looking upon her somehow pains or deters them, and so they never attack her directly.

Mirion's death broke Itarildë and very nearly caused her to fade; she was brought back only by the healing efforts and pleas of her daughter. But her joyful spirit never recovered.

MIRION'S SON - PRINCE ARANION

SotWK Fancast: Bradley James (Merlin)

Aranion is the elder child of Mirion and Itarildë, making him the eldest grandchild of Thranduil and second-in-line to the throne of the Woodland Realm.

Upon Mirion's death, Aranion inherited the title of Crown Prince of Mirkwood. (This responsibility never fell to Legolas, which is why he remained free to travel, join the Fellowship, and and even sail to Valinor as he eventually did.)

After Maereth died, Thranduil became very focused on preparing Aranion for the throne, since he was then resolved to sail for Valinor and rejoin his wife--once the future of Mirkwood and his people had been secured with his grandson in place.

The name Aranion translates to "Son of the King" in Quenya, but the prince was actually named after the plant kingsfoil or athelas, also known as asëa aranion. Kingsfoil did not grow naturally in the Greenwood forest, since it thrived in the Western lands.

However, in the year of Itarildë's pregnancy with Aranion, kingsfoil began to sprout in abundance in the lands surrounding their home.

Although the Mirkwood Elves previously had no use for kingsfoil, later in the Third Age the plant became an vital resource in their healing for wounds inflicted by orcs and other beasts coming from Dol Guldur.

Aranion is utterly devoted to his homeland and the Silvan people of Mirkwood, a sentiment that they reciprocate with fierce love and loyalty. While not as politically-savvy as his forebears, he is a "people's prince", spending most of his days working alongside the common folk of the realm.

Although he is often compared to his great, great-grandfather Glorfindel, Aranion's cheerful, energetic, and light-hearted temperament is actually most similar to that of his uncle Legolas, to whom he was always very close.

The Prince is a fearless and naturally gifted fighter, whose innate talents were enhanced by centuries of intensive instruction and training from the greatest warriors on Middle-earth, including Thranduil and Glorfindel.

As the darkness worsened in the Third Age, Thranduil grew extremely protective of Aranion, increasing to paranoia at the loss of his wife and each of his sons. As decades passed the prince's very existence soon became unknown to outsiders, which was what Thranduil had intended.

By the events of the Hobbit, Aranion was forbidden from traveling outside of Mirkwood, and was not permitted to participate in the Battle of the Five Armies.

MIRION'S DAUGHTER - PRINCESS ANARIEL

SotWK Fancast: Gabriella Wilde (The Three Musketeers, Poldark)

Anariel is the younger child of Mirion and Itarildë and second grandchild of Thranduil and Maereth.

Beautiful and sweet beyond compare, she is very much the darling treasure of not only her grandfather Thranduil, but also of her loving uncles who have doted on her since she was a baby (probably because they never had a little sister of their own).

Unlike her boisterous older brother, Anariel is reserved, introverted, and avoids drawing attention to herself. She prefers to listen rather than speak.

Large crowds and excessive noises make her very uncomfortable, and it is possible she suffers from a mild form of sensory overload.

However, she very much carries the courage and willingness to serve that runs in her family, and devotes herself to the welfare of the people of Mirkwood.

Anariel is highly intelligent, much like her uncle Arvellas. Being a voracious reader and learner herself, she grew especially close to the Scholar Prince and gained knowledge and abilities from him.

She lived in Rivendell for periods of long years throughout the Third Age, during which she was mentored by Lord Elrond himself, and became skilled in the healing arts.

Anariel has actually already appeared in one of my WIP fics, although she was not yet named/identified. The first person to comment and tell me correctly which fic/character I am referring to, will receive a special prize from me from the Tumblr Market!

For more Thranduil/Mirkwood headcanons: SotWK HC Masterlist

Tolkien Headcanon tag list: @laneynoir @auttumnsayshi @achromaticerebus @tamryniel @friendofthefellowshipsnerdblog @blueberryrock @aduialel @glassgulls @ladyweaslette @klytemnestra13 @creativity-of-death @heilith @fizzyxcustard @absentmindeduniverse @lathalea @tamurilofrivendell @jordie-your-local-halfling @ladyk8tie @scyllas-revenge @asianbutnotjapanese @conversacomsmaug @lemonivall @ratsys @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @entishramblings @stormchaser819 @freshalmondpandadonut @beekieboo

Interested in more SotWK AU content?

Introduction to SotWK

My Headcanon Masterlist

My Fanfiction Masterlist

#sotwk answers #sotwk headcanon #sotwk ocs #mirion thranduilion #crown prince mirion #thranduil #mirkwood elves #silmarillion oc #glorfindel #aranion #anariel #Itarildë #tolkien #tolkien ocs #the hobbit #legolas

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far-side-skies · 21 days

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Strike Family Tree - Last Descendant

So Aerrow's family tree won the poll for which Storm Hawks headcanons I should dive into first, and I'm here to deliver.

Aerrow's family tree is... well, it's quite bare.

In a painful way, Aerrow is right to call himself the last descendant of his bloodline. Not necessarily of the original Storm Hawks, but eh, semantics. He's 14, people can say incorrect things.

I think the first things you've likely already noticed here are:

Contrary to popular fanon, Lightning Strike is not Aerrow's father in this. Their exact blood relation was never confirmed as canon, not even in interviews with the team as far as I have managed to find, so nobody can tell me I'm wrong. I made this choice based on the themes I chose for my interpretation of the show.

There are two Lightning Strikes. I'll get into that in a minute.

Aerrow comes from a long, long line of Sky Knights, starting with, as you can see, Lightning the First. The Lightning Strike we see in the intro sequence of the show was named after the one who started it all. Vigil Strike was not very good at naming his children, Tara picked the name for Valkyrie and you should be glad Vigil had no input on his grandson's name.

Born to Valkyrie Strike and Martin Swift, when Aerrow was a small child, still living with his family, he idolised his uncle Lightning. He always wanted to follow in his family's footsteps and be just as great a Sky Knight as his ancestors. When the Storm Hawks were betrayed, he and his mother went into hiding on Terra Nimbus, his father's birthplace. Sadly his father died in the crossfire of a battle before he was born, and his mother passed away from a terminal illness when he was eight years old. As a result, he was made to stay with his paternal grandparents, who weren't particularly kind to him. After meeting Radarr at the age of nine and saving him from some animal smugglers, they both ran away and eventually met Piper and Finn. Ten years after the fall of the old Storm Hawks, Aerrow returns with a rebuilt team, and you know the rest.

Valkyrie is the oldest child of Vigil and Tara. She never much liked the idea of following her father's path and getting involved in the war that had been going on since before she was even born. There were other problems that needed addressing in Atmos, and so she chose to go to law school. Vigil would never admit to being disappointed in this decision, but he was proud of her nonetheless. Losing her husband Martin was dreadfully sudden, neither of them had even been aware that she was expecting their first child at the time, and when Aerrow was born, she swore she would never allow him to get involved in this pointless war that raged around them.

If she could see Aerrow now, she would be terrified for him.

Lightning Strike the Second was not entirely like the history books portrayed him. He was surprisingly meek, but his care for those around him was what rallied people to "his" cause. A loving uncle to Aerrow at twelve, his initial ambitions had been to become a cartographer. He wanted nothing more than to explore past the Known Atmos alongside his friends. In the end though, he chose the same path as his family and enrolled at the Sky Knight Academy not long after Aerrow was born, wanting to protect his family. His beginnings as a Sky Knight and leader of the Storm Hawks were eerily similar to Aerrow's. He graduated the Academy right before he turned 14 and registered his own squadron. Due to his age though, the Council decided they couldn't operate without the aid of a senior Sky Knigh. So his own father, Vigil, decided to return to active duty and fill that role.

Things were great, for about two years. The Storm Hawks did things quite similarly to how their successors would over a decade later. Lightning's earnest charm lead other Sky Knights to start working closer together with each other, and one could say that he did unite everyone in the end.

Then Vigil was killed whilst protecting Light's co-pilot. It went downhill from there.

Lightning Strike died at the age of 16. His body was never found.

Some would argue that Vigil Strike was the true hero behind the original Storm Hawks. He certainly had all the confidence and credentials to do what Lightning was credited for in the history books. He started his career as a member of the Rex Guardians, his supposed greatest claim to fame was defeating and killing one of Cyclonia's Champions, Crimson Rain, and he eventually made his way up the ranks to lead the Red Eagles. But no, Vigil made an active effort to avoid overshadowing his son's efforts. Technically he was retired and a member of the Sky Knight Council's Top Brass (the oldest Knights who have the final say in most things regarding the war), but it was nice to be working alongside family, even if Wren liked to mock him for 'babysitting'.

Maybe he shouldn't have been so encouraging of his son's involvement in the war...

Tara Trace, Vigil's wife and Lightning and Valkyrie's mother, didn't have any claims to fame unless you counted looking after her younger brother Parrin. Parrin was a racer on Terra Zooma who constantly got himself into some sort of trouble or another. Vigil actually met Tara through him after losing several races to the younger speed demon. Aerrow gets it from both sides of the family, it seems.

The First Lightning Strike was, well, the first. About 700 years before the events of the show, and long before any major war with Cyclonia at large, the Free Atmos territories had recently gained independence from the Empire, and were in dire need of protectors. Pirates, rogue dragons, and various other threats were at large, with very few people capable of rallying together to fend them off. So the first Sky Knight squadrons were formed, starting with the Rex Guardians, lead by Gabriel Olor (ancestor of our very own Harrier). Lightning the First's squadron has been lost to time over the centuries, but their legacy persists in their descendants.

#op #storm hawks #storm hawks headcanons #storm hawks lore #sunny's headcanons #sunnyverse headcanons #sunnyverse lore #sunny's storm hawks headcanons #storm hawks headcanon

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royaltysimblr · 1 year

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Her Imperial Highness, Archduchess Paulina of Augustinia (1764-1805) (formerly Princess Paulina of Norden)

She was born in 1764 at the Schloss Bentswich to Karl Duke of Norden and his Vasian wife, Princess Helene of Vasa. Paulina was the younger fraternal twin of Princess Maria Theresa who would become the Queen Consort of Porto. Princess Paulina had an incredibly close relationship with her twin Maria Theresa and her younger sister Princess Louise. Paulina’s mother Helene enforced a strict education on her daughters which proved to be stressful for the young princess compared to her other daughters. Paulina was loved by her father, while her mother somewhat resented her for her lack of intellectual skills. Despite Paulina’s difficulties in her studies she was still able to learn five languages and studied literature. In 1780, Paulina attended the wedding ceremony of her twin sister, Princess Maria Theresa to Crown Prince Luis of Porto. With Paulina’s two older sisters marrying a King and Crown Prince, the eyes of the Norden Court turned on her. In 1781, Norden found itself at war with several Germanic states such as Bremen which was allied with many other kingdoms and principalities. Due to Norden’s poor international relations, Helena was unable to find a suitable match for her daughter. Paulina corresponded with Maria Theresa often and discussed a potential match between Crown Prince Luis’ younger brother Infante Carlos Duke of Madiera however she found him insufferable when she met him at the wedding and would not convert to Jacobanism. In 1782 tragedy struck when Maria Theresa died during childbirth. Paulina and her mother Helena rushed to Porto to be with Luis and his new son Crown Prince Carlos. Paulina and Helena stayed at the court for seven months where it was suggested that King Luis marry Paulina. Paulina grew close to the king and even considered converting to Jacobanism to be with him and raise her nephew as her own son. However, the Portian government did not approve of the match and sought to find a new alliance. Paulina and Helene returned to Norden in 1783, and her mother decided to focus on finding a match for Paulina. In 1784 with the Calais Revolution starting, Norden allied itself with Augustinia and decided to cement it with marriage. In early 1784, Paulina was married to Archduke Ferindand of Augustinia, second in line to the throne of Augustinia. They were married in a huge ceremony at the Innsbruck Cathedral with the Germanic Court in attendance. Paulina did not convert to Jacobanism and remained Peteran with special permission to marry from the Patriarch. There were two wedding ceremonies, the Jacoban one at the cathedral, and a private Peteran one in the Blue Drawing Room of the Innsbruck Palace. Paulina enjoyed a close relationship with her mother-in-law who her sister Maria Theresa was named after, Infanta Maria Theresa of Almeria. Paulina and her husband Ferdinand did not have a happy marriage at all, shortly after the birth of her first child, Archduke Francis in 1784, she discovered her husband in bed with her lady in waiting, Baroness von Nordheim. Paulina came to detest her husband and tried to avoid him at all times, however she did occasionally perform her wifely duties when she needed to. In 1785 and 1786 she would give birth to two more living children, Archduchess Maria Leopoldina and Archduke Charles. Paulina and her children resided at the Innsbruck Palace where they had a close relationship with the Germanic Empress, Maria Theresa of Almeria. Paulina’s husband Ferdinand was made Governor of Graz and relocated to the Steyr Palace in 1790. Paulina had a close relationship with her three children and was a loving mother. They were raised alongside the children of her brother-in-law Joseph I. In 1792, Paulina’s father-in-law, Ferindand VIII passed away and Joseph became the new Germanic and Augustinian Emperor. Paulina was a leading lady at the coronation celebrations held in Graz, Tyrol, and Augustinia. Paulina was delighted by the marriages of her children, Archduke Francis to Princess Henriette de Valentinois, and Archduchess Maria Leopoldina to Crown Prince Alfonso of Porto. In 1805, Paulina died from a pneumonia at the Innsbruck Palace. Her husband Ferdinand, three children, and sister-in-law Empress Maria Leonora were at her bedside at her death. Paulina, while not close with her youngest sister Viktoria, often wrote to her. Viktoria and her daughter Sophie of Rostock attended the funeral and stayed at the Augustinian Court for two months, hoping to secure a match between Archduke Charles and Sophie, but this failed.

#SophieofRostock #SOR #sims4 #ts4 #the sims #the sims 4 #ts royals #ts4 royals #s4 #the sims 4 history #historical #historical royals

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inky-duchess · 4 months

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In my story, a noblewoman (the story takes place in the 1700s) takes in two orphan boys to raise alongside her children. The boys aren’t nobles, they’re just the two kids of someone she was close with that was lower class. They also don’t have any other family left. Her husband doesn’t really care for them, but he sees it the same way as letting his wife keep a pet if it keeps her happy and as long as she doesn’t neglect her duties. Some years later, the wife dies unexpectedly. Her husband obviously is making plans for someone to help with the care for the children he had with her, but would he still be obligated to care for the two orphans his wife took in? Or would he just send them somewhere else as long as they were properly cared for? If he did allow them to stay in his household with his other kids, would they have similar privileges and opportunities of being raised in a noble household that their adopted mother’s biological children have, with the obvious exception of being in the line of succession?

Legally, he had no obligation to the children if they aren't formally adopted or warded - it strikes me that they wouldn't be as he thinks of them as pets. But morally, people might expect him to at least find them somewhere to live. If he did allow them to stay, it would be an act of great charity and he can either treat them as extended family with all the privileges of his other children or he may employ them within the house as servants (it's not as Disney villain as it sounds, he would be providing them a home, food and status).

#ask answered

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missshezz · 1 year

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Title: Grief

Summary: When the jar tips and pours out the emotions you placed inside, Rick is there to comfort you.

Rating: All Audiences

Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, friendship, found family, bit of a character study, set during Rick’s time after his kidnapping

————————————————————

Whenever you saw Rick Grimes your heart bled anew.

Not because you were in love with him and there was no chance of him loving you back because he had a woman and child waiting for him, but because he reminded you of your brother, Derek.

It wasn’t their being of equal height or possessing the same lean body and sleek muscles.

Nor was it the mop of dark curls threaded with silver that crowned Rick’s head or the beard he’d forget to trim until you’d start calling him Grisly Grimes.

It wasn’t even the roll of his shoulders as he swung a shovel or axe, his slow, easy gait as he crossed the compound or the way he sat a horse.

Sure, Rick wore his gun-belt low on his hips like Derek did, favored plain white t-shirts or simple cotton button-downs, and preferred cowboy boots over sneakers or work boots.

Yes, he could be a muleheaded jackass, had a helluva temper when riled, and lacked the sense to duck a punch.

He was also kind, considerate, and compassionate.

Loyal to those who earned his trust and respect.

Rick was a born leader. People listened to him when he spoke. Followed him without question.

Asked his advice on matters. Worked alongside him because he wanted the same thing they did: a future.

All things they used to do before your sister-in-law, Charity took sick and died.

Leaving your brother to raise your niece and nephew.

Another thing he and Rick had in common.

Something you discovered while he recovered from the injuries he sustained after blowing up a bridge to stop a horde from reaching the community he had been leader of.

Like Derek, Rick had been an officer before the shit hit the fan.

Married young, had a son he lost in a tragic turn of events.

His wife died giving birth to a little girl he chose to raise as his own.

Rick got shot in the line of duty and ended up in a coma before the virus spread through the country like wildfire. He miraculously survived his injury despite the hospital collapsing before he could be medi-vac’d to the medical facility established in Washington. He went on to become the leader of a group of survivors he referred to as his family.

A family he swore he’d get back too.

They suffered an endless array of nightmares together, relying on each other to get through some dark and desperate times, and working together in order to create a future worth living.

Same as you and the people in your community.

During a severe thunderstorm he confessed his sins, admitted his failures as a father, husband, brother, and friend.

Told you he killed a whole lotta people in a war he should’ve never started.

Said he deserved to rot in hell for all the suffering he caused.

Your heart, broken still from Derek’s death, shattered further at the myriad of emotions — anger, guilt, sorrow, and loneliness most prevalent among them — carved into his face, and burning in the depths of his eyes.

Eyes the same rich shade of blue as Derek’s.

Crinkles appeared at the corners of those eyes as he smiled at something your ten-your-old niece, Faith said to him.

She was the only one who could coax a smile or laugh out of him.

Same as she could her father.

Well, you amended as Faith ran off towards her friends, before Derek took to marinating himself in the shit that passes for whiskey in this place.

That was where your brother and Rick differed.

Rick exorcised his demons by working himself pass the point of exhaustion every night.

Derek chose booze, pills, and to sleep with every woman in the camp.

Married or not didn’t matter to your brother.

Neither did Faith and Ryan.

No matter how much you begged, he refused to seek treatment for his alcoholism. Even threats to take Faith and Ryan and go to one of the other compounds fell on deaf ears.

Nothing and nobody could stop Derek.

Her brother was a massive, unmanned train on a collision course with another train.

One loaded with a ton of explosives.

Twenty innocent men died because I couldn’t figure out how to derail Derek.

Husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons.

Who hadn’t known your brother was so drunk he couldn’t see straight.

You don’t realize you’ve started crying until you feel a gentle hand on your shoulder and hear a soft, “Hey.”

You can’t bring yourself to look into Rick’s eyes.

“Thinking ‘bout your brother?”

You manage a nod.

All you can offer since the lump in your throat prevented you from doing much else.

“The hurt won’t ever go away but I promise it’ll get more bearable in time.”

You appreciated his stone cold truth over the carefully worded commiserations of the others.

You could deal with honesty.

Half-truths only made the hurt worse.

This world was cold, cruel.

All of them had suffered.

None in your mind more than Rick.

Losing a friend, sibling, parent or spouse was terrible enough.

To lose a child?

Well, that was simply unimaginable.

His son’s death would haunt Rick for the rest of his life.

For him, it was his greatest failure.

The ultimate sin.

Yours was your inability to stop your brother before he got himself and others killed.

A choked sob escaped you as the jar you stored your emotions in after Derek’s death tipped over and everything inside poured out.

Your knees buckled.

You’d have sunk to the ground if not for Rick catching hold of you before you made a real spectacle of yourself.

Not that you cared.

Grief dug raw wounds in your stomach, tore fresh holes in your soul, and shredded what little remained of your heart.

The hurt was so deep you thought you’d drown.

Not that you would.

You wouldn’t descend into the abyss like your brother did.

Faith and Ryan needed you.

You’d go on living beneath this shroud as the rain poured down, down, down.

For now, though, you’d let yourself weep.

Your head tipped forward, forehead resting against Rick’s chest as you let your tears flow free. Rick’s chest vibrated as he mumbled something. He shifted, settled you more comfortably against him, and rubbed your back in slow, soothing circles.

As Derek had done before his heart had gone hard, hard, hard.

“So-sorry for cryin’ on your shoulder,” you managed once the choking sobs stopped.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” Rick produced a rag from his pocket that he handed to you. “It’s clean.”

You take it with a soft, “Thanks.”

He stayed as you wiped the tears away, not saying anything, but letting you know he was there if you needed him.

As you stood together under the dark clouds that gathered during your breakdown, you realized you might not be in love with Rick Grimes but you did love him.

As a brother.

One you decided to help get back to his family.

No matter what.

#the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction #rick grimes #rick grimes x reader #walking dead fanfiction #rick grimes fanfiction #flashing gif #animated gif #Scorp writes fanfiction

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charlottedabookworm · 16 days

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Hi! Because I'm mean and like beating up my Blorbo Somnus but don't want to scream into the Void by myself. What, in your opinion, would happen if Aera was the one to betray Ardyn and Somnus both? I imagine: Somnus gets sent away - maybe kidnapped and tortured or just straight up killed and consumed by the Crystal -, either way he's missing now. and Ardyn rules for a bit but Aera as the Oracle under orders from the Six betrays him too. Their children never forgive her or the Nox Fleuret bloodline.

I have no idea what happens to Somnus but Ardyn's revenge goes towards the Six and The Nox Fleurets instead of the LCs. Maybe Somnus reincarnates, possibly as an Galahdian. He remembers nothing. Which is good if you go the route of him being tortured.

But that's just me being mean to my blorbo. What's your opinion of what would happen if Aera was the betrayer instead of Somnus?

eh- i guess it'd depend on the why

cos like if aera wanted the throne, completely, on her own, then yeah she'd probably wait til she and ardyn are married, disappear somnus quietly, and then kill off her husband. if she planned it right she'd be queen regent for whichever kid she'd popped out and if she had enough supporters and a decent enough claim she could maybe become named as heir before arydn dies due to a lack of other claiments

but like. if it wsn't about the throne

if it was about her godly duty, as a flueret, as one of the line who act as the hand of the gods, well

there's no real reason for aera to play along but for the basics in that case

as soon as she's close enough, trusted enough, she could take out both brothers at once, end the blight on the world that is the line of caelum and the scourge, and be done with it all

it's her duty, after all. her purpose

she has been blessed by the gods

(she fails, of course, because the scourge is not so easily purged by mortal hands, because ardyn is blessed and cursed and he dies alongside his little brother and he lives to see aera's cold gaze as she turns away

ardyn lives, as he always must, and the betrayal is just as personal as it was with somnus)

#ask #ffxv #anonymous

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readyplayerhobi · 2 years

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Queen of Ice | 08

; Bodyguard!Jungkook x Princess!Reader

; Genre: Angst, fluff

; Warnings: Mentions of death, depression, slight PTSD

; Word Count: 2.6k

; Synopsis: Jeon Jungkook is the best water magic user of his generation, so it made sense that he was given the prestigious posting as a royal bodyguard. His position puts him close to you, the Crown Princess of Sejong and the only ice magic user in history. Jungkook is great at protecting you from danger, but not so much at protecting his own heart.

; A/N: Hopefully you don’t think this is moving along at a glacial pace, pun intended. Sorry it’s taken a while! Please let me know what you think about this via a comment or an ask, I love to hear your thoughts about the story and the characters and it definitely helps encourage me to get more inspo!

; Previous - Next

The death of a guard was never a big deal in the Kingdom of Sejong. If a guard died during the line of duty, then it most likely meant that they had simply died doing their job. There was no large ceremony to celebrate their life or their service, nor even a grave in a special area of the cemetery.

Instead, their body was sent back to their hometown to be buried in their family cemetery. Jimin’s body had already arrived back at the town he’d grown up in, escorted by Jungkook and Jisoo for the long journey back. He’d watched silently as Jimin’s parents had sobbed, the sounds of his mother sounding like it had been dragged from the centre of her stomach whilst her husband held her desperately.

Jungkook had left the ceremony early, unable to stay any longer and witness the sheer grief and pain of Jimin’s family. He’d thought that Jisoo would try to get him to stay, but she’d remained silent and had simply watched as he had mounted his horse before turning back towards home.

Sure, maybe he should have stayed but he knew that Jisoo would be fine on the way back. Alongside the two of them, they’d been further accompanied by some of the castle guards. There may not be anywhere for guards to be buried, but the guards themselves would remember.

So she was fine, and would probably follow the original plan of coming back in a few days. But Jungkook arrived back at the castle much earlier than expected. Despite this, he didn’t take up any extra shifts and instead let Hoseok and Yoongi continue on their careful watch of you. Part of it was that he had a lot of work to do, with the formation of the Queen’s Guard after the dissolution of the King’s Guard, but another part was that he simply…didn’t want to.

For once in his life, he just didn’t want to take up his duty. He felt guilty over that, of course, as he’d sworn an oath to serve. But there was something about the whole incident that just wasn’t letting him go.

Physically, he was fine. Or at least, that’s what the healers had told him. He’d suffered two burst eardrums and a concussion after the lightning strike, but after a few hours with one of the healers who used a highly specialised form of water magic and a few bottles of the medicine brewed up by a plant magic healer, he’d been back to feeling fine.

It wasn’t his body though, and he knew that.

He felt tired, but in the sense that he just wanted to sleep and not wake up for a few days. His mind was sluggish and slow to respond, content to simply mellow out. Which wasn’t acceptable for a guard with such a high position, with such an important responsibility.

But he couldn’t get the image of Jimin out of his head; the ash that slowly fell from the strength of the fire he’d wielded and the way his body lay so still. The tree that had become a spectacle of ice from your anger and grief, each branch growing larger and heavier as the ice layered upon itself until branches finally cracked and ice shattered on the floor.

Jungkook had been in fights before, he’d defended you many times when needed. He’d seen people die, it was just a fact of life. But Jimin had a hold on him, a grip that wouldn’t let go even in death.

If he let himself think too hard about it, then his heart would almost start to ache. The mental image of Jimin’s smile and the way he threw himself bodily into a laugh, the sound causing instant amusement to anyone who overheard it. How his eyes would crease until he almost couldn’t see when he smiled too wide, or the way his jaw set when he saw something that annoyed him.

It was starting to Jungkook to realise how much he’d noticed, but it was only because he missed it so much. Only days had passed, yet he still expected to hear his voice in that playful tone. To experience the usual teasing from the older man about you, alongside the subtle encouragement.

A sudden knock on the door shook Jungkook out of his thoughts, a grimace crossing over his face as he realised that he’d been sitting at his desk and had once more let his mind wander. The pile of documents wasn’t getting any smaller and he’d barely scratched the surface of the potential recruits.

Scrunching his nose in annoyance, he stood and shook his arms before rolling his shoulders. He had to get a grip on himself, had to focus back on the things that mattered.

Moving over to the door, he opened it with a gruff greeting before pausing in surprise. Eyes widening, he looked over the image of you in confusion before suddenly remembering not only his position but his manners.

“Your High-sorry, Your Majesty. Erm, I apologise, I wasn’t expecting you here. I didn’t even know you know where my quarters are.” Mentally, he winces at how stupid he sounds. Of course you’d be able to find out where he lived inside the castle, it wasn’t like you were the queen or anything.

Or would be the queen very soon, once your official coronation ceremony happened. Which was something else he needed to think about.

Brow raising, your lips quirk slightly in an amused smile before shrugging. If your childhood tutors had seen that, Jungkook had no doubt that they’d be cursing at your lack of posture. But you didn’t seem to look bothered, so he didn’t mention it. He knew that you’d just roll your eyes at him, just like you did with anyone who critiqued you on trivial things like that.

“I asked Hoseok, and he escorted me here before you ask. Though I’ve relieved him of duty now that I’m here as I’m sure you’re more than capable of protecting me in your quarters.” The confidence in your words isn’t unexpected, but he still stares at you dumbfounded for a moment.

“You want to come into my quarters?” He asks, no stutter but a lot of scepticism layered into the question. You don’t laugh at him, at least, though he notes that you have to press your lips together in a concerted effort.

“If you would let me, and none of that stuff about it not being seemly for a woman or the queen. I have concerns that I wish to talk to you about, and I’m fully aware that you do a lot of the paperwork here. That is a perfectly good excuse, is it not?” Jungkook didn’t think there was any excuse that would be valid to accept the unmarried queen entering the personal quarters of her head guard, but he’d long ago learnt to pick his battles with you.

“I suppose so. Please, come in, Your Majesty.” He takes care to emphasise your title, stressing every syllable until your eyes narrow at him.

It’s only once you’re through the door that he suddenly panics, turning around and eyeing the room carefully. As the head guard for the crown princess, he had larger quarters than most guards. He knew that he was entitled to some even larger now, with your new position, but it felt like his own weren’t big enough right now.

Coughing uncomfortably, he rushes over to tidy up his desk and has to fight to stop his cheeks from heating in embarrassment. He never had anyone visit him, hell he was barely ever here. Still, he wanted you to see that he wasn’t some slovenly creature inside the comfort of his own walls.

“I apologise for the untidiness, I wasn’t expect-” Your laugh cuts him off, causing him to turn around to look at you confused with his inkpot held firmly in one hand.

“You consider this untidy? I think my maids would die of shock if my quarters looked as neat as this, you don’t even have any old clothes lying around.” Chuckling, you moved over to sit on his bed and he felt the urge to offer you the chair at his desk instead. He stopped though, recognising that you probably wanted the softer seat.

“I mean…this is untidy for me, I’m normally a lot neater than this.” Mumbling, he places the pot carefully down and straightens up a stack of papers. Your next words cause him to freeze, fingertips grazing the used paper as he does so.

“Yes, I understand. You’re also normally more of a workaholic. I can’t recall a single time that you haven’t worked at least rota in two days, yet I haven’t seen you in days. Not since before you set off for the escort.” Jungkook notices how you don’t say Jimin’s name, and he knows it was done on purpose.

For a moment, he stays quiet and wonders what to say. If he even wants to say anything.

Instead, his shoulders slump and he suddenly feels that soul-deep weariness once more. Bowing his head, he presses his hands against the desk and wonders what to say to you. Because you’re right, this is the longest he’s gone without guarding you and he doesn’t have an answer.

“Will you sit next to me, Jungkook? Please?” You ask, voice soft and gentle. There’s no humour anymore, nor any of your usual teasings that you seem to have when you talk to him nowadays. Instead, there’s something that he can’t quite identify.

Without looking at you, Jungkook turns around and moves next to the bed. Hesitating only a moment, he lets himself sit and stares down at his hands whilst his elbows rest on his thighs. If he was in a better mindset then he’d have become aware of how close he was to you, how the heat of your thigh could be felt against his own or how his bed sunk, rolling the two of you together.

On that note, he’d probably be obsessing over the fact that you were both on his bed, in his quarters, alone.

Instead, his mind is blank as he simply looks at nothing in particular.

You don’t interrupt the silence, instead letting him think and decide to speak up on his own accord. As much as he enjoyed how companionable it sounded, there was something inside him that just needed to be let out.

“Did you know that the guards don’t get buried here? Before Jimin?” Jungkook almost chokes on Jimin’s name but gets it out anyway, licking his suddenly dry lips and wishing he had a drink on hand. Something alcoholic and bitter to match his mood.

“I did, though I wish I could have done something for him. He deserved better than what happened to him, and I’ll forever regret that it was because of me.” Clasping your hands together, you let out a tiny sigh as Jungkook shakes his head.

“It was not because of you, it was for you. It was his job, his duty. He performed it well and I know he would not want you to feel guilty over it. We’re just guards, it’s better for us than for it to be you.” There’s an almost awkward silence now, the air filled with a tension he can’t identify and finds exceptionally uncomfortable.

“Still I-”

“Did you know he has a brother? Jiyoon is younger than him, around my age. I heard so many stories about how I reminded Jimin of Jiyoon, how his little brother had a huge case of hero worship when they were younger. I got to meet him, at the funeral. And his parents. They were…they grieve. I’m sad he can’t be buried here, with honours, but I’m glad he has his family to remember him. He will be mourned and he will be remembered.” You don’t respond, staying quiet and allowing Jungkook to simply ramble on.

He’s not sure why, maybe you don’t know what to say or maybe you just have nothing to say. Still, he talks and lets out all the thoughts he’s held captive over the last few days.

“If Hoseok dies then he has his mother and father and sister to mourn him. Taehyung will grieve, and he’ll be remembered as a son, a husband and a brother. His memory will live on with them all and he’ll probably become a fond tale through the years, as will Jimin.” Now he pauses, the next words sticking in his throat almost painfully.

“No one will remember me. I have no hometown, no family cemetery, no family. If I died tomorrow, then I would simply disappear. No mother would grieve me, no father would mourn the son he lost. No one would know that Jeon Jungkook had lived. I looked into what happens to the guards who have no family, we get cremated and the ashes are disposed of. We’re not important, because we have no one who cares.”

Swallowing hard, he’s embarrassed to realise his eyes are hot with tears. Gritting his teeth, he tries to blink them away but only succeeds in making them fall. They trail down his cheeks slowly, the moisture left behind almost itchy as it begins to dry and he wipes them away quickly.

You spot it though, and a gentle hand reaches out to wipe away another stray tear. He’s suddenly taken back to the fight, of how you’d cupped his cheek and the concern in your eyes. It was something he’d almost forgotten, but he remembers it now. Your palm is just as soft as before, and he wants to nuzzle closer into it and let you do this all the time.

“I would remember you. I would grieve if you died tomorrow, and I would mourn you. Don’t ever think you’re alone, Jungkook. Hoseok would be devastated if something happened to you, just as you are upset about Jimin. You have a family, just not a conventional one. But you would be remembered, you will be. I swear.” He can’t bring himself to look into your eyes, not with how fast the tears are falling now.

It almost feels like something inside him is breaking, his chest tight as his hands clench into fists. He normally has a much stronger control of his emotions, especially around you, but everything feels much more raw and open today.

“I miss him. I miss him so much. He was my best friend, you know, my brother. The brother I never had, he’d always be teasing me and annoying me. But that’s what older brothers do, right? He cared so much though, never wanted me to be unhappy and always encouraged me to go for what I wanted. And now he’s gone and I’ll never see him again and I miss him.” It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and for the first time in years, Jungkook lets himself cry.

He doesn’t even really register when you gently pull him into your arms, your embrace surrounding him as you push his head until it’s tucked under your chin. Instead, he simply closes his eyes as he fractures inside.

Jungkook would come to terms with what he was feeling and would take strides to return to his normally stoic and professional demeanour. But for now, he let himself grieve in your arms. No one would ever know this had happened, and he wasn’t sure what it was about you that had managed to wriggle its way under his emotional defences so quickly.

Still, despite your position and his own, he knew that you would never mention this to anyone. So, almost a week after the incident had occurred, he finally mourned the loss of his best friend.

#networkbangtan #armiesnet #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #bts fluff #bts angst #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts fic #bts fanfiction #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader

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encomium-emmae · 2 years

Note

Really love your work! One word prompt: ring

The differences between her first wedding and her second could not have been more stark.

Emma had been barely more than a girl when she married Æthelred—a man of almost forty—and knelt beside him in the wide nave of the cathedral at Winchester, her thin shoulders weighed down by her sable-lined train, her gown with its many layers of silk and heavy damask. The assembled nobles and ecclesiastics had stood and watched, alongside eight of the king’s children by his previous wife, who, Emma learned, had died in childbed, but not before successfully providing him with a ninth. The archbishop had performed the Mass and then they took their vows, the king slipping a silver ring upon her finger before he lifted up her veil.

The ring was loose, easily sliding down her knuckle. To keep it in place, she curled her hand into a ball, tight until her nails bit into her palm.

That night, in her marriage bed, Emma had squeezed her hands into fists once more, the sharp sting serving to distract her from the rough use he was making of her body.

Her new husband is not young either, but she is also no longer a girl. She knows more of the world and her place in it, her years of experience only making her that much more observant and shrewd. To his credit, he sees these as gifts, to be harnessed and used, rather than stabled away.

They are wed less than an hour after he proposes, and in the same room, a chantry priest summoned from his sleep to perform the sacrament. The witnesses can be counted on a single hand: two of his men and one of her ladies, chosen solely for their discretion and ability to put their hand to a document.

The two of them kneel at the makeshift altar behind her bed, he in a wool tunic, she in a simple gown. It is late enough at night that the fire in the hearth has begun to ebb, the remaining candles casting the room in soft, burnished light.

He does not trip over the words of the Latin, as Emma worried he might, but speaks clearly, without hesitation.

The ring he slips on her finger—a wide filigreed band of gold with an oval stone the color of the moon—looks remarkably similar to one she had seen the Lady of Kent wearing when she had visited court in midsummer. Emma only remembers because she had admired it enough to compliment the lady on its beauty. If that is indeed its provenance, it must have been acquired as spoil when his army sacked Meddestane.

And now it is hers, she supposes.

They are not afforded the full luxury of a wedding night—he must sail in a few hours with the morning tide—but before he goes she takes him once more to her bed. It is painful, but not in the same manner as her first night as a young bride, for it is her heart, and not her body, that is being rent.

A not small part of her wishes to keep him there forever, safe within the bounds of her benevolent captivity. But he is a king, with duties and ties of obligation that must be upheld, and in truth, she would think less of him if he did not return to act in the defense of his people. Yet before he leaves she extracts a promise: he must fight his war and then return to her. He must come back and give her many more nights than just this one.

The next day Emma will look at his ring upon her finger, thumb tracing against the bright stone. An unbidden smile will settle on her lips as she remembers his words, and the unmistakable way that he had gazed at her as he had said them.

[send me a one-word Emma/Canute prompt]

#vikings: valhalla #vikings valhalla #emma of normandy #king canute #canute x emma #vikings netflix #fanfiction #one word prompts #i hope you like it!

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thatsonemorbidcorvid · 3 years

Text

NILANJANA BHOWMICK

The message to women was clear: Go back home. Since November, hundreds of thousands of farmers had gathered at different sites on the outskirts of the Indian capital to demand the repeal of three agricultural laws that they say would destroy their livelihoods. In January, as the New Delhi winter set in, the Chief Justice of India asked lawyers to persuade elderly people and women to leave the protests. In response, women farmers—mostly from the rural states of Punjab, Haryana and Uttar Pradesh—scrambled onto stages, took hold of microphones and roared back a unanimous “No!”

“Something snapped within us when we heard the government tell the women to go back home,” says Jasbir Kaur, a sprightly 74-year-old farmer from Rampur in western Uttar Pradesh. It’s late February and Kaur has been camping at the Ghazipur protest site for over three months, only returning home once. She was stung by the court’s suggestion that women were mere care workers providing cooking and cleaning services at these sites—though she does do some of that work—rather than equal stakeholders. “Why should we go back? This is not just the men’s protest. We toil in the fields alongside the men. Who are we—if not farmers?”

Questions like this have rarely been asked by women like Kaur, long used to having their contributions to farming overlooked as part of their household duties. But this wave of protests—the world’s largest ongoing demonstration and perhaps the biggest in human history—has prompted thousands to make their voices heard. Indians of all ages, genders, castes and religions have been united by a common goal: to roll back new agricultural laws passed in September by Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s government. The laws, suspended in January by the Supreme Court but not yet repealed, would allow private corporations to buy directly from farmers, which they say would leave them at the mercy of buyers and do away with the traditional wholesale market system or mandis, where they are assured a minimum set price for certain crops.

Women, who form the backbone of Indian agriculture, may be particularly vulnerable to corporate exploitation. According to Oxfam India, 85% of rural women work in agriculture, but only around 13% own any land. “Women are not seen as farmers. Their labor is immense but invisible,” says Jasbir Kaur Nat, a member of the Punjab Kisan Union, who is mobilizing farmers in Tikri, the protest site at the border of Haryana and Delhi.

“This law will kill us, will destroy what little we have,” says Amandeep Kaur, a farmer from Talwandi in Punjab, whose husband died by suicide five years ago, following a bad crop that landed him with a debt of around $7,000. As well as farming, Kaur works as a community health worker to support her family; she and her two daughters only got rights to the land after her husband’s death. She lost out on compensation of almost the same amount that the Indian government gives to families of farmers who die by suicide because she did not secure a post mortem of the body to certify the death as suicide. “I didn’t even know the procedure to claim compensation from the government for my husband’s death,” she says. “How am I going to negotiate with businessmen?”

The U.N.’s Food and Agriculture Organization has urged action on the gender gap in agriculture, saying women’s voices must be “heard as equal partners” to ensure both agricultural development and food security. And at the protests in India, women are speaking up. Before now, some women had never stepped out of their homes without a veil, let alone spoken onstage in front of thousands of men. Many arrive at the sites in tractors, a powerful—and previously male—symbol of farming in India. “Women are changing women here,” Nat says, praising the spirit of protest among these women. “They are claiming their identities as farmers.”

All of this is happening in India’s deeply patriarchal heartlands of Uttar Pradesh, Punjab and Haryana. Changing mindsets in states where femicide, sexual violence and gender discrimination are rampant has been a persistent challenge for activists. “We have been working to bring about gender equality in these parts for so long—but the process has been slow,” says women’s rights activist Sudesh Goyat. During the first few days of protests in Tikri, she says, she was the only woman from Haryana there. But after the court suggested women leave, they “started to pour in. They came with their families. They came with other women. They came alone. It’s no less than a miracle,” she says.

It’s also a unique opportunity to address the gender imbalance in Indian society, says Gurnaam Singh, state secretary of the Punjab Kisan Union. At the protest sites, men and women from different cultures and communities must live side by side without much privacy and under harsh circumstances.

Taking advantage of this rare situation, activists hold frequent discussions on women’s work and their contribution to the rural economy. Regular announcements from the stage about treating women as equals echo around the protest sites throughout the day. “I like this India,” says Harsharan Kaur, a young IT engineer who left a job in Dubai to volunteer at the protest site.

At the Ghazipur site, 29-year-old Ravneet Kaur, a law student from Bangalore, has successfully normalized conversations around a taboo topic in India: menstruation. She set up a women’s store at the site with the help of the women protestors, where they displayed sanitary napkins openly. “The men got used to it soon enough,” she says. “Now these conversations are normal around here. Men don’t flinch when they say sanitary napkins anymore.”

Whether such sentiments will spread beyond the protests is unclear, but for now, female farmers are being seen, heard and acknowledged—offering a new vision of what gender equality might look like for the country. “We have looked upon them as mothers, sisters, wives,” says Sukh Deep Singh, a young farmer from Punjab. “But now we see them in a different light.”

The women see themselves differently too. In Tikri, Sudesh Kandela, a 55-year-old farmer from Haryana, watches a play being staged by a local theater group, enraptured by the spectacle. “I didn’t know what I was capable of beyond the expectations of me as a woman, a wife and mother,” says Kandela, who had never before been to a protest or taken her veil off outside her home. “But I am here now,” she says, clenching her fists, “and I cannot be oppressed. I cannot be intimidated. I cannot be bought.”

#this made me cry but i am hormonal to be fair #radfems please interact #radfems please touch #radical feminism #radfem #terfs please interact #terfs please touch

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foolgobi65 · 3 years

Text

varshadhara

one.

Sita has been married a year when there is news of a drought, cloudless skies that refuse to darken and dust that does not become soil. 20 villages chose a single representative to beg for aid from the Emperor himself, and Sita’s husband is drawn when he finally enters their bedroom that night.

“They are dying,” he says quietly, a confession that even later Sita is never sure he meant for her to hear. His eyes close as he begins to remove the ornaments that mark him the eldest, the favorite son, heir to all his father has conquered. Sita, seated on the bed, watches as her husband looks down at the ruby necklace whose clasp he has just undone and calculates how many meals he could buy with what lies so easily in his palms.

“Years,” she confirms, hands playing with the edge of her cotton upper cloth for want of something to do. Her voice startles them both, somehow too loud and too soft for the strange hush that has fallen on the palace so many hours after sunset. “But only because the jewelry you wear is more precious in this city for having been yours.”

He looks up, curiosity a glint in his eye and hands at the heavy earrings the Emperor insists on for court. He seems glad to see her. “Would it help?”

“Yes,” she says, ignoring the way her heart clenches to hear the hope in his voice, “for now. But what about in a year, should the drought continue?”

Her husband glances at the chest which keeps his gold, the fruit of a generation’s worth of tribute from kingdoms that span the earth.

“What a tragedy,” he drawls, fingers slowly teasing out the crown from the wonderful tangles of his hair, “to lose all these heavy jewels in pursuit of my duty as king.”

Sita startles into laughter and reaches out to take her husband’s burden, ignoring the surprise that flickers briefly across his features. He is always so surprised and then so grateful for what to Sita are the smallest morsels of tolerance. She does not think about why this might upset her. “And as my Lord’s faithful wife,” she says cheerfully in response, “I suppose it would be my duty to donate my ornaments as well.”

Both of them linger on Sita’s wrists, the ones she keeps nearly bare save the one golden bangle around each that at least proves her a wife. They smile: tragic indeed.

“My father has proclaimed that the drought stricken will not pay tribute,” Sita hears hours later, low in the moments before she finally closes her eyes, “but there must be something more we can do to help.”

She could live like this, she thinks, at the moment she slips over the edge between the worlds of life and dreams. Sita is content. This could be enough.

----

two.

By now all of Ayodhya must know that Janaki, foundling daughter of the Videhan king, was not expected to marry -- the year that she has spent in the blessed state so far has been tumultuous, to say the least. She grew up a goddess, but more than that she grew up sheltered from palace politics and finds herself embroiled in more than one controversy due to her own ineptitude.

Her sisters, each of them younger than Sita, were married to her husband’s three brothers before they became women true and so are kept as maidens in the palaces of their individual mother in laws: far from their eldest sister who lives, as is traditional, in the rooms of her husband.

What would they say, Sita wonders, if they knew their sister to be equally virginal only weeks before the first anniversary of her wedding?

Sita sets the ceremonial platter on top of a stool and kneels, gently picking up the woolen blanket covering her husband as he sleeps on the floor. The difference in temperature, they have both realized, is usually enough for him to wake and so it is today when his eyes open. Together they fold not only the blanket that covered him but the two others that make what serves as his mattress on the ground, one of her husband’s many concessions to his ungrateful, accidental wife.

“I was never supposed to be married,” she had whispered the night of their consummation, tears streaming down her face and tone as possibly close to a shriek while knowing that servants listened at the door. “I know nothing of how to manage a royal household, much less satisfy a husband!”

The black rimming her eyes must have mixed with her tears, leaving Sita a fright. The combined talents of Ayodhya’s finest ladies-in-waiting ruined by the anxieties of a girl utterly unsuited to serve as their canvas. Sita’s husband, a man who wielded enough power at 16 to force each of Sita’s baying, blood-lusting suitors -- some of them thrice her husband’s age -- to their knees in supplication, had barely walked into the room when confronted with the sight.

“I did not need the protection of a husband,” Sita had said then, back turned. “I would have died before any of those lechers disguised as failed suitors tried to touch me.” She choked back a sob. “It would have been better for us all if I had.” Years later her husband confesses that sometimes he still hears her like this in the moments before he falls asleep, even when they have spent more years than not tangled as one in bed. Sita never tells him how close it all was in the end, how tightly she was gripping the knife when someone heard that a young anchorite had not only lifted, but broken the Great God’s bow. But on her wedding night, when Sita opened her eyes it was to the sight of her husband, his own blade drawn. She flinched, but he only raised his own palm and ran the edge against skin to draw blood.

“A woman,” he said in answer to her unvoiced question, “is supposed to bleed on her first night. The washerwoman will be paid handsomely for her knowledge in the morning.”

Sita flushed, shoulders straightening of their own accord at the implication.

“And as a virgin bride myself, I will bleed as any other” she said, hands fisted at her side in brief, overwhelming rage. “My reputation does not need you to shed blood on my behalf.”

Her husband had only nodded, moving towards the side of the bed opposite to where Sita sat in order to smear his palm once, twice, thrice until he seemed satisfied with his handiwork.

A million questions ran through Sita’s mind. “I hope your sleep is restful,” was all her husband said in response, grabbing a blanket from the foot of what was to be their marital bed and arranging himself on the floor.

Nearly a year since, Sita’s knowledge as to the running of households has not increased, nor, she suspects, has her knowledge regarding the satisfaction of her husband. He keeps long hours, spending as much time away from his wife as possible. The people of Ayodhya, used to the years that might have passed between visits from their woman-drunk sovereign, are enthralled by the near constant access to their Crown Prince, and this during the years when it is acceptable, nay even appropriate to be devoted to naught but one’s own pleasure.

The women of the palace, caught between their desire to honor their collective son and their need to denigrate his strange, uncouth wife, stay silent.

----

three.

“In Mithila,” Sita’s husband begins, breaking their easy silence that has fallen over this morning meal, “what would you do in times of drought?”

Sita startles, the palm frond she was using to keep away insects as her husband ate, slipping to the ground. Though they can now speak of many things, they have never spoken of Mithila -- it is encouraged for new brides to sink themselves fully into the environs of their new, forever home. In this, at least, she is like every wife before her: the ways of her past can have no place in her present. Every day she must attempt to forget who she once was.

“I am only a girl,” Sita answers carefully, eyes lowered as she was told women do. “Such a question may be better answered by my Father, or one of the preceptors versed in these matters.”

There is a silence, but Sita, unable to lift her eyes to her husband’s face, cannot tell if he has accepted her falsehood. The Raghuvanshis, she has been told time and time again, are a line of honor. They do not lie.

“Did you think--” she hears, and then a sigh. “I know who you are, my lady. Are we not friends, at the very least?”

Sita clenches her jaw, picking up the palm fronds once more. She is no longer afraid of her husband, at least not as she was at first. But he cannot want the answers he seeks, not truly. “I am a princess of Ayodhya,” she says, as she has to herself every morning since she woke up next to her husband’s blood on the bed and his body on their floor. “I am your wife, sanctified by the Lord’s Bow and the sacrament of the Holy Fire.”

“Yes,” her husband agrees. Sita cannot help but note that his tone is gentle. “And in Videha, you are considered a Goddess too.”

He says it so easily, as if Sita does not live balanced on the sword-edge between damned and divine. For a moment, she lets herself imagine what it would be like to be known.

There is a story known in Videha, of a drought so ferocious that a King long without child was forced to seed his own lands with the merit of his good deeds. Of the four days of labor that resulted in a baby girl, delivered from the womb of the Eternal Mother Earth. A child covered in an afterbirth of soil where there had only ever been useless dirt.

And yet this too is known: children are the only dead who are buried, their bodies believed too beloved to be consecrated to the fire and burned beyond reckoning. Instead they are covered in wool and laid to rest in the lap of Mother Earth alongside a plea for Death to be gentle.

Sometimes these children are wanted. Many times, the bodies buried are the ones who are not.

This is all that is known: when the King knelt to deliver the child, what had previously been blue sky broke into the first of that year’s monsoon, nearly a decade since the last.

Foundlings left to die do not wear the garb of royalty. Goddesses do not wed.

What would you call me, Crown Prince?

“I am a princess of Ayodhya,” she says, the words suddenly heavy, like stones in her mouth. Her silence protects her sisters from the taint of Sita’s own uncertainty, and Ayodhya has no need for Gods not its own. She waves away an insect that attempts to rest atop her husband’s left ear and resigns herself to her fate: “I am your wedded wife.”

“They are dying,” he says softly, but he speaks to himself. Sita thinks of the easy way they can speak now sometimes; at nights before they retire, or over a morning meal. Her husband is right -- they are friends, if nothing else, and she owes him more than this. Viciously Sita tamps down on the guilt she feels roiling her stomach, rebelling against a stance that suddenly feels like betrayal.

----

Four.

“It is strange,” Mother Kaushalya remarks, as always, “that you were never taught the ways of Royal Women. Is this how girls are raised in Videha?”

Mother Kaushalya, who has only known the Kosala for which she is named, has latched onto the strangeness of Sita’s far-off homeland as a possible explanation for the ways in which Sita grates mountain-rough against the silk of the Imperial Palace. It is useless of course, since a slight against Videha must inherently touch Sita’s sisters, who in the last year have already developed a reputation for grace, gentility, and an overflowing well of kindness towards all blessed with their presence.

Mother Kaushalya, according to the servant-slaves Sita eavesdrops on, has been heard quarreling with Mother Sumitra, begging for “at least one of your darling girls, my Lady, for you know that it can only be selfishness to keep them both when your elder sister has none!”

Sita, tugging awkwardly at the overwrought necklaces she must wear when in Mother Kaushalya’s presence, can only agree. She, more than anyone, knows what she lacks. There have been rumors recently that all three of Dasharatha’s Chief Queens have made a petition to the Emperor to find a new princess worthy of the Crown Prince’s hand.

Sita can only hope that when the time comes, her husband will allow her access to the Imperial Library, or at least will deem it proper to have one wife devoted to the worship of the Gods: philosophy and piety are so easily confused, after all. The best life she can now demand is one where she recedes into the background of the Imperial Palace, unneeded and unknown by all. Never will Sita oversee the workings of a kingdom in the manner she was raised, nor will she sit atop an altar and listen to those petitioners who make pilgrimage to weep at her feet.

Some days, Sita does not even know if she is a woman at all, if these mothers and wives are capable of knowing and carrying the grief of a nation inside their fragile bodies. Every night she dreams of the drought ravaging the villages near the outskirts of Kosala, of how once a year Sita was carried by 50 men to the fields of Videha so that she might press her feet into the soil that made her womb and call forth the rains that heralded her birth.

But then she too dreams of this: a mother weeping, swollen with child like other mothers who have knelt in front of Sita. A mother who delivers a daughter in the ordinary way and buries her alive.

“Goddesses,” the Sage Parashurama had said the year after Sita was installed in the palace of Mithila, “are not meant for marriage. Videha is fortunate that after the reign of Janaka it will be guided by the light of the Divine.”

He paused then, as they all do. “And if the Lady were not a goddess, well --”

They never finish the sentence. The threat is implied.

Sita cannot be meant for love, not in the way of women who are meant for marriage. How can she, when she was meant to sit atop a dais as the physical embodiment of a force of nature, just as easily as inside the hearts of believers? How can she, when she lives her life in the fear that she will be caught out and banished, back into the grave she was meant to die in?

Women are meant for friendship. Women are meant for love.

“My apologies Mother Kaushalya,” Sita says, shaking her head and trying to convince herself that she does not rage against the fate that stretches fallow before her, “I was not raised to be much of a girl at all.”

The real trouble, Sita thinks later, is that despite everything she has somehow found herself liking her husband anyway.

---

five.

“My Lady,” a servant twitters three weeks after the Emperor promises debt relief to the drought-stricken. “My Lady, your Lord husband has need of you!”

Sita looks up from the flowers she is carelessly attempting to string together in a garland, perhaps to festoon a doorway, perhaps to drape around one of the many idols of Surya, the progenitor of her husband’s race. They have not spoken in the week since he asked her about Videha and she refused to answer. “He does?”

“He does,” the servant responds with some relish, ready Sita is sure to reap the rewards of being the bearer of such premium gossip the moment Sita’s back is turned. Sita’s husband has never before indicated such a preference for her company. “He asked that I bring you to him, and not in the garb of royalty.”

“And you are sure that this is my husband?” It is not altogether seemly for Sita to be expressing such doubt that her husband might be asking for her, especially when such a request -- even to appear in plainclothes -- is not unusual for those young and in love, seeking respite from the rhythms of the palace by traveling outside its gates. But really, her husband?

The servant, a girl perhaps only a few years older than Sita’s 16, only raises an eyebrow and widens her grin. “Should I call for one of your maids to help you dress?”

“No,” Sita responds absently, lost in the contemplation of what game her husband could possibly be playing. “Did he say if he had any preference as to what I wear?”

“He did not, my Lady, but if I may I think you had better choose something blue if you have it. The color sets nicely against your skin. Silver jewelry instead of gold, if you have that too. ”

Sita does, buried at the bottom of a trunk of clothes she had carried with her from home. But before that --

“Here,” Sita undoes the clasp of the pearl necklace sent to her by some princeling attempting to curry favor with the crown. There is no true harm in people knowing she has left the palace in her husband’s company, but she is off-center enough to want this a secret as long as she can buy it so. “For your silence, until we return.”

In the time it takes Sita to strip out of silk and re-knot her old lower cloth of coarse blue cotton she has thought of a hundred different potential scenarios. Had she been alone, she might have had to slouch out of her own rooms with her head down so that she might prevent recognition -- in the company of a servant, Sita is passed over as one as well and strolls quite comfortably into the sunshine, following a path she has never taken until they find her husband leaning against the wall of one of the palace’s more minor stables.

“My lady,” he says, seeming to shake himself out of some sort of stupor and leveraging himself fully upright. “Antara,” he says then, turning to face the servant he had charged with fetching Sita, “you have my gratitude.” He leans down to pick up something wrapped in cloth before walking to Antara with a winning smile while pressing the package into her arms.

Sita knows something of her husband, but not like this. She is charmed.

“I came across the mangoes your sister likes when I was making my way back from one of the border kingdoms,” her husband says to Antara. “Tell her that I look forward to hearing more about her adventures when she is feeling well enough to take visitors.”

Antara’s eyes gleam and grow misty. “Oh,” she says, lips trembling as she folds her hands around the parcel and takes her leave, “and we have only just gotten her head to shrink back to its usual size after the last time!”

Alone at last, Sita’s husband’s earlier flash of ease vanish into the ether. Sita tries not to take offense at being more a stranger to him than the woman he sent to fetch his wife. “My lady,” he says again, but cannot seem to say anything more. Sita, feeling the awkwardness of the last week’s silence and her own slight guilt besides, takes pity.

“The girl?”

Sita is rewarded with a smile of her own, small but sincere. “Bedridden, but wonderfully vivacious still. There are bouts of illness where she is worse off than usual, but she believes me nothing more than a particular playmate and I try to see her when I can. The parcel has medicine a far-off physician swore had done a similar patient some good, but Antara would never accept unless I passed it to her like this.”

Sita blinks. “But you are her sovereign!”

Her husband shrugs. “I am her sister’s friend, and I find that everyone is entitled to some amount of pride. It is difficult to accept that you cannot help the one you love best alone.”

She nods, satisfied as she has been in the past with the knowledge that at least she is not married to a stupid man, And, she supposes, not a cruel one either. “How old is the girl?”

His smile widens slightly in apparent reminiscence. “She will be seven in two months' time.”

“Does she have a doll?”

“One,” Sita’s husband says slowly, brow slightly furrowed, “but bedraggled.”

Sita may not know how to comport herself as wife nor princess, but once she was a Goddess who heard the entreaties of those who cared for their beloved ill. Still, she remains a sister. This, Sita knows how to do. “If you approve, I will make her a new one that you can take with you. I used to make dolls for my sisters out of dried grass and cloth when we were children.”

For a moment, her husband looks stunned before he manages to school his features into something like equanimity once more. Still, he slips and there is something helpless about the way he is suddenly looking at her. “You are kind,” he says, but low in a tone that makes it clear that he is not truly speaking to Sita so much as about her to himself. “I am always glad for that.”

Sita blushes, unsure about how to respond to a compliment not exactly meant for her ears. It is not something she ever expected to hear from anyone in Ayodhya, much less the husband she condemns to spend his days wandering the countryside and his nights at rest alone on his own stone floor. “Why did you call me?” she decides to ask instead.

Again, her husband shakes his head as if rising from a reverie. His usual self-confidence suddenly melts into trepidation. What could he possibly want that discomfits him so?

“At the Kosalan border,” he says slowly, eyes focused on some point behind Sita’s shoulders, “there are a few villages that, at some point in the last few years, welcomed some families from afar.”

There is something about the way he speaks that begins to knot Sita’s stomach. She has the beginnings of an inkling, but nothing so concrete that she can speak it aloud. She nods for him to continue.

“Neighbors share stories in times of plenty as well as times of scarcity. These last few months there have been stories about former droughts, experienced by foreign kingdoms.”

Ah. Of course.

“This is not Videha,” Sita says, but she speaks almost as if she is in a dream. She cannot deny her divinity, not without inviting further scrutiny of her orphanhood. But neither has she ever truly believed that it is her feet that coaxed the rains to Mithila. Her father sowed the fields with the merit of his good deeds. Her father found a babe in the trough. Coincidence does not imply correlation.

What would happen if the stories were wrong? If Sita walked the lands but the sky remained a bright, barren blue? In some faint corner of her heart, she feels resentment towards her husband for having made her think of this at all.

“Yes,” her husband agrees, “I told them so. But they insist I bring you to meet them if only to speak as their princess.” He winces slightly, eyes shifting desolate to the dirt. “Hope sometimes means the difference between death or life in these instances, and at this moment I have nothing else to offer.”

Helpless, Sita thinks again. Her husband, Crown Prince of Dasaratha’s empire that extends further and exacts more in tribute than any before, stands helpless before his wife. They are friends, he had said, and even before that, he is the one who has always been kind. She opens her mouth to say something, anything, but no words find themselves on the tip of her tongue.

Her husband, eyes still averted, nods as if he has understood. “It was foolish to ask, I know, and perhaps you even think me cruel. You do not speak of who you were in Videha, and I should not ask this of you as my wife.” His jaw sets. “I will take you back to the palace.”

What would happen if the stories were true? If, as in her dreams, Sita walked the lands here in Kosala and the skies still split?

“How will we go?” she asks quietly, unable to force her voice firm. The words leave her mouth unbidden, but she knows they are right nonetheless. “How long will it take?”

She can almost hear her husband’s neck snap as his eyes rise from their study of the ground to gaze at her with all the intensity of the vicious sun. If before he was stunned, now he can only be described as pole-axed. His face is suddenly host to so many overwrought emotions at once that it is rendered as illegible as the times when he forces it blank. She has never seen him so, but that is not unusual. She had not seen him even wearing the smile he gave Antara.

This, she wonders, if anyone anywhere has witnessed ever before. She wonders, even as in her heart she knows the truth: they haven’t. None but Sita.

“Will you really come?” His voice is almost plaintive, like a child asking something he already knows he cannot have. But what does the most powerful man in the world know of want?

“I will,” Sita says, head spinning with a thousand questions, a thousand fears, a thousand hopes. She bites her lip, suddenly overwhelmed by her own uncertainty. “I cannot promise --” again, she loses her voice before she can finish the sentence that would throw her status into such uncertainty.

“I know,” her husband says, answering her unasked question. “I always knew. It would not matter to me either way.” He too seems to break off, struggling to find the proper words. He takes a step forward, and then another, and then one more until he stands in front of Sita, close enough that if he reached out he could clutch at her wrists. “Janaki,” he says, voice dripping with an honest earnesty that suddenly reminds Sita that if she feels herself a girl in Ayodhya then her husband too is a young boy, aged artificially by the weight he is always carrying on his shoulders.

“Janaki,” her husband says again, and Sita takes a breath. He is very handsome up close this friend of hers, the man who is her husband. “You will always be safe with me.” He smiles slightly, and Sita feels the corners of her own lips curling in sympathetic response. “As you say, you are now my wedded wife. There is nothing anyone could say about you that will change that. You can be more, but from now on you will never be less.”

For years Sita was old as well. More than anything else, she was lonely. She is lonely still.

What would you call me, Crown Prince?

My wife.

“I will try,” she vows, refusing to think about what it will do to the villagers for whom the drought continues after she walks the distance of their land. For once, she knows what will happen: she will remain her husband’s wife. In many ways, this is more the moment of her marriage than the one in which he tied the sacred thread around her neck than the one in which he broke the bow of the Great God.

“I will,” she says again, and Sita is unsure if she is promising to be wife, princess, or Goddess. All three, perhaps. “For them,” she swallows and throws all caution to the wind. “For you, I promise I will at least try.”

---

Sita walks for hours, hair falling out of the twist she had pulled it into after dismounting from the saddle she had shared with her husband traveling by horseback to the place that still believed there lived a goddess that could quench dry land.

She walks and walks, walks and walks and walks until her feet begin to crack and then bleed after such long exposure to the harshness of dead earth. Then, she walks some more. Thirst left her an hour ago, but now she struggles against exhaustion. Every step threatens to pull her down into the dust, and she knows, knew, that this would happen. She knew that she would prove their faith false, and leave them worse for having met her. She knew, and yet --

She had hoped, still.

There are no living goddesses who walk the land like Sita to call forth the rain. It is a ritual that has its roots in her father Janaka’s sacrifice, seeding the earth with the merit of his good deeds. Once, she had asked him what he felt when he had been plowing alone in the moments before he manifested a miracle.

“I suppose I should tell you that I prayed,” he had said thoughtfully, hand coming up to stroke absently at his beard, “but I did not. My people were suffering, and there is nothing even an intelligent man can do to mitigate the effects of a decade of drought. I was supposed to be thinking of all the good I had done, so as to imbue the ground with that goodness. But more than anything, every moment I was there I wanted it to rain -- more than anything I had ever wanted before. I felt like I would have done anything then, given anything, if only it would rain. By the end, I knew it would. It had to.”

In Videha, Sita had walked as ritual. She had lived in times of plenty.

In Kosala, there is a drought. She has seen with her own eyes the shrunken bodies of villagers who have no food. Whose voices are raspy with thirst. Together they had collected all the water they had left and had Sita sit, cross-legged before them as they washed away the dust of the road. Sita’s husband has promised that she will be his wife even if she proves a woman after all, but suddenly she knows why the rain fell. Her father too had known; in his own way, he had even tried to tell her.

In Kosala, Sita wants. She is a woman, and in this moment she wants as she never has before. She wants it to rain, more than anyone ever has wanted anything anywhere. More even than her father must have wanted because she wants not only for herself and her people but for her husband as well. Perhaps for him most of all, whom she has seen wrack his mind for weeks. Who has defied what convention or good sense would tell him and instead placed his faith in his wild wife, bringing her to the outskirts of his kingdom in hope of a miracle. Far from the palace, Sita knows herself. She knows what she wants. She knows now, with blinding certainty, what will be.

She wants to be loved, and she wants to love in turn. She wants it to rain, and so it will.

She walks until her body fails, certain in her knowledge that the rain will come. It has to. She trips, and suddenly she hears the gasps of the crowd that has kept vigil at the sides as they did in the time of her father before her. She trips, she falls, and just as she loses consciousness she hears the impossible roll of thunder on a cloudless day.

Sita hits the ground, and it begins to rain in Kosala.

---

coda. (2, 3, 4)

It is late when Sita wakes, eyes opening to the ceiling of a small hut as the raindrops patter against the roof. Outside she can hear shouts of glee, the beat of drums, the exultant songs of villagers who know that they can soothe their hoarse throats with water.

“Was it always like that?” Sita looks down to the foot of her bed where her husband kneels, hands gently rubbing ointment into her wounds before wrapping them with strips of his upper cloth. She hums in question, uncertain of what he means. “When you would walk in Videha,” her husband clarifies, eyes never leaving his self-appointed task, “was it like it was today?”

She could say yes, and imply that this is what goddesses do. Raghuvanshis do not lie. “No,” she says, and marvels at what a struggle it is to even speak. “Never.”

He nods, as if this was the only answer he expected. “Then it really was you,” he says softly, and suddenly Sita notices his hands are shaking as he winds the last of the cloth around her left foot. “You walked, and the gods answered your call.”

“Yes,” Sita says in a whisper. It is a thought too large to bear. He must have questions, she knows, and she owes her husband an explanation. She wants to tell him everything she remembers, everything she now understands, but in this moment there is nothing she can bring herself to say.

Finally, he looks away from her feet, shifting so that it is easier for Sita to look and see his red eyes.

“You cried,” Sita says inanely, stupid again but now in shock.

Her husband laughs, the sound just on the verge of being a sob. “It rained.”

He looks away.

“Before I found your pulse, I thought you had died.”

---

They leave in the morning once more on horseback, Sita clutching her husband’s waist and content to expose her aching, bandaged feet to the elements having long lost her shoes. The villagers offer breakfast, but Sita and her husband communicate wordlessly like she has seen other married couples do, and say together that they must respectfully decline. It will take another cycle for the crops to truly flourish, and there is more food than anyone can eat at home.

For a moment, Sita is jarred at the realization that Ayodhya is what she means when she thinks now of “home.” Mithila, of course, is home always -- but it is different now. Sita’s father called down the rain in Videha, but it was Sita alone who split the sky for her home last night.

After about an hour her husband brings the horse to a halt and jumps down, walking until they reach a lush orchard. Sita swings her right leg around and falls into his arms. For a moment she feels him lower her before he remembers that she cannot walk and shifts his grip, left arm grasping under her knees as Sita wraps her arms around his neck.

“You like jamun fruits, no? You keep them in our bedroom sometimes.”

Yes, Sita does. “Do you?”

Her husband shrugs. “I like these jamun fruits.”

“And where are we?”

“The crown plants orchards at places along the main roads so that travelers might find some respite.” He smiles, looking up at one of the trees. “This is the one with the best jamun fruits in Kosala. And this,” he lowers Sita to the ground underneath the tree and she lets go obligingly, “is the best tree of the orchard.”

It is a romantic claim to make, that there is a single tree that produces the best fruit in the land, but Sita’s husband does not say it as one might when repeating a fancy. Intrigued despite herself, she asks: “How do you know?”

He palms the bark, fingers searching for something that he finds in a particular divot. “A few years ago a squadron of warriors tested the fruit of every tree. This was the one they liked best.”

Sita is skeptical. “And you believe them?”

“Well,” her husband amends, that same mischief he had shown Antara in his eyes, “this is certainly the one I liked best, and the rest agreed as well. It might not be to your taste, given that you are a woman of refined taste in this sphere and I merely a man who prefers mangos.”

“We shall see,” Sita laughs, bedraggled and thirsty and tired. Still, she feels like she has never laughed like this before. In her past she has certainly felt joy and found laughter, but in her happiness now she floats. She had always felt so heavy before. “Let me have my breakfast, and I will be the judge of that.”

Her husband is graceful in victory -- it is not perfectly the season, but Sita swears she has never tasted so sweet a fruit.

---

“Her feet are bandaged,” Kaikeyi observes when the cacophony that accompanies their return to the palace dies down to a dull roar. It is an easy thing to notice when Sita is being carried in her husband’s arms. Kaikeyi was always the quickest of Dasaratha’s queens and proves herself to be the one best informed when her beautiful face twists in withering disgust. “You cannot possibly think that your wife ended the drought by walking.”

Sita cannot tell if the emphasis is on the words “your wife” or “walking.” Both, she thinks, offend the very marrow of an Ayodhyan sensibility that has spent half a year shoving gold at pandits to fund a sacrifice that will finally please Indra.

This is what Sita, married into a family that does not lie, plans to say: “We are glad to see the rain.”

This is what her husband, whose words at 18 already carry more weight in this family than those of his father, says instead: “She did. I saw it with my own eyes.”

#maya writes #ramayana #lmao found this in my google drive and decided light blasphemy was a really fun thing to do at this point in time #i havent written anything non academic in a year so please please let me know what you think!!

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hecohansen31 · 4 years

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Hayy hun, Can I requests a fic where Ivar becomes a grandfather? Like his daughter had a child and how he would react to that ❤❤modern or Vikings era ❤❤❤thank you❤

WARNINGS: Mention of Death, Grieving, Slight Mention to Childbirth, Cheesy.

‘Aslaug hold her like this’ Ivar showed his daughter, as he helped her hold her first child.

He wished that you could be beside him, but you hadn’t been able to.

And for a moment Ivar had been left to feeling completely lost to the horrible thought of having lost you, not too long ago.

What, somehow, made him relieved what that you hadn’t died with any regret to your conscience.

Your daughters were both married to men they loved with their whole heart, meanwhile your sons were living fulfilling their own plans, with Sigurd’s raids and Eric’s brilliant era of ruling.

You had had a long fulfilling life, having gained enough power.

Not that you needed it in the end, you were loved and respected in a way that made your gentleness shine bright as you ruled with it alongside honesty, gaining the trust of people.

That had been what had truly won Ivar his own lands.

And Ivar had never forgotten it.

For an entire month he had been lost, after your death, falling in the deepest sadness he had ever felt, unable to bring himself out of bed, praying for the gods to take him as well, although he wasn’t sure he’d find you in the afterlife.

Your life had for sure been valiant and you had fought many of your own battles and Ivar had even been able to slip a weapon in your hold as he felt the light flickering away from your beautiful eyes, a sickness having completely taken it from you.

But he knew that in some ways you hadn’t ever abandoned your Christian beliefs, even more after the death of your sister, since you had wanted to feel closer to her, so there wasn’t any sureness in you meeting in Vallhala or even Hel, although he hoped it.

He might have done the same exact thing of his father, baptizing himself, hadn’t he known it was already too late.

But then after a month of that aching pain in his chest, he had finally come to the realization that what you had spoken last was the truth.

‘Don’t let my death be yours, my sweet’ you had croaked, your voice so low that he had to lean himself right onto your chapped lips to catch it ‘… you still have duties to your children, our beloved children…’.

‘You aren’t going to die’ he had been simply able to utter ‘… you aren’t leaving me, understood? I defeated the Saxons, I defeated Lagertha, and I’ll defeat the gods if they won’t give us more time, enough for me to get used to the idea of your death, my beloved’.

And you had weakly moved a hand to his face, caressing him close as you muttered softly, right onto his lips,

‘… all our life we get ourselves used to death, to ours and the ones of your beloved around us’ you explained ‘… and I am happy to find such a death, in my own bed, surrounded by my beloved family, going to my mother and sister, finally joining them again’.

‘… don’t leave me’,

Ivar The Boneless had never pleaded for anything, but he had asked to the gods for more time.

And they hadn’t answered his prayers, a thrilling silence, the sole answer.

You had died taking one last breath as Ivar started his own cries.

And he had thought this pain would never end.

But it had dimmed, as he tried to find some happiness in your legacy, your children.

Aslaug had been pregnant back then, holding her full stomach as she went to his house to talk with him and make sure that he’d eat, and Ivar felt spurred on to let her know all about your own pregnancy, although she had already heard those stories multiple times.

Sigurd and Eric would try to lure him out of your shared private house into the Great Hall, preying on his own vanity, as they asked him for suggestions and old stories about his fighting days.

And slowly, although he hadn’t known it would have been possible, he had started surviving again.

And now he had a grandchild.

His first one.

One that you’d never see.

It brought a bit of sadness in his eyes, as Aslaug, although tired for the effort of pushing a baby out of her body, understood it, bringing her father closer with a loose arm, as she shared his sadness, desperately missing the mother that she had loved so much.

It seemed irreal to everyone that she had left them, without knowing the life that went on without her.

She missed her dearly.

But now they had a new life among them, and Ivar had a new reason to continue on living till Odin called him back.

“… good” Ivar tried to shift the attention away from himself, as Aslaug seemed to finally understand how to hold the small child in her arms, and immediately the baby stopped fussing, effectively falling asleep.

He remembered you doing the same exact thing, with a naturalness that had brought you four children and a world of happiness.

“… I’ll let your brothers in, they have been scared shitless of the screams they heard” he commented, making smirk tiredly his beloved daughter, who still stopped him with a trembling arm outstretched to him, and he simply turned to her “… do you have need of anything, sweet child?”.

“I just… I just was thinking” she bit her lips, almost as if she was scared of her father’s judgement and Ivar tried to do his best to make her more comfortable “… she is a female and me and my husband… thought about… about naming her like mother”.

Ivar was hit in the gut at that news.

And immediately Aslaug’s eyes shifted away from his, almost ashamed of the proposal, but Ivar gripped back her hand, as he made their eyes met, the same beautiful shades of blue, matched with your own form.

He had always thought that in the lines the twins were your image, and he was proud of it.

It made him remember how you were in your happiest times.

“… I think that is a beautiful idea”.

---

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dc-earth53 · 4 years

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#0021 - Black Canary (Dinah Laurel Lance)

Age: 39

Occupation: Adventurer, florist, former rock singer

Marital status: Married

Known relatives: Larry Lance (father, deceased), Laurel Drake Lance (mother, deceased), Richard Drake (grandfather, deceased), Oliver Queen (husband), Cynthia Lance (adoptive daughter).

Group affiliation: Justice League of America, Birds of Prey, formerly Justice Society of America.

Base of operations: Star City, California

Height: 5’4”

Weight: 124 lbs.

History:

39 years ago: Dinah is born in Gotham City to Laurel and Larry Lance.

26 years ago: 13-year-old Dinah meets champion boxer Ted Grant when she signs up for self-defense classes at a local gym. She soon becomes Grant’s star pupil.

24 years ago: Larry Lance dies in the line of duty, and Laurel forbids her daughter from following in his footsteps.

23 years ago: Dinah meets young Zatanna Zatara while on a trip to the Himalayas.

21 years ago: In defiance of her parents, 18-year-old Dinah leaves home and forms the punk band Ashes on Sunday with a few of her high school friends, taking the stage name “Black Canary.”

20 years ago: Dinah’s metagene activates in the middle of a concert, releasing her deafening ‘Canary Cry.’ Following in her mother’s footsteps, she begins to use her newfound powers to fight crime, while still touring with Ashes on Sunday.

18 years ago: Realizing her true calling, Dinah leaves Ashes on Sunday and joins the fledgling Justice League of America, meeting and soon falling in love with Oliver Queen, the Green Arrow.

16 years ago: Dinah and Oliver leave the Justice League, and along with Hal Jordan, travel across the United States. Dinah tries to help Roy Harper with his drug addiction.

14 years ago: Laurel Lance dies of cancer, and Dinah returns home to tend to the family flower shop.

11 years ago: Dinah becomes a founding member of the UN-backed Justice League International.

10 years ago: Dinah moves to Star City with Oliver and establishes a flower shop there, called “Sherwood Florist.” Dinah is captured and tortured by a drug dealer, resulting in the loss of her Canary Cry and rendering her infertile.

8 years ago:

Dinah and Oliver break up after she catches him kissing their assistant, and Dinah moves back to Gotham, joining Oracle’s covert team, the Birds of Prey.

While on a mission for Oracle, Dinah takes a dip in one of R’as al Ghul’s Lazarus Pits, restoring her Canary Cry.

7 years ago: Dinah helps found a new incarnation of Justice Society of America alongside Ted Grant, following the passing of former Sandman Wesley Dodds.

6 years ago: Dinah leaves the Justice Society upon receiving news of Oliver’s resurrection, and briefly reunites with him before returning to Gotham.

5 years ago: Dinah trades lives with Lady Shiva, moving to Vietnam and meeting a young girl there named Sin, who was being groomed to be the next Lady Shiva. Dinah adopts the girl and returns to America.

4 years ago:

Dinah rejoins the newly reformed Justice League and is voted as their chairwoman.

Sin is abducted by Merlyn, and Oliver and Dinah team up to rescue her. Oliver fakes the child’s death to keep her safe, and afterwards, Dinah finally agrees to marry him.

3 years ago: As part of a scheme by Darkseid, Oliver is replaced with the shapeshifter Everyman, who tries to assassinate Dinah on her wedding night. Dinah kills Everyman with an arrow to the neck, and then Dinah and Oliver get married in earnest.

2 years ago: Dinah and the Justice League come into a reluctant partnership with the Authority when Prometheus attempts to destroy Star City.

Present day: Dinah investigates Oliver’s seeming suicide, which was actually an attempted assassination by Shado.

Editorial Notes:

There’s a lot to sort out with Dinah - from her origins as a Golden Age legacy character (almost by accident, the retcons needed to get her there were very messy), to her complicated relationship with Green Arrow, to integrating her New 52 appearances into the timeline somehow. What I’ve done is taken the bare bones of her DCYou solo series and placed it as a phase of young adult rebellion, while otherwise mostly preserving her timeline. All the major events you’d expect in Dinah’s life are here, although there are a few things I couldn’t include due to timeline constraints.

I had toyed with the idea of making Dinah a transgender woman, as it is implied that her DC Bombshells counterpart is, but that obviously doesn’t work with the plot point of her and Oliver trying for a child before she loses her fertility, and I also like the surrogate father/daughter relationship between teen Dinah and Wildcat too much to let that go. I may revisit the idea at some point, however.

The other idea that I didn’t have space for was making her a therapist, as seen in the Young Justice cartoon. The timeline just couldn’t support it, unfortunately, although, again, I may revisit that idea down the line.

Costume-wise, she’s got the Rebirth look going for her. It’s a nice modernization of the classic swimsuit and fishnets, and fits well with her punk rock roots. However, she still definitely wore her hideous 1980s look with the headband at some point, because it’s one of those costumes that’s just too terrible to ignore.

If you have a question or comment, asks are open! Next: Count Vertigo, the Ray I and II, and the Ultra-Humanite.

#dc #dc comics #profile #earth 53 #black canary #dinah laurel lance #dinah lance #birds of prey #green arrow #arrow family

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oddeyevibes · 3 years

Text

TLND Ch1: The Theatrics of it All

Disclaimer: I DO NOT own Vice City or any of it’s characters, I only own my OCs. Also, many of the images and gifs used are not 100% representative of the story, there are chosen to help create ✨~ambiance~✨.

Summary: Tommy has come to Vice City to kill people for money. For him, it’s business and a duty as a member of the Forelli crime family. Dallas has come to Vice City to kill people for money. For her, it’s business and an art form and a lifestyle that has been apart of her family for a long time. A lot might not see it, but they were made for each other.

Trigger Warning: Blood, graphic depictions of violence

Prickle Pine, Las Venturas

1986

Most people in Prickle Pine always associated with people their neighbors have never seen. This is usually where the rich elites always found hanging out in the Strip lived anyway. So some old couple with nothing better to do but to people-watch probably wouldn’t be calling the authorities any time soon on seeing strange people come out of different houses every day of the week because it was too natural at this point.

So when a midnight blue Sentinel XS pulled up to the Michaels house. No people-watchers thought it was too suspect to see them get a wealthy-looking visitor. The front door opened revealing a man in a faded red and white striped bathrobe known as Bane Michaels. A middle-aged white man who made an infamous name for himself by helping produce some of those pornographic, action-oriented movies the porn industry has ever seen.

He was regular on The Strip and many of his more prudish neighbors came to know him for always having younger women visit while his much more older wife, went off to the hospital for treatment. People watchers merely thought it was another one of those visits.

Bane stood in the doorway a jittery mess as the driver of the Sentinel stepped out of the vehicle. By the look of her outfit, you’d be forgiven for thinking this was a woman whose husband died in “mysterious” circumstances. She was wearing a black pencil dress with a pair of black peep-toe wedges along with some thick-rimmed black sunglasses and a black shoulder purse to make the outfit look a little more perfect. For Bane, she was like an angel of death walking towards his door. This was the woman that would help solve his problems.

“Well...don’t you look excited to see me.” She commented.

Bane moved aside and let her into the house, immediately locking the door and showing her to the spacious living room which looked like it never left the 60s. It didn’t help that there was a TV playing an old sitcom of that era.

The woman sat down on one of the single-seated couches across from Bane who relaxed as he sat down, waiting for the good news. “Well?”

“I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that you are now a widow, Mr. Michaels.”

Bane’s smile grew wide. “Hahaha! Thank you! Thank you SO much!” The man quickly stood up, grabbing the woman’s hand and shaking it frantically, much to the woman’s clear disdain. She yanked her hand out of his grasp. The man took the hint and sat back down. “Y’know, I heard about you from Carlos. I was so sure he was going to do the job until he recommended you.”

The woman shrugged. “Carlos got wrapped up in a more steady gig.”

Bane took the hint and nodded. “Once the life insurance comes through, I promise you, you’ll get your money. Never done something like this before so I’m not quite sure how long it’ll take.”

“Well, I have. Just make sure you don’t say or do anything stupid and suspicious. Remember, when the hospital calls, you don’t know she’s dead.” The way the woman spoke held an air of both sultriness and coldness. Bane was definitely talking to someone who has experience. “Unless they called already and you messed it up.”

Bane shook his head. “Nope, no call yet. Why don’t we…” Bane scooted forward a bit and flashed the woman a smirk. “Maybe we can wait together?” He asked.

The woman tilted her head to the side. “Are you trying to flirt with me?” She asked with a blunt tone of voice. There was no hint of reciprocation in her words.

Bane shrugged. “Well,” He casually leaned back against the seat. “I am a single man after all.”

“You’re wife’s body not even if a coffin yet.”

“That old broad’s been dead for years. Shame though...she was a real cougar, that one. It was fun running around with an older woman. Especially, when they’re loaded. The probably is, what we men want from an older woman gets lost REAL fast when age starts catching up with them.” He continued going on. “Tits start sagging, they need every pill in the fucking book to keep functioning, hair starts going gray, y’know?” He asked with a chuckle, but the woman didn’t respond. Once he realized she wasn’t going to laugh, he sighed and kept going. “Only reason I stayed with her was because of the money. Porn is nice and all but I wanted to do more. I wanna be big but in this city, you gotta pay big to win big, y’know? Edie, love her to death, but she wasn’t going to understand what I needed. I couldn’t let her divorce me either, she’d take her money and run, leaving me with nothing.”

“So you plan to find some young girl?”

He nodded. “Unless you’re willing to fill the position?”

“No.”

Bane chuckled. “Worth a shot.” The brown-haired man stood up and went over to a brown foyer table holding a variety of liquor bottles as well as a couple of whiskey glasses. He proceeded to pour himself a glass as the nearby landline phone began ringing. A smirk on his face, Bane waltz over to answer, prepared to pretend to be heartbroken.

“Michaels Residence, Bane speaking.”

“.....Michaels Residence?” The evil smirk on Bane’s face slowly disappeared. The man glanced back to the woman sitting on his couch. She was currently paying him no mind as she watched the silent erratic movements of the sitcom still playing. He turned his back towards her and continued the conversation. “Edie?” He asked in a terrified whisper.

“I’m not even in the dirt yet and you’ve already claimed my house?” The older woman said and the smile could be heard in her voice. Bane didn’t say anything in response. “What? No funny remark? You used to be made of them, Baney.”

“You’re alive?” He whispered, not wanting to alert the woman behind him since he planned on giving her a piece of his mind.

“Of course I am. You tried to pay for the Montoya’s to kill me using life insurance? I got something more reliable...an owed favor.” There was so much vile as she said the last part of her sentence.

PHT!

If the walls had eyes, they would be covered in the blood that quickly shot out of Bane’s forehead. With the little thinking energy he had left, the man’s eyes had shot up to try and catch a glimpse of the hole in his head. In a second, his body fell forward, colliding with the wall and crashing down on the table, knocking over the different bottles and sending them to the floor with a series of loud crashes as the phone in his hand was let go and fell in one of the puddles that began soaking the ugly colored carpet.

Turning his back to the woman proved to be a fatal mistake. His last mistake. Once he did, she had quietly made her way over to him, calmly pulling out a suppressed .22 pistol and waited for her moment to pull the trigger.

The woman flashed a satisfied smirk as she put away her gun before bending down to pick up the phone. “Ms. Rubio?”

“I wish I could’ve been there to see the look on his face.” The older woman sounded more than happy with the outcome.

“Well, he was very scared if that makes you feel better.”

“I suppose that’ll do.”

“You never told my cousin what you wanted in terms of body disposal.”

“I have some guys of my own. I want to see what’s left of the fucker. If it wasn’t for MY money, that ingrate wouldn’t have what we had now. To think that son of a bitch was plotting to kill me.”

“Small world though.”

“Indeed. When are you and your cousin leaving Las Venturas?”

“Should be by the end of this week.”

“Should have your money by then.”

“No need. This is a favor, remember?”

“I always tip.” The line went dead.

The woman shrugged and hung up the phone. She took a long look at the corpse before letting out a single chuckle and leaving the residence, locking the bottom lock behind her. As far as the neighbors knew, the woman in black that left Eden Rubio’s house was another young fling of Bane’s.

Several days later

Portland, Liberty City

Marco’s Bistro

“Tommy Vercetti? Shit...didn’t think they ever let him out.”

Sonny Forelli had a loud voice. Everyone in the Forelli family knew that. Hell, everyone in the families knew that. It wasn’t a voice that commanded respect but one that wanted fear. The Don of the Forelli family reveled in the fact that others feared him and if he felt someone didn’t fear him, he would take care of them. The idea of catching more bees with honey was a concept lost this Forelli man. He was a man-sized brat but no one in the Forelli Family would call him out on it.

The Don was currently sitting in his brother’s bistro alongside two associates, Casio Graci and Vincent Moreno, who had informed the man that Tommy Vercetti was officially let out of prison. The man that was now known as the ‘Harwood Butcher’ was sentenced away fifteen years ago on 11 counts of manslaughter. The thing is: he was only supposed to kill one guy.

No one besides Sonny knows the specifics of what happened and how a simple hit by a Forelli mobster turned into a bloodbath. It worked out though for the Forelli family’s reputation among the families. If someone like Tommy Vercetti was working for the Forellis, the other families kept their ears perked for any more Forelli men. Sonny didn’t like to admit it, but Tommy helped him...again.

Only a few men in the family knew this, but Sonny despised Tommy’s very existence. No one was dumb enough to comment on it though, out of fear of Sonny’s wrath. No one knew the specifics of it but it was clearly some sort of paranoia. The thought that everyone would look at Tommy the way they SHOULD’VE been looking at Sonny. There were some outside of Sonny’s close circle that had ideas but they were thrown out of the window upon hearing Sonny and the Forellis kept Vercetti from getting the death penalty.

“He kept his head down,” Casio explained. “It helps people forget.”

Sonny chuckled. “People will remember soon enough. When they see him walking down the streets of their neighborhood, it’ll be bad for business.”

The two associates glanced between each other with worried expressions. Cutting Tommy loose was probably not the best idea cause then one of the other families might take him in. Can’t have a hitman like Tommy working the Sindacos, the Sicilians, or the Leones. Definitely not the Leones.

Casio looked at Sonny. “Well, what are we gonna do Sonny?”

The Don sat back in chair thinking for a moment. Truth be told, Sonny didn’t want Tommy anywhere near him. He didn’t want him asking too many questions upon returning. Fifteen years? Vercetti was definitely simmering with curiosity. “Alright,” He leaned in towards the table, his face illuminating a bit more under the green light. His gesture causing the others to do the same. “We treat’em like an old friend and keep him busy out of town, ok?”

The two looked confused.

Sonny leaned back in his seat once more. “We been talking about expanding down south, right? Vice City is 24-Carat gold these days. The Columbians, the Mexicans, hell, even those Cuban refugees are cutting themselves a piece of some nice action.”

Vincent shook his head. “But it’s all drugs, Sonny. None of the families will touch that shit.”

The only reason Vice City had become a gold mind was because of drugs. Not just any drugs but the classic white girl, Cocaine. Most of the Italian mob stationed in Liberty City didn’t go anywhere near drugs. The most they dealt with being weed. Florida, Vice City, in particular, was a place where cocaine was becoming the wave. As of now, it was unknown territory to the families.

“Times are changing. The families can’t keep their backs turned while our enemies reap the rewards. So, we send someone down to do the dirty work for us and cut ourselves a nice quiet slice, ok?” He explained. Sonny looked over to Casio, “who’s our contact down there?”

“Ken Rosenberg,” Casio replied with an eye roll. “Schmuck of a lawyer. How’s he gonna hold Vercetti’s leash?”

“We don’t need him to. We just set him loose in Vice City, we give him a little cash to get started. Ok? Give it a few months,” Sonny relaxed in his chair. “Then we go down, pay him a little visit, okay? See how he's doing.”

Escobar International

Vice City

Tommy’s been down south maybe like...once. It was only a business trip and he’d stood in as one of Sonny’s bodyguards. The was fifteen years ago back in 1970 and he knew the city had probably changed a lot since then. The man wasn’t someone into the latest trends but still, the thought of missing out on a whole decade did something to him mentally. After all, he was barely an adult when he got locked up but hand the bodies of professionals that’s been in the game long before his birth.

Tommy thought about a lot while on the inside. He was grateful for the Forellis for keeping him off death row, he really was, but he was also suspicious of the events in Harwood. Unfortunately, Tommy would have to keep his questions to himself since the first thing that happened upon being released from prison was him being sent to Vice City.

Now instead of killing men left and right which, granted, he may have to do anyway, Tommy was meant to simply help the Forellis make some deals down south. Setting themselves up amidst all the other gangs that have claimed territory in the city.

He didn’t really know what his face looked like but it apparently caught Lee’s attention. “Don’t be so nervous Vercetti,” Lee advised, catching the man’s attention from watching the plane land through its window. “Harry and I have done deals like this before. Simple procedure, go in and out, hasn’t changed since you’ve been locked up.”

Tommy felt annoyed. “I know how these things work.” He shot back with a mild attitude.

Lee didn’t say anything or indicated that he was offended at the response, merely shrugged and went back to reading the magazine. “ Big Shot Porn Producer Reported Dead...robbery gone wrong? ” The man muttered.

Tommy turned his attention back to the window, trying to get back on his previous train of thought.

The air in Vice City was most certainly dry. Tommy almost felt sorry for anyone who didn’t dress down enough. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the bugs here were plenty and HUGE. The worst he dealt with in Liberty City were big ass rats and roaches and flies if a place was filthy enough. Here, the bugs have 34 wings and are always out to cross boundaries. Tommy wished he could’ve stayed inside the airport where the air was cool and the bugs were kept at bay.

But the sight of a white Admiral pulling up provided some quick relief. Though, the appearance of a frantic, curly-haired man in a white suit sort of dimmed in down. He never met Rosenberg but from what Casio and some of the others told him, Rosenberg was easily startled, like a lamb.

The car stopped before the three men and Ken got out, leaning on top of the car’s roof to greet the men. “Hey, hey, guys! It’s, uh, Ken Rosenberg here!” The man shouted. “Hey! Heh, heh, hey, great, hey!”

‘I hate this guy already.’ Tommy thought to himself.

He and the others not replying sent a chill down Ken’s spine, making the neurotic man even more nervous. The Forelli lawyer let out a nervous chuckle. “Well, uh, I’m gonna drive you guys to the meet, ok?” The three nodded and began entering the car, Tommy found himself situated in the back sitting next to Lee once again. Meanwhile, Rosenberg kept explaining the whole deal. “Now, I’ve talked to the suppliers and they’re very keen to start a business relationship, so, uh, if all goes well, we should, uh, be doing very nicely for ourselves, which is, y’know, good.”

With everyone situated in the vehicle, Ken began driving and explained the whole all the way to the docks about the sellers they’ll be purchasing from. Tommy wasn’t too bothered to make any type of comment or even inquire more about, a tiny part hoping Lee or Harry would do that for him, especially Harry, considering that he was the one sitting next to Ken and getting the most of the yammering. To no avail though.

The now 35-year-old let out a silent, annoyed breath as he looked out the window watching his new residence for the new months pass by him in a blur. This would all look nice to gander at if he wasn’t on business. ‘Maybe some other time…’ he thought. For now...just get the deal done was all that was on his mind.

Vice City Docks

Upon the vehicle pulling up to the docks, Tommy was a little on edge. Maybe it was because, in Liberty City, every hour was working hours, he assumed that the docks would be filled with workers paid to mind their own business with maybe one or two ‘ upstanding citizens ’ trying to play the hero.

However, the Vice City docks were damn near-deserted. No sign of anyone clocking in. Maybe the people they were selling to had those types of connections. To make a bunch of construction workers disappear with a snap of their fingers. But, since they weren’t already here, Tommy kind of tossed out that line of thinking.

The sound of a helicopter getting louder caught the attention of the four men in the car. Shaking off the jetlag and gaining their full attention.

“Ok, that’s them in the chopper,” Ken stated. “Ok, here’s the deal,” Harry and Lee began exiting the car while Tommy stayed to hear the rest of the stipulations. “They want a straight exchange on open ground. Alright?”

Tommy nodded, “Right.”, before exiting the car and walking with the other two Forelli men. Meanwhile, one of the dealers, a slightly overweight dark-skinned man wearing a red shirt holding two briefcases, no doubt the product, exited the chopper while his pilot waited and made his way over to meet Tommy and the others.

Once all four had come face to face the deal started. Tommy’s done these before. It was nothing new and nothing had changed. In and out. Get this over with and once all is said and done, focus on finding out what happened back in Hardwood. This is was the only reason Tommy didn’t make a fuss about immediately being put back to work upon being released. He wanted to ease everyone else who worked with him in order to get them talking. A good 20 minutes and he can get to work.

“You got it?” He asked the man in the red shirt.

The man smirked. From the demeanor, Tommy could tell that this man was someone who didn’t take nonsense much like him. “One hundred percent pure grade-A Columbian.” The man replied, placing the two silver cases before the trio.

Tommy gestured his head towards the cases. “Let me see’em.”

The man stopped for a second, looking up at Tommy. “The greens?”

Harry and Lee opened the cases they were holding, showcasing the money. “Tens and twenties,” Tommy replied, “used.”

The man nodded with a smirk, straightening up his posture. “Then I think we got a deal, my friend. Hahaha--”

They only needed a few more minutes to get this deal done but life showed that it had other plans when the sound of multiple gunshots rang out across the docks.

Tommy instinctively ducked as the bodies of both Harry, Lee, and most likely the man in the red shirt. The guy in the copter most likely lifted off and got the hell out of dodge.

That left Tommy to sprint like the wind towards Rosenberg’s car. Taking the phrase ‘leap of faith’ to a literal level when he vaulted through the open window of the backseat. Rosenberg peeled out as Tommy shouted for him to get out there.

Just like fifteen years ago, a ‘simple’ job went terrible in an instant. Between the adrenaline rush of the shootout and the deja vu from back then, the escape from the stocks turned out to be a blurry one for Tommy Vercetti.

The only words that came to his mind were ‘ah shit’ as Rosenberg frantically whimpered in the front seat.

Next Chapter ⏩

#GTA fic #Tommy Vercetti x OC #The Lady Next Door

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carelessgraces · 3 years

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astoria, her father, and the couslands —

Note — This revised history of the Couslands and Mac Eanraigs is developed alongside Wren Cousland, Bryce Cousland, and Eleanor Cousland, found at @imageofdeparture, and Henry Greengrass and Daphne Greengrass, found at @acciortum. I am writing Margaery Cousland, Fergus Cousland, and Cassandra MacEanraig myself, both at @worldevoured. Unless writing with a male or nonbinary Cousland, this will be my default backstory, even if writing with another Hero of Ferelden.

The Mac Eanraigs and the Greengrasses

The patriarch of the Greengrass family, Edward Greengrass, was a staunch supporter of Meghren’s reign in Ferelden, and a constant ally to Orlais. One of the noble families in Amaranthine, the Greengrasses had always just barely missed becoming titled, and Edward saw an opportunity to gain one of the bannorns stripped from the various Fereldan lords and ladies who rebelled against the Orlesian occupation. When it became clear that the Howes would continue to hold Amaranthine, Edward turned his attention to the Storm Coast, where Fearchair Mac Eanraig and his wife Moira ruled the Bannorn.

It wasn’t hard to convince Meghren to strip the Mac Eanraigs of their title; they had been involved in active rebellion for years, now, with all four of their children becoming threats in their own right. Meghren made the Mac Eanraigs an offer: Fearchar and Moira would have no claim to the land or title, but one of their daughters ( Cassandra, the eldest ) could remain Bann if she married an Orlesian appointee to the title. Arthur Greengrass, Edward’s oldest son, was chosen, but he died of a fever shortly before he was scheduled to meet his betrothed, and his younger brother, Henry Greengrass, was sent in his stead. Henry and Cassandra were married.

Edward was pleased to see a Greengrass as Bann, but his plan — and Meghren’s — ultimately failed when, shortly after meeting his wife and her family, Henry, along with his illegitimate half-sister Siobhan, joined the Mac Eanraigs in active rebellion against the Orlesian occupation. Henry fought alongside his wife’s family, including his brother-in-law, Bryce Cousland, until Meghren was overthrown and Maric Theirin was restored to the throne. He enjoyed his wife’s, and her family’s, respect for several years, through the birth of a daughter, until, years later, it came to light that he’d had a brief affair with an Antivan noblewoman, Veronica Grimani, whom he clearly loved — and who, upon returning to Antiva, bore him a daughter.

When he learned of this, Henry simply left, and was gone for just over a year while he traveled to meet his daughter, Astoria Grimani. When he had been assured that she was well cared for, and in fact in line for a title of her own in addition to lands and wealth from her mother’s family, Henry returned to the Storm Coast, which his scorned wife had been managing beautifully in his absence. His relationship with the MacEanraig siblings, especially Eleanor — now Eleanor Cousland — had been destroyed, and while Cassandra remained furious with him for the personal and political embarrassment, over the course of several years, they were able to resume a working marriage, though any real love for one another was gone. They were cordial, and worked beautifully together politically, and there was even hope that they could become friends once more, someday.

Astoria’s Arrival in Ferelden

Astoria and her father maintained as close a relationship as they could through her childhood and teenage years, writing often and visiting when they could. One of Astoria’s fondest memories was visiting Denerim with her grandfather when she was six years old, hoping to negotiate a trade agreement with King Maric; Henry met them there, spending as much time with her in Denerim as he could spare. She remembers Henry introducing her to Maric, and hanging on her father’s hand.

When she began her studies in Orlais, Astoria wrote to her father again, this time to tell him the full story of what had happened to her while under the Vetris’ control. She told him that she was hesitant to return to Antiva during holidays from university, and asked if she could come to stay with him in the Storm Coast, and Henry immediately agreed. Her arrival was tense for everyone but father and daughter — Cassandra was hardly pleased at the arrival of her husband’s bastard daughter, but she saw no value in taking her anger out on a child, and her relationship with Henry soured more with each visit. Henry was pleased to be with his daughter, pleased even more to realize that Astoria was his mirror: they shared the thick red curls that the Greengrasses passed from generation to generation, darker than any of the red hair on her mother’s side; she set her jaw and her shoulders in the same way he did when he was angry; she picked up his accent whenever she spoke Common. She was a stark contrast to her half-sister; Daphne had inherited her mother’s blonde hair and light eyes, and was far gentler than either of her parents. Henry, certain that his younger daughter needed him more now, shifted all of his focus to Astoria whenever she came to visit.

The Couslands, Eleanor especially, were sensitive to the insult not only to Cassandra, but to Daphne, and while they made no effort to exclude Astoria — raised in Antiva, educated in Orlais, clearly built more for a life of hedonism than hard work, and training in the bardic arts simply for something to pass the time and to play at real danger — they did make an effort to remind Cassandra and Daphne that they were welcome in Highever, and among their family. Astoria’s own Antivan attitude toward marriage likely did little to endear her to them — Antivans took lovers, and if a marriage was made for politics rather than love, why did it matter? Henry had been happy, as had her mother, and Henry remained to fulfill his political duties. She wouldn’t inherit any of her father’s land, wealth, or title; she was referred to as Lady while in Ferelden only because of her grandfather’s role as Merchant Prince of Seleny, and the expectation that she would take on the role herself when her grandfather died.

Astoria’s teenage years were spent at least somewhat in the company of the Cousland children. Fergus, the eldest, found her interesting, but largely tried to stay out of it, as did his father. His wife was Antivan, and Astoria and Oriana very much enjoyed one another’s company, and having the opportunity to reminisce over a well-loved homeland. Margaery was less friendly to the idea of Astoria, defensive of her aunt’s and cousin’s honor and happiness; she was polite, if a bit icy, until the year before Astoria concluded her studies, when she began to warm to her. Wren followed her mother’s lead, concerned about Daphne especially, but found the bardic-trained Astoria more interesting than she would let on. For her part, Astoria grew very fond of the entire family, returning for each visit with carefully chosen gifts for everyone; she especially adored her sister, and made every effort to connect with her.

To Cassandra’s relief, Astoria never tried to make any play for the bannorn — even as a teenager, it was clear that Astoria was clever, and didn’t always play fair, and Henry’s obvious favoring of his younger daughter could have posed a threat to Daphne’s future. However, Astoria’s unshakeable love for her sister — and growing respect for Cassandra — made her unwilling to even consider the prospect. It was the first major test of Astoria’s ambition versus her loyalty to her family, and her family won out, as they would for the rest of her life.

The Fifth Blight

If Wren is the Hero of Ferelden — When Astoria finds Wren in Redcliffe, she is ecstatic to be reunited with a woman she considers family, but horrified to learn of the Couslands’ murders. When they reach Denerim, she hires spies to locate any survivors: Wren saw her parents’, and Oriana’s and Oren’s, bodies; she didn’t see Margaery’s. After months of digging, Margaery is found, one of Howe’s prisoners, and Astoria informs Wren as soon as she’s made aware.

Regardless of the Hero of Ferelden’s identity, she sends a letter to her father when she reaches Denerim, coded using a cipher she taught him a few years before during one of her visits, letting him know where she is and what she’s doing, and that he will need to prepare for civil war. By the time of the Landsmeet, Henry is in Denerim; when he and Astoria are reunited, they are inseparable for a long while as she tells him everything that’s happened. Unless the Hero of Ferelden asks her to come into the city with them, Astoria fights alongside her father, and the Storm Coast’s forces. After the Blight, she stays in Denerim if Alistair becomes King; if he does not, she goes directly to the Storm Coast, and remains there for a few years before she returns to Seleny. When she invites Henry to come with her, he does, and he and Veronica are reunited after more than twenty-five years.

#i. she had a marvelous time ruining everything. ( about )#i. you never hear of anyone storming a castle on a wednesday. ( character development )#i. i smell backstory and i love backstory. ( worldbuilding )#(we built this last week and i've been excited ever since)#(i'm happy to work out the details with a male or nb cousland - astoria's backstory won't change but her relationship w/ the couslands... )#(... is always open to negotiation. she doesn't considers the couslands family except for wren tbh)

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justcallmehermione · 4 years

Text

One more chapter closer to the end!

Title: Small Bump Rating: M for some delicious smut Pairings: Linzin, Tokka (implied), and Kataang

AO3

FF.net

Chapter 14: Maybe It Wasn’t Meant to Be Author’s Note: Wow, I couldn’t believe all the comments I got on the last chapter! You guys are absolutely wonderful and I’m sorry for that twist. I hope these last few chapters make up for it!

Summary: Lin and Tenzin deal with the aftermath of pregnancy loss and decide to return home to get some schedule and routine back in life.

Lin spends the rest of the week in isolation. Tenzin tries to be there for her as much as possible, but also needs some time to himself. They're both trying to sort through the feelings they have after this very traumatic experience. Luckily, Lin's body was recovering, but her and Tenzin’s emotions still needed some time. The two spent most of their time together holding hands, not wanting to let the other stray too far. Never in their wildest dreams did they ever think they would find themselves in the situation. They both felt very unprepared for how to continue to move forward. Zuko suggested that Lin share what happened to her in the park in order to help sort out her feelings. Tenzin was reclining on the bed, his back leaned against the headboard while he held Lin in his arms between his legs. Her head was resting on his chest and she could hear his heart beating as she began to share what happened that day.

“After watching Izumi give birth, I was honestly a little traumatized. No one has ever really described what it's like to deliver a baby to me. I know how it all works, but I didn't realize all of the hard work and pain and suffering that went in to bring new life into this world. I got scared and I needed time to myself.”

“You're very right. Nobody really talks about what happens when a woman gives birth,” Tenzin agreed.

“And since we were expecting…” Lin stopped herself from continuing, thinking about all of the things that could have been.

“It's understandable, Lin. You don't have to say it if you don't want to.”

She nodded and continued, “You stopped me in the hallway to talk, but I wasn't ready. You respected my personal space and let me go sort through my feelings before we talked, which I appreciated. I really didn't know where I was headed because I was lost in my own world and then I ended up in the park and before I knew it, someone hit me and blocked my chi and I was unable to move and defend myself.” Tears were now flowing freely down her cheeks as she remembered the events in the park.

“I wish we knew why,” Tenzin told her, his own tears falling.

“All the man said was that in order for the Fire Nation to be glorious again, the Airbenders needed to stay extinct,” she said through gritted teeth. Tenzin was shocked by her explanation. He could not fathom why someone would want an entire culture to be wiped off the face of the Earth, especially not the culture that he and his father had been working to restore for the last two decades or more.

“I’m sorry, Tez. But I couldn’t do anything to stop him,” Lin tried to frantically explain, “He paralyzed me with the chi blocking and even though I saw everything, I couldn’t do anything…” She was openly sobbing now, her whole body shaking.

Tenzin looked down at his wife and wiped a tear away. He put his hand under her chin and nudged it so she was looking him in the eye. “Lin, I am not mad at you. I don't blame you for any of this. Absolutely none of this is your fault. That man is absolutely horrible and I hope he gets the justice he deserves in the end.”

“But I couldn't protect the baby or myself. If only I had stayed within the palace walls everything could be different now.”

“Lin, we cannot change the past so it does not do well to dwell on it. What happened happened and wishing we could go back and change things isn't going to help us now.”

She sighed, “You have a point. I still can’t help to blame myself a little bit. I just feel terrible about what happened and I don't know if I could ever face your dad again.”

“I know there was a lot of hope for our baby. A lot of people had expectations for him or her, but none of that matters right now.”

“But your father isn't getting any younger,” she tried to argue.

“None of us are. And people will just need to learn how to be patient,” he rebutted.

“But what if...” she hesitated, worried about his reaction to her idea.

“What if?” he jostles her in his arms a little, urging her to continue.

She sighs and rests her hand on his chest alongside her head and continues, “What if I don’t want to try to have another baby, like ever? Because honestly, I don’t know if I could go through this again. And I know how important having a family is to you and your dad’s legacy. I don’t want to keep you in a relationship with me if we don’t have the same goals in life. I can’t deny the world the next generation of airbenders.” She closes her eyes bracing herself for his reaction.

Tenzin thought for a moment. He knew his duty to his father was to carry on his legacy of restoring the Air Nation. However, he also said sacred vows in the front of his friends and family, promising to love and cherish his beautiful wife for the rest of his life. He also absolutely loves the woman in his arms and he knew he would until the day he died. Nothing, not duty, not family, not enemies could ever prevent him from loving Lin with his entire spirit. He would do absolutely anything for her and he was willing to sacrifice everything for her.

“Lin, the only people in our relationship are me and you, no one else. We are the only two people who can dictate what we do with each other and with our lives. We also swore a vow to love and cherish each other for our entire lives. I love you and there is absolutely nothing or no one who will ever stop me from loving you and standing by your side.” He bent forward as she rose up a little bit and the two shared a deep kiss.

“I love you too,” she breathed.

“Good,” he smiled down at his beautiful wife, “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

“Are you sure, though?” She insisted.

“Yes, my love. You are mine and I am yours for the rest of forever.” For the first time since the incident, Lin was able to smile back at her husband thanks to his words of assurance.

After another week passed, Lin and Tenzin were ready to depart the Fire Nation and return home to Republic City after their long honeymoon. Their bags had been packed and Oogi had been saddled, all that was left was to say goodbye to their friends. Fire Lord Zuko and Daichi were standing with the couple in the courtyard of the palace.

“I’m sure Izumi will be here any minute,” Daichi assured his friends.

“Well, thank you for all your hospitality, Zuko,” Tenzin bowed respectfully to the Fire Lord.

“You are both welcome here any time,” Zuko assured him, bowing back, then grabbing Tenzin in a hug.

“Thank you for everything,” Lin said, hugging Daichi then Zuko.

“Would you like one of us to send word if we find anything new about the man from the park?” Zuko asked hesitantly. Tenzin looked at Lin, signaling he would be fine with whatever she wanted.

Lin replied, “Yes. When I get back to work with Republic City PD, I may even use some of our resources to see if I can find anything as well.”

“Okay, just remember ‘Sometimes life is like this dark tunnel, you can’t always see the light at the end of the tunnel, but if you just keep moving, you will come to a better place,” Zuko offered.

Tenzin smiled, “That was one of your uncle’s lines wasn’t it?”

Zuko smiled back, but there seemed to be a hint of sadness in his, then replied, “Yes it was. Uncle Iroh always knew what to say for every occasion to make me feel better. I just try to continue that for him and for the people I love.” Lin threw her arms around Zuko again and stifled a sob. When they broke apart, Tenzin wrapped an arm around his wife and kissed her forehead. Just then, Izumi appeared, walking as quickly as possible without disturbing the sleeping baby in her arms. She looked a little frazzled and very tired.

“Please, no sudden movements or loud noises,” she begged in a whisper, “Baby Iroh just went back to sleep and I started dozing when one of my maids reminded me you two were leaving.”

“Do you want me to take my grandson?” Zuko offered.

“I can take him back to the room, Izumi,” Daichi offered at the same time. Izumi looked relieved to have such an amazing support system.

“Okay, sure,” she handed the baby off to its father then turned to give her best friend a big hug.

“I’m sorry for everything,” Izumi whispered in her friend’s ear. “I wish you nothing but the best from here on out because you deserve only the best.” Lin squeezed her friend a little tighter in response.

“Thank you,” she whispered back. She turned to Daichi who was holding the still sleeping baby. She leaned forward and Daichi tilted the baby so she could get a better look.

“He is absolutely precious,” Lin told her friend, “I am so happy for you.” She smiled, genuinely at her friend. Izumi’s eyes were starting to tear up, but she wiped them away hastily, not wanting to cause her friends anymore pain.

“Thank you,” Daichi said for his wife while she gathered herself, “We’re very happy to have him and can’t wait to see what kind of person he grows up to be.”

“Well, he’s got some great examples to show him how to be an excellent person,” Tenzin complimented them.

“Thank you again for everything,” Lin said to the trio of Fire Nation royalty.

“I hope we can see each other again, soon,” Izumi told her friends.

“We’ll start planning our next get together once we’re back home,” Lin assured her.

“Goodbye everyone,” Tenzin said, waving at the group while he grabbed his wife bridal style and hopped onto Oogi. The flying bison took off on command and started carrying the couple back home to Republic City.

“Are you ready to be home?” Tenzin asked his wife after some time up in the air.

She shrugged, “I don’t know. I think I’m ready to get back to some sort of routine and normalcy. I think it will help with the recovery.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming,” Tenzin joked.

Lin rolled her eyes, “Yes, but, I’m nervous about what the media is going to do. I mean, they were all over my pregnancy once word got out. I hope the same doesn’t happen about the incident.”

Tenzin looked thoughtful for a moment then told her, “Well, we could always just say forget it and go on another vacation.”

Lin smiled at her husband, “I guess it does pay to have our own personal flying bison to take us wherever we want whenever we want.”

“Oogi does come in rather handy at times,” Tenzin agreed.

“Anyway, there is something I’ve been looking forward to regarding our homecoming,” she shared.

“Oh really? What’s that?”

“Being married to you,” she said cheesily, leaning close to her husband and kissing him.

Tenzin hummed into the kiss, then replied, “Yes, being married to you is the best part of our homecoming. Will you let me carry you into the threshold of our home when we arrive?”

“Only if you promise to carry me straight to bed, undress me immediately, and spend our first few hours home making love,” she declared.

“Well that could be arranged if we delay seeing our family for dinner when we get back,” he thought aloud.

“I could wait to eat. Besides, another kind of hunger is a little more pressing right now,” she admitted.

“We don’t have to wait to fulfill that,” Tenzin told her, leaning over her, causing her to lie flat in the saddle.

“What happened to not wanting to give Oogi the oogies?” she reminded him.

“If you promise to be quiet, I don’t think he’ll know the difference,” Tenzin whispered. Lin was about to laugh, but it was cut off by a deep, passionate, open mouthed kiss that Tenzin had started. She opened her mouth in return, allowing his tongue to move around her mouth. When Tenzin pulled away, he saw Lin’s eyes had darkened, her pupils going large as she stared at the man she loved.

Tenzin smiled down at her, “You are absolutely beautiful and I love that you are mine.” She smiled back, then pulled him down to continue their kissing. Tenzin moved from her mouth and planted kisses all along her jaw, moving down her neck, pausing at her cleavage. He quickly untied the dress she had been wearing and started to kiss her breasts. His mouth covered one nipple, sucking gently, while his hand moved to the other, rubbing and squeezing it. Lin moaned at his touch and Tenzin grew harder thinking about how turned on his wife was.

“It’s getting a little chilly up here,” Lin said between heavy breaths, “And it’s no fair that I’m partially nude and you’re still fully dressed.”

“I want to take my time with you, love,” he told her, “Be patient and you’ll be fulfilled.” “I don’t want to be patient right now,” she whined, “I want you in me.”

Tenzin smiled at his wife, “As you wish.” He quickly tugged his pants down, exposing his erect cock. Lin moved the skirt of her dress out of the way and spread her legs a little wider, allowing Tenzin to kneel comfortably between them. Tenzin licked his two fingers on his hand and inserted them into Lin. She was already so wet and he didn’t want to wait any longer either. He knew he could take his time with her, make proper love to her when they got back to Republic City. Out here, flying over the ocean on his sky bison, after the tragedy that had occurred in the Fire Nation, Lin needed him as much as he needed her. She needed Tenzin to express his love in a physical way that he hasn’t been able to in a couple weeks. Tenzin was not going to deny his wife this reassurance and quickly slid his cock inside of her. She immediately started rocking her hips before he was even in all the way. He tried his best to match her erratic rhythm, holding his release until he felt her walls quiver and clench around him.

After they both climaxed, Tenzin lay down next to his wife, the two of them breathing heavily. Tenzin lazily slid his pants back on as Lin wrapped her dress back around herself. Once they were both covered, Tenzin reached for his wife to snuggle closer. Lin obliged and scooted to him, resting her head in the crook of his arm while he draped the other over her waist.

“I love you, Lin. In this life and the next.”

“I love you too, Tenzin, always.”

A/N: I hope after the fluff and smut of this chapter, you can forgive me for breaking your hearts in the previous one. As always, please like/give kudos, comment, share with fellow Linzin shippers. I start work again tomorrow, but I’m so close to finishing this fic and hope to wrap it up within the month!

#linzin #fanfic #atla #tlok #my writing #justcallmehermione #tw: pregnancy loss #tw: miscarriage

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