#that the echo chamber you are trapped in is NOT the world at large

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 74

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 74: Salt and Smoke

AO3 - Masterlist

Daemon lingered in the hall outside of the room he shared with his wife, his posture rigid as he leaned against the wall, the chill of the stone offering no comfort. He was held in place, not by chains or locks, but by the haunting echoes of Rhaenyra’s cries of distress that filled the corridors of Dragonstone. The sound of her agony, as piercing and relentless as a barrage of arrows, struck him with a visceral pain, each wail an arrow embedding itself within his flesh, tearing at him with the promise of leaving deeper wounds upon extraction. Inside him, a tempest of anxiety and helplessness swirled, a tumultuous storm that found no outlet, only manifesting in a physical itch, an urge to move, to do something, yet he remained rooted to the spot. 

Daemon yearned to be at her side, to envelop her in the comfort and support she so desperately sought as she called out to him, yet an unseen force held him back, rendering him unable to step into the shared sanctuary of their anguish.

Her voice, frail yet imbued with a desperate hope, cut through the oppressive atmosphere of the chamber. It rose and fell like wisps of mist at dawn, a tender, soulful plea to the child she carried. “Please, please, please… Please, come out…”

Her words, though faint with exhaustion and pain of labor, carried the weight of her longing for seeing the child into this world and the love she held for it, reverberating poignantly in the silence that engulfed Daemon. The air around him seemed to carry the echo of her voice letting it linger over him like a shadow. 

Consumed by frustration and powerlessness, Daemon gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, his head recoiling against the hard, cold stone wall with a muted thud. This act of self-punishment, his head banging repeatedly against the unyielding surface, served as a silent confession of his failure to comfort his wife in her hour of need. Each thud was a painful reminder of his powerlessness. 

Daemon wished he could take on Rhaenyra’s suffering himself, fully conscious, however, of his own limitations. Words of comfort felt hollow, stuck in his throat and unable to grow into something more, and the soothing touch he yearned to offer felt out of his capability, far out of his reach.

A haunting fear gripped him – the dread of history’s cruel repetition, the possibility of losing another wife to the merciless fate of childbirth. The agonized cries of pain that reached him were a haunting echo of Laena’s.

Daemon preferred the clarity of warfare, a realm where victory’s cost was clear, measured in the resolve of his men and the strength of his sword, to the uncertainties of childbirth. He found solace in the order of battle, the straightforward nature of leading his forces against a tangible enemy. The thought of being confronted with having to choose between the life of his beloved wife and that of their unborn child was a torment far greater than any battlefield could offer. 

In warfare, decisions, no matter how severe, followed certain logic; they were clear, direct, tangible. But in the dim, uncertain shadows of childbirth, the specter of loss loomed large, an adversary for which Daemon felt profoundly unprepared. 

In the dimly lit corridor, Daemon stood enveloped in the shadows, his stance mirroring the inner chaos that raged within him. It was there that Ser Brandon Piper, the Captain of the guard, made his approach, his demeanor carrying the weight of formality yet laced with an underlying current of tension that seemed to pervade the halls of Dragonstone. 

“My Prince,” he began, his eyes momentarily drifting towards the door of the bedchamber, the source of Daemon’s anguish, before locking back onto Daemon. “The men have been gathered and await your presence.”

Acknowledging the message with a mute nod, Daemon detached himself from the support of the wall, the lingering echo of Rhaenyra’s distressing calls shadowing his movements. Each step he took away from her side felt laden with the heavy specter of what more he stood to lose. 

Daemon’s voice carried a blend of urgency and fatigue as he inquired, “Any tidings from King’s Landing?”

“No ravens from King’s Landing, my prince. The only raven that has arrived bore a message from Driftmark. Lord Bartimos has it,” Ser Brandon reported. “I’ve stationed a reliable man at the rookery, ready for any news that may arrive.”

Acknowledging this with a grave nod, Daemon issued a directive, his mind racing with thoughts of King’s Landing and its current state. “Dispatch someone to the capital. Endure it’s someone whose loyalty is beyond question. I wish to know any and all things that transpire within the city.”

He had hoped to have received some news of Daenera’s condition and circumstances–awaited the information with a wary anticipation.

Daemon made his way into the expansive hall, where the grand map of Westeros dominated the space, crafted from rich, aged wood. Descending the steps to the lower level, he approached the gathered assembly. The group encircled the map, their attention fixed on him, awaiting his directives, a blend of staunch loyalty and barely concealed unease carved into their expressions. Positioned at the center of the advisors, Daemon was cast in the flickering light of the torches, their flames casting long, dancing shadows over the ancient stone underfoot, and the scant rays of sunlight that managed to breach the chamber’s tall, slender windows lent a subdued, almost melancholic light to the scene of impending strategic discussions.   

The air was thick with the tension of looming conflict, the room filled with the distinctive aroma of burning wood from the nearby heart, which crackled intermittently, punctuating the otherwise heavy silence. 

Daemon stood as the focal point of this assembly, projecting a sense of resolute command, even as the weight of the moment rested heavily upon his shoulders. 

“I want patrols along the island’s perimeter, looking for any small ships that might set ashore.” Daemon issued the orders with a sense of urgency, acutely aware of the vulnerability of their position. “If the Greens attack now it will be by stealth…”

The very stones of Dragonstone appeared to carry the torment of Rhaenyra’s cries, her voice weaving through the corridors and lingering in the shadows. As her pained groans finally subsided into the surrounding silence, an unsettling calm took hold. This quiet, heavy with implication, seemed almost solid, imbuing the air with a foreboding weight. The absence of sound was not a relief but a harbinger of unease, casting a tangible shroud of apprehension over all within its walls.

“...not directly,” Daemon continued, momentarily steadying the wavering focus of his men. “We don’t have enough men to surround the island, but we can make ourselves appear stronger than they are.”

Just as the heavy stillness seemed to settle, another of Rhaenyra’s anguished groans tore through the solemn quiet. The sound seemed to take on a life of its own, threading through the ranks of the assembled council and embedding a tangible sense of dread in the air. The discomfort was evident in the eyes of the men surrounding Daemon–heavy with implicit critique of his decision to focus on military preparations at such a critical moment.

The men shared uneasy looks among themselves, their discomfort and unease evident as they shuffled on their feet. Daemon chose to ignore his wife’s shrinks, just as he chose to disregard the men’s apparent disquiet at his composed, unwavering demeanor. His presence was marked by a confident and focused calm, a stark contrast to the tension around him, concentrating solely on the matter at hand–the only thing he could do. 

Turning his attention to Ser Lorent Marbrand with a resolve that cut through the thick atmosphere, Daemon issued a firm directive. “Conscript the Dragon Keepers. They’re capable fighters. Waste no time.”

“It will be done, my prince,” Ser Lorent replied, his acknowledgement grave yet resolute. 

“Until reinforcements arrive, we’ll have a dragon patrol the skies,” Daemon asserted, the underlying tension palpable in his tone. 

The silent scrutiny from those surrounding him bore heavily upon his shoulders, each of Rhaenyra’s distant cries of pain echoing within him, sharp and cold as a blade drawn across his soul. Her torment resonated deep within, its icy grip enchasing his heart, yet he steadfastly quelled these swirling emotions, burying them deep within the recesses of his mind. 

Lord Bartimos Celtigar broke into his thoughts, “A raven flew in this morning. The Sea Snake’s fever has broken, he has left Evenfall.”

“Where is he sailing?” 

“That much is unclear, my prince.” 

“We’ve dispatched ravens to our closes allies,” Daemon relayed to the council, his tone carrying the urgency of their situation. “Lords Staunton and Emmon are expected to arrive soon, and by nightfall, Lord Massey and Darklyn should join us. With their forces combined, we might manage to keep watch over the skies without relying on dragon patrols.”

In an instant, the haunting clarity of Rhaenyra’s voice broke through the tense atmosphere, her call for Daemon slicing through him with the intensity of a blade twisting in his gut. Yet, undeterred by the interruption, Daemon’s determination only solidified. “Our true power resides in our dragons and in Rhaenyra’s rightful claim. It is imperative that we get to the great houses before the Greens…”

Once more, Rhaenyra’s voice echoed, this time laced with unmistakable pain and urgency, “Daemon!”

As Daemon issued his commands, the sound of his voice reverberated off the stone, mingling with the distant moans of pain from his wife, creating a dissonant chord that seemed to echo with the solemnity of the moment. The men gathered around the map, their faces a mixture of resolve and worry, shifted uneasily, their movements barely audible against agony that haunted the halls of Dragonstone.

“Do you want to speak with the maester, my prince?” Ser Lorent inquired, his question hanging precariously between them.

Daemon responded not with words but with a look that carried the weight of a thousand responses. It was a gaze sharp and penetrating, meant to dissuade any further questions. Faced with the intensity of Daemon’s glare, Ser Lorent averted his eyes in deference. 

Undeterred, Daemon declared his next move, “I’ll fly to the Riverlands myself and affirm Lord Tully’s support.”

“You will do no such thing,” Jace proclaimed, his voice resonant and clear, seeming to reflect a command from his mother. His entrance immediately captured the attention of all present with his assertive presence. Standing tall, with his shoulders back and his head held high, he exuded an air of authority that demanded respect. 

Daemon’s eyes slowly shifted to focus on the young prince, whose bold interruption sparked a mix of irritation and frustration within him. 

With an audible sigh, Daemon turned his gaze from Jace, his response tinged with vexation. “It is good that you are here, young prince. You’re needed to replace Baela in the sky on Vermax.”

“Did you not hear me?” Jace shot back, his retort brimming with the boldness and tenacity reminiscent of his mother’s when she was his age.

At that moment, Rhaenyra’s cry once again pierced the tense silence of the room, the sound resonating ominously, adding a palpable layer of urgency and stress to the tension.

Daemon’s frustration swelled within him, igniting with the intensity of a dragon disturbed by a pestering dog. How could Rhaenyra wish for them to remain passive, allowing the Greens the advantage yet again? His actions were calculated and strategic, each command made in effort to protect their rightful claim to the throne, as well as that of her sons. Neglecting to rally their closest allies would leave their position open, susceptible to the cunning plots of the Hightowers. Without securing the support of the realm’s great houses, their disadvantage would persist. 

With the strategic alliance of the great houses–Tully, Baratheon, and mayhaps even Tyrell–arrayed around King’s Landing, they had a chance to swiftly recapture Rhaenyra’s crown, preempting any similar strategies by the Greens. 

To Daemon, conceding more time to the enemy was unthinkable; they had already lost enough time as it was. 

Securing the allegiance of these houses could enable them to surround King’s Landing, compelling a surrender. Should resistance arise, they were prepared to besiege the city. 

Rhaenyra’s plea for inaction was a dangerous echo of his brother’s own reluctance to act, a path fraught with missed opportunities and regrets. Daemon stood firm, unwavering as he refused to allow the errors of his brother to be repeated under his watch. Inaction was a risk too great to entertain. 

Driven by a resolve to avenge his brother, to reclaim his wife’s stolen throne, and to rectify the injustice the Hightowers had put into this world through years of scheming and plotting, Daemon was prepared to move forward.

This time, his actions would be swift, decisive, leaving no room for hesitation.

“The ravens, Lord Bartimos,” Daemon instructed, his tone imbued with an unchallengeable command.

Lord Bartimos Celtigar, momentarily locking eyes with Jace, displayed a hint of hesitation, a silent struggle against defying his Queen’s explicit orders. Yet, under the weight of Daemon’s imposing presence and hardened gaze, he acquiesced with a resigned nod, “I shall see it done.”

Turning his focus, Daemon addressed Ser Lorent with equal decisiveness. “Summon Ser Steffon. You are needed on the Dragonmont.”

Having issued his orders, Daemon proceeded to leave the room, his steps marked by an assured, deliberate pace indicative of his resolve. Approaching Jace, his gaze intensified, sharpening with a silent censure for the prince’s earlier challenge. Yet, without pausing, Daemon extended an implicit challenge to Jace with a compelling proposition, “Come with me. I’ll show you the true meaning of loyalty.”

Exiting the castle, the distant sounds of Rhaenyra’s distress fading behind them, Jace hastened to match Daemon’s pace, positioning himself a step behind. “She’s calling for you.”

Daemon remained silent, his jaw clenching tight against the subtle challenge in the boy’s tone. He gritted his teeth against his rebuke, keeping his silence. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, feeling the familiar groves dig into his palm. They moved down the stone steps leading to the courtyard. With each stride, his boot crunched against the gravel, a stern rhythm in the early morning quiet. 

Jace pressed on, undeterred by Daemon’s silence. “You should be with her. She needs you–”

“What she needs from me is this,” Daemon interrupted abruptly, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. His sharp glance towards Jace was enough to halt any further protests. “There’s nothing more I can offer her now but to ensure the loyalty of the great houses–to secure her rightful place.”

Leaving the confines of the castle behind, Daemon and Jace traversed the stark, rugged terrain that characterized the island’s unique landscape. Their destination was one of the numerous ascents forming the imposing silhouette of the Dragonmont. The day was caressed by a soft breeze, which mingled with the briny tang of the sea with the pungent, sulfur-laden exhalation from the vents leading to the smoldering depths of the earth.

The ground underfoot was unforgiving, strewn with rocks and boulders, amongst which lumps of switchgrass emerged with resilient tenacity. It seemed nature had a way to survive even the harshest environments. 

Daemon led them to one of the natural plateaus that offered a clear view over the island, the sea and Dragonstone castle, positioning himself atop it, while Jace, clearly disgruntled, positioned himself a short distance away, his arms crossed behind him, wearing an unmistakable scowl.  

The relative silence of the plateau was soon disrupted by the rhythmic sound of armor clinking, signaling the arrival of Ser Lorent Marbrand and Ser Steffon Darklyn. Their approach was marked by the graceful billow of their cloaks in the wind. They paused a respectful distance from Daemon, their position lower on the slope, helmets cradled under their arms as they looked up at him expectantly.

The knights’ demeanor reflected the pervasive sense of unease that seemed to cloak Dragonstone itself. Their subtle, restless movements betrayed a sense of discomfort, perhaps in anticipation of the weighty discussion to come. The air around them felt heavy, and not just with the natural blend of sea salt and smoke that permeated the air around the island. 

With an authoritative air, Daemon addressed the gathered knights, his voice carrying the weight of command and the gravity of the situation. He invoked the depth of their loyalty and the solemnity of their vows, reminding them of the sacred duties they agreed to when they first put on the white cloak. “You swore an oath as knights of the Kingsguard.”

“As all do who wear the white cloak, my prince,” Ser Lorent responded, his tone respectful yet firm.

“To whom?” Daemon pressed, his question sharp, seeking clarity. 

Ser Steffon Darklyn adjusted his posture, his discomfort obvious as he shifted on his feet, the frown growing ever deeper on his face. “I swore first to King Jaehaerys, my prince. And then to His Grace, King Viserys, when he succeeded him.”

“Do you acknowledge the true line of succession?” Daemon asked, his stance  relaxed yet imbued with inherent power, his hands casually resting on the pommel of his sword, embodying the natural ease with which he wielded authority. Daemon knew his reputation preceded him, the Rogue Prince, a moniker that inspired both reverence and apprehension, and he wielded this reputation with the same precision and decisiveness as he did Dark Sister. His mere presence commanded respect, a palpable force that demanded attention and obedience. Just as Dark Sister was an extension of his skill and resolve in battle, his moniker as the Rogue Prince served as a warning for his unpredictability. 

“Yes,” Ser Lorent answered promptly, his response unwavering.

“Yes, my Prince,” Ser Steffon echoed, his agreement firm yet accompanied by another subtle shift in his stance, betraying his unease over this line of pointed questions. 

Daemon’s gaze shifted towards Jace, intent on impressing upon the young prince the significance of the moment. He sought to teach Jace about the fragile nature of oaths sworn to those now dead, and how even the most honorable could falter in their loyalty when presented with freedom of choice. This was a lesson in loyalty, a demonstration of the weight and consequences tied to breaking the oaths they once swore. 

“Do you recall,” Daemon began, his voice carrying a softness filled with gravitas, pausing momentarily to ensure his words would carry the intended impact. “Who King Viserys named as his heir before his death?”

“Princess Rhaenyra,” came Ser Lorent’s immediate response, with Ser Steffon nodding his concurrence. 

Allowing a brief, reflective silence, Daemon weighed the significance of their acknowledgement. “I am grateful for your long service to the crown…So I am presenting you with a choice.” 

The Kingsguard’s vow was one of unyielding dedication–they were loyal hounds bound to a single master. Yet, with the king’s death and the contested legitimacy of succession, their loyalty found itself upon a precipice of uncertainty–they now had the ability to choose which master to serve, and Daemon was determined to secure their unwavering loyalty to the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms–his wife, Rhaenyra. 

The stillness of the moment was shattered by a sharp whistle, a precursor to the looming demonstration of power. Caraxes, embodying a menacing beauty, climbed over the rock formation behind Daemon, his whistling reverberating in the air. Each movement of the dragon was a testament to his formidable presence, claws scraping against the rock in a manner that could unsettle even the bravest soul. With a deliberate heaviness, Caraxes positioned himself behind Daemon, the impact of his landing sending a tangible vibration through the earth, a clear assertion of dominance and strength.  

Daemon’s gaze never wavered from the knights, capturing their reactions as Caraxes made his imposing presence felt. The sight of the dragon commanded their undivided attention, their eyes widening with fear and uncertainty–reminiscent of prey caught in the clutches of a predator. A nervous shuffle passed through the knights, faces pailing as the dragon’s whistle evolved into a  formidable roar–a high pitched sound that seemed almost like the chirping of a bird if that bird had long sharp teeth and could breathe fire. This chilling sound, slicing through the air with ferocity, compelled a collective, instinctive step back from the knights. 

“Swear anew your oath to Rhaenyra as your Queen,” Daemon’s command pierced the tension, his voice steadfast against the backdrop of Caraxes’ menacing growls. “...to Prince Jacaerys as the heir to the Iron Throne.”

His words lingered, heavy with implication, as the knight’s eyes darted between the formidable figure of Daemon and the dragon beside him.  “Or if you support the usurper, speak it now and you will have a clean and honorable death.”

This decisive demand, set against the primal might of Caraxes, left no room for ambiguity. It was a moment of reckoning, of declaring loyalties and acknowledging the true order of the world. And Daemon stood ready, Dark Sister at his hip. Should they declare for the Usurper, he would grant them a swift end–more than any traitors deserved. 

“But if you choose treachery,” Daemon’s voice deepened, echoing with ominous intent, “if you swear your fealty now only to later turn your cloaks…”

As Caraxes unleashed a chilling, chirping hiss, cutting through the tense silence, Daemon felt the sound reverberate deep within his chest as though he was the one emitting this rumble. He sensed the dragon’s immense shadow enveloping him, its latent power merging with his own, imbuing him with a fearsome energy akin to the devastating flames Caraxes was known to unleash.

“...know that you will die,” Daemon continued, his tone laced with a grim promise, “screaming.”

At this declaration, Ser Lorent Marbrand and Ser Steffon Darklyn knelt, their movements graceful, the soft billowing of their cloaks contrasting sharply with the seriousness of the moment. The tip of their swords grazed the ground as they submitted, bending their heads in reverence–in fear. 

“We swear to ward the Queen,” the knights pledged in unison, their voices resonating with unwavering commitment. “With all my strength and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children.”

Daemon’s gaze found Jace, taking in the prince’s steadfast posture, an embodiment of the regal stature that was his birthright–the inherent power of the Targaryen lineage. This was what being blood of the dragon meant – to wield power with an innate authority, secure loyalty, and demand the respect that was owed to them. 

“I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and her honor,” they continued, their vows solemn and profound, echoing the depth of their commitment to their Queen and the realm they served. 

Addressing the knights with a voice rich in command, Daemon spoke, “The vows you’ve pledged today bind you in service and loyalty to the one true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Rhaenyra Targaryen. I will hold you to this oath, and your dedication will be remembered.”

A resonant roar emanated from Caraxes, its powerful cadence echoing with dominance. The dragon then shared a moment of silent communication with Daemon, an understanding without words, before spreading its grand wings. The breeze embraced them, filling the air like the sails of a great ship ready to embark. With a force that stirred the very earth beneath, Caraxes beat his wings, lifting dust and smoke into a swirling dance. The grass rippled as if caught in a tempest’s grip. With an awkward grace, the dragon took to the sky, heading towards the coastline, its departure as commanding as its arrival. 

After a brief nod of dismissal to the knights, signaling the end of the ceremony and affirming their sworn duties, Daemon watched them adjust their attire and swords, their movements brisk as they returned to the castle’s embrace. He remained, eyes following Caraxes’ flight until the dragon was but a silhouette against the horizon.

Stepping down from his vantage point, Daemon’s boots met the earth with a sense of finality.

Jace positioned himself beside Daemon, his youthful inquisitiveness shining through the skepticism in his eyes. Together, they stood gazing out towards the bay, where fishing boats bobbed and weaved through the swells. Breaking the silence, Jace ventured, “How exactly was that demonstration meant to teach me about loyalty? It appeared more an exercise in fear than a lesson in earning respect.”

“Fear and respect are but two sides of the same blade,” Daemon elucidated, drawing Dark Sister with an elegance that belied the deadliness of the act. He allowed the blade to catch the sunlight, its rippled steel gleaming as he expertly manipulated it, displaying its dual nature.  “Both are potent tools in forging loyalty.”

Jace watched the blade, his interest evident, though his skepticism remained. “But loyalty born from fear seems to me as though it would be inherently weak. Respect, by contrast, seems to build a stronger, more durable allegiance.”

“Fear has the ability to dissolve the bonds formed by respect, just as respect can dismantle the barriers constructed by fear.” Daemon executed a series of deft maneuvers with Dark Sister, allowing the sword to rotate gracefully from one side to the other. Each movement was precise, the sunlight catching and dancing along the intricate ripples of the Valyrian steel. This ballet of steel and light showcased not only the blade’s deadly beauty but also the skill and ease with which Daemon wielded it–like an extension of himself. 

And with just as deft a movement, Daemon sheathed Dark sister, its message delivered. “Men are motivated by one or the other. As Targaryens, we wield the authority to invoke both.”

The silhouette of Dragonstone loomed in the distance. Surrounded by the harsh landscape, the castle stood as a beacon of power, its sturdy walls ready to withstand the onslaught of time and turmoil. The castle appeared as if it were an extension of the very stone that formed the island’s mountains–cut from the very stones the same way House Targaryen cut out a seat for themselves within this ruthless world. 

Daemon set off towards the stronghold with Jace in tow. 

With one hand nonchalantly resting on the pommel of Dark Sister and the other hooked at his belt, Daemon clarified, “Each knight of the Kingsguard has a choice to make, and it was my duty to present them with the consequences of that choice.”

“The Greens would have given the Kingsguard in King’s Landing the same choice,” Jace countered, his tone carrying a slight edge of criticism.

“The Kingsguard pledged their loyalty to a now deceased king and a crown that has been stolen. If they truly believed the usurper to be the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, then, as his Kingsguard, they would have been prepared to embrace death for that conviction.”

“You would have executed them on the spot,” Jace observed. 

 Daemon met Jace’s inquisitive look with a steadfast gaze, his declaration unambiguous. “They would have been traitors, subject to the justice merited by their betrayal.”

Jace’s expression settled into one of deep contemplation, reminiscent of the focused demeanor he often exhibited during lessons with the maester. “They would have died in service to the one perceived as the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. It would have been an honorable death.”

“As honorable as a traitor's death can be,” Daemon remarked dryly.

“Had you not held their convictions in some esteem, you wouldn’t have offered a swift end by your blade,” Jace countered with a thoughtful observation, drawing a rare, slight smile from Daemon, amused by the prince’s astute conclusion.

Indeed, Daemon found a sliver of truth in Jace’s insight. The swift justice of his blade was far a more dignified fate than what he envisioned for the usurpers entrenched within King’s Landing. While he might let them taste the bitterness of his steel, he would give them anything but a dignified death. 

“The Hightowers are the true traitors,” Jace declared, his voice intensifying with passion. “They, along with the other houses of the realm, pledged their allegiance to my mother as Viserys’ rightful heir. Yet, they have usurped her, resorting to the same treachery they used to challenge Luke’s claim to Driftmark.” 

“And what should we do about it?” Daemon challenged. 

“Mother has instructed us to refrain from taking any action without her consent,” Jace answered, frowning deeply as his head shook. 

“Every second we delay, the Greens consolidate their power,” Daemon asserted, his eyes scanning the horizon as the silhouette of the castle loomed closer. “My brother refused to respond to the threat when the Triarchy tested our borders and destroyed our ships. He allowed them to ravage our merchants and seize control of the Stepstones. He let the blight grow until it threatened the security of the realm.”

“Until you defeated them.”

“They learned why our words are; Fire and Blood,” Daemon stated, his grip on the pommel of his sword tightening just perceptively, feeling every grove of the iron against his skin. “Viserys’ reluctance to act made him weak. Had he decisively cut off the head of the snake, he would have shown that dragons far outmatch any serpent’s cunning. Instead, he allowed the serpent’s venom to poison his mind.”

Stopping in his tracks, Daemon captured Jace’s attention fully before continuing. “While your mother is preoccupied by the labor of childbirth, and we withhold action, the Hightowers are undoubtedly plotting their next move. Do you really think they would simply wait idly by for our response?”

“No,” Jace conceded, the weight of Daemon’s words seemingly pressing upon his shoulders. 

“Your mother’s claim isn’t the only one the Greens are usurping,” Daemon pressed on. “They mean to steal your rightful inheritance as your mother’s son and heir, and that of your brother’s claim on Driftmark. They mean to rob you of all that you are. They will take your name and your claim, and they will take your blood.” 

A surge of anger flashed across Jace’s features, his youthful face setting into a mask of determination. “I’m well aware of their tactics. I know what they’ll say. They will start by calling us bastards. And then they’ll use that to undermine the whole legitimacy of mother’s claim.”

Continuing their path towards the castle, their progress was heralded by a sharp shout that pierced the air. The call originated from a vigilant guard stationed within the guard tower, directed towards his counterparts on the ground. This timely alert ensured the guards at the gates were promptly made aware of Daemon and Jace’s approach. The heavy doors creaked open, protesting the movement. 

“There’s no need for them to question your legitimacy if you’re found dead in your bed, your throat slit,” Daemon states, his voice carrying a cold edge. 

Jace’s gaze darted towards Daemon, the severity of the statement seeming to hit him like the stinging rebuttal of a palm. His hands instinctively balled into fists, a visible tremor of apprehension flickering across his features. “Would they truly resort to such measures? To kill a man in his bed seems exceedingly callous, even for them.”

“Otto Hightower is nothing if not efficient,” Daemon responded with a stern tone as they made their way into the courtyard, the crunch of gravel underfoot marking their passage. “A swift assassination is both effective and eliminates all threats to Aegon’s claim to the throne in one swift move.”

Around them, the courtyard was dominated by an imposing dragon statue, carved from the same dark stone that made up the fortress. The beast’s features were sharply defined, a growl eternally etched into its visage, while moss and time had begun to claim parts of its form. 

“If they resort to sending cutthroats to murder children in their sleep, they’ve abandoned all pretense of honor,” Jace retorted, his voice laced with contempt. The thought of his younger siblings, vulnerable and defenseless in their beds, seemed to spark a fierce protectiveness in him. “There’s a clear distinction between facing an opponent in combat and the cowardice of killing children in their slumber.”

Daemon couldn’t help but find a sliver of amusement in the young prince’s ideals–naive perceptions of a boy untouched by the harsh realities of war and the bloody burden of leadership. Jace appeared to view the world through the lens of nobility, expecting adversaries to possess the same sense of honor to his own. Yet, Daemon knew too well how elusive and costly honor could be, having witnessed many valiant men fall victim to its demands. 

He understood that the world harbored a much darker side, a realm where retribution was meted out in kind and where insults were avenged with ruthless efficiency. History had shown time and again that adherence to rules seldom secured victory in war. Daemon recognized the necessity of confronting this reality, prepared to navigate the murky waters for the sake of his family. 

“What are–”

“My Prince!” Ser Brandon Piper, the Captain of the Guard, interjected with urgency, his voice cutting through the air and halting Jace’s words. He descended the stairs from the battlements rapidly, his expression grave, signaling the importance of his message. “A ship approaches from the east, now making its way into the bay.”

Jace ventured a guess, “Staunton? Massey?”

The gravity in Ser Brandon’s voice held a note of surprise as he shared the news, casting a significant look between Daemon and Jace. “The ships sail carry the colors and sigil of House Velaryon.”

“Corlys?” Jace mused aloud, the possibility lingering between them. 

The air of speculation was abruptly dispelled by the formidable roar of a dragon, followed by the stirring dust as Moondancer executed a flawless landing in the courtyard. The arrival was a display of Baela’s skill as a dragonrider and Moondancer’s precision, sparing the castle’s structure from any damage. Baela, seated majestically on her dragon, appeared every inch the embodiment of a dragonrider, with her hair tousled by the wind and her cheeks flushed from the flight, her eyes alight with intensity. 

She called out to them from above, “The ship!”

Ser Brandon responded, having already relayed the news, “We’ve seen the ship.”

“It’s Meraxes!” 

Jace exchanged a meaningful look with Daemon, realization dawning as Jace echoed, “Daenera’s ship.”

In the midst of the rapidly evolving events, Daemon issued his directive with decisive clarity to Ser Brandon, his tone imbued with the unmistakable authority of command. “Take a contingent of guards with you to meet them on the beach, and have them brought to us.”

Understanding the urgency, Ser Brandon acknowledged the order with a quick nod and gesture to the guards wearing the distinctive red cloaks of Princess Rhaenyra’s personal guard. With their swords at their hips, they advanced with deliberate strides towards the gate, which groaned on its hinges as it swung wide to facilitate their swift departure. 

Daemon offered Baela a nod of recognition for her timely message, observing as she adeptly commanded Moondancer to take flight once more. At her signal, the dragon lifted off, the beat of its wings garnering a powerful gust of wind as it ascended gracefully into the sky. Jace instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes, caught in the whir of dust and debris, before turning away to protect himself from the bluster stirred by Moondancer’s departure. 

Ascending the battlements, Daemon positioned himself to observe the unfolding scene on the beach. The bay was alive with activity, with local fishing boats bobbing on the choppy waters and the imposing figure of Meraxes making its deliberate approach, its sails proudly bearing the emblem of House Velaryon–a silver sea horse on sea green. By his side, Jace joined, both fixed on the sight of the ship's longboat being lowered into the water before making its way to shore where an escort of guards awaited. 

With quiet anticipation, Jace ventured, “Do you think Daenera managed to escape after all?”

His voice carried an undercurrent of hope, a vivid contrast to Daemon’s stoicism. Daemon remained silent, choosing not to voice his thoughts, his attention firmly on the procession of figures now advancing towards the castle. The answer would reveal itself soon enough, rendering speculation unnecessary.

And so, the fleeting hope that Jace held seemed to ebb away as the entourage made its entrance into the courtyard, revealing not Daenera but another figure

“Jelissa,” he exhaled, a note of surprise mingling with recognition.

The girl stood amid the group of seasoned sailors, evidently worn by her ordeal, her gaze reflecting exhaustion. Under the shifting light, her eyes seemed to flicker between shades of blue and gray, while her once vibrant dark blond hair appeared dimmed by the castle’s gloom. 

The young prince’s stance momentarily faltered, a visible sign of his disappointment. Yet, almost instantly, he gathered his composure, straightening his back as he masked his initial disheartenment that his sister did not stand among them. 

Ser Brandon, with practiced efficiency, guided Jelissa from the group, leading her towards the high vantage point where Daemon and Jace awaited. After acknowledging Daemon with a nod, the Captain of the Guard stepped aside, leaving them to converse. 

“Lady Jelissa,” Jace began, his voice brimming with concern as he launched into a flurry of questions–seemingly oblivious to the way her cheeks flushed at being called ‘lady.’ “What happened? How did you manage to escape? Is anyone else with you?”

“Jace,” Daemon interjected with a sharpness that instantly commanded attention, his stern gaze effectively halting the young prince’s torrent of questions. Jace’s expression twisted into a scowl, his frustration and reluctance to pause his inquiries plainly written across his face. Yet, heeding Daemon’s directive, he begrudgingly stepped back, allowing the conversation to unfold without his immediate input. 

Jelissa grew noticeably tense under the weight of Daemon’s gaze, her fingers entwining nervously as though she sought to squeeze the anxiety from her very skin. She lowered her gaze. The tension became palpable until Jelissa, unable to retain her turmoil any longer, showed signs of imminent tears, her eyes glistening and nose reddening as she fought to maintain her composure. 

Struggling to voice her thoughts, Jelissa finally broke the silence, “My Prince… I…”

Daemon remained unmoved by the tears, his response chillingly indifferent to Jelissa’s visible distress, his voice as cold as the sea breeze that swept the battlements, offering no comfort in her evident anguish. His opening words cut through the tension with the precision of a finely honed blade.

“You abandoned the Princess you were meant to serve,” he stated, each word laden with accusation. “You failed in your duty to protect her. Tell me, why shouldn’t I throw you from this wall?”

The relentless waves below underscored his threat, crashing against the cliffs with a relentless ferocity as the wind howled around them. The girl cast a wary, fearful glance towards the precipice of the wall, visibly paling. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Daemon noted Jace’s shift, a subtle readiness to leap to Jelissa’s defense. However, with a sharp glance that brooked no argument, he quelled any attempt by Jace to intervene, then redirected his attention to the woman standing anxiously before him.

Jelissa struggled to form words, her voice faltering into a choked sob, “I–I–”

“Stop,” Daemon commanded, his voice slicing through her emotional turmoil. “Explain yourself. Now.”

With a deep, shaky breath, Jelissa composed herself enough to speak, her voice fragile yet determined, “J–Joyce received word from one of the kitchen servants… about the King’s demise. She–she insisted we flee King’s Landing at once, and she tasked me with alerting the crew of Meraxes. Joyce and Fenrick went to get the Princess and… We waited by the dock.”

Her account laid bare the desperate measures taken in the wake of his brother’s death. Despite the chaos of her recounting, Daemon remained focused, parsing her words for truth, his expression unreadable as he considered her explanation. His hand clenched tighter around the pommel of Dark Sister, his intense gaze fixed unwaveringly on Jelissa. 

“You abandoned her,” he accused, his voice sharp.

With tears threatening to spill from her eyes, Jelissa managed a shaky response, “Joyce instructed me that if they couldn’t make the ship in time, my foremost duty was to inform you of what had transpired.”

“She made the right decision,” Jace declared, his eyes burning with conviction as he aligned himself with Jelissa’s reasoning, giving the girl a small nod of reassurance. He challenged Daemon’s stern judgment, jaw set as he met his gaze.  

“We lingered at the dock for as long as we could,” Jelissa added, her voice laden with remorse. Her face was etched with the toll of recent events, and bore the signs of fear and fatigue. “Tylan Moot gave his life for us to leave the harbor, holding back the guards on his own as we set off.”

Daemon regarded Jelissa intently, the silence charged with tension before he posed a cutting inquiry, “Is it possible that the Princess chose to remain in King’s Landing of her own volition?”

Taken aback by the suggestion, Jelissa stumbled over her words, a mix of confusion and distress evident on her face as she dabbed at a tear on her flushed cheek. “I–what, my Prince?”

“Why would she do such a thing?” Jace interjected, his disbelief and exasperation apparent. 

Despite Jace’s interjection, Daemon’s attention remained unwavering on Jelissa, his determination clear as he dismissed the prince’s contribution with a focused intensity. “Tell me, how long have you served the princess?”

“Since she set out for King’s Landing,” Jelissa answered, her voice wavering slightly as she twisted her fingers together, betraying her anxiety. “It’s been over a year now, almost two.”

Daemon’s response was precise, his tone unyielding as his fingers rhythmically tapped against the pommel of his sword, a manifestation of his growing impatience. “Given your role as the Princess’s handmaiden, it stands to reason you’d be entrusted with her confidence.”

“I…” she began, her voice no more than a whisper.

“Given your proximity to the Princess, you would have been privy to her most confidential matters,” Daemon pressed, his patience clearly wearing thin. “You surely must have been aware of her involvement with the Prince, Aemond. Could it be that she remained in King’s Landing by choice, to be with him?”

Jace’s reaction was instantaneous, his voice cutting sharply across the brewing storm, “What?! No, Daenera–”

But Daemon was unmovable, his stern glance enough to once again quell Jace’s protest. “It appears your sister took advantage of certain… liberties during her time away from Dragonstone.”

“Daenera wouldn’t,” Jace insisted, his voice laden with a mix of disbelief and stubborn resistance, his stance betraying his internal conflict with the revelation. He was quick to dismiss the notion, adamant in his belief–and seemingly clinging to it like a boy clung to his mother’s skirts. “She would never willingly be with someone so vile, someone capable of–”

“Usurping your mother’s crown and calling you bastards?” Daemon concluded for him. He watched as Jace’s face turned a deeper shade of red, anger and disbelief burning in his eyes – a young prince, vehement yet naive in his refusal to face an uncomfortable truth. Regardless of Jace’s readiness to accept it, the truth remained unaltered, and it was time he confronted the implications of his sister's fallacy. 

“She wouldn’t,” Jace repeated, seemingly more to convince himself than to challenge Daemon’s assertion. 

Shifting his focus back to Jelissa, Daemon’s stare bore into her with such intensity that she seemed to shrink back, her vulnerability evident. Her gaze fell to the ground, her eyes glistening with the effort to restrain her emotions, while her hands twisted together guiltily. 

“Speak,” Daemon demanded, his voice carrying a commanding weight that reverberated against the venerable stone battlements surrounding them.

The girl, visibly flustered, struggled to articulate her thoughts, her voice a fragile murmur that risked being carried off by the gusting wind. “I… I’m not privy to the same insights as Joyce.”

“Even so,” Daemon responded, his voice threaded with disbelief, “As her handmaiden, it is reasonable to assume that you might have observed or overheard discussions leading you to draw certain… conclusions.”

As silence filled the air, Daemon’s patience visibly frayed, his next words edged with a clear note of frustration. “While I value your loyalty to the princess, silence on this matter serves no one. Speak.”

“I had no knowledge of any… liaison she might have had, much less with whom should she have one…” A moment of hesitation flashed across her face as she dared a brief glance at Daemon, only to avert her eyes once more, her confession dissolving into a murmur of doubt. “However… I did notice oddities. Marks that appeared overnight, belongings out of place, her smallclothes needing to be cleaned or changed more often than usual, or simply going missing only to later turn up…” Her eyes flickered anxiously in Jace’s direction as he reacted with a noise of dismay and exasperation, before she refocused on her clasped hands. “When I brought up the things that I had noticed to Joyce, she reminded me of our place–to serve, not to infer or question…” Jelissa shifted nervously on her feet. “All I know is that the Princess seemed content, happy even.”

“Happy?” Daemon repeated, his tone dripping with skepticism. 

“Fenrick voiced his worry over her well-being, and Joyce too,” Jelissa muttered. “I overheard bits of their conversation… I heard them discuss the princess’s affection–whether she… was in love… I–I didn’t know who they were talking about, but Fenrick was infuriated at the thought of it. Joyce tempered him, reminding him of his place too.”

Daemon’s frustration simmered just below the surface, his contempt for Fenrick’s lack of a spine obvious. He internally berated the man for his failure to communicate the crucial information of Daenera’s misgiven affection for the one-eyed cunt, even if it was just mere speculation–speculations that Daemon was convinced Fenrick harbored, and not merely as baseless doubts. No, he was sure Fenrick knew and failed to report it. And while he understood Fenrick’s hesitation to convey these matters, given how Daenera responded the last time she perceived something to be an act of betrayal. Nevertheless, the sworn knight should have informed him so that he could put an end to the matter.

“Yet, you must have formed some opinions of your own,” Daemon pushed, demanding clarity with a tone that allowed for no diversion. “When did these ‘oddities’ first come to your attention?”

“I do not wish to damage the Princess’s good name or question her honor,” Jelissa confessed, almost as if speaking only to herself. Yet, Daemon’s persistent questioning afforded her no opportunity for silence. “It began shortly before the wedding. Then, for a time, it stopped and I dismissed it as trivial. I don’t believe she would–she would engage in something that could compromise her honor… And after her husband’s death…” Jelissa shook her head, as if dismissing what happened after that. “It is not my place to question her actions.”

Jace couldn’t hold back, his response sharp with incredulousness, “Are you absolutely sure about this?”

“Jace–” Daemon started to respond, only to be cut off by a defiant glare from the prince. 

“Such allegations are severe,” Jace snapped fervently, his words fueled by a desperate grasp at the semblance of his sister’s honor, driven perhaps more by his love for her than by conviction in the claim’s falsity. 

“It’s no mere insinuation, young prince. It’s the truth,” Daemon stated, his tone stripped of any warmth. “Your sister was involved with Prince Aemond, blatantly so, both prior to her marriage and after. They’ve carried on this affair for months. She admitted as much to us.”

“She admitted to it?” His voice was an echo of bewilderment. 

“She did,” Daemon asserted, “Which is what prompted your mother to call her back to Dragonstone. Your sister was supposed to settle her affairs in King’s Landing and meet us here.”

The impact of Daemon’s revelations visibly shook Jace, his body jerking back as if struck. And for a long moment, he appeared utterly deflated, his chest rising and falling in quick succession, the frown on his face growing. Yet, almost as quickly, he rallied, his jaw clenching in determination, signaling a fierce resurgence of will in the face of disillusionment.

Daemon delved deeper into the crux of the issue, his words laden with a gravity that seemed to draw in the air around them. “Daenera was seen standing with the Greens, aligning herself with them in a show of open support of Aegon’s claim to the throne.”

The statement hung heavily in the air, seeming to cast a shadow of doubt over the small gathering as the words settled around them.

“Given her involvement with Aemond, do you think it’s possible that the Princess could have been swayed to abandon her mother’s rightful claim in favor of supporting her lover’s usurper cunt of a brother’s ascension?” 

“I don’t think…” Jelissa began, her voice barely above a murmur of resistance, only to be silenced by Daemon’s scornful interjection. 

“You don’t think?” He retorted, his presence looming over her, his shadow casting a chilling expanse that nearly enveloped her. “You were by her side in King’s Landing, in her most private moments. Did she ever hint at a willingness to betray her mother’s claim?”

“I don’t know,” Jelissa started, head shaking vehemently. “The Princess has always been steadfast in her belief that her mother is the heir, and I find it difficult to accept that she would change that belief.” 

Daemon inhaled deeply, the salt-laden breeze providing a brief respite from the weight of the conversation and the burning of anger that seared within his chest. Exhaling slowly, he addressed Jelissa with a solemnity that emphasized the sensitivity of their discussion. “Your honesty is appreciated, and understand this: what has been disclosed here must remain confined to us, never to be uttered elsewhere.”

“My Prince,” Jelissa intoned, offering a respectful nod, acknowledging Daemon’s directive. With a quick curtsy, she pivoted, retreating from the intensity of the conversation, her departure as swift as it was silent. 

Daemon dismissed the girl by shifting his focus to the restless ocean before them, its waves savagely colliding with the coastline. Each assault against the rocks below unleashed a shower of spray, the airborne droplets catching the light and sparkling amidst the tumult. The wind, ever capricious, seemed to echo the turmoil within, scaling the ancient stone walls of Dragonstone with a fierceness that spoke of an impending gale–dark clouds growing on the horizon, distant and foreboding. The wind whirred against the stone, brushing past the battlements to wrap around the flags, the fabric snapping in the wind with sharp reprimand.

“Your knew,” Jace asserted, his words sharp and brimming with recrimination, hinting at a sense of betrayal. “You were fully aware and yet you allowed her to remain in that viper’s nest! You did nothing as Aemond preyed on her.”

Daemon faced the onslaught of Jace’s reproach with a measured calm. “Your sister isn’t some unwitting prey caught in the claws of a predator. You do her a disservice painting her as a hapless victim. She has more agency than that.”

The young prince bristled. 

“It was her choice to entertain his advances,” Daemon continued, a reproachful note remaining in his tone as he spoke. “Had there been any manipulation on Aemond’s part, any intent to dishonor her, he wouldn’t have hesitated to use it against her, aiming to discredit your mother’s claim by shaming Daenera openly. Her actions, her decision to engage in an illicit affair with him, were her choice.”

“I knew something was wrong,” Jace admitted, his voice growing heavy with realization and the lingering slivers of denial. “Aemond flaunted their… closeness, goading me with it. Daenera refused his claims, she denied everything and I… I chose to believe her against my better judgment. I wrote it off as merely a way to get under my skin, to provoke me into action.”

Jace found solace on the cold stone of the battlements, leaning against them as he peered into the tumultuous sea below. His arm rested atop the barrier, his hand clenched so tightly it seemed he was trying to draw strength from the stone itself. “The way he spoke of her–what he insinuated… He referred to her as ‘byka ābrazȳrys,’ his little wife.”

Daemon’s reaction was swift and fierce, his gaze locking onto Jace with predatory precision. The taste of anger was almost palpable, and his response was edged with it. “At the coronation, the Hightowers announced her betrothal to Aemond.”

This revelation hung between them like a drawn sword, its implications as sharp and menacing as any blade. Questions swirled in the aftermath of Daemon’s statement, each one striking against the loyalty and trust they had placed in Daenera. Had she decided her path even while they were still in King’s Landing, mere days before? Was this betrothal her doing? How deeply was she entwined in these plots? How deep was her love for that one-eyed cunt? 

The shock on Jace’s face was palpable as he tried to process Daemon’s words. It was clear that he was struggling to reconcile his sister’s actions with the loyalty he had always assumed. “You think she has turned against us…”

Daemon’s reply was carefully controlled, his tone marked by a cold, dispassionate clarity. “Considering the intimate nature of her involvement with Aemond and their concerted efforts to keep the affair hidden, it stands to reason she may well have aligned herself more closely with their interests than ours.”

“No.” Jace’s denial came swift, fueled by a mix of conviction and fervor. “I refuse to believe that Daenera would support Aegon over our mother–she despises him and everything he is. She has always been adamant in her belief that our mother is the rightful heir, and her actions have always been in line with that. She’s always done her duty–”

“‘Her duty,’” Daemon reiterated, a note of skepticism and scorn in his tone as he shifted his gaze back to the sea. “She was tasked with fortifying your mother’s claim, forging alliances, and securing support through a strategic marriage. Yet, her actions have fallen short of these obligations. And now, she stands with the Greens.”

The weight of deciding their next steps hung heavily in the air. 

Jace, his frustration evident against the backdrop of the chill wind that reddened his cheeks, argued for intervention. “We can’t just abandon her.”

“And if her staying was her own choice?”

“And what if it wasn’t?” Jace responded with a blend of urgency and defiance. “We can’t conclusively say she willingly sided with the Greens. It’s entirely possible she was left no option but to adhere to their will, and as a hostage she has little choice but to comply with their demands.”

It was entirely possible, Daemon agreed. But it was also entirely possible that she had stood with the Green’s of her own volition. He hoped that she was nothing but a mere hostage, that she had no choice but to comply, but the thought that she might have chosen them over her own kin gnawed at him, undermining the trust he had once placed in her. This betrayal stung deeply; he had seen her as capable and loyal, someone who understood her duty and the weight and importance of her position. Her deceit and the risks she took with not only her own reputation but also that of her mother, for the sake of that one-eyed cunt, had shattered that trust. 

Loyalty and trust, once broken, were difficult to mend–and Daemon valued both above all else. 

The sting of betrayal was more piercing than even the usurpation itself–a twist of fate Daemon had anticipated. This sense of treachery was like a thorn lodged deep within his flesh, its constant irritation serving as a relentless reminder that a girl he once trusted might have turned against her own blood–not only would she be a traitor to the crown, but a traitor to her own flesh and blood, and that was unforgivable to Daemon. 

He harbored a deep-seated hope that Daenera had not become the traitor her actions seemed to declare. In pursuit of clarity, he had dispatched ravens to his friends and allies within King’s Landing, alongside a rider who was tasked to penetrate the heart of the capital within a fortnight, all to unearth the veritable truth of Daenera’s circumstances–not only to soothe his wife’s restless worry for her daughter, but to ease his own.

He was acutely aware of Rhaenyra and Jace’s hesitation to label Daenera as a usurper or betrayer, understanding their reluctance stemmed from a place of love and denial. Yet, Daemon saw their unyielding belief as a potential vulnerability. He positioned himself as the counterbalance to their blind faith, armed with skepticism and suspicion. His resolve was clear: to ascertain Daenera’s loyalty, or lack thereof. Until then, he would anchor his family with caution and readiness to confront whatever truth lay waiting.

“Regardless of where her loyalties lie, Daenera will become a pawn, a means for the Greens to bend Rhaenyra to their will,” Daemon declared, his voice imbued with a somber intensity. “A war is upon us, one that has already begun, even if your mother denies it, one that goes beyond the mere exchange of letters. It will be a war fought with steel and fire and blood. A war that will decide the true ruler of the Iron Throne.”

Jace held firm, unwavering in his conviction, “Still, we cannot act against the Queen’s explicit orders. There’s no action to be taken while she labors bringing your child into the world.”

Daemon’s patience wore thin, and with a sigh that bore the weight of his frustration, he looked skyward in a clear sign of his exasperation. “Have you not heard a thing that I’ve said?”

“I’ve listened–” Jace began, but Daemon’s sharp gaze and stern demeanor cut him off, making it clear that such explanation fell short. His posture, authoritative and resolute, both hands resting on the pommel of his sword, signaled the depths of his annoyance that his message had seemingly gone unheard. 

“We are on the cusp of war, Jace. Every moment we delay, every opportunity we squander, tips the balance further in favor of the Greens,” Daemon sneered, hoping to pierce the veil of idealism that seemed to shroud the young prince. 

The air between them crackled with a palpable tension, embodying the struggle between adhering to orders and the necessity for immediate action, between youthful hope and the harsh realities of leadership. Daemon was fully aware of the idealistic lens through which Jace viewed their situation, nonetheless he felt the pressing need for firm, decisive measures.

“With Rhaenyra indisposed, the responsibility to act falls to us,” Daemon stated, his expression hardening. “My loyalty to your mother is unwavering, as it was for my brother. Yet, there are times when they might not grasp the necessity of certain actions or what must be done. It is then our duty to guide them to take the right course of action.”

Closing the gap between them, Daemon stood so close that Jace had to look up to maintain eye contact. He noted the rigid set of Jace’s jaw, indicative of the prince’s internal conflict. “Defending our birthright and legitimate claim requires tough decisions, decisions we’re obligated to make, even in the absence of direct orders. Failure to take action now will leave us at the mercy of the Greens.”

Jace’s response was a tight-lipped silence, a testament to the weight of Daemon’s argument and the complexity of the situation at hand. 

“If we do not quickly secure the support from the great houses, we will soon find ourselves surrounded by men who have long forgotten their oaths,” Daemon continued. “Be assured, the Green snakes will undoubtedly court the favor of the great houses, sowing their venom far and wide. They will vilify your mother as the Great Whore of Dragonstone, and you, along with your siblings, will be denounced as bastards. Any claims you might have will be effectively nullified. The Greens will take every measure to eliminate any challenge to Aegon’s rule.”

The young prince’s gaze drifted to the sea, gritting his teeth as though holding back his response as he absorbed Daemon’s grim forecast. Yet, Daemon pressed further, needing him to understand the severity of the situation they were in, and what it meant to be a leader.

“What will it be? Are you still a boy, or have you become a man?” he prodded, aiming to reach the very depths of Jace’s resolve with a look sharp enough to cut through doubt. “If you remain a boy, then shrink away, clinging to your childlike fantasies as you might cling to your mother’s skirts.”

Stepping back, Daemon surveyed Jace more critically, “But if you are truly a man, then rise to the occasion, shoulder the burden of leadership, and make the bold decisions required.”

“Do not speak to me like you would a child,” Jace retorted furiously. “I am a man grown.”

“Then listen well, for leadership demands the strength of a man,” Daemon asserted, firmly. “For the common soldier, war may be straightforward, but for the leader, it is a labyrinth of difficult choices. You will be forced into corners where the decisions you make will determine the fates of those under your command–decisions that will weigh the lives of your men against the scales of victory. There will come a time when you must decide who among them to offer up in a sacrifice for the greater good. And know this: it could very well be someone you hold dear to your heart.”

His words carried the heavy truth of command, a burden that tested the resolve and moral fortitude of those who sought to lead–and as the heir, he would have to lead one day. Daemon’s gaze was unflinching, driving home the solemnity of the responsibility that came with command–emphasizing that war was not just in winning battles, but navigating the harrowing choices that could alter the course of history

Jace’s countenance dipped slightly, his gaze lifting to meet Daemon’s through the veil of his eyelashes, a silent acknowledgement of the profound burden those words imposed upon him. 

“I don’t want to lose my sister,” he confessed, the vulnerability in his voice reflecting the fear of a brother who loves his sister. 

“I, too, do not want to lose your sister,” Daemon admitted, his voice suddenly wrought with the weariness he had attempted to keep at bay. The burden of regret and fatigue pressed heavily upon him, and for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes, surrendering to the weight of what might have been–a silent acknowledgement of his oversight not to bring Daenera to Dragonstone with them, or leaving King’s Landing entirely. 

How different would it have been then? 

When he reopened his eyes, his gaze settled on Jace, whose young face was marred by concern. The set of the boy’s brows and the firm line of his lips betrayed his attempt at maintaining stoicism, a look so reminiscent of Daenera under stress. Yet, where Daenera’s worry would manifest in the relentless dance of her fingers, Jace’s was in the tightness of his expression–a silent echo of familiar concern.

“Your sister possesses a sharp mind,” Daemon attempted to provide solace to Jace, albeit knowing the truth of Daenera’s perilous situation in King’s Landing, amidst the vipers. “She is also spiteful–she will be of great annoyance to the Hightowers.”

A subtle smile touched Jace’s lips, a reflection of Daemon’s own, as he said, “I have every faith in her resilience and her ability to persevere.”

Daemon recalled Daenera’s spitefulness, evident from the very first encounter at Laena’s funeral. Her defiant scowl towards Vaemond, amidst his thinly veiled slanders, while her comforting grip on her supposed father’s hand. He had seen her strength and courageous stance against the Queen on the night Aemond lost his eye to the skirmish with her brother. And he had seen the sharpness of her mind that evening when she had come to him demanding answers upon the marriage to her mother–none of the other children dared to question it, but she had. 

Throughout the six years they lived together as a family on Dragonstone, Daenera had consistently demonstrated her fierce loyalty and a profound understanding of her duties–and he had come to see her as a daughter. It was for this reason Daemon had trusted her to go to King’s Landing. He had believed her capable of withstanding whatever poison the snakes of house Hightower threw her way. However, he hadn’t anticipated that one of those serpents would not not only infiltrate her chambers but also her bed, seducing her with honeyed lies and false promises. 

Had it been anyone else, Daemon might have been more forgiving.

Daemon released a weary breath, feeling the last day's turmoil claw at him, settling as a pounding behind his eyes. “Losing your sister is not something I want either, but if she has sided against us–should she prove to be a traitor, we must accept that she has already been lost.”

Daemon’s gaze drifted towards the bay, observing the distant approach of the ship emblazoned with the sigil of House Massey–a vivid display of a triple spirals in the hues of red, green, and blue, set against the backdrop of the white sails, making their way from the south. 

Doubt had taken root in him when Daenera had shattered his trust, and that suspicion had only deepened with time, questioning her loyalty. He hoped that she remained true, yet the harsh circumstance of the situation forced him to brace for the possibility of her betrayal. He wished against it, but duty and caution nudged him to consider that she might indeed have turned against them. 

“If we do not act, your losses will extend far beyond a sister,” Daemon intoned, his voice carrying the weight of what they faced. “You will lose your inheritance, and your life will be forfeit, you can be sure of that. Should the Greens achieve what they wanted, all our lives will be lost. Your mother, your brothers–Luke, Joffrey, Aegon, Viserys. All of us, none will be spared. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Jace responded, his voice heavy with it. The urgency in Daemon’s warning seemed to resonate deeply, finally setting in. “But, what if she hasn’t betrayed us?”

“Then she remains a hostage, set to marry Aemond,” Daemon conceded, acknowledging one of the deep-seated concerns that nurtured his doubts–the arranged marriage to Aemond. This was the man for whom she had killed her first husband, burying the alliance she was meant to keep. While Daemon reserved judgment for the murder of her husband, it was her love for Aemond that constituted her gravest transgression, severing the trust between them. 

“Assuming your sister is a hostage, her union with Aemond wouldn’t change her loyalty to us. And if she remains loyal to us, she would understand and ensure that nothing comes of this union.”

“You mean a child…” There was a blend of anger and revulsion in the utterance.

“Indeed, a child,” Daemon acknowledged with a grave nod. “A child would complicate things–and I’m sure your sister knows this.” He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. “If she remains true to us, she’ll prevent any offspring from this union.”

A child would complicate matters significantly, binding her irrevocably to Aemond and the Greens. Such an event would blur the lines of her loyalty, anchoring her to their cause. The conception of a child would, in essence, be an act of betrayal, entwining her fate with theirs in a manner too intricate to unravel. 

Jace, however, was quick to contest, “You’re assuming she would have a choice in the matter. What if Aemond were to force himself upon her?”

Daemon acknowledged the grim reality, “She’s aware of ways to avoid having a child–”

“But he would still be raping her!”

Daemon’s expression hardened, a storm brewing behind his calm exterior. “If Aemond truly cares for her, he wouldn’t resort to such an act. But if he does…” His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. “Then we shall ensure that his end is both slow and excruciating.”

“My prince…” A subdued voice broke through the tension, emerging weakly from behind them. As Daemon turned to identify the source, he saw Lady Elinda Massey standing on the battlements, her figure outlined against the wind that tousled her red gown. Her expression, laden with worry and sadness, bore signs of recent tears, evidenced by the slight reddening around her eyes and the tip of her nose.

A feeling of dread descended upon Daemon, prompting him to inquire in a hushed tone, “Rhaenyra, has she… has she passed?”

“No,” Elinda responded, her posture tensed as if bracing against the chill, “She’s still with us. She’s…”

Before she could continue, Jace, his breath coming in rapid succession as if he’d sprinted across the castle grounds, eagerly asked, “And the child? What of the babe?”

Closing the gap between them, Lady Elinda’s expression–a woven tapestry and empathy, fear and grief–ignited an unforeseen flicker of annoyance within Daemon. With a moment’s pause, her voice barely above a whisper, she delivered the heartrending news, “The birthing was fraught with difficulty, my Prince. It grieves me to say, the child… did not make it.”

At her words, Daemon closed his eyes, grappling with the news, “What happened?”

“The child was not… formed correctly. It seems unlikely it would have survived, even under different circumstances, and the maester believes that the child was lost before the princess even commenced her labor,” Elinda explained, her voice wavering, her hands clasping tightly together. “The princess is deeply affected by the loss. She refuses any form of care from us, and I am concerned that if she continues to remain in her current state, she’s at risk of falling ill with fever.”

Daemon’s gaze hardened into an icy stare, concealing his emotions beneath an even expression. The notion that his child was no longer of this world seemed unfathomable. He vividly recalled the gentle thumps against his palms, the unmistakable signs of life from within his wife’s womb. Those moments of quiet connection, his head bowing against her, feeling the stirrings of their unborn child, were too real, too filled with life to end this way.

Attempting to shift the focus, Elinda started, “Maybe if you–”

“Jace,” Daemon interrupted sharply, diverting his focus to the young prince, “have Baela land before the gale hits us, and inform Ser Brandon about Lord Massey’s imminent arrival. Ensure a contingent of guards is sent out for their reception.”

Jace’s response was a silent stare, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, a frown etching deeper into his expression as disbelief and shock took hold upon hearing Daemon’s commands. Daemon sensed the scorn radiating from Jace, its intensity almost tangible, pressing down on him with the force of silent condemnation. Jace’s eyes sharpened with censure, echoing unvoiced reproaches that seemed to reverberate through the charged atmosphere between them–accusations of absence and neglect that hung unspoken yet palpable: You should have been by her side. You ought to be with her now. Why weren’t you?

Without another word, Daemon pivoted, his steps firm and unyielding as she moved along the battlements. Jace’s voice trailed after him, “Daemon! Where are you going? She needs you! Come back!”

Yet, Daemon continued forward, undeterred.

Daemon walked along the battlements, each step echoing against the ancient stones, before entering one of the towering structures that pierced the skyline. Inside, he descended the spiral staircase, its steps worn by centuries of use, coiling downwards like the innards of some great beast. Crossing the open expanse of the courtyard, his silhouette cut a solitary figure against the backdrop of the castle’s imposing walls. Without hesitation, he veered towards an internal staircase, embarking on a descent into the deeper, shadow-laden recesses of the keep, where light of day scarcely touched. The further he ventured, the more pronounced the scent of the ocean became, mingling with the chill that seemed to cling to the cavernous walls. 

He found himself drawn towards the sea, facing the brunt of the wind as it lashed against him, and listening to the ceaseless rhythm of the waves that shattered the stifling silence enveloping Dragonstone. 

The horizon was as dark and foreboding as the stone walls of the castle, heavy with the promise of an impending gale as it rolled in from the sea. The last rays of sunlight fought their way through the thickening cloud cover in streaks of gold. The sun, in its slow descent, painted a faint glow across the landscape, its light waning but still casting a soft illumination against the encroaching darkness that threatened to envelop Dragonstone and everything within.

With each step on the sandy beach, his progress slowed, the grains clinging to his boots, seeming to anchor him with their weight, and in a fluid motion, Daemon drew his sword and planted it firmly into the sand, the blade flashing briefly. The leather belt and sheath were quickly shed, left to reside beside the sword embedded in the sand.

As though compelled by an unseen force, he waded into the churning waters, advancing until the waves lashed against his knees. A primal scream tore from his throat, raw and guttural–full of loss and rage, the sound carried away by the sea’s own roar. Overwhelmed, he succumbed to his knees, the sodden weight of his garments dragging him downwards as the ocean encircled him, indifferent to his mourning as it embraced him. 

The waves battered against Daemon’s sunken form the same way it relentlessly crashed against the shore. The chill of the water penetrated him, sank into his bones and settled there, as his gaze fixed on the turbulent dance around him–dark, gray waters interspersed with relentless white froth. He had not even had the time or ability to mourn his brother before this–he felt the loss of him as only a brother could, but his death had not surprised him. His brother’s decline had been long, transforming him over the years into a distant, cherished memory rather than a constant presence, effectively estranged by Viserys’s actions long before his passing. 

Daemon would have gone to him, had he been called, but the Greens had robbed him of his brother long before death claimed him. 

And now, they had robbed him of his child as well. 

Daemon harbored a conviction that the turmoil surrounding her father’s death and the usurpation of her rightful claim had cast a shadow over the unborn child, corrupting it within the womb. 

Wave after wave battered him, the water’s force against his chest, his attire plastered to his form. Daemon mustered the strength to stand, to fight against the drag of his soaked clothes and the beach’s resistance, his boots heavy with sand and water. He managed only a few steps towards the shore’s boundary before the sand ensnared him once more, forcing him to his knees. 

The grief of losing a child was a familiar torment, yet the anguish over this particular loss carved through him with a raw, unprecedented intensity. It ignited a fierce, consuming blaze within his chest, a pain profound and uniquely agonizing. 

Amidst the relentless surge of waves, the solitude was pierced by Caraxes’ eerie call, a sound that resonated with the depth of Daemon’s despair. Perched high upon the cliffs, the dragon remained a silent witness to its rider’s grief, its gaze fixed upon him. 

In his torment, Daemon buried his fingers into the damp embrace of the sand, desperately seeking something tangible amidst his grief. The coarse grains, unyielding beneath his battle-hardened hands, clung to him as he clutched the fleeting solidity of the earth, even as the relentless waves washed over him. Each surge of water not only drenched him further but also rinsed the sand from his grasp, leaving his hands empty and washed clean.

A surge of rage overwhelmed him, and with a guttural cry, he released his sorrow into the vastness, his voice tearing through the quiet, a raw challenge to the ocean’s incessant din. 

Spent, he allowed himself to fall back against the saturated sand, the world tilting precariously as he stared up into the sky. The sun, which had been a beacon of light, now retreated behind the advancing army of clouds, reflecting the shadow that loomed over his soul. 

Daemon lingered on the sand, his eyes cast upward to the ever-darkening sky, surrendering to the relentless caress of the waves that leached the warmth from his body, leaving him hollow. He forced himself to sit upright, his eyes drawn to the line where the tumultuous sea kissed the stormy horizon. In his heart, he named the Hightowers makers of his misery–they who had poisoned his brother against him, who had conspired with the council to usurp them, and who had stolen the life of his child, corrupting it within the womb. Their treachery knew no bounds it would seem.

The anger within him surged and receded with the waves’ rhythm, engulfing him until he felt nothing but a chilling emptiness. That emptiness rang hollow, seemed to reverberate with a dark echo–a vow of retribution, a vow of vengeance. 

Inhaling deeply, Daemon collected his resolve. He stood and walked towards the cavern from which he came. With determined strides, he pulled the blade out of the sand and sheathed it, its weight a comforting presence in his hand. He walked back through the cave and up the steps towards the keep. 

The silence that pervaded the halls of Dragonstone was suffocating. This was not the serene quiet of peace but a dense, burdensome quietude steeped in grief, pervading every crevice and shadow with its sorrowful grasp. The echo of his footsteps in the empty halls rang out in the solitude. Each step towards their chambers, the quietude seemed to grow louder with its emptiness, his boots leaving a trail of his somber journey. The doors to their bedchambers, once a gateway to solace, now stood as a daunting threshold to a realm of sorrow and loss. 

Pausing at the threshold of the chamber he shared with his wife, Daemon found himself unable to move any further as his eyes settled on his wife. Positioned on the ground, she swayed gently, enveloping their lifeless child in her arms, her voice tenderly humming a lullaby. His heart seemed to cease beating for a moment as he watched her continue rocking their child, humming to it as though it could hear her. 

The surrounding midwives bore expressions mingled with pity and sorrow, yet Daemon’s attention remained on Rhaenyra–there was a devastation in her tenderness, and a despair in the way she mused to the child. 

Compelled by a strength he scarcely felt, Daemon took measured steps towards her and with deliberate care, he descended to his weary knees at her side. Extending a hand, he tenderly brushed her skin, which, though pale, felt warm against the cold that had entrenched itself within him. Her acknowledgement of his presence was fleeting; her gaze lifted to his before it was drawn back to the silent figure she cradled. 

As Daemon looked over her shoulder, his gaze fell upon the tragic form nestled within his wife’s arms: a tiny being, grievously misshapen and sightless, with scales and strangely reptilian features. 

The sight clenched Daemon’s heart with a cold grip. The child, marked by such profound deformities, bore the unmistakable sign of a life that would have been mercilessly brief, had it even begun. The child was an abomination. With this harsh acknowledgement, Daemon found a sliver of mercy in the fact that it had not endured the cruelty of life.

Rhaenyra continued her gentle, rhythmic sway with the child, lost in a world of grief and silent contemplation–a wordless lament that filled the air with an unbearable weight of unspoken sorrow.

“We must burn it,” she finally uttered, her voice a broken whisper.

In response, Daemon closed the distance between them, offering a kiss to her temple and resting his head against hers. 

“It was a girl,” she whispered into the silence.

A girl. Another daughter. Their daughter–their only daughter.

“Visenya,” Rhaenyra breathed out, her fingers lightly caressing the lifeless form swaddled in a thick blanket. “I’ve always dreamed of a Visenya–Daenera nearly bore that name, but I named her after you…”

Daemon closed his eyes, a knot forming in his throat. “Visenya, second of her name. She would have been as fierce as her namesake.”

Rhaenyra lamented in a low murmur, “So much has been taken from us. My right to rule, Daenera, and now, our daughter–our Visenya.”

In response, Daemon’s embrace tightened, his lips brushing her temple in a whisper of a kiss. “We will rescue your daughter and we will reclaim what is rightfully ours. They will rue the day they set their eyes upon the throne.”

Rhaenyra’s voice was laden with exhaustion as she spoke, barely a whisper, “I don’t wish to talk of war and succession.”

The vibrant spark that once lit in her eyes now seemed extinguished, replaced by a profound weariness and the sheen of sorrow. She glared up at him in silent reproach, before returning her eyes to the babe.

“Princess,” came Elinda Massey’s gentle interjection, her expression one of deep sympathy. “The Silent Sisters should tend to her preparations.”

“No, I shall see to it myself,” Rhaenyra answered, determination weaving into her expression. Her voice lowered to a soft murmur. “She is mine to care for.”

“You should rest, Princess,” Elinda said, attempting to coax the princess to hand over the child, but a firm look from Rhaenyra stifled her efforts. 

Rhaenyra’s imploring eyes met Daemons, seeking his support. Daemon drew in a measured breath, then acknowledged her wish with a nod. He helped her to stand, his hand supporting her as they prepared to make their way through the halls.

Their progress was measured and painstakingly slow, with Rhaenyra’s every movement betraying her fragility, each step accompanied by a faint exhalation of discomfort. Perspiration coated her pallid skin, which had lost the warmth it once held, now replaced by a cold that matched the air around them. Daemon’s arms encircled her, providing her a steadying presence, ensuring she remained upright as they moved forward, while she cradled their child close to her chest.

Nestled deep within the castle, the Silent Sister’s chambers exuded a bone-deep chill that seemed impervious to the flickering warmth of the heart that burned brightly. The room’s dimly lit corners appeared to cradle the cold, as if the ghostly presences lurked just beyond sight, their icy fingers trailing whispers of unease.  

Upon their entrance, the Sisters, with their faces partially obscured by veils, turned their attention to Daemon and Rhaenyra as they entered. Each of them carried a banner of the Seven-pointed star. The Silent Sisters carried themselves with an air of solemnity, sworn to a life of silence and keeping vigil over those who had passed. This aspect, their pervasive silence coupled with an air of implicit judgment, unsettled Daemon profoundly. They seemed spectral, akin to phantoms themselves–shifting shadows that dwelled in the liminal space between life and death, their presence an ever-present whisper of mortality.

Daemon released Rhaenyra’s hand, stepping back to meld with the chamber’s shadows, observing as she moved towards the table. Each step seemed to carry the weight of her loss, her form outlined against the slender beams of light that managed to pierce through the room’s tall, narrow windows–the last slivers before disappearing entirely. Rain began to plet the windows and a low rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance. 

The chamber was permeated with  heavy, lingering dampness, the air tainted with the unmistakable, pervasive scent of mortality. Attempts to mask this grim reality with dried herbs and burning incense only succeeded in creating a thick, almost suffocating atmosphere that seemed to stick in the throat. 

Daemon’s damp clothes clung to him, a discomfort magnified by the bone-deep cold that seemed to seize the very air around him. He watched in silence, a solemn observer, as his wife gently unwrapped their child from its swaddling. Each of her breaths was a battle against the surge of grief that threatened to overcome her. The sorrow that marred her countenance seemed to cast a heavy, dark veil over her, aging her with its profound shadow. 

Rhaenyra dipped the sponge into a bowl filled with water, subsequently caressing the infant’s skin with it. Her movements were gentle and deliberate, imbued with a tenderness that spoke of the love she held for the child. In her actions, there seemed to be a silent hope, a desperate wish that this act of cleansing might undo the finality of their loss, erase the marks of their child’s brief existence. The spine, dragging up the remnants of birth, gradually tainted the water in the bowl, muddying the clarity with a silent testament to what was and what might have been. 

Daemon swallowed thickly, a knot forming in his throat as his heart contorted with pain as he silently observed his wife’s solemn rites for their child. The pressure of his fingernails against his palm served as a grim reminder, anchoring him to the moment as he stared at her with a sharp form of detachment.

After Rhaenyra had meticulously cleansed their child, delicately erasing any traces of birth, she tenderly wrapped the infant in cloth. With a gentleness that belied the tragedy of the moment, she cradled the still form, wrapping it securely before placing it back on the table, now enveloped in the soft embrace of cloth, hidden from the cruel gaze of the world. 

It was at this moment that Rhaenyra seemed to allow her grief to surge forth unbridled. Tears cascaded down her cheeks, her visage crumbling under the weight of her sorrow, a visual echo of her heart fracturing anew. 

Leaning heavily against the table, a sob wracked her body, the sound raw and heartrending. She then sank to her knees in a posture of utter desolation before their swaddled child. Her hands, shaking with the force of her sorrow, lingered in the air before tenderly enveloping the tiny form. In a final act of maternal love, she brushed a kiss across the covered feet of their daughter, a gesture of farewell steeped in anguish and love. 

The sight of his wife crumbling cut through Daemon–a profound despair sharp as a blade sinking between his ribs, leaving an indelible mark of sorrow on his heart. 

Rhaenyra rested her forehead against the table’s edge, her hand pressed firmly over her mouth in a futile attempt to silence her sobs. Daemon crossed the room then, in quiet determination and knelt beside his wife. He wrapped his arms around her, offering the support she needed. Her fingers grasped desperately at the damp material of his doublet, clinging to him as if he were the last thread that kept her from falling into the depths of her despair. He held her close, his lips finding the crown of her head in a soft, reassuring gesture as he swallowed the pain of his own grief. 

“We must get you to bed,” he whispered softly. “I refuse to lose you as well.”

Daemon carefully positioned her arm around his neck while sliding his own arm under her knees, preparing to lift her. As he raised her from the cold, hard floor, the weight of her form pressed heavily against his fatigued muscles, each movement stiff with the chill that had seeped into his bones. Yet, he held her securely, transporting her with unwavering resolve along the shadowed corridors of Dragonstone. 

Upon reaching their room, he gently lowered her onto the bed with a care that belied his own physical discomfort. 

“The midwives will look after you now,” Daemon told Rhaenyra, his voice a mixture of reassurance and command as he gestured subtly to the waiting attendants, signaling them to proceed with their duties. 

Rhaenyra did not respond, she merely stared out into emptiness, a weary expression on her face.

“I’ll return soon, my love,” Daemon softly promised, sealing his vow with a gentle kiss upon her forehead before stepping back to allow the attendants to care for her. 

Once he had shed the cling of his wet garments for dry attire, Daemon made his way back to their shared quarters, meeting maester Gerardys at the doors. 

“My condolences for your loss, my prince.”

“Has lord Massey arrived yet?” Daemon asked pointedly, disregarding the condolences. 

“Yes, Lord Massey has arrived, as has Lord Staunton,” the maester informed him. “They’ve been accommodated in the west wing of the keep and have been notified of the recent events… “

Daemon’s response was a gaze of steely resolve. “Inform everyone that the funeral for our daughter will be held on the morrow.”

“Understood, my prince,” Maester Gerardys acquiesced. 

“And what of King’s Landing? Any word?” Daemon inquired, his voice carrying a hint of underlying tension. 

“No news, my prince,” came the reply.

With a sharp nod, Daemon dismissed the maester, his expression unreadable as he turned towards the bedchambers. There, he found Rhaenyra enveloped in the bedding, her hair spilling across the pillow in waves of silver, her gaze lost to the gale raging beyond their window. The relentless downpour and the mournful wail of the wind created a symphony of sorrow that mirrored the turmoil within. 

Silently, Daemon joined her on the bed, enveloping her in his embrace. He kissed her temple, sharing the heat of his own body in a silent offering of comfort. Rhaenyra remained still, her reaction to his closeness imperceptible, but he did not press for acknowledgement. Instead, he chose simply to be there, a steadfast presence in the midst of their shared desolation. 

Tears began to fall from the corner of her eye, like the rain pouring down outside, as if the gods themselves grieved with them.

And heres for Next chapter: It's not done yet, and so far its around fucking 19K words as we follow the funeral, the green envoy, the black council pt2+pt3, a Rhaenys/Corlys scene and the deleted Jace/Rhaenyra scene. So... It will likely be cut into 2 parts, and I will update one on Fridays and hopefully again Monday, and then Friday again--depending on how far I've gotten with editing the chapter after 75 (which is then 75-76, and then 78 as a new chapter)

#a vow of blood #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc

[feminismisstillahatemovement]

Going anon because this just corrodes me due to being too stupid, but I´m the only one that thinks porn at large has done a lot of damage to society? From gender to politics and economics, I think porn was like a small dog at the start that somehow we allowed to get too wild and now is ravaging society at large, sometimes without us noticing. Maybe is just a conspirancy from someone that hates how oversexualized is everything nowadays, but there must be a tiny bit of reason in this way of thinking imo.

Well, like prostitution, pornography has always been with us (the word itself goes back to the ancient Greek words for prostitutes and writing): intentionally erotic depictions of sex exist in architecture and cave paintings and everything else for thousands of years, and as soon as the printing press was invented, erotica was one of the first things mass-consumed.

What's really changed this century is the ease of access to it that came with the internet: suddenly every sexual thought can be played out by others for you every second of the day, which has led to us all having the mind of some jaded and deranged sultan, clapping his hands every 5 minutes to bring on the dancing girls and their one cup to relieve his boredom.

But I think focusing on just the sexual aspect of this is to miss the bigger change that is happening, in which ALL our internal thoughts are moving online, into the global machine: Porn cuts us off from, and makes us less reliant on, and interested in, others, but then so does an Instagram account. So does Twitch, so does Twitter. So does Tinder. So does online shopping.

All these things eat away at, and replace, our deep flesh and blood connections with others, and trap us in our own minds, our own echo chambers, our own fantasies. It seems to me they all make us a little less warm and considerate and human, and yet it's only humans that would come up with any of it.

So there's the rub: the technological progress it is a result of is not a genie that's going to go back into any bottle; it's global change that we aren't going to be able to stop, so to a large part we just have to accept that the world has changed and this is what reality is now.

Like recreational drugs, internet porn exists and runs rampant the way it does because it partially solves an aspect of human loneliness. The downside of both is that by doing so they increase all the other aspects of human loneliness. You won't "solve" the "problem" of pornography without fixing the much bigger problem of millions of people not having happy, joyous, love-filled existences that seem better to them than painkillers, fantasy and hermitude.

The only way I know to counteract at least some of the negative effects of all of the above is to deeply fall in love with another, and prioritize real-life connections with real-life people over pixels on screens. But that is hard work, dangerous and frightening, which is largely why each one of us is staring at this Tumblr post right now.

[nickel156]

Tamlin POV Fanfic: ✨

Trying to figure out the best platform to share my Tamlin ACOMAF POV: If I ever get the balls.

So here's a small segment. Lemme know if you like it 😅

✨✨A Court of Fury and Mist ✨✨

There, Feyre stood before me, her form battered and broken, yet her spirit unyielding in the face of unspeakable torment. Amarantha, cruel and merciless, loomed over her like a dark shadow, her laughter echoing through the chamber like a chilling requiem.

I watched in horror as Amarantha subjected Feyre to unimaginable torture, each blow, each cruel taunt, a savage assault on her very being. My heart clenched with anguish as I saw Feyre's pain writ large upon her face, her cries of agony tearing at my soul.

But even as I longed to rush to her side, to shield her from the horrors that surrounded us, I found myself frozen in place, unable to move or speak. The weight of my own powerlessness bore down upon me like a crushing weight, suffocating me with its suffocating embrace.

And then, in a final, devastating crunch, I watched as Amarantha delivered the killing stroke, snuffing out the light of Feyre's spirit before my very eyes. The sight was more than I could bear, my soul rent asunder by the enormity of the loss.

With a cry of anguish, I jolted awake, drenched in sweat and trembling with fear. The memory of the nightmare lingered like a dark shadow, haunting me with its vivid imagery and overwhelming sense of despair.

But, as I lay in bed, feigning sleep, the sound of Feyre's retching pierced the silence of the night. My heart clenched with worry, but I forced myself to remain still, my breath shallow and controlled.

Part of me longed to rush to her side, to offer her comfort and support in her time of need. But another part of me, paralyzed by my own trauma and uncertainty, kept me rooted to the spot, frozen in place as if trapped in a nightmare from which I could not wake.

I listened helplessly as Feyre continued to vomit, each retching a painful reminder of her suffering. Guilt gnawed at my insides, knowing that I should be there for her, that I should be offering her the strength and reassurance she needed.

But I couldn't bring myself to move, couldn't bring myself to face the reality. The thought of seeing her like this, vulnerable and unguarded, was too much to bear. And so, I lay there in the darkness, pretending to be asleep, hoping that she would never know the truth of my cowardice.

2.

As Feyre stood before me, her determination burning brightly in her eyes, I felt a familiar mix of frustration and concern rising within me. It had been three long months since the end of Amarantha's reign, yet the scars of that dark time still lingered, haunting us like specters in the night.

I watched as Feyre crossed her arms, her tattooed hand tucked beneath her bicep, a silent testament to her resilience and strength. The urge to protect her, to shield her from harm, warred with my desire to grant her the freedom she so desperately sought.

But as she pleaded her case, insisting on going to the village, I couldn't help but feel a pang of unease. The threat of danger still loomed large in the world outside our estate walls, and the thought of Feyre venturing into unknown territory filled me with a deep sense of dread.

With a heavy heart, I shook my head, my lips pressed into a thin line as I fastened the bandolier of daggers across my chest. The weight of responsibility settled upon my shoulders like a burden too heavy to bear, reminding me of the countless lives that depended on me to keep them safe.

"We're still hunting down Amarantha's beasts," I explained, my voice firm yet tinged with regret. “I don’t have enough sentries to spare to escort you to the village” I lied.

(The book actually starts at the end of acotar, the final challenge)

@acourtofthought

#acotar #elucien #writing #sarah j. maas #tamlin

[a-painful-ordeal]

5. Satanic and Chained Up

Cw: Slavery, slapping, extremist ideology in a fantasy setting, whumper believes in the Divine Right Of Kings, religious justification of torture, stress position, threats of a flogging, description of a flogging that hasn’t occurred.

Note: whumper and whumpee’s religious stances do NOT reflect my own. This is an exploration of ‘The Divine Right of Kings’ and general extremist bullshit. Evan’s views also are me playing with how atheism can manifest in a world where the gods frequently interact with mortals. Lord Maynard is a paladin and this is a subversion of the usual stereotypes.

---

Evan’s heart races as he stands in a huge bedroom with a four-poster bed. The beauty and size dwarves him in comparison. Beautiful curtains hang from the wooden frame above the bed. To one corner of the room is an ornately painted screen to change behind. The screen stands next to a well-decorated wardrobe. In the other corner, sits a wooden table with a bowl of exotic fruits that Evan has never seen before. A fire sits not too far from the bed, glowing gently in the absence of its master.

Evan moves around the room, checking and double checking the windows for an exit. They are locked. Fuck. They are locked.

His anger and fear blend together. Why couldn’t he have just gone along with those guards and pretended. Maybe no one would have noticed. At least that way, he wouldn’t have gotten a thrashing and- whatever this is…

Deep breath in. And out. Calm. He tries to relax as an eternity passes. Waiting. Focus on something else. Anything else. What would he be doing now…? If he hadn’t been so stupid to think someone would genuinely try to help a street kid. He’d be… bickering with Meg maybe. Arguing about her dumb fictional crushes which he had never been able to relate to. Or maybe he’d be telling her to put another flea-ridden cat she found back where she found it, or so help him… it was always an empty threat. Meg enjoyed the bickering. And in all honesty, so did he. Or, maybe he’d be trying to wash her smelly unicorn toy. That thing was disgusting. M, would probably be hanging around watching, or taking Meg’s side. M had always been soft when it came to the little ones, letting things slide that she’d chastise him for with a grin now. She’d looked out for him like that once, too. A long time ago. But now she counts on him being able to help her look after all three of them. Counted. But she counted on him helping her look after all three of them of them. What would she do now?

Evan rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. No. He will see them again. This is not the end. He’ll get out of here…. Somehow…and move his way back to…. Wherever they were before. It’ll be fine. Or maybe they will rescue him? Find out what’s happened and come to save him.

The doors swing open, cutting off his train of thought, as the large, well-dressed figure of Lord Maynard enters. Evan finally gets a good look at him as the man strides into his chambers. He’s a human man, with well-kept black hair. He has large, broad shoulders and styled black hair. If Evan had seen him around the town, he might have assumed he was a merchant.

Maynard moves towards Evan, like a lion assessing an antelope. Evan swallows, exhaustion from earlier being chased away with a fresh bout of fear. He fights the urge to move back, instead, standing his ground. He raises his chin and puffs his chest out, swallowing back the pain from his beating.

“So. You must be the little slave who stole food and tried to escape?” the Lord asks. His tone is light, with a hint of danger to it.

Evan stays silent. His mouth begins to dry and the urge to back up begins to scream at him.

Maynard steps close. “Answer me when I’m talking to you.” His demands echoes around the room.

Evan feels his legs beginning to shake. Answer or not… this is a trap. Anything he says… he’s fucked.

Maynard walks forwards and strikes Evan. The rings on his hand scour two bloody lines across the cheek. The lines cut into the already yellow and blue cheek, which hasn’t fully recovered from earlier. “You will give me a response or I will have a finger taken off for your insolence.”

Evan’s breath hitches in his throat as he feels his throat begin to constrict. He feels all bravery leave him. “Y-” he coughs “Yes. I am.”

“You will address me as Sir or Master. Understood?”

“Yes… Sir…”

Maynard smiles “That was easy, wasn’t it?”

Evan stays quiet. Unsure what he could say in response.

“Now. Let’s get one thing clear. I will not tolerate disobedience from scum. The gods have placed me on this world to protect the good people from devils like you. And if that causes me to have to whip the evil out of you, then so be it. I will be doing my duty.” Maynard says this with pride in his voice, like man who has achieved something grand.

“You will obey me. And you will learn the place that the gods have allocated to you. Understood?”

Evan blinks. He fights the urge to call this man absolutely fucking nuts. Best not to do that when trapped in a room with him. “Yes…Sir.”

“Good. Now. You will kneel when I enter a room. Understood?”

Evan blinks, taking a small step backwards. His body shouts to run whilst his brain pushes him to fight. A surge of resilient pride runs through him for a moment, just long enough for all sense to be lost. “No-”

What he said suddenly registers, and he wants to kick himself.

“No?” There is a quiet rage in Maynard’s voice.

“Wait, I mean-” Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Fear shoots through him. Just comply. Stay alive and live to fight another day.

Evan drops to his knees with a thud that causes him to wince. He stares at the ground. Let that be enough. Please.

“Don’t you dare say no to me.” The Lord growls “But no. By all means. If you don’t want to kneel. Don’t.”

He grabs Evan’s thin wrists in one hand, roughly pulling Evan to his feet and dragging the boy across the room to the four-poster bed. Evan’s wrists are shifted from Maynard’s left hand to his right hand as he grabs some cord that holds the bed-curtain together. He throws it over the wood at the top of the bed, before wrapping the other end, tightly around Evan’s wrists. Maynard then begins to wrench Evan’s weight up, until the boy is on his tiptoes.

“There. Now you don’t have to kneel. How does that feel? Boy? Better. I hope so.” Maynard spits, his voice full of righteous anger.

Evan’s wrists scream at him as the cord tightens, digging into his wrists. His jaw trembles slightly from the pain as the skin on his hip is stretched out. He lets out a small whine.

“I asked you a question. Does that feel better?”

Evan’s mind races. Yes? Or no? What does the man want to hear? Anything. Say what he wants. Fuck bravery and resilience. He wants to make it out of this in tact. Evan makes a split second decision. “No... Master.” His skin crawls at the word. The word fills him with a strange repulsive nausea but he continues. “I would… prefer to kneel…” There is a foul taste on his tongue as he finishes the sentence. He wants to swear and spit and shout… but so far, that had just gotten him hurt. Maybe this will work better? Do what Trygve said… keep his head down?

“That is a shame… you can kneel in the morning. Before I have you flogged for your little scene earlier.”

Evan blinks. That… didn’t work… wait. Flogging. What?

The boy’s shock is clearly evident on his face as Lord Maynard looks at him “You didn’t think that you wouldn’t be punished for your act of dissidence did you?” He shakes his head as he causally begins to the screen to undress for bed. There is the click as he undoes his belt. The sounds of fabric rubbing together.

Evan can see an arm stretch to grab a night shirt.

“You stole from me and injured my employee. Clearly, you deserve some punishment. Otherwise the gods wouldn’t have brought you into my hands. No. But don’t fear. I’m not unjust. The punishment will fit the crime. You stole from around twenty meals. And injured a guard. I’d say thirty lashes should suffice.”

Evan’s stomach drops. And heart races in his throat.

Maynard reappears. “You can stay there till the morning, I think. Until you realize that kneeling for me really isn’t that bad.” He moves a candle to his bedside table. And spends a couple of moments pulling the bed’s covers back, causally. As if there wasn’t someone else in the room. He then climbs into bed. “Thirty lashes. Unless you wake me up. If you make a sound I will make sure that they flay the skin from your back. Understood?”

Evan nods quickly, blinking back tears.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Y-yes… Sir…”

Evan’s face has gone pale during this speech. As the realization begins to set in. He’d seen floggings before. Thieves who’d gotten caught, or someone who’d started a fight. He’d seen ten lashes bring a grown man to tears as his skin was abused by knotted leather. Evan’s whole body trembles.

“Good. Much better.” With that, the Lord blows out the candle and nestles down in his bed. Curling up to sleep off the feast.

Evan stands there, hanging silently. His elven blood allows him perfect sight of the dark, grey room and the glowing embers from the fire. Despite the darkness that covers the room. His calves hurt as cramp sets in.

He blinks and hangs there. His wrists hurt as his hand’s circulation begins to go and the cord bites into his flesh.

Big tears begin to well in Evan’s eyes as he just wants to curl up and go home. Fuck why couldn’t he have stayed with Meg? Life had sucked in places before but this… this was worse. Why couldn’t he have decided not to meet those fucking men? Why can’t he just keep his fucking mouth shut?

The prospect of a flogging makes his chest heave deeply in a sob. He wants to sniff. To shakily cry and scream openly but he doesn’t. He uses all his willpower to keep himself from sobbing. He will not dig himself a deeper hole. A deeper grave to lie in.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His knees hurt. Fuck. He tries to stretch out one leg to disperse the cramp, but that makes the other hurt more.

He wishes the morning would come sooner. And then wishes that this would last longer. Before his back gets torn open. Skin ripped from flesh. What kind of whip would be used? A bullwhip looks lethal, but what if this man preferred to use a sailor’s whip? Or maybe he would use one which is metal-tipped. Fuck fuck shitting fuck. Evan’s throat contracts slightly as his breathing increases.

Evan had seen the scars before. Of course he had. The only way to avoid a flogging if you were caught stealing or some other crime, was to pay. Gold will get you anywhere. The scars were ugly, and humiliating. They told the world what you have done and there was almost nothing that could undo that.

His legs tremble. He feels sick. Tears won’t stop falling. He silently inhales, allowing the shaky sobs to be as silent as possible. He hangs there, exhausted and terrified. Silently waiting and dreading the dawn.

-------

AN: Hopefully that was alright!! I decided to not put it through grammarly this time so hopefully the grammar and spelling isn't Wattpad levels of bad 🤣🤣

Again please do not mistake any of the characters beliefs for my own. I'm mostly just playing around in a DND setting. Lord Maynard would be a Paladin of Conquest and I'm playing with subverting paladins as a 'noble' class. If you want, feel free to guess Evan's class!

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Taglist:

@sunshiline-writes @kixngiggles @pumpkin-spice-whump @ivycloak

#whump blog #whump writing #dnd whump #whumpblr #fantasy whump #whump tropes #defiant whumpee #sadistic whumper #cw: violence #beating #stress position #slapping #tw flogging reference #religious whump #whump #tw: extremist ideologies #whumper is a paladin #tw: divine right of kings #fantasy gods #fantasy religion #These Woods

[mercarimari]

NOTE: This is the first in a series of one-shots that i’m going to write for Aelin involving trauma processing post canon, and my headcanons in relevance to her PTSD and the other issues she faces after the Coffin. That said heavy themes will be present in all of the one shots posted under my tag Popular Monster. Themes of suicidal ideation, death, torture, implied SA (in regards to Fenrys), and other potentially dark themes will be present, you have been warned.  Project Title: Popular Monster Fic Title: I Just Wanna Feel Okay.  WC:  1074

Sleep was hard anymore.

It often didn’t matter that Rowan was asleep next to her, when the Gods awful nightmares drug her out of the bliss of a deep sleep. Not even the sound of his breathing and his heart soothed her. She was thankful for his understanding, that he understood her on a level not many people could. They’d only discussed it once, briefly, but she remembered. He’d suffered similarly, long before she’d even been a thought to be brought into the world.

Her footsteps echoed on in her ears as she moved through the castle. The padding of each step was like a scream in the silence of the night. But bare feet made their way through the halls from their chambers, and into the throne room. A true throne sat upon a dias now. Not just the most ornate chair they could find in the remaining rubble of her once great home.

It was great again. Terrasen had managed to rise from the ashes of the war. Orynth was beautiful again, as it had been when she was a child at the height of it’s glory. She should not have lived to see it. She took a seat upon the gilded throne of golden stag horns, made of metal and not the symbolic shed horns of the Stag of the North like the original. It would take centuries to rebuild that piece of her Kingdom’s history.

In the dark silence, Aelin curled up in the throne that was far too large for her. Even with all the weight she’d put back on thanks to her training and regular meals. It still held a certain level of intimidation to her, even now. It was here where reality fell upon her shoulders. It was here, that she had no choice but to embrace the things that had happened to her, because there was no escaping them. The war was over. She’d survived when she had been destined to die. And she didn’t have nearly enough distractions to keep her from falling into the spiraling pit of what had been done to her. She had no choice but to embrace the horrors of the months she’d lost trapped in an endless cycle of relentless torment that had torn at parts of her she’d long thought laid to rest. “Can’t sleep?” Aelin looked up to where she found Fenrys, standing in the massive doorway, down the aisle from her. He didn’t wait for an answer as he made his way towards her. He looked just as tired as she felt, and she knew that he likely hadn’t slept either. At least not well. She tried to force a smile. “I got a little bit. Had another nightmare though, and then my foot cramped up, felt like it was being torn apart. Couldn’t go back to sleep after that.” She couldn’t keep the smile in place. It fell into a frown as she watched him continue his lazy approach. She met his eyes, and made note of the five blinks. *This is real, you are awake.*

“She’s dead and I still can’t find peace.”  A broken laugh bubbled from her throat. How many nights had seen them here? How many of those nights had Fenrys spent apologizing to her, for the belief that he had not done enough to save her? He hadn’t had a choice, and as selfish as it was, she was just glad he was alive. “I know.” He answered.

“It’s like waiting for a bomb to drop.” Aelin breathed, as he came to stand in front of her. “The thing that’ll shatter the illusion.” Because there was always something someone said or did that shattered Maeve’s illusions.

Fenrys nodded, then he offered his own explanation. “I dreamed of Connall again.” Aelin knew what that meant. It hadn’t been a happy dream, no, it had been his mind reminding him of the sticky warmth of his brother’s blood. Of what Maeve had made him do after his death while his body laid lifeless mere feet away. “I’m sorry.” She tried to blink back the tears that welled up in her eyes. “I wish I could make everything right and still save everyone. I wish I could give him back to you.” Words she’d said so many times they felt rehearsed, even if she meant them every time they fell from her lips. “I know.” He said again, “I know you’d do anything to make it right, but this is how it is, Aelin. And I would not give you up for anything in the world.” The tears slipped free in spite of her best efforts to keep them trapped. So few people had seen her weakness. The ones who remained alive, she could count on her fingers. But Fenrys had seen her at her weakest. Had been there to save her life, had stopped that final breaking. Had nearly killed himself to do it.  “Not a single fucking thing.” She agreed. Bound. She and Fenrys were bound in a way entirely unique. He had borne the worst of her weakness and had been her strength when she feared she’d give up. Fenrys had saved her life, just as much as she’d saved his. “Do you want to try to go back to sleep?” He asked, holding out his hand. Aelin placed hers in his, and let him guide her to her feet. “Probably smart. We’ve got a lot of shit to do later.” Before she could take another step towards the stairs, Fenrys pulled her into his arms, a hand stroked over her hair, and his voice was a whisper in her ear as he held her. “I know it’s hard, but we’ll get through it. One day at a time. Until we find our reasons to smile on the other side.” He released her, and in a flash of light a white wolf had taken the place of his fae form, nudging at her hand.

Fenrys led the way back to her chambers, where Rowan still breathed steadily. She climbed back into the bed, settling herself against him. Rowan shifted in his sleep to accommodate the return of her weight against him. Familiar safe arms wrapped around her, and Fenrys leapt onto the bed, his massive white form settling behind her legs, the warm softness of his fur, and her mate’s heartbeat lulling her back into the depths of a dreamless sleep.

#throne of glass #aelin galathynius #rowaelin #aelin and fenrys #aelin and fenrys are trauma buddies #sjm fandom #tog fanfic #tog #my writing #popular monster

[storms-path]

Day 4 - Void (Extra Credit)

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!”

Trapped in steel as it was, the beast was nonetheless unmistakeable as it awoke, shattering its restraints with all the ease of a child tearing leaves. No other creature could have that same wretched aether. No other creature could inspire such deep, unrelenting irritation at its continued existence.

“Diablolos, you sack of shite-layered goblin piss! Why can’t you just stay DEAD?!” Fareena punctuated her frustration with her trademark opening gambit: Charing directly up to the abomination of steel and void and slamming her gunblade into its chassis. It didn’t exactly do much, but it made her feel much better. Distantly she could hear Arashi and Stalwart cursing her out in unison, Sanda’s confusion at Fareena’s visceral reaction, but she honestly didn’t care. Honestly, the nerve of some creatures, thinking they could just cheat death as they wished. It wasn’t fair!

Warning: Control system failure. Warni- <bzzzt> I return to myself a- Oh, not YOU again.

If it was possible for an unholy fusion of demon and machine to convey annoyance, the Diablo Armament certainly gave it its best effort. With an almost casual swipe of its monstrously large hand it attempted to swat Fareena like the annoying gnat she was. Fareena, however, had other ideas, leaping onto the hand as it swung her way and starting to climb up the Armament’s arm, shouting obscenities all the way.

Sanda, thoroughly confused at this point, paused in nocking another arrow to her bowstring and watched as the nimble viera clambered, leapt and scrabbled her way up the creature’s forearm and onto its shoulder, somehow avoiding all of its admirable attempts to dislodge her. Slamming her gunblade into the giant warmachina’s shoulder, she continued her tirade of insults without any apparent need to pause for breath. To Sanda’s considerable shock, the great metal beast actually turned its head to respond in kind, its horrific booming voice uttering some truly vile curses.

“What… What is going ON?!” Sanda couldn’t help but express her bafflement. What was supposed to be a climactic battle to free Bozja had instead devolved into a glorified shouting match. And to make matters worse, neither Arashi nor Stalwart looked surprised. With a grimace, Arashi turned to explain.

“This isn’t the first time we’ve encountered this thing,” Arashi said with a vague gesture towards the mechanical behemoth. “Not in this form,” she hastily added at Sanda’s disbelieving look. “He was a good deal smaller when we faced him in Dun Scaith.”

“And Amdapor!” added Stalwart helpfully, turning her gaze away from the animated conversation still occurring. “He really is a persistent one, isn’t he?” A roar of fury cut through the conversation, making them all cover their ears. Or horns, in Arashi and Sanda’s cases. Fareena, clutching her own ears, was laughing. Apparently she had won that exchange.

“So you’ve… met this thing before?” In a world of newfound absurdities, this one seemed a little too much to accept. But Arashi and Stalwart just nodded grimly, the same fatigued expression on their faces.

“Thought we’d finally dealt with him after blasting him with the Nullstone, but apparently some scrap of him survived enough to find its way into that relic.” Arashi’s resigned tone echoed in the massive chamber, making the silence between viera and machine all the more conspicuous. The three women exchanged a look, then turned to see whether Fareena had been reduced to a fine paste.

Surpassing expectations once again, Fareena was not reduced to a smear of aether. Instead she was climbing back down the arm of the creature, looking remarkably smug and without a hint of retaliation from the colossus. With a spirited leap she bounded back onto solid ground, jogging over to her very confused compatriots.

“We’ve come to an agreement!” she said with an unearned grin.

“An agreement? With that thing?” Stalwart’s tone was all disbelief and veiled disgust.

“Yes! We’re going to do our damnedest to kill that voidsent bastard properly this time!”

So far so good, but… “What’s the catch?” spoke Arashi and Sanda in perfect unison.

“No catch! He’s just going to do the same to us! Oh, duck.” Fareena was already ducking as she did, barely avoiding a white-hot ball of magitek aimed squarely at her head. It slammed into the far wall with an ominous hiss. Then Fareena was turning back with a grim expression, gunblade raised as she charged into the fray.

With a well-worn grimace shared between them, Arashi, Sanda and Stalwart joined her.

#ff14 #final fantasy 14 #ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #ffxivwrite2022 #ffxivwrite #arashi washi #sanda washi #fareena hagen #stalwart mountain #i told you it'd be a more lighthearted prompt this time #fareena's ability to annoy people is legendary #and for once the feeling is mutual

[prosegalaxy]

"Unlocking Love: The Adventure on Zarathustra-7"

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the vast and untouched landscape of the remote planet, Zarathustra-7. Alex and Sasha stood side by side, gazing at the breathtaking view, their hearts pounding in unison. As they looked out at the unfamiliar terrain, they couldn't help but feel a sense of adventure and excitement. Sasha turned to Alex, her eyes full of curiosity. "What do you think is out there?" she asked, gesturing towards the unknown wilderness. "I don't know," Alex replied with a nervous laugh, "but I'm sure as hell going to find out." With a determined look in their eyes, they set off into the vast expanse, their footsteps echoing through the eerie silence of the planet. As they ventured deeper into the unknown, they came across a hidden temple, its ancient walls covered in intricate carvings that told stories of long-lost civilizations. "This place... it feels alive," Sasha whispered, her voice barely audible above the wind. Alex nodded, "I think we've found our adventure." They explored the temple, discovering hidden chambers and corridors filled with relics of a time long past. As they delved deeper into the temple, their bond grew stronger, the heat of their passion growing hotter than the planet's scorching sun. It wasn't long before the two became inseparable, facing each challenge together, conquering every obstacle as if it were nothing. As they ventured further into the heart of the temple, they encountered a great chamber filled with ancient technology and remnants of a powerful civilization. In that moment, the air crackled with electricity, and a blinding flash of light engulfed them both. When the light subsided, their hearts raced with excitement and anticipation, for they knew they had unlocked a secret hidden for eons. In that moment, Alex and Sasha realized that they were not just explorers, but pioneers of a new era, bound by love and destiny. The two had found happiness in each other's arms, as the temple's secrets revealed themselves to them one by one. And so, their love story began on the remote planet of Zarathustra-7, where adventure and discovery intertwined with passion and romance. On the distant, uncharted planet of Zarathustra-7, Alex and Sasha found themselves in awe of the mysterious world before them. The air was thick with anticipation as they ventured deeper into the dense jungle, guided by ancient maps they had discovered. They soon stumbled upon a hidden entrance to an ancient temple, its stone walls covered in intricate carvings that spoke of a long-lost civilization. As they entered the temple, the air grew heavy with an eerie silence, broken only by the sound of their footsteps echoing through the dark corridors. In one of the chambers, they found a large stone tablet with a riddle inscribed upon it: "Seek the heart of this place, where light and darkness meet." Alex and Sasha exchanged glances, both knowing that solving the riddle was the key to unlocking the temple's secrets. With determination in their eyes, they set off to solve the riddle. They traversed treacherous terrain, navigating booby-trapped corridors and deciphering cryptic messages left behind by the ancient civilization. As they overcame each challenge, their bond grew stronger, and the spark of romance between them ignited into a flame. Finally, they reached the heart of the temple: a room bathed in an otherworldly light. There, they discovered a portal that led to a hidden chamber filled with the artifacts of the ancient civilization. As they marveled at the wonders before them, Alex and Sasha realized that their love for each other was the key to unlocking the secrets of Zarathustra-7. In that moment, their romance blossomed into something truly magical, a testament to the power of love and the endless possibilities of the universe. And as they stepped through the portal, hand in hand, they knew that together, they could conquer any challenge that lay ahead. Alex and Sasha stood in front of the ancient temple, its towering stone gates etched with intricate carvings that seemed to whisper secrets. The air was heavy with anticipation as they took their first steps into the unknown. "This place is incredible," whispered Sasha, her eyes widening as she traced her fingers along a mysterious inscription. "I know," Alex replied, his voice tinged with awe. "I wonder what mysteries lie within." As they ventured deeper into the temple, they stumbled upon an ancient riddle etched into the wall. "'Three doors stand before you,' it reads," Sasha murmured, her fingers tracing the words. "Which door will lead us to the next adventure?" Alex studied the carvings carefully, his eyes narrowing as he tried to decipher the clue. "Each door has a different symbol - a tree, a star, and a river." Sasha's brows furrowed in thought. "Perhaps the door we choose will reveal something about our own paths." Together, they made their decision, and the door creaked open, revealing a vast chamber filled with strange artifacts. "Look!" Sasha exclaimed, pointing to an ornate box in the center of the room. "I think it's trying to tell us something." Alex approached the box and, with a touch of his hand, a holographic image appeared. It was a map of the planet Zarathustra-7, marked with a series of coordinates. "We need to find these locations," Alex said, his voice filled with determination. "They might hold the key to unlocking the secrets of this world." Sasha nodded, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Together, we'll conquer every challenge and uncover the truth." As they set off on their journey, the bond between them grew stronger, fueled by the thrill of discovery and the promise of adventure. And in the end, they found not only a treasure trove of secrets but also a love that would last a lifetime. Alex and Sasha stood at the entrance of the ancient temple, its towering walls adorned with intricate carvings that told tales of a long-lost civilization. As they stepped inside, the air was heavy with an air of mystery and excitement. Sasha whispered to Alex, "Do you think we'll find any clues about the people who built this place?" Alex nodded, his eyes scanning the walls as he replied, "I hope so. These riddles and mysteries could lead us to something incredible." As they ventured deeper into the temple, they encountered a room filled with statues that seemed to come alive as they solved a complex puzzle. The statues bowed in gratitude, and a hidden door revealed itself, leading them further into the heart of the temple. Inside, they found themselves face-to-face with an enormous stone tablet, covered in cryptic symbols. Alex traced his fingers along the carvings, slowly deciphering their meaning as Sasha watched with wide eyes. "I've got it," Alex exclaimed. "This is a map to something extraordinary." Sasha's heart raced as she realized the significance of their discovery. "We could be the first to unlock the secrets of this ancient world!" With newfound determination, they set off on a thrilling adventure through the vast landscape of Zarathustra-7, solving riddles and overcoming challenges. Together, they uncovered hidden chambers, faced perilous obstacles, and discovered relics from a time long gone. Through it all, their bond grew stronger, and love blossomed between them. As the sun set on their final challenge, Alex and Sasha stood hand-in-hand, gazing at the horizon. The secrets of Zarathustra-7 were now theirs to cherish, and they had found happiness in each other's arms. Their love, like the ancient temple, would stand the test of time. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting an ethereal glow over the landscape of Zarathustra-7. Alex and Sasha stood atop a hill, gazing at the ancient temple that lay before them. Their eyes locked, a silent understanding passed between them. Sasha spoke first, her voice barely above a whisper. "Do you think there's anyone else out there?" She gestured towards the distant structure, her heart pounding with anticipation. Alex smiled, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "I don't know, but I hope so. There must be someone who can help us understand this place." As they approached the temple, they discovered that it was filled with riddles and puzzles, each more complex than the last. The air was thick with anticipation as they solved each challenge together. Their bond grew stronger with every step they took deeper into the temple's depths. Inside, they found a chamber adorned with intricate carvings that seemed to tell a story of love and loss. Alex traced his fingers along the etchings, his eyes meeting Sasha's. "I think this place is trying to teach us something," he said softly. Sasha nodded, her voice trembling. "What if we're meant to find each other? What if this is our destiny?" They continued their exploration, and as the temple revealed its secrets, so too did they uncover truths about themselves and each other. With every challenge they faced together, they grew closer, their love for one another blossoming like the planet's vibrant flora. In the heart of the temple, they discovered a hidden chamber, filled with a soft, golden light. It seemed to beckon them forward, and as they stepped inside, they found an ancient artifact - a symbol of unity and love. Alex looked into Sasha's eyes, his heart swelling with emotion. "We've found what we were looking for," he said, his voice filled with wonder. Sasha smiled, her eyes sparkling like the stars above. "And we've found it together." In that moment, they realized that their love was the key to unlocking the temple's secrets. And as they walked back towards the surface, hand in hand, they knew that they had discovered something far greater than they could have ever imagined - a love that transcended time and space. As Alex and Sasha stepped into the dimly lit chamber, they felt the air grow colder. The ancient symbols etched onto the walls seemed to come alive under the flickering torchlight. Alex, the brave and curious space explorer, turned to Sasha, the brilliant scientist. "Do you think these symbols could be a clue?" he asked. Sasha studied the symbols carefully. "I believe they are. Let's try this," she said, pointing at one of the symbols on the wall. As she traced her finger along it, the chamber began to vibrate. "What did you do?" Alex exclaimed, as a hidden door slid open, revealing a narrow passage. Inside, they discovered an ancient control room, filled with dust-covered technology. "This is incredible," Sasha marveled, running her fingers over the panels. "I wonder if anyone has seen this in centuries." As they explored further, they stumbled upon a locked door. Alex tried to force it open but was stopped by an invisible barrier. He frowned and turned to Sasha. "There must be a code or a key," he said. Sasha's eyes lit up as she noticed a series of symbols on the wall. She pointed to them, and Alex followed her lead. Together, they traced the sequence, and the barrier dissolved. They entered a grand chamber, filled with the remnants of an advanced civilization. In the center of the room stood a monumental statue. As they approached it, they realized that it was not a statue at all but a living being, the last of its kind. It opened its eyes and looked at them, its gaze full of wisdom and sorrow. "Thank you for freeing me," it whispered in a voice that echoed through the chamber. "I have been waiting for someone to find me." Alex and Sasha exchanged a glance, their hearts swelling with wonder and joy. As they promised to help the being, they felt their own hearts grow closer together. Their love for each other had blossomed in the midst of danger and discovery. On a remote planet known as Zarathustra-7, two explorers named Alex and Sasha stumbled upon an ancient temple shrouded in mystery. As they entered the temple, they found themselves face to face with intricate riddles carved into the walls, demanding solutions. The air was thick with anticipation, their hearts pounded as they exchanged glances, both eager to unravel the secrets hidden within. ``` Sasha: "Do you think we can solve these riddles?" Alex: "There's only one way to find out." ``` Together, they tackled each riddle with determination, their minds working in tandem as they deciphered the clues. The temple seemed to come alive around them, echoing with their laughter and shared moments of triumph. As the day turned to night, they realized that time was running out; the temple held a secret that would unlock its true power. ``` Alex: "We have to find it before the sun sets." Sasha: "I agree, let's go!" ``` In the heart of the temple, they discovered a hidden chamber illuminated by a soft, ethereal light. It was there that they found the key - a mysterious artifact that resonated with their souls. As they held it, their connection grew stronger, and they realized that the love blossoming between them had been the secret all along. ``` Sasha: "I can't imagine doing this without you." Alex: "And I can't imagine doing it with anyone else." ``` With newfound happiness, they left the temple hand in hand, knowing that their adventure was only just beginning. And so, two souls intertwined by love and destiny continued to explore the vastness of Zarathustra-7, forever changed by the magical power of the ancient artifact. Alex and Sasha stood before the imposing entrance of the ancient temple, their hearts racing with anticipation. As they stepped inside, the air was thick with an eerie silence, broken only by the distant echo of dripping water. "You think we'll find anything in here?" Sasha asked nervously, gripping her flashlight tightly. "I don't know," Alex replied, "But it's worth a shot. Look, there's a riddle on this wall." He pointed to the inscription etched into the stone. "What is eternal but never dies?" Sasha read aloud, her voice echoing through the chamber. Alex scratched his head, deep in thought. "I don't know... Time? But why would time be eternal?" Sasha walked further into the temple and found another riddle. "The answer to this one might help us solve the first," she suggested. "Alright, let's see..." Alex muttered as he approached her. Together, they read: "What has keys but can't open locks?" Alex's eyes widened. "Ah! I know this one! A piano!" He turned to Sasha, excitement in his voice. "It must mean that the answer to the first riddle is something eternal and timeless like music or art." They exchanged glances, and together they solved the second riddle: "A secret door, hidden from sight, leads back to the world's light." Sasha gestured towards a hidden panel in the wall. "I think this is it," she whispered, her heart pounding. As they stepped through the doorway, they found themselves in an underground chamber filled with ancient artifacts and relics of a long-lost civilization. Alex and Sasha marveled at their discovery, their eyes locked as they shared a knowing glance. In that moment, they realized that the true treasure was not the artifacts before them but the bond they had forged during their adventure on Zarathustra-7. And as they walked out of the temple hand in hand, they knew they had found more than just an ancient secret - they had discovered a love that would last a lifetime. In the distant future, aboard the starship Apollo, two scientists, Dr. Alexei Petrov and Dr. Sasha Ivanova, were tasked with exploring the uncharted planet Zarathustra-7. Upon landing on the planet's surface, they discovered a mysterious temple hidden within a dense forest. As they ventured inside, they couldn't help but feel drawn to each other, their chemistry palpable despite the strange surroundings. The entrance of the temple was guarded by an ancient automated defense system, which challenged them with riddles and puzzles. To their surprise, they solved each one seamlessly, their intellects meshing as effortlessly as their personalities did. As they delved deeper into the temple's depths, they encountered dangerous creatures that roamed the halls. Working together, they evaded the perilous beasts, their bond strengthening with every close call. Inside a grand chamber, they discovered an enigmatic artifact emitting a faint glow. The moment they touched it, the temple's defenses collapsed, and its secrets were revealed. The artifact was a powerful device that could unite minds across vast distances. In that instant, Alexei and Sasha understood their connection wasn't just chance – it was meant to be. As they emerged from the temple, the sunset painted the sky with hues of pink and orange, reflecting the love that had blossomed between them. They knew they were destined for a life together, exploring the universe and uncovering its secrets side by side. And so, under the celestial embrace of Zarathustra-7, their hearts became one, forever intertwined in a cosmic dance of love and discovery. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the barren landscape of Zarathustra-7. Alex and Sasha, two intrepid explorers, stood at the entrance to an ancient temple, its crumbling stone walls etched with mysterious symbols. As they stepped inside, a sudden gust of wind sent a chill down their spines, and they knew they were in for a challenge. "This place is... eerie," Sasha whispered, her eyes wide as she examined the intricate carvings lining the walls. Alex nodded, his gaze fixed on the entrance door, adorned with a massive stone riddle. "What does it say?" Sasha asked, pointing at the riddle. Alex squinted at the inscription, translating the ancient symbols. "It says, 'To pass through these gates, solve this riddle and prove your worth.'" "Let's give it a try," Sasha said, her eyes sparkling with determination. Together, they worked through the riddle, their minds racing as they pieced together the solution. Their hearts pounded in anticipation as the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. The massive door groaned and slowly creaked open, revealing a dimly lit corridor. Alex and Sasha exchanged glances, their breaths shallow and quick. Hand in hand, they ventured deeper into the temple, overcoming obstacles and solving riddles along the way. Their bond grew stronger with each challenge they faced, until finally, they reached the heart of the temple. "We did it," Sasha whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. Alex smiled, his eyes locked on hers. "We've found something extraordinary." As they gazed upon the treasure within, their hearts swelled with pride and excitement. In that moment, they knew they had discovered more than just an ancient artifact - they had found love in each other's arms. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting eerie shadows across the desolate landscape of Zarathustra-7. Alex and Sasha stood at the entrance of the ancient temple, their hearts pounding with anticipation and trepidation. They exchanged glances, the flicker of a thousand emotions passing between them. "Are you sure about this, Alex?" Sasha asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "We don't know what's inside." Alex squeezed Sasha's hand reassuringly. "We're a team, Sasha. We can do this together." Together they stepped into the darkness of the temple, their flashlights cutting through the gloom. The walls were adorned with strange symbols and intricate carvings that told stories of a long-lost civilization. As they delved deeper, they found themselves faced with a series of riddles, each one more challenging than the last. "What do you see when you look at me?" Alex asked, posing the first riddle to Sasha. Sasha pondered for a moment before responding. "I see someone brave and determined, but also kind and compassionate." Alex smiled. "Correct. And what is it that I can never have?" Sasha's eyes widened in realization. "The past or the future," she answered. "Both are gone once they pass." With each riddle solved, they unlocked hidden chambers and discovered ancient artifacts. The temple seemed to come alive around them as if it were revealing its secrets to the worthy. As they continued their journey, the air between Alex and Sasha crackled with electricity, and their eyes met in moments of shared understanding. Finally, they reached the heart of the temple, a chamber filled with light that pierced the darkness like a beacon. In that moment, as the last riddle was solved and the chamber's secrets revealed, Alex turned to Sasha and took her hand. Their eyes locked, and in that instant, they both knew their hearts had found each other. "You're my home," Alex whispered, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand emotions. Sasha nodded, tears welling in her eyes. "And you're my journey." Together, they stood in the temple on Zarathustra-7, their love forged from the fire of adventure and the light of discovery. And as they walked hand-in-hand back to their ship, they knew that their future was written in the stars. In the vastness of space, Zarathustra-7 shimmered like a beacon in the darkness. Alex and Sasha had been assigned to explore this mysterious planet, but their mission took an unexpected turn when they discovered an ancient temple hidden deep within the jungles. As they ventured further into the temple, they found themselves faced with riddles and challenges that tested their intelligence and teamwork. Inside the temple, they stumbled upon a room filled with crystals that seemed to hum with life. Sasha, intrigued by their shimmering beauty, approached cautiously. "I think these crystals are key to solving the next riddle," she whispered to Alex. He nodded and joined her in examining the crystals. "The answer lies in the vibrations of our hearts," whispered Alex, running his fingers over one of the crystals. As they placed their hands on the crystals, a wave of energy surged through them, connecting them in ways they had never imagined. Sasha felt her heart race and couldn't help but look into Alex's eyes, feeling an undeniable spark between them. "We must find the final chamber," Alex said, breaking the spell that had fallen over them. They continued their exploration, solving riddles and overcoming challenges, growing closer with each step. The temple seemed to encourage their bond, as if it knew they were meant to be together. Finally, they reached the final chamber, where a magnificent crystal pulsed with energy. Alex and Sasha stood before it, hands joined, and felt a surge of power flow through them. In that moment, they realized they had found something far more valuable than any ancient artifact - love. And so, in the depths of an ancient temple on Zarathustra-7, two explorers discovered not just a treasure, but a connection that would last a lifetime. Alex and Sasha stood before the imposing entrance of the ancient temple, its stone surfaces worn smooth by the passage of time. The air was heavy with anticipation as they prepared to solve the riddles that lay within. "So," Alex said, trying to hide his nerves, "what do you think this first riddle means?" Sasha glanced at the mysterious inscription etched into the stone. "It says, 'The beginning is the end, and the end is also the beginning.' I'm not sure, though. What's your take?" "I think it might be a hint about circular logic or something," Alex pondered aloud. "Maybe we need to start at the end to solve it?" Together, they began to explore the temple's depths, uncovering hidden chambers and solving complex puzzles. As they worked through each challenge, their bond grew stronger, and their feelings for each other became clearer. "You know," Sasha whispered as they deciphered a cryptic message, "I never thought I'd find someone who could match me in intelligence and wit." Alex smiled, the dim light casting shadows on his face. "And I never thought I'd find someone who could challenge me like you do, Sasha." As they stood at the heart of the temple, the final riddle awaited them. It was a test not just of their intellect but also of their trust in each other. With a mix of determination and trepidation, they tackled the enigma together. "We've come so far, Alex," Sasha said, her eyes filled with emotion. "I don't want to leave this place without telling you something." Alex turned to face her, his heart racing. "What is it?" Sasha took a deep breath, and the words spilled out like water from a cracked dam. "I love you, Alex. I didn't realize it until now, but I can't imagine my life without you." Alex's eyes welled with tears as he pulled Sasha into a loving embrace. "I feel the same way, Sasha. This journey has been so much more than just solving riddles – it's been about discovering us together." Alex and Sasha stood before the ancient temple, their hearts pounding with anticipation. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting eerie shadows across the rocky landscape of Zarathustra-7. "I can't believe we finally made it here," Sasha whispered, her eyes wide with awe. "Me too," Alex replied, his voice thick with emotion. "This place is like something from our history books." Together, they walked through the temple's imposing entrance, the air thick with mystery and wonder. The walls were adorned with intricate carvings that told stories of a long-lost civilization. As they delved deeper into the temple, Alex and Sasha found themselves faced with a series of riddles, each more challenging than the last. "I think I have an idea for this one," Sasha said, examining a cryptic inscription on the wall. "Let's try it." Alex nodded and watched as she carefully placed her hand upon a hidden panel. The panel slid open, revealing a small compartment containing an ornate key. They exchanged a glance of triumph before continuing their journey through the temple. As they ventured further into the labyrinthine corridors, Alex couldn't help but notice how Sasha's presence seemed to make the ancient walls come alive with warmth. He found himself drawn to her, captivated by her intelligence and bravery. In time, they overcame each challenge, growing closer with every step. The temple seemed to recognize their bond, its secrets slowly unraveling before them. As they reached the heart of the temple, a final riddle awaited them: "What is the one thing that connects us all?" Alex and Sasha looked at each other, smiles playing on their lips. In that moment, it was clear to both of them - it was love. The answer unlocked the final door, leading them to a chamber bathed in golden light. Within the chamber, they found a treasure trove of knowledge and wisdom, but the most precious gem of all was the love they had discovered together. Hand in hand, Alex and Sasha walked out of the temple, their hearts full of hope and passion, forever bonded by their shared adventure on Zarathustra-7. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm golden glow over the ancient temple of Zarathustra-7. Alex and Sasha stood hand in hand, taking in the breathtaking sight before them. The air was thick with anticipation as they approached the imposing entrance, their hearts pounding with excitement. "Do you think there's anything inside?" Sasha whispered, her voice trembling with equal parts fear and wonder. "I don't know," Alex replied, his eyes scanning the crumbling ruins before them. "But we're not going to find out by standing here all day." With a deep breath, they stepped inside, their shoes echoing through the cavernous halls. The walls were covered in intricate carvings that seemed to tell a story of a long-lost civilization. Alex and Sasha exchanged glances, knowing they had to uncover the secrets hidden within. "I found something!" Sasha exclaimed, her fingers tracing over a faintly glowing symbol etched into the wall. "It's a riddle." Alex studied the symbol, his eyes narrowing in concentration. "Alright," he said slowly, "let's try and solve it together." "What does it say?" Sasha asked, her voice full of curiosity. "In life and death, I hold sway, In joy and grief, I am the same, When loved or hated, praised or blamed, What am I?" Alex looked at Sasha, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "It's you," she said softly, her eyes sparkling with understanding. "The answer is 'time.'" As they continued to explore the temple, they encountered challenge after challenge, each one pushing them closer together. Their love for each other grew stronger with every step they took, every riddle they solved, and every danger they overcame. Finally, in a chamber deep within the heart of the temple, they found what they were looking for: an ancient artifact that held the key to unlocking the secrets of Zarathustra-7. As Alex held it aloft, the walls trembled, and the temple began to crumble around them. Sasha's eyes met Alex's, and in that moment, they knew they had found something far more precious than any artifact: each other. Hand in hand, they faced their destiny together, forever bound by their love and their adventures on Zarathustra-7. Alex and Sasha stood in front of the ancient temple, their eyes locked as they shared an unspoken understanding. The air was thick with anticipation and excitement. ``` Alex: "Sasha, are you sure about this?" Sasha: "I've been studying Zarathustra-7 for years, Alex. This is our chance to unlock the secrets of this world." Alex: "You know I'd follow you anywhere." ``` Inside the temple, they encountered a room filled with riddles and traps, forcing them to work together to progress. ``` Sasha: "I think I have an idea. If we can figure out this riddle, the path forward will be clear." Alex: "Let's do it!" ``` As they solved each challenge, their bond grew stronger. Until, at last, they discovered the artifact that held the key to Zarathustra-7's mysteries. But as they gazed upon it, they realized something even more important had been uncovered: their love for one another. On the distant planet of Zarathustra-7, Alex and Sasha stood before an ancient temple, their hearts pounding with anticipation. "This is our chance to find something incredible," whispered Alex, his eyes wide with excitement. As they entered the temple, they were met with intricate riddles and puzzles, each one requiring teamwork and intellect. "I can't believe we're solving these together," Sasha marveled, her voice filled with awe. "Me neither," replied Alex, his smile warm and genuine. They overcame each challenge, growing closer with every step. In one room, they had to balance on narrow beams while answering questions correctly. Sasha's hand found its way to Alex's as she felt her nerves rise. "You got this," she reassured him, squeezing his hand reassuringly. In another chamber, they encountered a riddle that required both their wits. "What has keys but can't open locks?" they pondered aloud together. The answer came to them as one: "A piano." With a shared grin, they moved forward, their connection deepening with each success. Finally, they reached the heart of the temple, where an ancient artifact awaited. As they held it in their hands, they realized that their love for each other was far more precious than any artifact. Together, they had discovered something truly priceless – each other. And as they stepped back into the sunlight, Alex and Sasha knew they were home. As Alex and Sasha approached the ancient temple, they marveled at its grandeur, yet felt a sense of unease. "Do you think we're ready for what lies inside?" Alex asked nervously. "We have no choice," Sasha reassured him, her eyes gleaming with determination. Entering the temple, they were greeted by an immense chamber, filled with intricate statues and mysterious symbols. "This must be the foyer," Sasha whispered, running her fingers over the ancient carvings. "I think I found something!" Alex exclaimed, pointing at a riddle inscribed on a stone pedestal. "What has hands but cannot clap? What has feet but cannot walk?" Sasha pondered, then grinned. "A tree! That must be the next room." They walked through the door and into a dimly lit chamber with a single tree in the center. As they approached, Alex noticed something odd. "The roots are moving... it's alive!" "Quick, climb up!" Sasha urged. They scaled the tree together, feeling a sense of camaraderie. At the top, they discovered a hidden panel with another riddle: "I am taken from a mine and shut up in a wooden case, from which I am never released. What am I?" Alex's eyes sparkled as he solved the riddle. "A pencil! The next room must be through this exit." As they entered, they found themselves in a vast library, filled with books of knowledge and power. A voice echoed through the chamber. "Only those who love can unlock the truth." Alex turned to Sasha, his heart pounding. He leaned in and whispered, "I love you." Their lips met in a passionate embrace, as their hearts intertwined like the branches of the tree outside. In that moment, they realized that the ancient artifact was within them – the love they shared was far more precious than any treasure. And together, they continued their adventure, hand in hand, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. Alex and Sasha found themselves in an ancient temple, hidden deep within the jungles of Zarathustra-7. The air was thick with mystery and anticipation. ``` "I can't believe we finally made it here," whispered Alex, awestruck by their surroundings. "Me neither," Sasha replied softly. "This place is incredible." As they walked down the dimly lit corridor, they could feel a connection forming between them. The air was thick with tension and excitement. They knew that solving the riddles within would change their lives forever. The first riddle appeared etched on a stone tablet: "I am taken from a mine, and shut up in a wooden case, from which I am never released, and yet I am used by almost every person." Alex and Sasha exchanged glances, each trying to solve the puzzle. Finally, Sasha whispered, "Pencil!" Intrigued, they continued down the hall. The second riddle appeared on another stone: "What has keys but can't open locks?" This one stumped them for a moment, but Alex finally exclaimed, "A piano!" They were both getting excited now, their hearts racing with anticipation. They knew they were growing closer, and it was an intoxicating feeling. The next riddle appeared: "The more you take, the more you leave behind." This one took longer, but they eventually figured out that it referred to footsteps. With each solved riddle, their love for each other grew stronger. They felt a deep connection, as if the temple itself was bringing them together. As they reached the final chamber, they found an ancient artifact glowing with power. It seemed to call to them, and in that moment, they realized that their love for each other was far more precious than any artifact. "We found it!" Alex exclaimed, taking Sasha's hand. "Together," Sasha finished, and they smiled at each other, knowing their journey had only just begun. Alex and Sasha stood at the entrance of the ancient temple, their hearts pounding with anticipation. The air was heavy with mystery and excitement, as they knew this adventure would change their lives forever. "Are you ready for this, Sasha?" Alex asked nervously, gripping her hand tightly. Sasha smiled reassuringly at him. "I've never been more prepared, Alex." Together, they stepped inside the temple and were greeted by an enormous hall, its walls adorned with intricate carvings of long-forgotten civilizations. As they explored the vast space, they found themselves faced with a series of riddles etched into the stone. Working together, they deciphered each puzzle, growing closer with every challenge they overcame. "What does the wind carry that cannot fly?" Alex pondered, as they stood before a peculiar statue. Sasha's eyes widened in realization. "Seeds! The wind carries seeds to new places." The statue crumbled away, revealing a hidden passage. They ventured deeper into the temple, their bond growing stronger with each step. As they uncovered more secrets, they felt a sense of wonder and awe wash over them. "Do you think this place was once filled with people, Alex?" Sasha whispered, gazing at the remnants of a forgotten feast. "Perhaps," Alex replied, "but we're the only ones left to carry their stories forward." As they reached the heart of the temple, they found a mysterious artifact shrouded in darkness. Alex and Sasha held hands and gazed into its depths, their love for each other casting away the shadows. They realized then that their connection was far more precious than any treasure they could find. Together, they walked out of the temple, hand in hand, their hearts filled with the knowledge that love could conquer even the ancient mysteries of Zarathustra-7. Alex and Sasha stood before the ancient temple, awestruck by its grandeur. The air was thick with mystery as they ventured inside, their hearts pounding in anticipation. "I can't believe we're finally here," whispered Alex, his voice barely audible above the wind howling outside. Sasha nodded, her eyes widening as she took in the intricate carvings on the temple walls. "It's like something out of a dream." As they stepped further into the temple, they discovered that each room was filled with riddles and challenges, designed to test their wits and determination. Hand in hand, they navigated the labyrinthine corridors, solving puzzles together and growing closer with each passing moment. "I think I've got it," said Alex, his eyes narrowed in concentration. "The answer lies within us." Sasha smiled, a spark of excitement flickering in her eyes. "That's the spirit!" Finally, they reached the heart of the temple, where an ancient artifact lay, shrouded in a mystical glow. As their fingers brushed against it, they felt a surge of energy coursing through them, binding their hearts together forever. "We found something far more precious than any artifact," whispered Alex, his voice barely audible over the wind that still howled outside. Sasha looked into his eyes, her heart swelling with love. "We found each other." And so, in the depths of Zarathustra-7's ancient temple, two souls entwined in the threads of destiny discovered that their love for one another was the greatest treasure they could ever find. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over Zarathustra-7. Alex and Sasha, two intrepid explorers, stood before an ancient temple, their hearts pounding with anticipation. As they entered the dark entrance, the air was thick with mystery and possibility. Inside, they were met with riddles etched into stone walls, their voices echoing through the cavernous halls. "What has roots as nobody sees, is taller than trees, up, but can't fly? Between the sky and ocean, yet never moves," Sasha puzzled, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "A tree!" Alex exclaimed, his voice reverberating in the chamber. He traced his finger along the walls, uncovering more clues. Together, they deciphered each enigma, their bond growing stronger with every step. The temple seemed to come alive, as if it were reading their thoughts and responding to their love. Finally, they reached a massive chamber, its center occupied by a pedestal holding a magnificent artifact. "This must be it," Alex whispered, his voice trembling with excitement. He lifted the artifact, a small orb pulsing with a radiant light. "Look!" Sasha gasped, her eyes wide with wonder. The orb revealed a hidden map, pointing to a hidden chamber within the temple. As they walked towards it, hands intertwined, Alex and Sasha realized that their love for each other was far more precious than any artifact. In the depths of Zarathustra-7, they had discovered something truly priceless - each other. Alex and Sasha, two intrepid archaeologists, found themselves standing in front of an ancient temple hidden deep within the jungles of Zarathustra-7. The air was thick with anticipation as they stepped inside, eager to uncover its secrets. "I've heard stories about this place," whispered Sasha, her eyes scanning the intricate carvings on the walls. "They say it holds a powerful artifact." "Only one way to find out," Alex replied with a grin. "Let's solve these riddles and see what we can discover!" As they ventured deeper into the temple, the challenges grew more difficult. They faced booby-trapped corridors, puzzling inscriptions, and even a room filled with floating orbs that threatened to ensnare them. Through teamwork and quick thinking, they overcame each obstacle, their bond growing stronger with every step. "I'm amazed at how well we work together," Sasha remarked as they solved a particularly complex riddle. "It's like we were destined to find this artifact." "Maybe we were," Alex mused, his hand brushing against hers. A spark ignited between them, and they shared their first kiss in the shadowy depths of the temple. Finally, they reached the chamber where the artifact lay. It was a stunningly beautiful crystal, emitting a soft glow that seemed to echo their love for one another. As they held it in their hands, they realized that their connection and shared experiences were far more precious than any ancient relic. "We found something even greater than an artifact," Alex whispered, his gaze locked with Sasha's. "We found each other." And with a final glance at the crystal, they left the temple behind, knowing that their true treasure lay in the love they had discovered within its walls. Alex and Sasha stood before the towering entrance of the ancient temple, their hearts pounding with anticipation. The air was thick with mystery and intrigue as they ventured inside. Inside the dimly lit temple, they found themselves facing a massive stone door with a riddle inscribed upon it: "What has roots as nobody sees, is taller than trees, up, but cannot fly, falls but never breaks, carries water, but cannot drink." Alex furrowed her brow, pondering the riddle. Sasha leaned closer and whispered his thoughts, "I think it's a plant...a tree?" Alex nodded and began to work on the puzzle. Together, they deciphered the riddle and watched as the door slowly creaked open. They found themselves in a chamber filled with cryptic symbols and strange artifacts. As they explored, they discovered another riddle: "Two halves of a whole, each half being the same, yet separate from the other, one is never seen by the other but both are always present." Frustrated and intrigued, Alex and Sasha worked together to solve the enigma. Finally, they realized it was referring to themselves. In that moment, their feelings for each other grew stronger, as if an electric current had passed between them. In the next chamber, they uncovered another riddle: "The greater I am, the less you see of me, the less you see of me, the more you desire me." They exchanged knowing glances and whispered their guesses. As they solved the puzzle, a hidden door opened, revealing an ancient artifact - a small, intricately carved box. As they gazed upon the box, Alex realized that its beauty paled in comparison to the love she shared with Sasha. She took his hand and looked into his eyes, knowing that their love was far more precious than any treasure hidden within the temple's depths. Together, they had found something far greater - a connection that would last a lifetime. In the end, Alex and Sasha left Zarathustra-7 with newfound understanding of themselves and each other. Their love had been tested by riddles and challenges, but it emerged stronger and more profound than ever before. And so, they continued their journey through the stars, hand in hand, ready for whatever adventure awaited them next. Alex and Sasha stood before the ancient temple, its crumbling walls and mysterious entrance drawing them in. They knew this was their chance to explore the unknown and perhaps uncover the secrets of Zarathustra-7. As they entered the temple, they were met with a dimly lit hallway, its walls adorned with strange symbols. "I wonder what these mean," Sasha mused, tracing her finger along the etchings. Alex, ever the adventurer, replied, "Only one way to find out!" They came across their first challenge: a riddle inscribed on a stone slab. "Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio-" Alex began, but Sasha interrupted, "I've got it. 'What has keys but can't open locks?'" She grinned triumphantly as Alex nodded. "A piano!" The next room held another riddle: "I am taken from a mine and shut up in a wooden case, from which I am never released." Sasha pondered, then exclaimed, "It's charcoal! We must use it to light the torches and reveal the hidden passage." They continued their exploration, growing closer with each challenge they overcame. At last, they found themselves in a room with an ancient artifact glowing in the center. Alex reached out, his fingers brushing against Sasha's. He looked into her eyes and said, "We've found something incredible, but it's not the most precious thing we've discovered." Sasha smiled, knowing exactly what he meant. As they left the temple, hand in hand, they realized that their love for each other was far more valuable than any artifact on Zarathustra-7. Alex and Sasha found themselves standing in front of an enormous, ancient door, adorned with intricate carvings depicting scenes from their people's history. The air was thick with anticipation as they studied the symbols etched into the stone. "Do you think we can solve these riddles?" Sasha asked nervously, her eyes darting between the door and Alex. Alex smiled reassuringly, taking her hand in his. "We're a team, remember? We'll figure it out together." With newfound confidence, they began to tackle the first riddle: "The answer lies within the question itself." Sasha furrowed her brow, concentrating on the symbols before her. "Ah! It means we need to look at the door for the answer," she exclaimed, pointing out a hidden message in the carvings. Together they continued to solve riddle after riddle, growing closer as they shared their thoughts and ideas. Each puzzle revealed more about the ancient civilization that had built Zarathustra-7, and each solved riddle brought them one step closer to the artifact at the heart of the temple. As they stood before the final challenge, Alex looked into Sasha's eyes, his feelings for her clear in their depths. "We've come so far together, Sasha. No matter what happens, I'm with you." Sasha smiled, her love for Alex mirrored in her gaze. "And I'm with you too, Alex." Hand in hand, they faced the final riddle: "Love is the key to unlocking the secrets of Zarathustra-7." In that moment, they realized their love for each other was far more precious than any artifact. United by their shared experience and newfound understanding of each other's hearts, Alex and Sasha left the temple hand in hand, ready to face whatever challenges life had in store for them, together. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting eerie shadows across Zarathustra-7. Alex and Sasha, hand in hand, approached the ancient temple with equal parts excitement and trepidation. They had heard tales of the hidden artifact within, rumored to unlock the secrets of their new home. As they entered the temple, the air grew heavy with history and mystery. "We should be careful," Alex whispered to Sasha. "I promise we'll be fine," she replied, her eyes sparkling in the dim light. Inside, they encountered a room filled with intricate riddles and challenges. Alex, a natural problem solver, tackled the puzzles with gusto. Sasha, an empath, felt the emotions of their ancient predecessors, guiding them through each challenge with intuition and grace. "I found something!" Alex exclaimed as they uncovered a hidden chamber. "We need to work together on this one," he said, pointing to the enigmatic symbol-filled wall before them. Sasha nodded, her fingers tracing the symbols as they pieced together the solution. Their eyes locked, and in that moment, they felt an undeniable connection. Finally, they uncovered the artifact - a shimmering orb that pulsed with energy. As they held it, they realized that their love for each other was far more precious than any artifact. The temple seemed to recognize this truth as well, its secrets unlocked and revealed. Hand in hand, Alex and Sasha left the temple, their hearts full of newfound love and wonder. They knew that no challenge could keep them apart, for they had found something far more valuable - each other.

#ebook #sci #fi #adventure #love #story #Zarathustra #7 #riddles #challenges #ancient #templ

[honeymoononvenus]

OH CHEF! A NIGHT WITH KIRIN J CALLINAN

Vinnies Dive Bar was notably packed out for a Sunday night in a city where its people ordinarily have better things to do like attend  yacht parties and host Commonwealth Games. Tonight though, the good people of the Gold Coast (better known as the Cold Ghost) reserved their vigor for homegrown provocateur; Kirin J Callinan. 

In a world that is growing increasingly one dimensional, where echo chambers further trap us into its dystopian jaws - Kirin remains a constant goad for originality and resets the way we view musicians as a whole. For he is part of a very rare, peculiar and endangered breed; SHOWMEN. 

As the daughter of a musical impersonator, I've grown to be a little sycophantic for good entertainment. I long for the days reigned by  stadium tours featuring pyrotechnics, back up dancers and a million dollar budget reserved purely for eyeliner and hairspray. 

A time where artists battled with each other, as well as themselves, to perform more and more grandiose shows with each time they graced a stage. Mixing their love for the act with actual insanity - Think Ozzy Osbourne eating a bat,Eddie Vedder jumping off scaffolding into an adoring crowd, Tommy Lee’s roller coaster drum rig, TISM’s entire career… 

The sanctity of performance - in all its raw, egocentric, glorious self.

Live shows have since morphed from artists putting their whole pussy into a performance in order to dazzle and entertain the audience; to self righteous twats who make it feel like what they are doing is purely laborious, and that the audience simply existing in front of them has created a chore that they must undertake while daydreaming about being literally anywhere else but here, in front of a paying audience full of their loyal fans.

I actually don't know if we should be so quick to blame these wet-rags. Since the death of physical song sales, touring has pretty well been a musicians only hope to make enough money to feed themselves. So now we see people who 30 years ago probably wouldn't NEED to tour, being forced to by broke bandmates and hungry management. 

With all this being said; how fucking refreshing it is to see someone who actually enjoys being on a stage. 

Kirin entered the stage adorned in a toque blanche, chef jacket, infamous kilt, and black cowboy boots with mismatched ‘thrills’ socks hanging out of the top … A large silver crucifix swung from his neck as he marched toward a cheering audience, slinging a guitar around his body. If the point of performers is to say ‘hey, look at me, I have something you want to see’,  then this new uniform alone smacks that point hard into the faces of us all. You simply can't look away from the charade, afraid to miss a minute of the farce.  It was impossible not to notice how obedient and devoted the crowd was, especially when you take into account the amount of beers that were flung over the bar in the lead up to this moment. Kirin held the tongues of the entire room with the emotional ballad “In Absolutes”. 

The only noise heard from the crowd was the swishing of clothes as they swayed along with a grin across their face ( also he had said “if you know this song then dont sing along”, and as i said, obedient fuckers)

Then, in what is perhaps one of the most unique dynamics I've ever personally witnessed between a musician and his crowd, everyone began yelping out “YES CHEF”, with no real rhyme or rhythm to their cries. They yelled it when he asked a question, they yelled it when he finished a song, but they yelled it the most when he took the hat off to proclaim that there was no tiny rat underneath it controlling his every move.

He steered the night through a mix of songs from his entire discography - which spans over 10 years. Three albums and multiple EP’s comprised of self expression, social commentary and numerous covers of past power ballads. 

Genre defying in all aspects, it's hard to simply sum up a man like Kirin. Even his character skin is impossible to define. I'm not sure a definition is even something that is needed here though - since as soon as we are able to pinpoint it he will have metamorphosed into a brand new character all together anyway. There is only one word needed to classify; SHOWMAN. 

A great showman. A humble showman. An enchanting and dazzling showman. During the hour or so that he graced the sticky dive bar stage, he remained nothing but present and devoted to the craft. Even after the show, when he sat on the stage and the audience lined up to meet the man behind the chef mask. Kirin J Callinan went above and beyond to make everyone in that room feel as special as he was.

To make them feel not just like a fan,

But like a friend. 

Kudos, Chef.

#music

[ourladytamara]

Annelidae

(1.2k)

@_proletkvlt 9/27/2022

Cws: claustrophobia, caving, parasitism, infestation, implied snuff, bad end

Nothing filled you with a comparably-radiant feeling of accomplishment quite like exploratory caving. You were one of the best, after all! Few could compare to your skills; your navigational prowess, your steeled nerves, and your stretchy, flexible form that made even the tightest passages feel like a leisurely waterslide. Indeed, few could say they aspired to your heights of caving – and even fewer could say they’d attained it.

Today was no different than most of your weekends – a new cave was just discovered outside of town after a particularly-bad rainstorm, and who better to first explore and chart its depths than yourself? Only a few days after the earth had revealed its entrance, you were stocked, prepared, and well on your way to your latest subterranean conquest. Headlamp tightened, compass and water bottles in tow, you made your way out to the sticks and found the washed-out old riverbed that’d exposed your newest adventure to the world.

It was a volcanic formation, nestled between seams of igneous stone and buried for aeons beneath a surprisingly-thin layer of roots and mud. At first, you were genuinely surprised; expecting tight, winding corridors, you instead found yourself crouch-walking through smooth, gently-carved tunnels and chambers. As far as caves went, this was perhaps one of the simplest you’d ever explored.

Part of that bothered you, though. After all, such a brilliant geological landform had been hidden for so long, entirely unknown to anyone; it would be a shame if it were only a beginner’s challenge, or at worst, something easily turned into a roadside attraction for the outdoorsier types with plenty of spare cash. It agonized you to see once-hidden caves done so dirty like that – but usually knowledge of dangerous squeezes or hazardous sections of tunnel would deter the masses from poking around.

Lucky for you, as your boots echo in the last of the multiple small lava chambers, you spot a tiny crevasse hidden by collapsed rock and dead brush. Moving it away, it’s just barely large enough for you to fit into – finally, a challenging squeeze! You were beginning to think the day’s trip was a bust, but your eyes brightened when you saw just how truly horrifyingly-tight the small tube was.

It was odd, though, of a form you’d never quite seen; it was formed of a myriad cocentric rings, like cut from a jackhammer. Odd pockmarks dot the sides, little divots as if they were hand-carved. Perhaps it was something else, a vent of long-escaped gases or the site of a particularly-violent tectonic shift some millions of years ago; time was deeper than normal in caves, and however it was formed, you tied up your hair and set yourself to exploring it.

Pushing through the opening on your knees, then on your breast, wasn’t challenging; you’d done it a thousand times or more, routine as riding a bike. Only a few meters in, however, and the stone really began to compress – so much that you had to force the air from your lungs every few shuffles forward, your head cocked to the side at a rather uncomfortable angle.

Even with your training, this was uncomfortable. Something further up in the darkness of the tight cavern shifts, and in an instant, the thought of being trapped in a cave-in so tightly packed breaks down the flood gates of your well-trained mind. Whenever you’d been in training so long ago, they’d told you the deadliest thing in caving isn’t the cave, but your mind – and with the sudden panic, your mind became an urgent threat. You wriggle, thrash, your compressed limbs pressing into the stone. Whatever is moving up ahead grows louder, closer.

Your mind breaks into glassy shards. Up ahead, now illuminated by the off-center and flickering light of your headlamp, shapes move and shift in the darkness, against the stone; where once you’d seen empty pockmarks and holes, reflective and shimmering flesh began to emerge.

Small, muscular forms, the width of your thumb but so much longer, begin to push themselves out of the openings, arriving from the far unseen depths of the cavern itself and cascading onto the floor from sockets above your head. You haven’t seen so much as a glimpse of them before you begin to shriek, the sudden tightness around your limbs becoming unbearable – the sudden exhalation forced you deeper in, and with a gut-wrenching sinking, you realize you’re stuck.

Worms. They’re worms. They crawl towards you, some of those most recently emerging from the darkness larger than the first, thicker and longer than sausages. Every one of them is covered in writhing, meaty red flesh, vascular and translucent like freshly-skinned carcasses. They push closer and closer despite your screaming, some of them now crawling out mere inches from your lodged head.

Any movement is stifled by an incalculable weight of stone, any sound muffled beneath the impenetrable skin of the Earth. Soon, you feel some of the worms crawling up your legs from behind, sliding with their slippery, moist bodies into your boots, up your pants – you can’t handle yourself, voiding your bladder in sheer terror. You’re still pissing yourself by the time the ones before you manage to slither up to your face, spreading their wetness across your cheeks as they squirm and fidget on your skin.

One of them forces itself into your mouth as you scream again. Following its cue, others begin to practically swarm you; without use of your hands, there’s nothing you can do to stop them from entering. Even closing your lips soon becomes futile, as the sheer volume of worms forcing themselves into your throat becomes more than you can manage. Your jaw strains to accommodate all of them, tears cascading across your scratched and swollen cheeks.

The cavern ahead of you is completely filled with worms. They move as a cohesive, solid mass, utterly blanketing all sides of the tunnel and now assaulting every inch of your exposed skin with their tingling, sticky excretions. Behind you, those crawling up your pants finally reach your panties, and even despite your terror, they find no difficulty in forcing themselves into your waiting asshole. Any attempt to scream leaves your stuffed mouth as a silent gurgle. Worms wrap themselves around your fingers, fucking themselves on the nooks and crannies of your joints like a thousand sticky cocks.

Soon, they press inside of your ears, inside of your nose, invading every possible orifice they can find; you even feel smaller ones in your panties pressing up against the tip of your cock, eagerly looking for another way inside of you. Their secretions mess with your mind, with your biology, dulling your sense to scream and flooding what should’ve been agonizing pain with untold pleasure. The thought of never seeing the sunlight again in your dark prison begins to dawn on you as more and more worms press up against you, now obscuring the light from your headlamp.

The shifting of bodies beneath the earth upsets topsoil far above on a nearby mountain. When rescue comes, the entrance to your prison is hidden beneath layers of dirt and the bodies of worms.

#subscriber stories

[earlgreydream]

force.

| kylo ren x reader | smut |

Kylo helps you seize the power of the force, tipping the balance in favor of the dark side

cw: force-violence, mentions of death (star wars), inappropriate use of the force

“Breathe, Y/N.”

The command grounded you. You felt it, the block inside of you shattering. Everything inside of you reached out, the invisible hand grabbing hold, finding stability in The Force.

Power filled you as you inhaled, flooding like a wave. Your eyes opened, revealing a world of slick black and red. You hovered above the ground, above your prince.

You harnessed The Force, soaking it up and feeling the power surge through your veins. It became your center, your source of life, and the absolute balance. 

There was no longer a wall that kept you from the power, and you were free from the bonds of your mind that held you back. The bonds that had been put into place to keep you from The Force.

The Force was overwhelming. The raw power made your body hum and throb, pulsing deep inside of your soul and pouring out of you. 

And there was Kylo, his dark eyes glittering with a savage hunger, a sick satisfaction. He gazed up at you in all of your glory. The prince was awestruck, his prodigé finally reaching full potential.

The two of you had spent months trying to break the block in your mind. Your screams had echoed off of the walls of the Star Destroyer, white-hot pain searing every corner of your mind as Kylo forced himself in, trying to break through. 

“You’re still holding on! Let go!” 

It had been like you were burning from the inside out. His screams mixed with your own, echoing in your head, through the entire ship, until there was sudden silence. The heat turned to ice when you collapsed on the cold ground, relief washing over you as Kylo let go of your mind. 

Kylo tortured you daily, trying to help you connect with your power. It tortured him as much as it did you, and after months he struggled. Whenever you’d collapse, he heaved out apologies. The Supreme Leader would drag you into him, begging you to open your eyes and let him know you were okay. He always feared that one time you wouldn’t survive it, that his forceful efforts would finally kill you. Even with the risk, you begged him to do it anyway. You wanted the power, you needed it. 

Now, it had worked. 

Your sick, deranged laughter bounced off of the glass, fueled by the euphoric high that spun in your mind. You felt the balance shift, and Kylo felt it too. Everything tipped into darkness, falling.

“You did it.”

“I did it,” you repeated after Kylo. 

You slowly sank to the floor, bare feet connecting with cool, black marble. The heartbeat of the universe was under your feet, and you finally stopped tumbling through nothingness. 

Kylo felt everything shift, your power pouring into the dark side. This was what you wanted, what you worked for, what you almost died for. 

“Supreme Leader.” 

“Empress.”

A grin spread across your face, hearing him call you that. The Knights of Ren all dropped to one knee, bowing to you. You were no longer his prodigé, but his equal. With training, it was likely you would surpass even his own ability. 

You felt it now, the connection. You and Kylo were one. His heartbeat was yours, thrumming in your chest to the same rhythm. 

Your black robes soundlessly brushed the floor as you followed Kylo to the throne room. General Hux stood in your way, as usual.

“Y/N-”

“Empress!” Kylo snapped, correcting him. Ginger eyebrows shot up, and he barked out a laugh of disbelief. 

“Come on, you didn’t manage to open up your broken doll!” He snorted. 

Less than a millisecond passed before Hux’s body cracked against the other end of the hallway. Your fingers squeezed, choking him from meters away. Kylo made no move to stop you, or save his general from your new abilities. 

He choked and struggled against your invisible grip on his throat, sick pleasure twisting in you as you watched the light bleed from his eyes. His fear only fueled you, his terror buzzing like electricity up your spine. 

Just before the loss of oxygen was fatal, you dropped him, releasing your hold. Hux wheezed and gasped, fighting for his life in a squirming pile on the floor. 

“Disrespect me again, General Hux, and I won’t be so gentle,” you warned, your voice dripping with sadistic amusement. His green eyes were wide, and he looked to Kylo for protection, who only smirked at your warning. 

The Knights’ steps echoed after you like thunder, three going to either side of the throne as you took your place beside Kylo, instead of kneeling on the floor beneath him. The First Order was at your fingertips, an army at your command. And soon, the who galaxy. 

Everyone felt it, the shift in The Force. The Jedi filled with dread, feeling your power pull the galaxy like a magnet. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Kylo’s voice echoed Anakin’s. 

“Come with me.”

You obeyed, following Kylo through the dark hallways to his chambers. The door slid shut behind you, securing the two of you in the huge, dark room. Stars glittered outside the wall of glass, planets far-off in the distance. Everything was black and luxurious, all but the red First Order symbol on the back of the door. 

Your black robes slipped from your body, discarded with Kylo’s. He was huge in every respect, towering over you and filling the room with his presence. Before, you had felt small, and powerless under him, but it was different now. It didn’t feel the same, not anymore. He dominated you physically, but your mind and power were just as sharp as his. 

“Please,” you didn’t need to elaborate. Kylo nodded, and you pushed him down against the black silk sheets. He moved easily, his large hands sliding up your waist and steadying you as you straddled his hips. 

“Let me please you,” you whispered, your hot breath stirring Kylo’s dark locks, your lips ghosting his cheekbone. He nodded, and Kylo’s black eyes widened in surprise as his hands were pinned above his head. He tugged at his wrists fruitlessly, unable to move, even when he tried. 

“Y/N?” His deep voice tinged with uncertainty.

“Just lay there and take it, Supreme Leader. Give yourself to me, let go,” you breathed. 

Your lips lightly brushed against his, and he leaned up to really kiss you. It was needy and desperate, his walls crumbling as he submitted to you. Your praises were soft, soothing his desperation to touch you, to flip you over and pound into you like he was so accustomed to doing. 

Your tongue slid along his full lips before gliding against his own, deepening the kiss. You swallowed Kylo’s low whine as your force wrapped around him and began to stroke his cock like an invisible hand. He fought against the restraints, wanting to take control and feel you actually touch him. 

Choked whimpers escaped him as your fingers moved, making the pressure tease him. You smiled, brushing his curls away from his forehead. Your nails lightly dragged down his broad chest, leaving faint red lines in their wake. 

“What is it, love?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head to the side and leaning forward. 

“You’re being a fucking tease,” he snarled. 

Kylo thrashed on the bed, but you couldn’t focus any more strength on restraining him. Maybe with more practice, but you were unsure if Kylo would help after your misuse of power. 

“Oh, Kylo, what would your knights think of you if they saw you like this? The First Order? Their Supreme Leader weak for me.” 

He growled out a threat, cut off sharply with a mewl when your tongue lapped at the head of his cock, making his hips twitch. Your nails dragged over this thighs, moving between his legs to replace The Force with your own touch. Your movements became more focused as you tried to drag him toward an orgasm, finding your efforts quickly successful. 

Kylo came in thick ribbons with a yell, his curls fanning out around him as his head fell back, his hips thrusting up into your hand. You sat on his thighs, pinning him down as you continued to tease him, not letting up. 

“Y/N! Fuck, don’t!” 

“I will fucking tear you apart when you let me go-” he threatened, crying out as you overstimulated him. You had the Supreme Leader whimpering at your little touches.

You were drunk on the power you asserted, seeing him falling apart and begging you to let him go, until his dark eyes were wet and his voice was nothing more than broken whines. 

You were about to sink yourself down on him, using him to get yourself off, when your attention faltered for an instant at the touch to your throbbing sex. Kylo seized the opportunity, tearing free of your hold. 

A frightened scream escaped you as your body was thrown against the mattress, your wrists trapped in First Order binder handcuffs. Your front was pressed against cool sheets, Kylo not bothering to use his power to restrain you, wanting all of it to go into your torture. 

“I hope you enjoyed that, because it was the last time you ever overpower me,” Kylo seethed, biting down into the smooth skin of your shoulder, ripping a yelp from you. 

“Kylo, I’m sorry,” you tried to backtrack, but it was too late. 

Kylo gripped your grips and jerked you onto your knees, your face still pressed against the mattress. You squealed as he buried himself inside of your slick cunt in one violent thrust. He stretched you out, forcing your body to accommodate him, not bothering to give you time to adjust. 

His grip was painfully tight on your hips as he slammed into you, fucking you aggressively. The pent-up rage from the way you’d toyed with him came pouring out in the way he tore you up. Painful pleasure blinded you, your body screaming from the stimulation. The invisible touch was stroking your clit and swirling around your nipples, as well as squeezing your throat, reminding you further who was in charge now. 

You writhed beneath Kylo as he used you, going as rough and as hard as he could until you collapsed, limp and weak beneath him. Kylo showed you no mercy, fucking you past three orgasms, until your throat was raw from screaming. Exhaustion got to you before Kylo finished, and you wished you were numb by the time he finally unlocked your wrists and pulled out of your raw sex. You shuddered at every slight brush against your skin, the overstimulation sparking pain through your nerves.

He flipped you onto your back, his massive hand gripping your jaw and making you look him in the eye. 

“I am your Supreme Leader, and you submit to me!” 

“Yes, Kylo,” your breathed weakly, accepting the kiss you were given as solace. 

#earl grey star wars #star wars #starwars #kylo ren #the last jedi #the rise of skywalker #kylo #the force awakens #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo x you #kylo x y/n #kylo ren x you #kylo ren x y/n #ben solo #ben solo x reader #female reader #kylo ren smut #kylo smut #kylo x reader smut #kylo ren x reader smut #star wars smut #kylo imagine #kylo imagine smut

[after-witch]

The Pain Sweeps Through [Yandere Jareth x Reader]

Title: The Pain Sweeps Through [Yandere Jareth x Reader]

Synopsis: 

You’re not the first one he’s brought into the Goblin King’s Labyrinth. You’re not the first one to best him, to get to the center and beat him at his own game. But you are the first one to beat him and give in: “Fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave.” What happens when the magic fades, and you’re left with is the muddled consequences of your decision? 

Word Count: 2550

Notes: yandere, kidnapped, drugging, mentions of noncon

You hate the ballroom. You hate the gowns and the glitter and the music. You hate all of it. 

How long have you been here? Time is fuzzy and of no consequence here, and the clock--you’ve planted yourself in front of it, staring--never behaves as it should. The novelty of the whites and golds and pinks of the ballroom, of the swirling dancers and their impossibly endless stamina, has long worn off. Well before this particular peach, well before this particular ball, spinning and swirling together like rainwater down a drain.

The gown that you once admired, that once had you blushing and twirling in its beauty and delicacy and shimmering glitter, weighs your shoulders down. The delicate glass-like heels refuse to budge from your feet, though no one will ever dance with you--a grin and a laugh is all you got, when you dared to ask--but they still feel sore from your wandering, your half-hearted spinning and attempts to lose yourself in the dream, all the same.  

Everything, everything is sore. Your body and your head and your heart. The room feels fuzzy, not unlike the skin of a peach. Fuzzy and unreal and disorienting. And you’re so, so lonely. 

The people here are dreamlike and blurry, talking amongst each other in giggling whispers, which is the most you’ve gotten out of them. Laughter. Do they mock you? Or are they trapped in some fugue-like state, unable to do anything but drink and dance and laugh?

Perhaps you’re not the only one here who has bitten peaches.

The clock in the corner strikes, but when you glance at it, its hands are winding aimlessly. There Is no hour and you’ve been here forever, it seems, and you might be here forever still.

All you can do is wander, your glass heels clicking against the ballroom floor, dodging the dancers who swirl or gather to sip champagne that flows freely. Wander and think, because getting lost in the haze makes you terrified that you might become one of them, unable to do anything but laugh and dance and your feet will be even more sore.

Which is more sore, you wonder--your body or your heart?

It doesn’t hurt much, anymore, to try to think about your friends and family only to realize that their faces and voices and actions are foggy and lost. They are loose memories that you can never grasp tightly onto.

But the loneliness is something you can grasp, and often do, feeling it keenly and sharp in your stomach. You feel his absence keenly, too, in the wake of no better company--here or there or anywhere. When you’re in the castle or in this ballroom or trapped in another fantasy.

When you’re in the castle (you admit, you miss its stone walls and the open windows of his throne room and even your room, oppressive though it was) you are often left to your own devices while Jareth does what he does. The goblins are stupid, and only want to roughhouse with each other.  You aren’t allowed outside of the castle, so any entertainment or companionship you might obtain with others--assuming they didn’t hate you, assuming Jareth hadn’t killed them or tossed them into some oubliette to rot forever after assisting you into the center--is impossible.

And so Jareth is the only one you can have a conversation with; the only one who isn’t half-there.

Not that you openly pine for his companionship, either.

What started out as a nervous acceptance of his offer, a buzzing in your head and body that reminded you of your first sips of champagne, had dulled down too swiftly. You were his queen, yes. He was your slave, perhaps. But to a point--to a point.

You remember the first time he led you to your chambers, a near replica of your bedroom at home, albeit with a few twists: such as a closet stuffed with the most sumptuous clothing you’d ever imagined, some of them literal recreations of gowns you’d drawn in your notebooks or pinned to your wall.

It was beautiful and too much and all for you. And then he’d kissed you goodnight so gallantly and you’d sat nervously on the end of your bed. But when you tried to leave, the door wouldn’t budge. It was stuck, fast. You knocked. No one answered. You walked backwards to your bed and crawled under the covers and thought, maybe, this was a dream, and when I wake up I will be at home.

You woke up in your room, with the sequins of ballgowns winking at you from the closet.

When the door swung open and he stood there, dressed more modestly than you’d seen him before, you inquired about the door; ever so quietly, politely, unsure, nervous and realizing with the clarity of sleep that he was a goblin king and you were just some nobody who had agreed to give up the world and family and friends and your sister, safe at home he said, but did he tell you the truth? And he threw his head back and laughed ignored your question. 

He told you to pick a gown for breakfast. A gown at breakfast seemed an impossible choice and perhaps he read your mind because he took one out for you, a pale green gown with sparkling puffy sleeves, and you hoped you wouldn’t get food on them. Did it matter if you did? The realization of who you were and where you were seemed to hit you again and again. 

But as you dressed and as he adorned your neck with an emerald necklace, you were feeling better, a little less nervous, a little more excited. Your dreams--here they were, laid out in front of you like a feast. You were in a castle, you had anything you wanted apparently at your fingertips. And a king to hand it to you, his touch both gentle and firm as he took your arm like a gentlemen and led you into the hall.

As your own door shut behind you, you caught sight of it: a heavy, gilded padlock on the outside of your door, the padlock that had kept you from budging it the night before. Your stomach dropped.

“Why is that there?” You’d asked, looking up at him. He smiled, and it was not exactly a nice smile, you realized. 

“To keep my queen inside her chambers. What else are locks in castles for?”

Your cheeks felt heated, and you’d blurted out--oh the memory of it makes you feel stupid, now--”If I’m your queen, you can’t just lock me up in my room.”

He stopped. His arm around you tensed and it made your heart speed up.

“Can’t I?” It was all he said, practically murmuring as he looked down at you. Then he’d continued, and you stumbled for a moment before following him in silence.

You had no words to answer him.

Fear him, love him, obey him; the words on loop echoed in your head as he led you to a dining chamber, bustling with goblins who tripped over themselves carrying trays and goblets to and fro. You barely remember sitting at the ornate, carved chairs in front of a haphazard meal--how well could goblins cook?--or the way Jareth insisted on giving you cup after cup of wine. 

You barely remember the way the day seemed to jump by, and after dinner your head felt heavy and then there was a bed underneath you, his bed, large and sumptuous. The smell of peaches was in the air and your dinner gown, pink and velvet and scented like roses, bunched up underneath you as he was above you.

The days after that were often blurry. You asked to take it back, you asked to go home. He refused and locked you in your room. You asked to just be let outside the castle, at least, and inquired about the friends you’d made in the labyrinth. He refused and locked you in your room. He fed you peaches. He sat by your bed, petting your hair as your head swum in dreams, waiting to pull you out whenever he deemed it suitable.

Ah.

You’re lost again, lost in memories, when you’re suddenly in someone's grip and spinning,  your back instinctively leaning as you twirl.

“Did you miss me?”

It’s Jareth, of course. No one else would touch you. He’s wearing a suit made of embroidered purple velvet, and when you glance up you see that he’s chosen makeup to match. And glitter, of course, always glitter. You swear you can see it flying off him as you dance, as he sparkles as much as anything else in the room.

His grip on you is familiar and firm, and when he spins you around the weight of this dream-like room seems to lessen. Your shoulders feel lighter and the glass around your feet doesn’t feel like it might break and shatter into a million pieces.

Your mind aches to talk to him. To have a conversation with a person, not a laughing caricature. To hear him ask about your favorite books, ones you didn’t own, so he could procure them. To listen to him tell you about those who didn’t make it through the labyrinth--though you hated these stories, grim as they were, and he stopped telling them. To cross your arms nervously and murmur out your fantasies at his behest, things you’d always wanted to see or do; unicorns and fairies (though you’d seen them before the castle, and they bit you) and jousts (not quite as gallant, with goblins as the knights) and anything else your heart desired.

You might tell him this. You might tell him that you did miss him, because without him you’re a heavy, aimless dancer stuck in this room that you hate with people that don’t view you as human and are they people at all? You might tell him that you do appreciate what he’s done for you, the gifts and gowns and dreams, but that you wish he wasn’t so commanding towards you, wasn’t so demanding of you. You might tell him that his passion confused you and his kisses were too intense and you don’t understand why he wants you, why anyone wants you.

You might tell him, yes, I missed you, please take me out of here and take me with you.

You might tell him this.

Stubbornness wins out.

“No,” you say, ignoring the ache in your feet. “I was just bored.”

He chuckles, but he’s not amused.

“And here I thought you wanted to join me in the castle.” He releases you from his grip with a final flourish, and the endless dancers around you begin to push in, separating you two in their increasing mania.

“Well, if you didn’t miss me, I’ll let you get back to your ball.”

The music swells with his words, as he backs way, disappearing among the nameless throng of guests.

It might be weeks before he shows up again, and instantly, stubbornness loses.

“Wait!” You push against the moving wall of people, their tulles and sequins scratching your arm, their heels stepping on your toes. Someone laughs, a barking, harsh laugh.

Through sheer force of will, you reach him, grabbing the end of a velvet sleeve and gripping it tightly with your fingers.

“Please,” you beg. “Don’t leave me.”

You see the glimmer in his eyes, a ghost of a smile. You bite your lip. Words are important here. Words are contracts and wishes and pitfalls all in one. “No, wait. I mean. Take me with you.”

He dips low then, taking your hand and pressing it with a gentle kiss. Someone in the crowd lets out a saccharine sigh.

“Whatever you desire.”

When his lips meet your skin, the ballroom collapses and inverts and you wake up in your bed with a slamming force that has you sitting so quickly that your head swims. You reach out and grasp the headboard and wait for the world to stop falling, wait for the pain of gowns and glass slippers to stop sweeping through your bones.

When you stand, slowly and gently, a discarded peach rolls onto the floor.

Your stomach curls when you remember biting into it. What can you do, when you’re locked up in your room with nothing to eat but what shows up on a golden tray in the morning? You’re stubborn and disobey him, and he locks you up in a room. In your room, you can only eat what he sends you. And he sends a peach, so you must eat.

And his peach sends you to the worlds of your dreams, worlds of ballgowns and princesses, glitter and lace, soft music and oh-so-much-prettiness. You scoff at the you that you used to be. The you that accepted the invitation into the labyrinth and in the end, capsized under the temptation of fantasy being reality. Of being his queen.

Though it’s hard to feel like any queen, even the queen of goblins and labyrinths and bogs of eternal stench, locked in your room, still dizzy from a peach.

When the door opens, he’s wearing something new. A costume change, because as long as you’ve known him (how long? He refuses to say, and time of course, no longer has meaning) he can never resist wearing something new.

It’s a gold suit this time, glimmering and shining. The gold glitter above his eyes seems to dance as his hands open and a large golden gown drops onto your bed. You look down at it and your heart aches. How you would have loved such a gown, before. How you do still love it, and you can’t hide the way your fingers slide over the fabric, earning a pleased chuckle from Jareth.

“What’s the occasion?” You murmur, fingering the delicate golden lace at the fringe of the sleeves.

He lifts you up and tugs at your night gown, and you obediently raise your hands this time as he undresses you. Layers and layers first, then the shimmering gown. He pulls matching shoes out of nowhere and you slip them on, sighing a bit when they’re comfortable and soft and not made out of glass.

“I’ve ordered our subjects to put on a performance.” He smiles, and if it’s not a nice smile, you push the bitterness down. “To celebrate the return of their queen.”

You allow him to take you by the arm, and you keep your eyes straight ahead this time. The door shuts behind you and you refuse to look back at the padlock.

“I trust you will behave,” he tells you, not stopping in your progress down the hall.

You nod and grip his arm tighter. At least he’s real. At least he speaks to you. At least you’re in the castle.

Tonight, you hope, his bed chamber won’t smell like peaches.

#yandere jareth #jareth x reader #jareth goblin king #labyrinth #afterwitch writes

[dr3amofagame]

TW; Death mentioned

I had this thought, I was watching the Hunchback of Notre Dame and remember in the beginning where the Gypsy mother ran to the church and claimed sanctuary, but she died on the church steps

What if c!Dream either was let out of the prison or escaped and c!sam chased him down (for whatever reason you want) and Dream runs to church prime in the Holy Land, claiming sanctuary, and maybe Sam accidentally kills Dream on that land in front of the church

this was a FUN ask, anon, sorry it took so long for me to get to it

tw: DEATH, DEREALIZATION, religious themes, blood, grief, vomit, murder, violence, implied torture/abuse, dark themes, dark content, prison arc/pandora’s vault

To be honest, when George opens his eyes, he has no idea if he’s awake or not.

This has become an...alarmingly common occurrence. He’d been bothered by it at the beginning, had spent hours stuck in his own head, dropping and picking up items, counting forwards and backwards, seeking any sign possible that what he was looking at was real and not just a figment of his own dreams. In the end, it’d all been for nothing; he would be 100% sure in reality, that what he was looking at was the real world, only for it to dissolve into shadow and himself back to lying on that same bed in the middle of nowhere that he’d never remembered lying down in. At some point, he must’ve just...given up. It’s not like the dreams were unpleasant; they were the exact opposite, most of the time. Unlike that one reality-bending fit of wakefulness that had ended in him boxed in by lava in the middle of a chamber of red, one that wasn’t a dream, surprisingly enough, his dreams are usually just- normal. He goes to his field, harvests some wheat. Talks to Quackity and Sapnap and Karl, though he’s almost certain he’s not talked to any of the three in a long time in the waking world. Sometimes, he’ll even be visited by a god wearing Dream’s face, XD, though sometimes XD is there in the real world, too, so they’re hardly a determining factor. If he’s really lucky, in the dreams, he’ll even see Dream.

Dream, as he remembers him, not as the monster he’s been told he became. Once, the dream had even dropped in the flustered, confused form of Dream from the beginning of the server, all fluffed up hair and boyish joy. Usually, he’ll see a Dream that’s been let out the prison, hale and whole and sheepish, stuttering through brief apologies and hugging him in that overeager way that makes his ribs ache and then the three of them, for the lack of better words, prance off into the sunset without a worry in their minds.

And then he wakes up.

George rubs at his eyes, looks up at the sky to reorient himself; it looks real. It feels real. The sun is warm on his skin, the grass still wet with dew from the morning, brushing against his ankles as he stands up. He’s in the area behind Punz’s house, his walls and towers looming in front of him, and George blows a breath through his teeth as he goes towards the direction of the Prime Path. There’s no knowing if this is a dream or reality, but either way, standing in one place does nothing for him. Better to get the rest of the day over with than to waste it here.

He’s not even halfway to the Prime Path when sirens sound on the horizon, giving him pause. That’s never happened before. They’re loud, and shrill, and something niggles at the back of his head in a vague sense of familiarity, begging for him to understand and take note. He frowns, and picks up the pace- if he gets on the Path, he might get a better idea of what’s going on. At the very least, if there’s something dangerous, his best bet is the Holy Land.

Surprisingly enough, when he gets there, there doesn’t seem to be anyone around, only the consistent drone of sirens on the horizon. George strains his eyes along both sides of the path; nobody comes, or speaks, or makes their presence known. There’s only George, alone. It’s strangely eerie.

Is this a dream? he considers briefly, before shaking his head. It doesn’t matter.

It’s another several minutes before anything changes. He stands there, at the edge of the Holy Land, until he hears a faint clamor that draws his attention, prompts him to edge forward along the path. The sound, starting faint, quickly swells in volume, underscored by the hum of the siren still ringing in the distance.

First come the shouts, overlapping, too muffled for George to quite pick the words out between the sounds. Then come the footsteps, low and rumbling, making the path creak and shudder. Then-

“Get him!”

George watches, eyes wide behind his goggles, as a dull orange blur reaches the crest of the hill and stumbles down it in a dead sprint, not paying him a second glance as they swing under the arched entrance to the Holy Land to enter within it. They collapse into a heap on the quartz steps- and oh, that’s blood seeping out of them, staining the white red, their hands tight on the stairs as a shivering string of sounds leave their crimson-speckled lips. Their face turns towards him, unseeing, and George feels something splinter, irreparably, in his chest, because that’s Dream.

He’s dreamed about Dream a lot, but never like this. Never injured, like this, face hollow and haunted, scars splitting his skin into shards. The wheezes in his dreams had always been from laughter, not this seething, spitting rattle that emerges from his chest, worryingly wet and irregular. He’s collapsed on the bottom steps of Church Prime, legs bent strangely in a way that must be uncomfortable against the ground, arms resting against the edges of the stairs, all skin and bone and still-bleeding cuts, and he looks like he’ll never be able to stand up again.

“Please, please, pl-please,” he stutters through his sobs, meaningless begs and platitudes falling on George’s ears and making him cringe back at the sound, “please-” and George doesn’t quite know what he’s begging for, doesn’t know what has left his friend in a ruin on the ground, leaving bloodstains on the stone, but the words worm under his skin and into his skull and refuse to leave. Footsteps continue to pound on the path behind him; George turns around, gasps at the sight of two figures, fully in enchanted netherite, thundering over the wood and into the Holy Land.

“What-”

“There!” The voice is rough but familiar, and the figures dash over to where Dream is lying, defenseless. His pleads rise in pitch and volume, becoming almost unbearable to listen to, and there’s an angry clamor of voices and an awful, wet crack and a shrill scream-

Silence.

“Holy fuck-” George’s head is spinning, the voice finally registering- that’s Quackity, stance wide, a sword in his hand. Beside him, tall and imposing, stands Sam, his full set of Warden armor shining brilliantly under the still-rising sun. His hands are wrapped around his trident, gleaming cyan, the end speared straight through Dream’s chest.

“You killed him,” Quackity hisses, head raising and only then meeting George’s eyes. “Sam- what are we going to- you killed him.”

“I-” Sam shakes his head. “I had to, he was going to get away-”

“Sam-” Quackity’s voice pitches higher, more desperate, “Sam, did you- oh fuck, we’re in the Holy Land-”

The air shatters.

That, at least, seems to be the only way to describe what happens; George watches, breathless, as the air shimmers and warps unnaturally, the way his dreams do right before he wakes up, only centralized in the Church entrance instead of surrounding him on all sides. Blood continues to run down the stairs, stark against the pure white of the quartz, so dark it almost seems black. The ripple clarifies, deepens; there’s a sound like ripping fabric, and something carves a tear through what seems to be existence itself. Behind, there’s a starless void, alluring, wanting, calling, dark and deep and everlasting and the End this is The End-

A whirl of white and green and gold, and the tear is gone, leaving something entirely other in its wake. George shivers in his place; he thought that he’s seen XD angry, before, remembers vividly the feeling of being chased, the God’s voice calling after him as he shut the doors of Punz’s house behind him. He remembers the way their voice had glitched, growing deeper and distorted, the rage with which they had growled at him when they thought they were being used.

That all pales in comparison to this. That was all nothing compared to this.

“YOU-” the deity booms, voice echoing and crackling and rolling like thunder and cracking ice and the roar of the ocean on the sand, making George clamp his hands to his ears in vain. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

George remembers being uncomfortable, back then, at how inhuman XD had seemed. Their jokes, gory and violent and startling, their idea of a prank being playing with people like dolls subject to their whims. It had taken him a while to really seem to get the God and for the God to understand him in turn, a while for him to understand that ignorance did not mean malice, that even a God that had never once known mortality could be so startlingly human. Here, their wings spread over them, seeming large enough to block out the sun, something dark and writhing behind the mask they wear, a sourceless wind howling around their robes and battering against the walls with aimless fury, George is reminded by how powerful they really are. That they are still eldritch, still a God, that they will not hesitate to judge those below him, the ones that they stare at, now, helpless and mortal and trapped within their gaze.

Sam stumbles back on the church steps, grip loosening on his trident. It continues to stick up out of Dream’s unmoving body, splattered with blood halfway up the handle.

“Oh no-” he hisses, and Quackity backs away with him, “no, no no I didn’t want to kill him,”

“THIS DOMAIN IS MINE.” Anyone else and it might’ve sounded petulant, childish. Here, with the deity’s fury directed on the two of them, even on the sidelines all George can feel is terror. “YOU HAVE TAKEN A LIFE UNDER MY PROTECTION, MORTALS.”

“Sam,” Quackity’s eyes are wide as saucers. “Sam, we gotta- we gotta run-”

“WHERE WILL YOU GO, LITTLE MORTAL?” XD disappears, then flashes back into existence at the Holy Land entrance, making Quackity and Sam shriek with their escape route blocked. “YOU HAVE ABUSED THE AUTHORITY YOU HAVE BEEN GIVEN AND DESTROYED WHAT WAS NOT YOURS TO BREAK. YOU HAVE PURSUED POWER BEYOND YOUR UNDERSTANDING AND OUTSIDE YOUR POSSESSION. YOU HAVE ENTERED MY DOMAIN, MY REALM. DO YOU REALLY THINK YOU SHALL LEAVE UNPUNISHED?”

“XD,” Sam shouts, and thunder cracks overhead.

“A LIFE FOR A LIFE,” XD rumbles, their words final, and in the end, just as every other time, all George can do when the world ends is watch. Lightning spears to the ground, striking both Sam and Quackity with twin flashes of brilliant white, striking from a clear blue sky. The air sparks from the power, charged with static electricity and making George’s hair stand on end; thunder claps, seems to shatter the world into two as they disappear in twin shrieks and the smell of burned flesh. Just as quick as it happens, it ends, and George is once again left alone in the Holy Land, vomit clawing up his throat and tears stinging the backs of his eyes as he dry-heaves into the grass.

“XD,” he more begs than says, eyes fixed on Dream, still lying too-still on the church stairs. The deity turns to him, their face strangely blank. “XD, please- please tell me this is a dream.”

“Would that make you happy, George?” the god replies, and George sobs, face collapsing into his hands.

“Please, XD, please tell me- please tell me this isn’t real, please-”

“I don’t understand, George. Would that ease your distress?”

“XD- THIS CAN’T BE REAL- THIS- I-” George sinks to the ground. “He- he was supposed to be okay. He was supposed to come back, he wasn’t-” he grips their robes within his hands. “Please, XD, you can bring him back, please bring him back- this has to be a dream, he can’t be- he can’t be dead-”

Through his cries, the sirens continue to wail.

#tw death #tw derealization #tw dereality #tw religion #tw religious themes #tw grief #tw vomit #tw murder #tw violence #tw torture #tw abuse #tw dark themes #tw dark content #prison arc #pandora's vault #-> my writing #my writing :D #my asks !! #-> my asks #g slur

[telemna-hyelle]

And I'll Always Love You--A Zelink Fic for Valentine's Day

(It's Still Valentine's Day Somewhere in the World!!!!)

Ahem

Anyway.

I know I've been really quiet lately, and I do hope to be dropping by more, but I've had a lot on my plate recently and that continues to be the case! I just haven't had the energy to do pretty much any tumblring. I love you guys, though, and Happy Valentine's Day to you all!

I've chosen to celebrate the way I assume y'all knew I would, with a Hyrule Warriors--Linked Universe Adjacent Zelink fic. This, I discovered, is actually canon for my series on Ao3, This Is My Family. It came as a bit of a surprise because I only realized it was canon like halfway through. Until then i thought of it as a fun AU.

But nope, it's canon, and so... enjoy!

Without Further Ado~

Happy Valentine's Day! 💖💘💝

“Well, this isn’t good.” Link shove a hand into his bangs, fingers digging underneath the brim of his cap, and tried to breathe and push down the panic swarming in his stomach.

The panic wasn’t being cooperative, and the echoing, angry snorts and clanks and crashes of the horde of monsters above weren’t helping matters.

He sucked in another breath. “Anyone got any ideas?”

Link looked around his little group of companions, taking in their pale, set faces.

The silence in the chamber was deafening.

This definitelywasn’t good.

It had all started out simple enough. The tip had come in that Cia was searching for a certain magical tome which contained a large amount of spells, one which the higher ups absolutely didn’t want falling into the wrong hands. Especially not Cia’s.

Finding the book hadn’t been too difficult. It’d played an important part of the quest of the Hero of Hyrule, and his quests had actually been generally well-documented by the Queen Zeldas of his time. General Impa was very familiar with the lore, and so she’d pointed them in the right direction, and Link had assembled his team. It was supposed to be a bit of a stealth mission, so he’d picked a small group—besides Proxi, he brought along Sheik, Mask, and Wind. Then Tetra had volunteered herself for the mission out of boredom (she missed captaining a ship when they were campaigning on land), and they set out.

The book itself was only in the third room of the dungeon, and most of the monsters weren’t too strong—though the statues in the mandhandla room were a pain. They had to use a fair bit of bombs against the mandhandla and the darknuts, however, and supplies were running low. Wind found the entrance to the stairway awfully fast—though he’d just shrugged, grinned, and mumbled something about ‘tips from a friend’ when the Link asked how he’d figured it out.

Link decided he’d add it to his list of ‘weird things Wind has said and done’ when he got back to the tent. He’d figure out what was going on with the kid one of these days.

But once they got the book, that’s when the troubles began. A huge horde of monsters had swarmed the dungeon, leaving them trapped in the book’s chamber.

At this point, Link was beginning to think this was a trap, and they’d fallen right into it.

“How many did you say were there again, Proxi?”

Proxi fluttered nervously on his shoulder. “…there were too many to get a good count, but between the three rooms… I’d say over a hundred? It’s packed.”

“Great.” Mask scoffed, though Link noticed his face seemed even paler. Wind settled a hand on his shoulder, though his usual smile seemed somewhat strained.

“And…” Proxi piped up, her tone anxious. “…the manhandla respawned.”

There was a moment of silence.

“And I think the darknuts, bubbles, and gibdos did, too.”

“Din’s fire.”

Sheik’s gaze was dark, and she tapped her fingers restlessly on the hilt of one of her kunai. “How is our supply of bombs?”

Link, Wind, and Mask grimaced as one. Tetra folded her arms with a scowl.

“Well, thatdoesn’t look good.” Her sharp gaze bounced from one person to the next. “Well, what’s our plan?”

Wind put on his thinking face (which somehow managed to pull a twinge of amusement in Link’s chest, despite the dire circumstances), and Mask formed a scowl to rival Tetra’s.

Shiek, however, simply met Link’s gaze, her red eyes somehow both piercing and earnest. “Even if this whole venture turns out to be a trap,” She said, her voice stubbornly smooth, as if she was fighting with all her might to keep a calm veneer, “We still cannot risk Cia getting her hands on this book, and we cannot stay here in this chamber forever.”

“So what other option is there?” Tetra snapped, and this time Wind reached out to her, instead. His fingers wound their way in between hers, and he grinned while squeezing gently.

“Don’t worry too much, Tetra, I’m sure the Captain has a plan, like always.”

Mask snorted. “I’ll bet it’s a stupid plan.”

Sheik and Link exchanged a look. “Well?” Sheik said, her voice soft, but filled with a burden of realization.

Link took a deep breath, and straightened his shoulders in spite of fear. “Sheik and I are the best at handling large groups. We’ll handle the masses, and you four can focus on the manhandla and making a break for it.”

The sound of water dripping from the damp stone above filled the room.

“See?” Mask said, his voice suddenly sharper than Link had ever heard it. “I toldyou it’d be a stupid plan.”

Wind’s grip on Tetra’s fingers had suddenly become tight, bleaching his knuckles. “I had to admit it, but Mask is right, this time.” His brows lowered over his eyes as he shot the two adults a blazing look. “Do you really think we’re going to let you do something like that?”

“It’s not up for debate.” Sheik said crisply. “It’s the only plan we have, and—”

“What do you mean, ‘its not up for debate?” Tetra snapped. “Like Cyclos we’re just gonna stand by and watch you sacrifice yourselves!”

“You’re just doing it cause you think we’re kids and need to be protected!” Mask added, his voice rising as his fists clenched. Proxi zipped over to him and fluttered anxiously above his shoulder. “We can fight! We can protect you!”

Wind’s voice joined, sharp as a sword. “I made a promise, and you’d have to keelhaul me first if you think—”

“It’s not because we’re trying to protect you!” Link yelled, mostly untruthfully.

Three flat stares bored into him. Link winced, but soldiered on as he did best. “This is the best chance we have at succeeding, and we’re entrusting the mission’s success to you. Besides, Sheik and I have no intention of sacrificing ourselves.”

That was… mostly true. Link certainly didn’t plan on dying, and didn’t think Sheik was either—but all the same, it’d be an uphill battle to keep their souls attached to their bodies.

The kids looked slightly mollified, but there was still a stubborn mulishness to their expression. Tetra’s tone was could rival acid when she spoke next, cocking her head to one side with a hint of a sneer.

“Well, if you say so. Now what, though?”

Shiek pinched the bridge of her nose. “What do you mean, Tetra?”

The pirate’s glare hardened. “Well, you two are about to go off and sacrifice yourselves like two heroes in the old stories.”

“We’re not—” Sheik tried to say, but Tetra trampled right over the sheikah’s interjection. “So what—are you gonna have a bit of a heart to heart? Get some secrets off your chest before you two idiots march off to your doom?”

There was a beat of silence, a beat in which Link’s brain said That sounds like a good idea.

“Tetra, that’s not—”

Link’s mouth opened and ejected words before his brain caught up with him. “Marry me.”

Everything froze, with the exception of four pairs of very wide eyes snapping to meet his.

Link blinked, realized what he had just said, and turned absolutely red.

Sheik stared at him, stiff and frozen as an armos. “Do—do you mean it?”

Her voice was a whisper, and it echoed in the silence of the chamber.

Link swallowed hard. He hadn’t meant to say it, but now that he had—he couldn’t rightfully take it back.

Because he didwant that. He wanted it desperately; he had for a long time. And with her eyes on him, full of a strange mixture of hopelessness and hope, how could he be anything but truthful?

Goddesses help me, he thought, and lifted his chin resolutely. “I do.” He bowed, deeply, laying one hand over his heart, and squeezing his eyes shut against both failure and success. “Please, will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

No one else saw it, because Link’s eyes were closed and everyone else’s were on the Captain, but Wind had relaxed. His shoulders and limbs were no longer taught, and color had returned to his cheeks, and a sparkle to his eyes.

No one noticed this, though, especially not Sheik, whose gaze could not be pulled from Link’s bowed head. Her hands trembled, before her long fingers slowly curled into fists, the tremble transforming from fear to resolve.

“Yes,” She said, and her voice was soft. “I will.”

Link’s head shot up, swiftly followed by the rest of his body, and the two of them stared at each other for a long, long moment. Everyone else stared, too.

Mask broke first. “Are you even taking this seriously?” His voice rose to a pitch on the last word, straining and cracking, and Link’s stomach sank as he say a tell-tale wetness gleaming in his eyes. “You—you could—you could di—”

“It’ll be all right, Mask,” Wind said, his voice ringing with confidence, and he grinned and winked at his pseudo little brother. “Put our trust in the Captain and Sheik! They’re good at getting out of tight spots.”

This was enough to pull Sheik and Link’s attention away from each other, and now it was everyone’s turn to stare at Wind. The aura of poorly-concealed fear was completely gone—the sailor was grinning as if all was right with the world, and they weren’t trapped in a musty room beneath a dungeon with a horde of monsters on the doorstep.

Wind didn’t seem to mind, however, instead he simply grinned brighter, and turned his wink on Tetra. “Well? You up to marrying them?”

Tetra’s mouth dropped open. “Me?”

“Of course, you!” Wind replied. “Who else is gonna do it? Mask?”

Mask despite still being completely bewildered, screwed up his face in disgust, as if on instinct.

Tetra rolled her eyes. “I can’t marry them! Why would you even think of something like that?”

“Ship Captains can marry people, right?” Wind charged forward cheerfully, as determined as a wind blowing relentlessly forward, attempting to catch all their sails and drag them inexorably in his wake.

Tetra’s brows flattened, and she spread her arms wide with a scoff. “Does it looklike we’re on a ship, genius?”

The sailor merely shrugged. “Well, what about Queens? Queens can marry people, right?”

Tetra opened her mouth, closed it, and scowled. “I mean, yes, but I’m not a Queen yet—”

“You got into a fight with Linebeck over a cargo full of Hyrulean relics and declared yourself Queen Tetra Zelda Nohansen Hyrule I.”

Red crawled across her cheekbones. Her mouth snapped shut, and she folded her arms, sticking her nose in the air. “Fine.” She spun to face Link and Sheik and fixed them with a glare. “Well? Are we doing this?”

Link and Sheik shared a glance. Sheik tipped her head in a nod, and Link smiled shakily.

Tetra sucked in a deep breath and threw her head back, straightening her shoulders and trying to seem as regal as a proper pirate queen. “Alright! Let’s get this show started. Now, you two—uhh…”

She paused a moment to consider. Her head drooped a little, and she scuffed at the algae on the stone floor with the toe of her sandal. Her voice was a mumble when she spoke.

“Do… have any of you guys seen a wedding before?”

There was an awkward pause. Proxi fluttered. Link and Sheik stared blankly. Wind shook his head.

Mask was suspiciously silent. Wind kicked his ankle.

“Fess up sprite, I know you did. You were screeching about it with the kissy face stuff.”

Mask’s face was now as red as potion, and he crossed his arms and looked to one side frantically. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Proxi zoomed down and fluttered in front of his nose, so close that Mask’s blue eyes went cross-eyed trying to get a good look. The stand-off lasted for several second, but then Mask’s shoulders slumped and his defiance wilted.

“Okay…” he groaned, and shuffled over to Tetra, shooting looks of wounded protest at Proxi and Wind. “I don’t remember much, but there was stuff like they held hands, and said they want to marry each other, and promised something nice, and then they were married and did all the gross kissyface stuff.”

Tetra frowned. This was less than helpful, but she was the pirate queen, and she was nothing if not resourceful. She’d make do with what she had. She gave Link and Sheik a pointed look and gestured sharply, and the two adults stepped closer, tentatively reaching out and clasping hands.

Link was pretty sure his ears were burning hotter than Death Mountain, and Sheik’s gaze was nervously fixed on the ground, but it allowed him to catch a glimpse of pink flushing the skin above her mask.

She cleared her throat, straightened her posture, and clapped her hands together. “Alright! You!” She pointed at Sheik. “Do you want to marry the palm tree over there in the blue scarf?”

Sheik’s head shot up, and her eyes crinkled warmly as she smiled behind her mask as she tilted her head to one side, sending the ornament at the end of her braid swinging like a pendulum. “Yes, I do.” She said, her voice soft and gentle, like a brush of her fingertips against his heart. “And…” she paused a moment, thinking. “I promise to stand by his side, always… and…” A spark of mischief lit in her eye, making Link’s heart skip, as the smile behind her mask surely transformed into a smirk. “…and make sure he doesn’t starve on charcoal.”

Link choked on the laugh and the tears duking it out in his throat. Tetra’s daggered gaze zoomed in on him, next, and his shoulders automatically straightened, even as his heart began to beat a nervous rhythm.

“And you!” Tetra said, her finger pointing at him. “Do you want to marry the woman here that’s completely out of your league?”

“Yes,” Link said, and his voice was deep and rough, “I do.” He squeezed her fingers gently, and dug at all the words and feelings he’d been burying for months in the deepest part of his heart. He would do his best, but he knew what almost certainly awaited at the end of their plan.

He wished… he wished he had the courage to speak earlier, or that they had more time here, so he could tell her all those thoughts he’d stored up. But he didn’t.

So instead he stripped them down to their cores, to the bones that made them up, to the words that bound all those thoughts and feelings together.

“And I promise to love her, and guard her back, always. And…” His own mouth crooked into a smirk. “…and keep your clothes from falling apart.”

Sheik’s shoulders shook in what could either be a laugh or a sob, and Link tugged her slightly closer, his heart soaring—

“Hold your horses, Captain, she’s not done yet.” Wind laughed, and Link felt his ears turning red again.

Tetra merely snorted, raising one superior eyebrow. “Well, by the power vested in me by the Gods, my ship, the Goddess’ Blood, and my own glorious self—” She raised her hands above her head and clapped them grandly. “I pronounce you married.” A grin spread across her face despite herself. “You two morons can do kissyface now.”

At the same moment, Link tugged Sheik forward as she fell into his arms and frantically tugged down her mask. Link dimly registered Mask’s cry of disgust and Wind and Tetra’s hoots, and then all that vanished, because Sheik’s arms were winding about his shoulders, and he was hugging her to him with an arm around her waist and a hand cradling the back of her head, the bandages of her headdress rough against his fingertips. Her lips were chapped and bitten, yet they sent a heady rush of warmth down to his stomach, and he kissed her harder, trying to put all his feelings, all his heart, all his soul into this moment.

If this would be the only chance he had to kiss her, than Farore help him, he was going to kiss her.

The trapdoor leading to the chamber flew open with a bang, and a cheerful head of blue hair popped through.

“Hey, guys!” Lana chirped, scrambling onto solid ground to make way for Impa. “We found out something fishy was going on so we came to rescue you! There were a lot of monsters bu Impa brought plenty of reinforcements and—”

Her voice died off the exact moment Impa, who had just jumped straight up, off the ladder, and landed gracefully on the stone, turned and spotted the hero and the sheikah.

“Whatby All the goddesses—”

At the sound of Impa’s voice, Link and Sheik simultaneously jerked away, stumbling back and scrambling away from each other like children caught conspiring in front of a cookie jar.

“There was great concern about all of your safety, and we come here to find you doing this?” She propped her hands on her hips, looming over the newly married couple with a grim look. “What in all of Hyrule possessed you to—”

Her voice died in her throat, and her eyes went very, very wide. She was staring, but not at Link—so his gaze instinctively followed hers to it’s focus.

Sheik, in the confusion (and massive embarrassment of the moment) had forgotten to replace her mask.

For the first time since he met her, Link saw the true face of his wife.

His mouth dropped open, and the only coherent thought in his mind was, ’Wow, her blue eyes are just as pretty as her red ones’.

Impa was slightly more coherent, though she, unlike Link, didn’t have any massive revelations about a new spouse to hinder the squirrels running frantic circles around her brain.

“Your Highness?” She gasped.

“Zelda?” Link said, his eyes widening further.

And Wind burst into gales of laughter.

The End

{~???To Be Continued???~}

#tellie writes stuff #my fanfics #zelink #hw zelink #linked unvierse #link #zelda #lu warriors #lu artemis #lu wind #lu mask #loz tetra #loz hyrule warriors #This Is My Family #and a happy valentines day to you all! #i had so much fun with this one if you can't tell #thank you to Kiwi for helping me come up with the macguffin!!! #love you lots kiwi bird

[caretaker-au]

CHAPTER 09

Frisk traced a familiar path back to the Dreemurr’s home. When Asgore, Toriel, and Asriel escorted them to the castle, the Dreemurrs took no precautions to hide the route and instead made conversation by pointing out landmarks along the way. Just as it had been before, the streets were nearly empty at this late hour. However, Frisk remained cautious, keeping a low profile just in case. They no longer had the protection of the royal family. As far as the Underground was concerned, they were an escaped prisoner.

Frisk pressed the button to the elevator, which seemed out of place and accessible from the street. They hid around the corner when the doors slid open, not wanting to chance bumping into someone inside. Fortunately, the elevator was empty. The child slipped inside and pressed the top button. Frisk held their breath as the room sailed upward, trying to put together a believable excuse if their elevator trip was interrupted by another passenger.

The child sighed with relief when the doors opened on the correct floor. No unexpected guests.

Frisk quietly followed the stone hallways towards the Dreemurr’s residence. As was before, the hallway was empty and free of guards. It was strange for a royal family to have no security at all, but it seemed the Dreemurrs had no enemies. Must be nice.

Rounding a corner, Frisk was met with mixed feelings of comfort and apprehension as they finally reached the Dreemurr’s home. Frisk pressed an ear against the door and—after determining no one was on the other side—curled their fingers around the door handle and pulled it down. The door popped open without resistance and Frisk used their other hand to steady it. No guards and an unlocked front door? The Dreemurrs truly had nothing to worry about with Chara on their side.

That’s right—this was Chara’s residence too. Frisk took a deep breath before slipping inside the dark house and shutting the door behind them. It was dark, but not too dark; ambient light from the windows in the adjacent room cast grey slivers of light across the floorboards. With methodical steps, Frisk reached their hands out until they felt the banister that separated the main floor from the stairwell. The child crept towards the right to the steps and descended down. The ghosts had said the barrier was in the basement. It couldn’t be much further now.

From the base of the stairs ran a huge hallway with soft light illuminating the end where it turned around the corner. Frisk continued, and the hallway opened up into a long open balcony that ran along the side of the castle. Below, city lights illuminated the dark cave ceiling, which reflected with sparkling crystals. Frisk continued forward while peering out over the glittering landscape.

The balcony ended with an elevator set into a large tower on the left and a door back into the castle on the right. Frisk made a note to return to the elevator if they couldn’t find the barrier down the other path, and headed right. Frisk pushed open the door and inside was a sight so breathtaking that it challenged the cityscape behind them. Huge arched ceilings stretched above stained glass awash with soft crystal light behind it. The stone floor was nearly reflective in the bright spots between hard shadows cast by enormous marble columns. A cathedral.

“Wow…” Frisk breathed. They ventured forward, their boots squeaking against the smooth floor. Captivated, Frisk traced their fingers across the marble columns, which were etched with an ancient language. A part of them wished they could have stayed in the Underground a bit longer—explored a bit further. If the circumstances were different, surely this adventure would have led to excitement, laughter, and friendship. But they couldn’t stop now. Chara would not rest until the Underground was made into Frisk’s grave, and Frisk was not about to give them the satisfaction. The Surface, though tainted with bad memories, was still the only home they had.

Frisk was about halfway through the room when a low rumble echoed through the chamber, upsetting the dust from the beams above. It was followed by an erratic scraping and tearing sound that grew louder and louder, causing the windows to rattle and light fixtures to swing with every concussive pound. Frisk tried to run in a direction—any direction—but the shaking earth caused them to fall onto all fours.

The door behind them exploded open, scattering debris throughout the room in a cloud of dust. Frisk covered their head as bits of stone and wood scattered over them. Frantically, they looked back at the epicenter of the blast. Uncurling from the darkness was a massive creature that seemed to fill the vast space of the church. Its large animal-like head hung at least 20 feet above them, its body the size of a two-story house. It crouched on six hulking limbs, its fur crested head sagging with the weight of six horns that wrapped around its eyes like a thorny crown.

Though the spots where the creature's eyes should have been were covered by horns, three pairs of additional bulging, bloodshot eyes ran down its jaws, each lined with bristling white lashes. The pupils swiveled and swam independent of one another before focusing on Frisk's small form.

Frisk gasped and scrambled back onto their feet.

The creature’s face split open vertically to reveal a mouth full of snarled blunted teeth—human teeth—and it screeched a repetitive warbling wail. Frisk cowered and pressed their hands to their ears. It took a moment before Frisk realized the wail was laughter.

“Hu… Hu…” The thing’s jaws gnashed and clacked together as it worked to formulate speech. “Hu… man…”

Frisk’s mind screamed run, run, run, but their legs felt rooted on the spot. Their mind stuttered and swam in its attempt to make sense of what they were seeing. Grasping at the depths of their soul, they urged the world to go back in time. To return to a safer space.

But nothing happened.

“What great fortune…” the abomination growled, its articulation improving with every syllable, “...to kill you... once more…”

The direct threat released them from their paralysis and Frisk bolted, running—stumbling—fleeing for the exit on the opposite side of the grand cathedral. The monster surged forward, twisting its body to reveal a huge tail that whipped out of the darkness. It struck Frisk in the back and the child was unceremoniously thrown forward and against the marbled floor, wind hammered out of their lungs. There was no scream and no sound save for the slam of palms against marble. Their head throbbed, momentarily dizzy, but their eyes caught the exit just ahead. They jumped to their feet and kept running, barely registering the creature’s laughter behind them.

No, not behind them anymore, it was nearly looming above them.

But the exit was just ahead, and the child shot through it.

The monster raked the doorway from top to bottom with its claws. Stone debris rained down upon the child as they threw their body forward, leaping the last few feet to try and clear the collapsing architecture. They fell flat on their stomach in the adjoining room; the rubble piled up in a mountain of stone, rebar, and wood behind them. Ahead of them stretched out a long, plain, empty hallway with a corner that turned to the right.

For a moment, it was quiet.

Frisk tried to stand but something caught on their clothes, jerking them back. Or so they thought. Frisk craned their neck to look behind them and saw their right foot was trapped under a slab of marble the size of a refrigerator. Delayed pain shot through their body. Frisk kicked against the rock with their free leg, their short, strangled breaths fogging the polished floor under them. Tears were already streaming down their face from the agony, the fear, the frustration.

Among everything else was that laughter.

Frisk closed their eyes and did their best to calm themself. They urged their soul to take them back, back, back. Where was the last safe point? The Dreemurr’s front door? The jail?

But nothing happened.

“Are you still alive, human?” the monster’s voice rumbled from behind the caved in wall. “My deepest condolences if so. After all. I am still becoming accustomed to this new form.” Its voice was coy, lilting, and familiar.

Frisk contorted their body until they could reach their trapped foot. The top half of their boot was visible, so they untied the laces and loosened it as much as they could. Each movement felt like nails being hammered into their ankle, but they kept quiet as they worked their foot free from their shoe.

Vibrations rumbled through the floor as the creature paced back and forth behind the collapsed doorway. “I suppose I should not be surprised to find you here. After all. You are always standing in my way.”

In one final swift motion, Frisk pulled their foot free. They scrambled back to their feet, nearly falling again at the horrible pain that shot through their socked foot. Their ankle was undeniably broken, but they couldn’t let that stop them now. Limping as fast as they could down the hall, Frisk chanced a look over their shoulder. The doorway was completely gone, replaced with nothing but piles of rock, mortar, and wooden beams. Had it trapped itself? Surely a monster of that size could push away the rubble. Frisk tore their eyes away and focused on progressing forward, their lungs still straining to pull in air. Whether the creature was trapped or not, they had a small lead and intended to take full advantage of it.

Turning the corner of the hallway Frisk saw two more directions to choose from. Just where was this barrier? In the left wall was another tall doorway, and up ahead, the hall turned to the right once again.

Dark laughter echoed down the chamber from behind them, standing Frisk’s hairs on end. Wincing in pain, the child barreled through the left doorway. It led to some sort of throne room: two ornate chairs were surrounded with hundreds of flowers planted in the ground, stacked in pots, and hung from trellises. Frisk ignored the multi-colored spectacle, shambling through the garden to reach a doorway behind the thrones. Past the doorway it was a dark room, and beyond that, another doorway with a brilliant white light emanating from it.

The creature’s laughter was constant but more distant now. It was saying something but Frisk couldn’t understand, not that they wanted to listen anyway. Through the brightly lit doorway was a spectacular sight. The room was vast, with intermittent white stone pillars reaching towards a distant ceiling. Most notably, the far edge of the room was consumed by an unnatural bright light. The light pulsated like a heartbeat, dizzying and all consuming, but most important was a familiar sound Frisk felt as though they hadn’t heard in years: the distant twittering of song birds just beyond it.

This had to be it: the barrier. Frisk exhaled and smiled. Stronger than the terror and pain was a glimmer of hope. If they could make it across, they’d be safe—they’d be home.

Frisk stepped forward but their destination dissolved from sight, a wave of breathless icy emptiness crashing over them as the floor melted away. Disoriented, disembodied, blind. Frisk grasped for reality and in the next moment they found it. Two feet on a solid marble floor. Tall stained glass windows reaching for a high arched ceiling.

Frisk blinked, taking in the familiar setting around them. They were back at the entrance of the cathedral, just moments after they had stepped inside. Their heart dropped and they fought a weakness in their knees that threatened to topple them. Something had sent them back in time mere moments before their escape. A sense of helplessness overwhelmed them as they realized how profoundly vulnerable they now were.

The rafters shuddered.

Swallowing their dread, Frisk did the only thing they could: they ran.

A mechanical wrenching screech filled the child’s ears. Hearing it a second time allowed Frisk to place the noise: it was the sound of the monster’s oversized body wrenching through the elevator shaft in the tower outside the cathedral. This time, the child cleared the far doorway just as the abomination crashed through the cathedral’s entrance. It was only the briefest of head starts, but they’d take what they could get.

Frisk swayed and stumbled as the floor reverberated with the heavy beats of the monster’s footfalls, but remained upright as they crossed the stretch of the stone hall. They were much faster with two intact ankles, but would it be fast enough? The sound of the creature’s six large limbs slamming against the stone grew louder and louder as it approached.

“Run all you like…” the beast’s cheery and sickening voice echoed down the hall, “You cannot escape.”

But it was wrong: escape was within reach. Frisk chanced a look back as they rounded the corner, and saw the abomination snaking through the archway. It only barely fit, and seemed to be taking better care not to destroy the architecture. Frisk didn’t have the luxury to question it. The barrier was only a few rooms away.

The child darted into the throne room, eyes locked onto the doorway in the back. Heart hammering in their chest, they sprinted through the flora and into the next room, nearly tripping over a potted plant. They charged through the dark hall and into the white soaked chamber that held the barrier. Frisk squinted against the brilliant light but kept up their speed. They crossed their arms in front of their face, braced themself, and raced headlong into the barrier.

The barrier—bright and unforgiving—absorbed the child’s forward momentum and thrust the child back with the same force. Frisk fell onto their back and groaned, shaking their head as they pulled themself back onto their feet. Hideous laughter reverberated through the room, filling the child with fresh dread. The beast’s huge head loomed in the doorway, its bisected maw opened wide. Frisk rushed to the barrier a second time with arms outstretched. They pushed against the invisible force and the barrier seemed to push back, unyielding.

“No—no! Please!” Frisk begged. A terrible crash rang out behind them. Frisk turned and saw the monster was clawing the doorway open as if it was little more than cardboard. Its hulking form knocked bricks and mortar into the spotless room as it wrenched its way through the threshold. Back pressed against the barrier, a cold sweat began to bead on Frisk’s skin. Their escape route was nothing but a dead end now.

Frisk looked to the left and the right. The tall pillars in the room only provided a few spots of cover, but they would only serve to stall the monster. Regardless, the child ran for a pillar both closest to them and away from the beast. They watched from hiding as the horror cleared the entryway and pulled itself to its full height, eyes wild and jaw dripping with saliva. Fully illuminated by the light of the barrier, Frisk saw that the front of its body was wriggling with a mass of emaciated human arms, arranged like the limbs of an isopod. Worse still was the sight of a limp human caught in the writhing hands’ grasp, drenched in blood: the caretaker of the Ruins.

“Chara!” Frisk cried, clutching their hands to their mouth.

“Oh?” The behemoth tilted its head to one side and looked down at the corpse, “This thing is Chara no longer.” The creature used one of its main claws to pluck Chara’s body from the mob of grasping limbs and held it outward, “For I have bonded with Asriel to create this superior form.”

“Asriel?” Frisk breathed, “You’re Chara and—”

Frisk was cut off as the abomination unceremoniously tossed Chara’s body at the child. Frisk shrieked and hid behind the pillar as the corpse hit the floor next to them with a sickening thud. The face of the person who had caused them so much torment was sheet white with dark lines of blood running from their mouth and nose. A familiar knife was embedded deep in their chest.

“However…” the beast continued, “Only six human souls were sacrificed for this power. One more soul will render our transformation complete.”

“S-Sacrifices?” Frisk whispered. Their horror was mocked with more of the monster’s laughter. Chara and Asriel’s laughter.

No. Asriel would never find this funny.

Pulling together their courage, Frisk stepped out from behind the column, “Asriel!” they called out, “Please stop this! This isn’t you!”

The monster bristled, “You think you can manipulate us?” It lunged forward, raking a claw through the pillar. Frisk darted to the next column. It was a terrible hiding place, but it would have to do.

The monster’s horn-crested head followed Frisk to their cover, but its body hesitated as it loomed over Chara’s corpse. The multitude of arms on its belly reached out and gathered the body up, holding it close with uncanny tenderness. “Cease this sentimentality,” the monster muttered to itself.

“Asriel! Don’t you remember me? It’s Frisk!” Frisk shouted again.

“Asriel and I are aligned in our mission!” the monster roared. It charged Frisk’s hiding spot once again, collapsing the second pillar. Frisk was already running for the next one, working their way closer to the widened entryway the beast had come through.

“You saved me from Chara, remember?” Frisk continued, “You didn’t want me to die!”

Without a word the monster lunged forward, tearing down the third pillar and sending chunks of debris flying at the fleeing child. Frisk ignored the sharp twinges of pain as marble shards struck their back. They were close to the exit now. If they escaped, maybe they could find Toriel and Asgore and get help—

But before Frisk could reach the doorway, the world dissolved around them once again, snapping them into an earlier reality. The sight of Chara’s corpse beside them startled them nearly as much as it had the first time. They were only a minute back, if that.

“Oh, how I have missed doing that...” the monster cooed. “Human... your tenacity is admirable if not profoundly irritating. So we are going to give you a choice. Would you like to be killed first or last?”

“’Last’? After what?” Frisk called from behind the pillar.

“Our preordained purpose: the salvation of monsters. We will erase humanity. We will free everyone.”

It wasn’t much of a choice. Dying before it destroyed the world came with no benefit. But if Chara ignored them now, Frisk would be able to return to the castle and seek sanctuary from Toriel and Asgore. If they were very lucky, they might be able to live a few more months, or even years. The cost, however, would be the life of every human on Earth.

Frisk felt a pang of grief remembering that those people didn't include their parents anymore. The opportunity to save the ones they loved the most had long passed. Everyone else, however, still had a chance. Their best friend from school who traded lunches with them, their neighbors with the friendly dog, the woman who owned their favorite ice cream store in town… everyone Frisk had ever seen, plus billions more they'd now never get the chance to meet.

Frisk looked back down at the lifeless body beside them. Crouching, the child wrenched the knife from Chara’s heart before leaving their cover, placing themself directly between the monster and the barrier.

“What is this?” the creature cackled, “You want to die first. How noble.”

“No, I’m not going to die.” Frisk held the knife out towards the looming abomination, “And I won’t let you kill anyone else!”

The monster’s body flinched and reared back, shrieking with a dissonant multitude of screams. As it did, flames of unnatural colors lashed and arced around the behemoth. Frisk did their best to cover their ears without dropping the blade, but they couldn’t block out the noise.

The monster’s claws dug into the stone floor as it braced itself against some internal pain, “It was an accident!” the creature stammered, “I didn’t mean to hurt him!”

“What? Asriel is that you?” Frisk asked, but the monster roared in response.

“Stop calling for him, he can’t hear you!” the creature lunged and Frisk jumped back, barely avoiding the claws that crashed into the floor in front of them. There the monster froze, its outreached hand trembling.

“Stay back!” Frisk brandished the knife and the monster shrieked again, gouging large tracks into the floor as it recoiled back. Mixed in the screams were a bizarre mixture of words and sentences clashing against each other.

“P—Please don’t kill me!" It shuddered, shoulders convulsing, “I’ll tear you apart! I… I just want to go home… You mean I’ll never see her again?”

Frisk kept the knife held out and the monster cowered from it, voices both pleading and threatening, “I don't want to die… I hate you! I’ll kill you!”

“Just stop!” Frisk shouted over the cacophony, “No one has to kill or be killed!”

The behemoth shuddered and clasped its head with two of its great hands. Its great maw opening and closing, it struggled to form words, “F… F… Frisk…”

“Asriel?”

“You… you’re wrong…” it choked, “We’ve already killed… so many...”

"Then it stops here! Change back and go home!"

"I can't… I can't…" the monster lamented, "These souls inside me… all this fear... this hate… it's overwhelming…" The beast shut its many eyes and huffed out a long breath. There was a short pause before its eyes snapped back open and it took another ragged swipe at Frisk. The attack missed and the creature pinned the hostile limb to the floor with another. "We want you dead! We want everyone dead!"

"Asriel, you have to fight them!" Frisk pleaded.

"I can't… I can't..." the monster shook its enormous head, raking at the scorched floor with its claws. “Help… please…”

"How??" Frisk asked, exasperated.

"You must… kill us."

“No!” Frisk blurted out before they could even process the request, “There has to be another—”

The beast surged forward again, reaching out with a fire engulfed claw and swatting the human to the side. Frisk slid across the smooth floor and the knife skittered out of their hand. Strangling a cry, the child frantically rolled onto their side to smother the flames that licked up their clothes. Frisk had never smelled burnt hair before, but the stench was unmistakable. They glimpsed the back of their right hand and regretted seeing the red, blistered flesh that hurt worse than it looked. Tearing their eyes away, Frisk scanned the floor for their dropped knife.

“So you finally understand, Asriel.” The beast’s voice was shaking in rage, “There are some sacrifices that have to be made.” The abomination set its eyes on the child, but Frisk had already found their dropped knife. Just as they snatched it back up, however, the monster grabbed them. Its fist clenched the child's body in one swift, upwards motion, and the ground disappeared beneath them. The pressure of its grip magnified the pain of the burns to beyond what Frisk could handle. Suffocating darkness spilled into their vision, dragging them towards unconsciousness.

No! They couldn’t give into the agony. Frisk screamed—one of the only outlets they had left—and among their cries, they pleaded, “Help me! Anyone!”

The monster hesitated. Its arm began to tremble and little pricks of light formed on the surface of its fur like glistening, ethereal drops of dew. The light criss-crossed down the creature’s arm towards the captured human, and a sensation like cool water swept over them, washing away the blistering pain. They checked the back of their hand: the burns were gone.

Arm still shaking, the abomination began to lower Frisk towards the ground. However, before it released the child, it paused.

“The souls...” the beast uttered and clenched the child tighter, pushing the air from Frisk’s lungs. “No. I am in control… you will obey me.”

The monster raised its arm over its head and Frisk along with it. The sickening realization that they were about to be thrown against the wall seized them. Frisk clawed at the creature’s fist with their right hand, and slashed with the knife in their left.

The damage caused its hand to splay open and Frisk slid free, landing on the creature’s back. They grasped at its coarse white fur with one hand and bit the blade deep into its flesh with the other. The abomination shrieked, twisting and contorting to shake Frisk off. The child wrapped both hands around the knife’s grip and raked it down its body as they fell. A streak of red followed the knife down, the gash blistering as if the blade was venomous. Howling, the beast pulled away from Frisk, its eyes wild with hatred.

“It’s not too late,” Frisk pleaded, “We can turn back.”

The monster shuddered, bracing against the swimming, intrusive, shrieking thoughts inside its being as it battled for control. The hand Frisk had slashed was raked with deep, festering cuts that stood in stark contrast on its white fur.

A low growl reverberated in the throat of the beast. “No. Our plan will not fail.” It set its eyes on the barrier once more and moved towards the shimmering barricade. Its wounds left red prints on the floor.

The relief of not being the monster’s target was short-lived as renewed panic swept through Frisk’s body. Without a second thought, the child raced to put themself between the abomination and the barrier. Planting themself firmly on the floor, Frisk threw their arms out, their figure just a small silhouette in front of the gleaming threshold.

“Stop standing in my way.” The monster growled, its tailing lashing angrily behind them. Its voice pitched with equal parts threat and mournful warning, “I will… I will kill you.”

The beast leapt forward again, its giant bisected maw stretching open. The jaws snapped closed around Frisk’s torso, and the monster reared up, lifting the child into the air. Stars flooded the child’s sight and they screamed as the fanged, crushing pressure of the beast’s teeth gripped their rib cage. But the knife was still in their white-knuckled grasp. Raising the weapon over their head, Frisk used all of their strength to sink the blade deep into the monster’s forehead. The monster howled, releasing Frisk to fall clumsily onto the floor. They heard a sickening snap as they landed—cold, searing pain jolting up through the leg that took the brunt of the fall. Frisk crumpled, grasping at their shin, but didn’t take their eyes off the monster.

The beast was shrieking, flailing, and clawing at its face, but unable to dislodge the blade from its flesh. Bright, multi-colored fires erupted from its body, corkscrewing towards the ceiling. It shook its head left and right, which splashed flames and blood in crescents across the floor. Weakness overtook the creature until it finally collapsed to the ground with a crash. The reverberations sent dust rising from the rubble strewn about the room.

The chamber fell quiet. Frisk became aware of their own rapid breathing as they coped with the stabbing pain from their broken leg. Wincing, they pushed themself into an upright sitting position and investigated their other wounds. Their sweater was marred with holes, but the bite only left a few shallow cuts and bruises. The creature—or rather—Asriel must have inhibited the attack to prevent snapping Frisk in half. Guilt swam through Frisk’s heart. He had saved them and was thanked with a killing blow.

Frisk looked back to the beast. It was still, with the exception of its chest falling and rising with each labored breath. The flames were nearly gone, only a few persistent embers hugging the floor around it. Frisk crawled towards the beast, dragging their wounded leg behind them.

Most of its multiple eyes were closed and the ones that weren’t were glassy and unfocused. The row of thin human arms that ran down its chest were limp and tangled. Among them, a few dozen fingers twitched like spider legs. The knife was embedded all the way down to the guard, and blood and saliva pooled around its head. It didn’t seem right for such a creature to be felled by such an insignificant weapon. Frisk’s pain was pushed aside by the sickening dread in their stomach.

“Asriel? Chara?” Frisk laid a hand on the behemoth’s muzzle, causing the beast to flinch. Its six claws balled into fists for a moment, then relaxed, and the monster strained to focus its eyes on the child.

“Listen! It’s still not too late!” Frisk said, “You have to go back in time, just like you did before. Save yourself and Chara!”

The creature’s eyes widened for a moment, and it took a deep, shaking breath. With great effort, it spoke. “No.”

“You have to!” Frisk urged, grasping at the monster’s head, “Please!”

“Frisk…” its voice was low and strained, “It’s the only way… to stop... this...”

“No, there’s always another way! If you go back, we can make things right!”

The beast fell silent, and Frisk shook the creature, “You can still fix this!”

“Frisk…” the monster rasped, “Take my soul… leave this place.”

“Don’t say that!”

“I’m... sorry.”

The abomination shuddered and began to crumble. Its body caved in on itself, revealing a black, husk-like anatomy that faded to an ashen white.

“No, Asriel! Chara! Please, don’t give up like this!” 

The monster’s face crumbled beneath Frisk’s hands, leaving only mounds of grey dust where the creature had fallen. Frisk shook their head, begging for the familiar cold hands of time to sweep them back. They clenched their eyes shut, hot tears falling onto the ash below. But reality stayed firmly in place.

Light cast through their closed eyelids, and Frisk opened them to see the gift Asriel had left behind. A white, shuddering light—shaped in what could only be described as an inverted heart—hovered before them. Not just Asriel’s soul, but the soul of Chara and five others, all contained in a single white light.

Trembling, Frisk reached their hand out. Together with Asriel and the other victims, they had stopped Chara’s plan, saved countless lives, and now, the escape they’d been searching for was finally within their grasp. After everything they had been through, Frisk deserved this.

But was it worth the cost?

Frisk hesitated, and looked back over their shoulder. Chara’s body was still lying where it had been thrown, partially covered by rubble. What little remained of Asriel’s mutilated form now powdered the floor in dusty patches. This was all so terribly familiar. The fact that their parents had died in one single instant—never to return—felt just as unreal. And now, two more lives had been lost in a terrible, avoidable tragedy. It wasn’t right.

Frisk withdrew their hand and pressed it to their eyes, still wet. They hunched over, trembling and clutching at their head.

They couldn’t accept it.

The child’s sobs turned into a wail. Then, a roar.

They wouldn’t accept it.

chapter 09 // end

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#undertale #chara #frisk #asriel #the caretaker of the ruins #undertale spoilers #main comic #chapter 09 #story summary #blood tw #surprise!

[imissjoongsmullet]

My Prince (6 - final)

Pairing: Minghao x reader

Genre: fluff/(angst)

Summary: Life is not exactly easy being the royal gardeners’ daughter but at least it’s simple. When you’re suddenly called upon to serve as the prince’s personal servant, things get a little more than complicated, especially considering the secret history you and the prince share.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Warnings: general angstiness, a bit of a slow burn, very romantic, very soft, the fact that this will most likely become a long series cause I have no chill

Word Count: 6.5K

Author’s Note:

This final chapter finally fulfills the premise that this is in fact fluff. I promise I’m done breaking your hearts now, woohoo!

My Prince has grown so near and dear to my heart. I don’t usually write long fanfics so this was really quite special. I know I might sound overly dramatic or corny to some of you (and that’s okay). It’s just, I try to be intentional with everything I do. That’s why I wanted to do this right. That’s why I’ve gotten so attached. That’s why it’s taken me forever to finish as well probably haha!

This story is far from perfect. There are countless things that I would have liked to sculpt out more... but I think for that to have happened this would have to become a full on novel and that’s not what this was ever meant to be, so I’ve got to let go of those thoughts and just send it out into the world as it is.

In any case, I sincerely hope you’ve enjoyed reading this story as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it. As always, please let me know what you think. As a writer, any type of feedback makes my heart flutter~

Thank you for all the love and support ♥

►

You fell to the floor, your shriek buried in the chaos that surrounded you. There was so much noise so suddenly and none of it sounded good. Panicked, you raised your head to see the entrance to the room had been broken wide open and soldiers in silver and black attire were pouring in, brandishing swords, fire and crossbows. Yientan. Another cry left your lips as you scrambled backwards until you hit the wall behind you. They were here. They must have found out about the wedding and wanted to stop it before a legend could take away their power.

Strong hands grabbed you by the collar and you screamed out for help. You struggled in your attempt to pry the stranger off of you until you noticed the face that belonged to it.

“Come on!” Minghao ordered, dragging you up. He took your hand and set off at a sprint, leaving behind the bulk of the commotion. You could hear banging and screaming from other directions as well though. They must have the whole castle surrounded. Luckily Minghao knew all the secret, little passages attackers tended to overlook. It didn’t take long for you to realize where he was taking you. Before you could come to your senses, you were dragged through the heavy doors to Minghao’s private chambers and sat onto his bed.

“Stay here,” he said, kneeling at your side, clasping your palms in your lap, “don’t leave until it’s all over.” He got up and turned to leave.

“Wait!” you called, stopping him midway, “you can’t go out there!”

“I have to,” he replied stone faced.

“No!” Now it was you holding onto him. “Please don’t—” Your fingers dug into his robes with desperation.

“I have a responsibility,” he said, “I have to go—”

“Then I’m coming too,” you cut in but he shook his head.

“You can’t help,” he explained, “I can so I’m going.” He eyed you sternly for a few more seconds before softening. He sighed, brushing his hand over your cheek lovingly and finally saying, “do not follow me.”

“Hao, please,” you called as he pulled away. You ran to him just in time to keep him from shutting the door behind him entirely. Only a sliver of his face was visible in the gap.

“Stay safe,” he said, before vanishing.

In stunned silence you let the doors fall shut. You walked over to the bed and sat down because your legs felt shaky and your head dizzyingly light. Outside, the uproar continued to grow but Minghao had told you to stay. Your heart ached. It pulled and tugged at you, trying to get you to move but you couldn’t. You didn’t want to disappoint him. Your fingers wrapped around one of the silk pillows on his bed. Closing your eyes, you hugged the thing close. It was all you could do not to cry. You just wanted everything to be okay— for everything to go back to normal. But you supposed none of Minghao’s life had ever really been normal.

A loud crashing sound made you jump. Some large piece of glass must have just shattered somewhere. You got up from the bed and began to pace the room. You clamped your hands over your ears in a miserable attempt to shut out the madness. Shutting your eyes didn’t help either. The itch to do something was growing unbearable. When a few minutes later a crack so deep it was like walls crumbling made the wooden floor tremble, you decided that enough was enough.

Head in overdrive, you went for the window. Its balcony was wide and looked out over the east side of the gardens. Tonight, there were only balls of fire within the dark. With a sickening lurch, you thought of your parents. Had they managed to hide or escape? Or had the attackers set flame to their house while they slept, trapping them in an excruciating death? Panicking, you went for the balcony ledge. Once your feet found balance, you grabbed onto the ornate pillars and started to climb. The plan seemed insane and yet, somehow you felt like the adventurous prince had definitely made this climb before. With that information fueling your confidence, you made it onto the roof above the prince’s chambers.

From here, you could see most of the castle and its grounds. A landscape of hills and valleys lay before you in the form of various curved rooftops. It would have been quite beautiful if it hadn’t been for the screams and the fire. You didn’t know what you were doing, really. You just wanted to know everything was going to be alright. Besides, you’d never forgive yourself if something happened to Minghao while you hid away like a coward.

How many people were fighting down there? How much of a chance did they stand against Yientan? And what could Minghao possibly do in all this? You didn’t even know if he knew how to fight.

Hunching down to a crouch, you made your way toward the center part of the castle. You looked down wherever you could, trying to get a feel of the situation. You saw two servant girls running on a deck as they cried. You saw men fighting in little courtyards, blood staining their clothes. You saw the wooden walkway towards the prince’s library collapse in flames. All of this roused an anger in you that surprised you. You’d never been the bravest of people— you still weren’t. But something was taking over you. It didn’t matter that this castle had been the bane of your existence for the past few months. The castle was under attack and you felt it as you’d feel an attack on your own family. You jumped from roof to roof, wracking your brain over a way to help.

Something sharp whooshed past you and you gasped. You were just in time to turn around and see the Yientan soldier standing on a nearby rooftop, reaching for another arrow. You ducked away towards a lower part of the roof, suddenly feeling the sharp sting on your cheek. There were hurried footsteps behind you and you were running out of options. Your rooftopped landscape came to an end as you happened upon the center courtyard of the castle, where more soldiers fought.

Hoping fiercely you weren’t making the wrong decision, you jumped.

The landing was harsh and you failed to stifle the noise that fought to come out your mouth. A man dressed in silver and black turned your way.

Wasting no time, hopped onto the deck and dashed into the nearest corridor, running as fast as you could in your clumsy servant’s robes. You were disoriented and scared but also determent to outrun the soldier. The long hallways of the castle once again felt like a devious maze, trying to suffocate you. You turned a corner and half-fell-half-jumped down a narrow flight of stairs. Ignoring the sting in your left leg, you rushed along a half open deck, ducked under a low archway that lead you down to the underbelly of the castle. Here, it was pitch black except for the spaced out torch light that hung from the walls. Luckily, you knew where you were going. This lowest level of the castle was used for storage and servant work deemed too dirty to be looked upon by the masters. You took a right through a small door, finding yourself in one of the washrooms the servants used. Just as the soldier’s feet hit the wood floor behind you, you opened one of the closets and grabbed as many fresh sheets as you possibly could, throwing them over him. You watched him struggle for only the fraction of a second before escaping through a side door. You knew exactly where to hide.

You reached your destination within a minute, lowering yourself into a little crawlspace underneath the floorboards of the broom closet servants used to hide from Tou Ma when she was angry. You’d only have to wait a few minutes for the soldier to give up and leave and then you’d be safe. You were about to close up the floorboards when you heard the most dreadful sound in the world.

It was Minghao. He was screaming.

Without a second thought, you burst back into the corridor. You followed the echo of the scream in your mind. It wasn’t far off. It was right here, under the castle. You tried every door, finding deserted room after deserted room, wondering why Minghao was even here, hidden away from all the commotion.

Aside from the soldier that had followed you down, you hadn’t seen a single person down this low. Perhaps you’d imagined it, you thought, just as you slid through another open door you knew lead to the pantry.

The most shocking thing was not that Minghao was there; it was that the emperor of Namin was there too.

Minghao was knelt over his father’s form, shuddering slightly.

“Hao,” you whispered as you approached, an awkward feeling settling in your stomach. Something was very wrong. Tentatively, you knelt down beside the prince, gasping when you saw the blood. Panicked, you looked down, now noticing the dark trail on the floorboards.

“What— what happened?” you stammered. Minghao hadn’t acknowledged you yet. He was doubled over, tears falling down onto his father’s chest.

“Don’t leave me.” His voice was so thick with emotion the words were barely audible.

You knew the emperor wouldn’t reply.

“Please, father,” Minghao whimpered.

You’d never seen him like this; torn apart like an old book. Afraid of making things worse, you sat by and waited. The war outside didn’t matter now. You allowed his sobs to turn to quiet slowly.

When they had, Minghao straightened his back and looked at you. His face was red and blotchy. The pain in his eyes made you want to wrap your heart around him.

“He got shot,” he said at last. His hand reached out for yours and you took it, surprised at the tightness of his fingers around you.

“I found him back in the celebration hall I— I didn’t know what to do. I just knew I couldn’t let Yientan have him so I tried to find a place to hide him but by the time I got here he was barely breathing and—” fresh tears burned in his eyes, “he just— I can’t do this without him I can’t—”

“Hao— ” you started just as a creak in the floorboards made you both jump.

Over a dozen people shuffled into the room, each person looking more perplexed than the next at the sight of Minghao and the emperor. You blinked in surprise at the appearances of the Zhong family, a bit battered and stunned-looking but otherwise fine. Last to enter the room was Tou Ma. Her face paint had smudged, there was blood at her temple and her robe was ripped at the sleeve.

“Stay back, girls,” she said with a voice just as stern as ever before coming over. Her face turned grim the moment she got on her knees and took in the sight. Her eyes widened, her nostrils flared and her thin lips parted. She took a few moments to regain her calm. Gently, she flattened out a crinkle in her robe as she cleared her voice at last.

“My prince,” she spoke solemnly, “from the heart of Namin, I offer my deepest condolences.”

Minghao continued to stare down at his father’s chest.

“Tomorrow we mourn the end of the era— tonight—” she paused, her wrinkles tugging into a frown, “tonight lies in your hands.”

The words hung in the dusty storage room air, settling over the people within it, slowly, like bits of falling snow.

“My prince?” Tou Ma said and her voice was softer than you’d ever heard it.

Minghao hadn’t moved an inch. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking either.

Strands of messed up hair hung in front of his face as he looked down at the emperor. You knew Minghao understood what Tou Ma had implied. Now that the emperor was dead, Minghao was automatically in charge. It was time for him to fulfill his prophecy and become the legend he was destined to be. Except that Tou Ma hadn’t said it like that exactly. She’d left the decision up to him. Tonight lies in your hands. Somehow, you felt like the head servant understood the pressure that weighed on the prince. She’d left the course of action open so that, should he choose to do so, Minghao could hide away with the rest of the castle’s residents. Should he choose to do so, he could surrender to Yientan. It was up to Minghao to decide his fate, not some legend assigned at birth.

Finally, Minghao looked up at Tou Ma.

“My mother,” he said, “is she safe?”

“Of course, my prince,” Tou Ma replied at once, “she was my first priority. I sent her through the royal passage behind the west room tapestry before bringing others to safety. She must have reached the safe house by now.”

Minghao nodded. “Thank you.” He sat there, thinking for a few more seconds before he stood up.

“I’m going out there. Everyone else stay here.” His voice was monotone, matter-of-fact. “I have to speak to the emperor of Yientan and put a stop to this.”

No one spoke as he turned to leave the room. Even you were too shocked to speak. It was only after he’d left the room that you found the strength to move.

“Silly girl,” Tou Ma said, her voice sharp once more as she grabbed hold of your wrist, “this is the last time I tell you to stay away from him.”

You looked the head servant dead in the eye.

“Then this will be the last time I defy you,” you answered, breaking free from her grasp and running out of the room.

You caught up with Minghao halfway up the stairs. You tugged at his sleeve and called his name, softly, inquiringly. He looked back at you, looking apologetic.

“I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you,” he said quietly, “you’re already hurt.” His eyes went to your cheek, where the sting of the arrow still lingered.

You sighed. “And I wouldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to you.” You took his hand. “Hao, please,” you went on, “whatever happens, let’s do it together.”

Slowly, a smile formed on the new emperor’s lips. It failed to erase the pain in his reddened eyes but rather coated them in a temporary haze. His fingers tightened around yours and he whispered, “okay.”

*

“Where are we going?” you asked as you tiptoed through the castle, slipping from shadow to shadow.

“I know where he is,” Minghao replied.

You knew he was talking about the emperor of Yientan. You had no idea what he looked like but you’d overheard plenty of conversations about him during your time in the castle. He was a fierce ruler and a strong man of combat.

“Wait, you’re not going to fight him, are you?”

“No,” he replied, “I’m going to talk to him.”

The throne room looked smaller than usual. A pillar had fallen, dust and debris littered the usually shiny hardwood and on the golden throne sat, not Xu Yilan, but a younger-looking man. He was broad-shouldered and his dark hair fell in a single braid down to his waist. His black and silver armor was still spotless aside from the couple droplets of red that had splashed onto his chest. You almost couldn’t believe he was an emperor and not a war general. Xu Yilan had surely never fought like this. Judging by the tenacity in his eyes, he was enjoying this. Upon noticing Minghao he raised himself from the throne, eyes narrowing.

“Emperor Wu,” Minghao spoke up as he walked to the center of the room.

You decided to stay in the shadows for now. It was better for the Yientan leader not to know a second person was in the room.

“My father, Xu Yilan, is dead by your men’s hands.”

You had no idea how Minghao was keeping his emotions at bay but it was clearly a good thing. The man on the platform drew back, his eyes going wide.

“You,” he said in a gravely voice, “you are Xu Minghao?” He spoke loud and clear but was unable to hide his uneasiness. It was in the way he stood, overly square, and in the stark way his eyes stared ahead.

“I am,” Minghao said, “and I want you to listen to me for a moment.”

Silence. This was good. 

“I do not want to fight you,” he went on, “I just want to talk. I want to restore the balance between Namin and Yientan.” He took a deep breath. “I want Yientan to give us back the highlands.”

A low yet booming laughter filled the empty throne room.

“You expect us to just give you back the highlands?” the emperor scoffed, “and what will Yientan receive in return?”

You watched Minghao as a silence trickled into the air. He was completely still, his mind probably racing like a warhorse.

“In return,” he said at last, his voice deep yet clear, “Yientan will be spared the dragon’s wrath.”

You could see the fear spring into the emperor’s eyes.

“You lie, young man,” he said, though it was obvious Minghao’s words had derailed him a bit. Slowly, the man unsheathed a long sword and pointed it at Minghao.

“There is no dragon,” he spat, starting to walk down the platform, “where is your dragon now, huh? Did it come when our people charged your gates? No, it did not.”

Minghao’s chest heaved but he stood his ground. You couldn’t understand how he stayed so calm. He had nothing to defend himself with.

“Did it come when your father was struck down by one of my men?” emperor Wu continued as he approached, “it did not.”

This was all wrong, you thought, panic taking over you.

“Up on the roof of this broken palace, a golden dragon stands, yes,” the emperor said, a wicked smile spreading onto his lips. He was getting too close.

“It is nothing but a symbol of wealth, a meaningless decoration!”

Minghao stood as a statue, defiant.

“It could not save your father, nor your people,” he grinned, “and it surely won’t save you.”

“Stop!” you screamed, breaking away from your hiding spot. Both men turned their heads in surprise, a moment you took to jump in between them, arms out, shielding Minghao from his attacker.

“Don’t hurt him, please!” you cried. You knew you were making foolish decisions but there wasn’t a single cell in your body capable of doing anything else in that moment.

Pain shot through your arm as general Wu grabbed hold of you.

“No!” Minghao yelled, immediately jumping for the general’s second arm in an attempt to tear the sword from his grasp. Your head spun as you were tugged around, the three of you in an awkward tangle until you heard a gasp that could only be Minghao’s. You watched him fall to the floor, clutching his side, where the fabric of his shirt started to color red.

You wanted to scream but before any sound had the chance to leave your lips, the whole room began to shake.

Emperor Wu backed towards the wall, dragging you with him and that’s when you heard it. An ear-piercing cry coming from somewhere up above. The ceiling cracked and gave away right where Minghao crouched. You cried out his name in a desperate attempt to save him when you realized the falling debris wasn’t crushing him. Instead, it turned to dust mid-fall, scattering over the floor like sand on a windy day.

Emperor Wu gave a startled shriek behind you. A massive creature burst through the broken ceiling with another deafening cry. It looked like a giant, glimmering snake with horns. Its fanged mouth was the size of two grown men and its golden scales reflected the devastation in the room. It curled itself around Minhao, who was still on hands and knees on the floor, obscuring him from view. “It— it’s— it can’t be!” the man behind you stuttered, shivering all over. You took the opportunity to yank yourself from his grasp.

The dragon let out a large huff and steam released from its dinner-plate-sized nostrils. You couldn’t help but feel a trickle of fear pulse through you as you approached the beast. But you had to trust.

The dragon’s body uncurled once more, revealing Minghao. He was standing; even more, he looked revitalized. A determent look had taken over his face. He stepped in front of the dragon and addressed the cowering emperor.

“As I said before,” he said, his voice strong and demanding now, “I don’t want to fight. I don’t want this war. Yientan and Namin can live in peace. Even better, we can make each other stronger.” He glanced at you and his eyes filled with warmth. “I know we are different but Namin will no longer fear those differences. It is by cooperating that we will learn and grow—”

The emperor scoffed. “And to achieve this peace of yours,” he grumbled, “I assume you want the highlands back?”

“They belong to Namin,” Minhao replied calmly.

“And what’s next?” emperor Wu went on, his pitch rising, “you’ll invade us with your big dragon protector and we’ll have to give up everything?!”

“No.” Minghao shook his head. “Namin doesn’t need any more. Just the highlands and harmony with Yientan. If you promise me these things, emperor Wu, this dragon will never be used for violence. It too can be a symbol of peace.”

The emperor of Yientan stood there, fighting a fight within himself. All you could do was wait. Minghao didn’t look scared anymore though. The dragon had taken his fear. The cold mask had vanished as well, leaving his eyes exactly the way you remembered them from years ago; kind, curious, inviting. Years of pressure had fallen off of his shoulders, allowing him to stand up straight and confident.

His gaze went to you for a moment and he reached out his hand.

Heart swelling with joy, you took it, feeling more than ever before, like you belonged.

Emperor Wu observed all of this with pain in his eyes. You still had no idea what the man was thinking but you felt safer now, so close to Minghao.

“Alright,” he said finally, starting to walk towards you, “you win, little emperor.” He shook his head in defeat. “You’ve still got a lot to learn about ruling and, mark my words, you will regret the things you’ve said today— all this talk about peace and harmony—” he stopped just a couple feet away from Minghao, “but at least for now, Yientan will bow to Namin.” He bent over into a ninety degree bow and Minghao let show just the tiniest smile. He was proud— and he should have been. You squeezed into his hand and felt him squeeze back when, all of a sudden, a lot of things happened.

Emperor Wu raised himself, drawing from a loop in his belt a tiny dagger and driving it into Minghao’s chest. At the same time, the dragon behind you let out a magnificent roar as it charged at Yientan’s emperor, knocking the breath right out of his lungs. All this time, you stood, frozen to the spot in complete and utter shock.

When you felt Minhao’s hand slip from yours, you cried out his name. You caught him as he staggered and the two of you landed with a soft thud on the floor. Panicked, your hands dove to his chest, looking for the stab wound as tears began to stream down your cheeks.

“Hey,” you heard someone say softly, vaguely but you didn’t have time now. You had to stop the bleeding.

Something took hold of your chin, lifting it. It was Minghao. He was smiling the sweetest smile and you didn’t understand.

“I’m okay,” he said, pulling aside his robes, revealing nothing but a light cut along his ribcage.

“Hao,” you sniffled as his thumb came to wipe away some of your tears.

“I’m okay,” he said again, nodding softly.

And so all the adrenaline fled your body. Without a second thought, you flung your arms around his neck and hugged him close. It was a hug such as you’d shared when you were children; one made of pure happiness. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close. You were still crying, sort of, but you were sure it was the good kind of crying.

A gentle hand landed on top of your head, patting it in a soothing manner. You took it all in, the feel of him, his scent, the way his heart beat against yours.

“Everything is gonna be alright now, right?” you mumbled into his chest.

You felt him sigh.

“I think so.”

*

The following days were some of the strangest of your entire life.

The emperor of Yientan wasn’t dead. The dragon had hit him pretty bad but it had ultimately left the decision up to Minghao. Minghao, who of course decided to have the foreign emperor nursed back to health by Namin’s finest doctors. He still believed that peace between the two lands was possible.

You and Minghao, along with all remaining castle staff, had temporarily moved into the castle gardens. Most of the garden staff huts had apparently been spared from the fight. It wasn’t spacious by any means, but it was enough for the time being.

Not that you didn’t have any other options.

News of the attack and especially the return of the dragon had spread like wildfire through the cities and towns of Namin. Wealthy traders and investors offered their own residences in honor of the new legendary emperor but Minghao had turned them all down. He said he wanted to help rebuild the castle.

“Besides, I don’t know if I’m ready to face them yet.” Minghao’s face was contemplative as you two sat overlooking the rose garden from a hilltop.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

He leaned back onto his hands. “I don’t know,” he said, “I’m not ready to be their legend, truly this time. How am I supposed to— after my father.” He shook his head. “I’m no better than him. He was just a man and so am I.” 

Up in the sky, the golden dragon trailed patterns in the afternoon clouds. It had fluttered around the gardens all day; a beacon of hope.

“I know I have a job to do but—” he said finally, “I still can’t help but feel like I’m losing something precious.”

You nodded, leaning your head onto his shoulder. “Things will be more complicated,” you admitted. It was true. You didn’t want to sugarcoat that for him. However, you weren’t worried.

“But you won’t be doing any of it alone.”

You could feel him start to smile as his arm slid around your shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Your majesty,” a tense voice said.

It was Tou Ma. You were surprised to find you were happy to see her.

“We have received word from your mother. She will be coming home in a few days. The Zhong family meanwhile have arrived home this morning. They are well.”

Minghao nodded, his face stony but a lot going on behind his eyes.

“Should I send word back?”

“No,” Minghao was quick to answer but then he caught himself, “I think I’ll write Zhong Mei and her parents a letter myself. They deserve that.” He was frowning to himself now. “And tell my mother I’m sorry— and can’t wait for her arrival.”

“I will,” Tou Ma said solemnly, her eyes trailing off. She was searching for words.

“What is it?” Minghao questioned.

Tou Ma pursed her lips.

“He is awake.”

*

You followed Minghao to one of the larger huts in the garden, where emperor Wu was being treated. The room was bare, save for a bed and a night stand upon which stood a bowl of water and a clean cloth. A middle-aged lady in simple blue robes stood by his bed. The moment she noticed Minghao, she fell into a deep bow.

“That’s alright,” Minghao said, taking her hands as she rose, “thank you for your amazing work.”

The woman went red in the face but smiled brightly back at him.

The emperor of Yientan still suffered a few bruises, one below his left eye. You couldn’t help but feel a bit uneasy around him so you watched Minghao approach from a distance.

“How are you feeling?” he asked the man in the bed.

Emperor Wu let out a heavy sigh as his eyes landed on Minghao.

“I’ve been better,” he said.

There was a silence you weren’t sure of the meaning of. Minghao seemed to be waiting.

“I’ve sat here for a while now, you know,” he went on, “been awake since sometime last night— in and out of it most likely— but I’ve been thinking.”

The man in the bed looked nothing like he had during the battle. He’d been full of fire then. Now, he had a depleted look about him.

“Do you know what I was thinking?”

Minghao shook his head softly.

To your surprise, the emperor of Yientan let out a chuckle. Maybe he really had suffered brain damage after all.

“I was thinking, why am I in this comfortable bed?” he snickered lowly, “I thought I might have died. Thought it might be the afterlife. But then I was informed of your decision to let me live. To let me go.” His face went sad suddenly, brows furrowed. He looked almost silly.

“I realized I admire you, your majesty. You chose to spare the life of the man who invaded your land and took it for his own, the man responsible for your father’s death, the man that might have been responsible for your own death—” he let out another chuckle. “I thought you must be either mad or genius— I, um— I’m still not truly certain which one it is but I can say one thing for sure: you’ve got more bravery in that little body of yours than I’ve seen in any ruler of my lifetime. And I have no choice but to respect that.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Your hands were anxiously clutched in front of your chest.

“Thank you, your majesty,” Minghao said, his shoulders relaxing a bit.

Emperor Wu raised himself in the bed, took the cloth from the nightstand and wiped his face with it. When his face was revealed once more, he was smiling.

“Alright,” he said, looking up at Minghao, “let’s get this over with. Let’s talk.”

*

This is how Namin was restored. The highlands were returned and multiple treaties were formed between Namin and Yientan, promising peace and collaboration for all time to come.

Minghao hugged his mother close a few nights later, and a ceremony was held for the death of Xu Yilan. It was a sombre meeting in a nearby temple, the only other attendees aside from direct family the thousands of fireflies that lit up the air.

Then, finally, it was time to go public with everything that had happened. The coming of the legend emperor had to be celebrated and the people of Namin were not going to let that opportunity go to waste. Banners were raised, fireworks set off, as a magnificent parade made its way through the capital.

Throughout all this, you found yourself completely overwhelmed, not only because so much was happening at once, but also because Minghao wanted you to be a part of it all.

“Are you alright?” Minghao whispered into your ear.

You hardly knew how to respond to that. You were sitting in a luxurious golden carriage, wearing the most beautiful silk you’d ever laid eyes on. Layers of pale pinks and greens, adorned with gold thread fell from your shoulders. Your hair had been elegantly put together by Tou Ma herself that morning, with flowers and ribbons she’d handpicked for you. If all that wasn’t enough to make your heart do cartwheels, Minghao, the new emperor of Namin sat beside you, holding your hand while he waved at the people cheering. And there were a lot of people around you. It seemed as if all of Namin had come out to watch the procession. You weren’t as confident as Minghao, darting your hand up occasionally to wave at the public, only to change your mind the next second and put it back down.

“I’m terrified,” you replied, “ecstatic and overjoyed and terrified.”

“That sounds about right,” he said, grinning, “but don’t worry, we’ll be there soon.”

Surely enough, the procession halted in the main square of the capital. A tall platform had been put up in the center of it. As you’d expected, your carriage opened its doors right beside it. It was time for Minghao to give his speech. With one last smile in your direction he left for the platform. You watched him breath in and out, visibly shaking the nerves out of his body before he began.

“People of Namin,” he spoke loud and clear, “in the last week, a lot of things have happened and rumors have run rampant. I believe you all deserve to know exactly what has happened at the castle and what this means for the future of Namin.”

You looked in complete awe and adoration, as Minghao explained the events of the past weeks and even before that; the protests, the arrival of the Zhong family and their plans, the attack, death of Xu Yilan and finally, the legend of the dragon.

“It is true,” Minghao said, “the dragon lives once more.”

Just then, a bright glimmer fell all over the square and the people squinted upwards to see the golden dragon fly overhead.

“It will protect Namin for as long as I live and hopefully longer.”

The crowd erupted in jubilant cheers. Minghao took this opportunity to look back at you. You were suddenly highly aware of the ridiculously wide grin that had been plastered on your face ever since he’d begun his speech. He returned it gladly and, to your surprise, beckoned you to join him onto the platform.

Your eyes went the size of daisies as you vigorously shook your head at him. He only smiled kindly at you and turned back around as the commotion had died down mostly.

“My dear people, it has been a glorious day!” he yelled  “but I have one more announcement to make.”

This turned the whole crowd silent.

“Throughout the challenges of the past week I have had to be strong. In order for the dragon to arise, I’ve had to be strong. I’m the true leader, I’m Namin’s hope, I am a legend come to life— I’ve been hearing these types of statements all around and I would like to say that, while your praise is appreciated, I fear I’m not entirely deserving—”

“There’s a reason I’ve been able to be strong. There’s a reason I’ve been able to keep my head on the right track, there’s a reason I feel like I can be a worthy leader to you all and it is a reason entirely outside of myself.”

He turned back around to face you. Your face went hot when you realized he was actually coming down to fetch you. He took your hand, gave you the most loving smile and pulled you up.

Everything looked simultaneously tiny and overwhelming from up on the platform. Luckily you had Minghao holding onto your hand or you for sure would’ve fainted.

“I can be the leader I am because of this woman,” he said, “she has been the one thing that’s grounded me in all of this and if it hadn’t been for her, I’m not sure I’d be standing here making this speech today.”

Your heart was pounding out of control and you felt lightheaded. You were grateful when Minghao’s arm slid around your waist and steadied you.

“On this special day, we celebrate the resilience and rebirth of Namin,” Minghao stated confidently, “but I would also like to use this day to profess my undying love for the girl standing beside me.”

A sea of murmurs welled up from the crowd. Minghao came to face you again and suddenly, he looked less like an emperor and more like the boy you’d always known.

“I’ve always loved you,” he said quietly, “it’s always been you.” His hand came to hold your face gently. “I know the life I lead from now on will be full of challenges and responsibilities, it will be a life in the spotlight, maybe—” he sighed, “maybe nothing like the life you’d imagined for yourself but—” he was really searching for words now, his eyes darting in all directions until they finally landed back on yours.

“If you’ll have me, I would love for you to share that life with me.”

It was as if a collection of fireworks set off inside of you, shooting from the top of your head all the way down to your toes, setting you aflame. It was an overload of feelings. You didn’t even notice the tear trickling down your cheek until Minghao wiped it away.

“So, will you?” he asked, looking like he might collapse from nerves as well now.

The smile burst free from its own accord as the reality of the situation finally sank in.

“Yes, of course!” you let out and your arms flung themselves around Minghao’s neck.

Now the people of Namin were really cheering, their noise like drums in your head as you embraced Minghao. Even when you broke apart the cheering didn’t stop; it only grew wilder as Minghao pressed his lips to yours. 

In all your life you’d never thought this would be yours. Even as a child you’d known that Minghao, your playmate wasn’t to be wanted. He was different, above others, untouchable, and for years you’d struggled to come to terms with that grim fact. And yet here he was, in front of you and all of Namin, telling you he loved you. It was the beginning of a new era for Namin and it seemed that its residents were ready for change. And you were more than certain Minghao was the right person to lead the people with justice and, above all, love.

♥

#minghao #minghao fluff #the8 #the8 fluff #seventeen #seventeen scenarios #prince au #prince minghao #minghao imagines #minghao scenarios #xu minghao #royal au #minghao x reader #minghao x you #seventeen fluff #series #fluff #angst #thank you

[dashedwithromance]

what am i supposed to do (when there’s no you?)

kotc comes out next week!! i can’t believe it’s nearly here, and we get to see wrath and emilia again!! i haven’t written anything other than star wars for a while, but i hope this is okay. love you all xx

---

Her reflection stared back at her, haunting eyes locked on with a frightened gaze. The mirror, her enemy. Strangely enough, not even the demon princes that stalked the wicked kingdom she found herself ruler of scared her quite as much as the mirror in her bathing chamber. Or the hand-held in the drawer of her bedside table. Or the impressive, gold-gilded monstrosity on her vanity.

She couldn’t bear to look at any of them.

Queen of Hell, and terrified of reflecting glass.

Her reflection haunted her more than any ghost, the flash of dark curls paired with a laugh she heard every day and would never hear again. The quirk of a smile that ached desperately, painted on her face like a mockery of the joy it once embodied.

Appearances were everything in the kingdom of the Wicked, but she couldn’t stand to see her own. It was a weakness she kept close to her heart, trapped inside with the abhorrent overflow of memories she treasured and banished with equal fervour.

Emilia stifled a groan and clenched her hands into fists. Her nails dug into her palms with a biting fury. She’d locked herself inside the first room she’d found, having sprinted from the main hall before she could realise how stupid her plan was. ‘Plan’ was a generous name, considering it consisted of one part panicked feeling, one part grief, and one very violent part of her that was growing scarily close to ‘accidentally’ committing mariticide.

It was the cherries that had set her off. They weren’t even real – fresh fruit was not a luxury one could indulge in Hell, nor would she have wanted to. She remembered stories of fallen maidens taking one bite of fruit from the hand of a prince and being confined to the underworld forever. Despite being queen, it was not a chance she was willing to take.

The cherries in question were metallic, made of gold and silver entwined around a candelabra. They seemed to glow in the low light, taunting her, reminding her of summers spent laughing with her twin, cherry-stained hands and salt-crusted hair. She’d taken one look at them, remembered what day it was, and burst from the room like a frightened bird. Not her best look, if she were truthful.

Memories weighed down on her chest like the pressing stones of witch trials past. More weight, she wanted to say. Take it off, let me breathe, she wanted to cry. Nothing helped.

Grief ebbed and flowed, but today it swelled like a rising tide. Suffocating her, pushing her under, dragging her down by the neck and laughing as she gasped and spluttered.

They’d never spent a birthday apart. It was unthinkable – it was always their birthday, their celebration, their matching celebration dresses. They’d grown out of matching outfits when they’d reached twelve, but the shared celebration never died.

Until Vittoria did.

Emilia closed her eyes, and the memories took firm hold.

Cherry stains dripped down their chins and fingers, sticky and sweet and full of the taste of home. Every summer they would eat themselves silly with the deep red stone fruit, egging each other on until the nearest adult intervened. For their seventh birthday, Emilia had dropped a bleeding cherry on Vittoria’s pretty dress, and her twin had mushed a handful against the fabric of her matching skirt. Emilia had shrieked, and Vittoria had laughed until her sister followed suit with a smile she couldn’t contain.  

A shriek of laughter pierced the late summer calm, its twin following half a second later. Two girls ran towards the sea, one leading the other by the hand. The bolder twin threw herself into the water with a wild grin and gestured for her sister to follow. Another half-second wait and the dark-haired girl flung herself into the sea with a peal of laughter.

That was the way things always were with her and Vittoria. Never apart for too long, until the cruel hand of death swooped in and plucked her sister from her grasp.

Something twinged in her chest. As if a part of her was missing, had been since the day she’d found her sister’s ruined body. Her first reaction, to everything really, had been anger – wrath, she thought with a stain of painful irony – but when the anger ebbed away, she was left with ocean darkened with the taint of things that would never be. She would never see her sister again, never spend hours together in the kitchen, laughing and teasing each other over the boys in the village. No one would ever understand her the way Vittoria did, no matter if she lived forever.

The curse of her grief was that she could never forget her sister’s face. She would know exactly how her sister would age, would know exactly when grey would frame her face, when laugh lines would appear. Mirrors were a cruel taunt; a living eulogy.

Looking up from the floor, staring past the haze of panic, she locked eyes with her twin. Her own wretched gaze stared back at her, tears welling in Vittoria’s eyes.

She looked away. She could bear it no longer.

The room she found herself in was ornately decorated; black silk with gilded gold, a serpent motif around the bed frame. The room felt familiar, and she desperately hoped she was wrong.

Snatching the luxuriously soft blanket from a nearby chair, she covered the mirror that sat on the vanity. The room, somehow, felt colder. Emptier.

Then, like a curse on her name, footsteps echoed from the hallway outside and stopped right before the door.

Drawing herself up, forcing all mention of weakness to leave her frame, she glared at the figure who strode right in.

Prince Wrath stood in the doorway, the gold detailing of his suit winking in the dim light. Emilia eyed up the ornamental vase on the table beside her and strongly considered throwing it at his head. For a moment, the world was consumed by silence.

Then, the smug bastard opened his mouth and broke it.

“Running away from your own party?”

She was going to throw the fucking vase right over his stupid face. He could tell every violent thought that raced through her mind – she just knew he could, the way his perfect lips quirked up ever so infuriatingly to one side – until he stopped. Looked at her. Looked to the mirror on his vanity, covered up by a stolen blanket. Looked back.

The smug look disappeared.

The room became ice. She felt naked standing there, his gaze seeing into the very marrow of her bones. Just when the tension became unbearable, she spun around, unable to look at him any longer. She couldn’t look at him any more than she could look at her own wretched reflection. Hellfire licked at her eyelids, stinging and hot.

What did he see when he looked at her, in that moment? She hoped it was queen-like, the picture of savage grace and hellish composure. It wasn’t.

“Emilia...” For the first time in, well, ever, Wrath struggled for words.

“Emilia, I’m sorry.”

The shock of his apology had her whirling around. His golden eyes held more sympathy than any demon should ever have known. Of all the demons in Hell to realise what today meant, of course, it would be Wrath. Insufferable, infuriating, ineffable Wrath, possibly the only person in the underground kingdom who understood her. Not like Vittoria did – no one would ever come close – but like a river understood the rushing tide.

He was a mystery, but also the only thing she knew. Wrapped up in a cloud of perfumed falsities, but the only one who told her the truth.

Her heart pounded in her chest. Could he hear it?

“I have never lost a brother, not like that. Nor am I as close to mine as you were to your sister.” The words were stilted, heavy and awkward. Wrath was not a man of words, but his tone was gentle. But, she noted with no small portion of surprise, the speech was genuine. She thought perhaps she was going mad.

“I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose a twin,” He paused, considering, “I’m sorry, for your loss.”

Another pause.

“And I’m sorry for the role my family – the role I – have played in your grief.”

Somewhere in his speech, she’d closed her eyes. She didn’t want him to see the tears, but he knew that. The heaviness of her chest was still present, but it was bearable, somehow.

She nodded, swallowing the cry that threatened to burst forward.

“Thank you,” She whispered, so quiet she wondered if he’d even heard.

The air between them was taut, stretched and thin. The strength she’d hid behind all day had fled long ago, and she felt so exhausted she might collapse. She didn’t think to consider the implications by sitting down on his stupidly large bed, only that her chest hurt and for just a moment, she wanted a friend.

Hesitantly – if a demon prince could hesitate – Wrath sat next to her on the bed. The sight is so comical she nearly laughed – Wrath, the brother of her husband, prince of the most dangerous sin, her friend, her enemy – perched on the side of his bed with an air of respectability she didn’t think he even possessed. Stranger things had happened, she supposed.

It was like a fable; demon and witch, sat side by side in silence. For hours, they barely spoke. The words didn’t matter – Wrath was terrible with them, and the ones she wanted got stuck in her throat. Neither of them noticed when midnight passed, and the worst day of the year was over.

Perhaps one day, she’d tell him stories of Vittoria. Tell him stories of cherries and salt air and limitless laughter, so he would know her as the bright, brilliant girl she was, and not the martyred corpse she’d become.

The next day, all the mirrors in her chambers were covered. There was no note, but there was a familiar vase full of orange blossom flowers on her bedside table.

---

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#kingdom of the wicked #kingdom of the cursed #prince wrath #vittoria di carlo #princewitch #my writing #yall i hope this is okay ive been consumed by space wizards for months #this is my personal headcanon and probably wrong but i think wrath is absolutely terrible with words #like he can fool people with a phrase if he wants and wrap them up in silver lies and half-truths #but when talking genuinely? without a film of disguise? trying to actually communicate his feelings?? #boy is shit at it. every single time. terrible without fail #but! he tries