#;; FROM ASHES SHE RISES [Cinder Fall]

[lola-writes]

Prince Regent

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Word Count: 8.6k

Synopsis: Aemond returns to the Red Keep after the battle of Rook’s Rest with a newfound vigor for his wife.

Themes & Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI!), POV first person (Aemond’s & reader’s), s2x04,05 inspired, enemies to lovers trope, smut, violence, blood, dark/possessive Aemond, breeding kink, swearing, mentions of rape, high valyrian, fingering, multiple orgasms, p in v, doggystyle, creampie, rough sex, hair pulling, choking

Song: Hide and Seek ~ Klergy, Mindy Jones

Latest oneshot: A Dragon's Lullaby

Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Playlist | Ao3

Likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated ❤️

Enjoy the read!

[gif @aemondstark ]

AEMOND

Smoke. Dragon fire. Blood.

It clung to me, acrid and sweet, like a perverse cloak of victory.

A primal urge, raw and unbidden, erupted within me, a hunger that transcended the battle’s end. It devoured my senses. It vibrated within my bones. It consumed my very being.

My adrenaline ebbed, leaving a hollowness in its wake. The battle was over. Victory was ours. Gleaming armor was storming the castle. But that victory hung hollow, a meaningless echo in the carnage. My flesh seared with defeat. A strange fire, unsatiated, stirred beneath my skin.

I needed something more. Something I could sink my teeth into, as Vhagar had. Something warm and living.

From the air, I watched the smoke curl skyward, soldiers scattering like startled ants, and Meleys red corpse lay vanquished beneath brick and dust.

The warmth of my kill was still writhing. It was a fresh, living ember, demanding to be tended.

The impact of my brother’s fall had torn the wood asunder, set the ground ablaze, smoke and cinders rising steadily towards the heavens. My gaze settled on the inferno, and I urged Vhagar, my reflection in scales and fire, towards it, my mighty beast beating the wind like thunder as we circled twice around the barrenness of the forest, before she heeded my command.

“Qubemagon, Vhagar.” (Descend)

I dismounted her and trod a path towards the inferno, my sword materializing in my grasp with a practiced turn of my wrist. Shades of red marred my vision. The air shimmered, thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.

Adrenaline trickled into my bloodstream.

Never had I been so close to my birthright, so close to erasing the past. My grip tightened around the hilt. Images swam up before me. A lifetime of humiliations, each one a searing brand in my retina. My brother getting what he wasn’t fit for, presented to him on a silver platter. But no longer. No more would he be the architect of my suffering. 

But as a tremor shook the ground, a low rumble heralding the broken form of the golden dragon, a monument of smoke, blood, dirt, and ashes, none of it seemed to matter. 

As I crested a rise, the world snapped into sharp focus. My gaze landed on him - my brother; melted into a nightmarish tableau of steel, flesh, and bone, encircled by his dragon’s golden body.

Resolution, cold and heavy, settled in my chest. Killing him would be fruitless. The Stranger had already requested an audience.

I had achieved what needed to be done. As I lifted the edge of my sword to its sheath, a voice echoed through the forest.

“Aemond!” Cole cried my name like a desperate warning. I glanced back, my weapon disappearing into its sheath with a final rasp.

I looked down at my sacrifice. The damage was raw, excessive. The damage that was wanton. A pang of unease twisted in my gut. 

A glint of metal caught my eye, and I dropped to my haunches to retrieve the Conqueror’s Valyrian steel dagger from the bloodied earth. The dagger that was once Aegon’s. It was mine now. 

Ser Criston’s rustling armor announced his approach. “Where is His Grace?” he asked, voice quivering.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I tilted my chin, allowing the glistening steel guide his gaze toward the grotesque sculpture of my melted brother encircled by golden scales.

Ser Criston crumpled to his knees without a word, as I rose to my feet. 

A cold knot of regret twisted in my chest as I regarded my tribute. But it was fleeting, replaced by the icy fire of my ambition. 

There was much to be done, and I needed to proceed if I were to achieve it. I turned on my heel and left Cole and my broken brother behind. 

The battlefield and the devastation shrank beneath me as Vhagar’s powerful wings propelled us skyward. 

A sharp thrill prickled my skin that was naught from the velocity, but rather that of my impending regency. 

_

Upon returning to King’s Landing, I made my way to the small council chamber, ascending the stairs with slow deliberate steps. The air was thick with tension. The council was in disarray, engrossed in a heated discussion, but fell silent as the doors swung open. Eyes turned to me.

“My Lords,” I announced, my voice cutting through the sudden hush. I rounded the council table. “Mother,” I said, offering a curt nod of acknowledgement as I passed Alicent’s chair.

“Aemond,” she demanded, steel in her voice. “Where is Aegon?”

A heavy pause hung in the air before I met her gaze.

“Aegon has fallen,” I said. 

The council erupted in uproar. 

Cries of outrage and accusations.

Obscenities.

Scandal.

“How could this be allowed to happen?”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“We are doomed!”

The disapproval of the Lords sullied the chambers. This council was surely in lack of discipline. I already had my eyes on who I were to replace.  

“The King is dead!”

“The King is not dead,” I countered, my voice calm and mellifluous, soothing the council members like warm milk. Voices dipped and eyes turned to me, an invisible shudder surging through the air. “He has merely sustained grave injuries and is being brought back to the Red Keep for treatment as we speak.” I began to pace around the table, hands slotted behind my back. “The King fought bravely,” I continued. “Landing mortal injuries to the Pretender’s cause. But the Red Queen cast him out of the sky before I could get to him.”

My pacing had brought me to the head of the council table, where I ceased my step. My hand reached out to allow my fingers to trace the chair frame, its iron vibrating with the power I so craved. 

It was palpable. 

It was mine for the taking. 

I looked up at the members of the small council, my eye piercing each and every one of them until they quivered in their chairs.

“And in the coils of torment,” I spoke. “My brother, King Aegon, named me Prince Regent.”

A tremor vibrated the room, weary eyes glanced at each other, bodies twisting uncomfortably in creaking chairs. 

“If anyone should be named regent, surely it should be me, his mother,” voiced Alicent. 

I cast my gaze on her. 

“Aemond is next in line,” came voices from the small council.

“Yes, but the King still lives!” Alicent implored.

“Who am I to contest the wishes of the King?” I said softly, casting her a look of pure innocence.

Alicent’s eyes welled like a tide of despair, her head dipping to the table with defeat. If Alicent could conjure words that had not been uttered to serve her own ends, why could I not?

“Aemond…” she started, her voice a gentle tremble. “Could we at least discuss this?”

“As prince regent, I vow to serve this realm, my Lords, and guide our path to victory against the Whore of Dragonstone.”

My gaze drifted to the platform in the center of the table, settling on the cold polished marble that remained. The King’s marble. I reached for it, and as my fingers closed around its smooth surface, I met Alicent’s eyes. A flicker of desperate plea danced within them, and I held it with a cold response. She exhaled with defeat as I seated myself in the King’s chair, placing the marble in its rocky nest. 

“All hail Aemond, Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm,” Lord Tyland Lannister’s voice came, and the words echoed across the table. 

A smirk played on my lips. “My Lords,” I began, splaying my hands atop the table. “Let us commence.”

YOU

Mutters. Whispers. Gossip.

The news, carried on frantic breaths, was a tangled mess.

One moment, the King was dead, the next, grievously wounded. Some murmured of a crippled monarch, others of his mighty dragon slain. 

It buzzed in my ears as I made my way towards the throne room.

Fear, a cold serpent, coiled in my gut.

The throne room pulsed with tense energy. Hundreds of courtiers jostled for position, their faces etched with a mixture of morbid curiosity and nervous anticipation. I descended the cold stone steps, the weight of each step echoing the growing dread in my heart.

The Iron Throne loomed before me, an empty monument of jagged steel. Its cruel beauty, forged from a thousand fallen enemies, held a chilling glint in the flickering torchlight. I observed it over the shoulder of the woman in front of me, the precariousness of my position suddenly amplified. 

A shiver ran down my spine. Sometimes, I believed it was cursed. Promising to cast whoever graced it to a terrible fate.

My fingers, restless with apprehension, turned my rings about my fingers, pulling them off and on in a nervous dance. A prickling sensation spread through me as I felt countless eyes burning into my back. Disapproval mingled with a strange reverence. The room thrummed with unspoken questions, and I, too, yearned for answers, desperately seeking a foothold in the swirling vortex of uncertainty. 

A ripple of anticipation surged through the crowd as a figure emerged. I turned to witness the gleaming silver armor of the King’s Guard announcing Ser Criston Cole, the newly appointed Hand of the King. Hundreds of eyes swiveled in his wake as he strode towards the Iron Throne, which seemed to gnash its serrated teeth at his approach. 

My mind churned in chaotic disarray. Ser Criston had marched on Rook’s Rest, prompting Aemond’s hurried departure. Where my husband was now, remained a mystery. Perhaps still at Rook’s Rest, tending to the fallen King, or perhaps continuing on to Harrenhal, a destination he oft mentioned.  

None of it mattered. 

My marriage to Aemond had been a political maneuver, as cold and sterile as a septa’s cell. He held no affection for me, nor I for him. He was the absent, aloof prince I’d always imagined him to be. Carrying a frozen heart of a killer. Our union was no more than an alliance. Though I was hardly complaining. Married life granted me freedoms I scarcely thought possible for a highborn lady. But I would jest if I said I did not long for something more. Something warm. Something living. But in Aemond, either would be the last place I’d find. 

Ser Criston swept a steely gaze across the court, his face unreadable. He chewed the inside of his cheeks curiously, the motion ceasing abruptly when his eyes met mine. Cold and dark. I met his stare head-on, until an odd feeling took root in my gut. 

Unanswered questions swirled in my mind. 

Ser Criston tore his gaze from me, his eyes flitting across the room. Then, with a voice laced with authority, he boomed, “I address this court as Hand to inform you that the King has been grievously wounded in battle!”

A collective gasp ripped through the court. Whispers, like startled birds, rose in a flurry.

Ser Criston continued, a steely edge creeping into his voice, “Rhaenyra the Cruel will believe she won a great victory this day. May believe we will cower and offer her the throne like whipped dogs. But the False Queen is sorely mistaken. For the throne will not remain empty.”

Whispers escalated into a commotion. An unsettling prickle danced across my skin. My mind darted to the dowager Queen Alicent. Surely, in Aegon’s absence, they would elevate her to the throne. But after usurping Rhaenyra, would they truly place another woman in her stead? 

My thoughts, apparently, mirrored those of the court, for Alicent’s name drifted around me like a persistent echo.

Ser Criston’s voice rose to a commanding pitch, reverberating through the throne room, “I present to you…” The heavy oak doors of the throne room ground open, drawing every eye in unison.

My breath caught in my throat as a figure materialized at the stairs. 

It wasn’t Alicent. 

A frame, draped in dark green leather that shimmered with silver accents, emerged from the groaning doors. The Conqueror’s crown, a heavy circle of iron, sat upon their silver head, casting a long shadow across a face half-obscured by an eyepatch. 

“Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen,” Ser Criston declared, his voice thick with forced authority. “Rider of Vhagar.”

Aemond descended the steps.

“Slayer of the queen who never was.”

Aemond’s footsteps, muffled by polished leather boots and the collective murmurs of the courtiers, made a predator’s approach as he stalked toward the Iron Throne. Two King’s Guard flanked him with stoic expressions. 

“And Protector of the Realm.”

He ascended the iron steps with a chilling grace, finally settling upon the throne. A hush fell over the court, thick and heavy. Silence stretched as he molded himself into the seat, his lethal hands caressing the equally lethal rests, a small smirk playing on his lips. His voice, a honeyed drawl laced with a hint of steel, echoed in the sudden silence.

“My Lords and Ladies,” he began, the menacing glint in his blue eye accentuated by the play of shadows on his face. “His Grace, the King, has been wounded at the battle of Rook’s Rest, and will be incapable to rule.”

There was a power in his presence, an unspoken threat that left the court speechless. Not a cough, not a rustle of fabric dared to break the silence. 

“Therefore,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the frozen faces, “I, will act as your sovereign.”

Unease prickled at my skin. Something about Aemond’s demeanor, the unnatural sheen on his face, sent a tremor of suspicion through me. 

Had this all been a carefully orchestrated play? What truly transpired at Rook’s Rest? 

My eyes darted to the ornate dagger resting at his hip, the ancestral blade of Aegon the Conqueror. It was the same dagger I’d last seen clutched in the hand of his brother. 

As Aemond spoke on, a knot of apprehension tightened in my gut. 

“The tide has turned,” he declared, his voice ringing through the stunned silence. “Rhaenys Targaryen is slain, along with her dragon.” A small smile tugged at his lips, a low hum escaping them. “The largest serving the Pretender’s cause.” He said it like it was a jest. “Rook’s Rest has been claimed, leaving Dragonstone vulnerable.” His fingers tapped across the blades. “This is a victory for us.”

Scattered heads nodded in agreement. 

Then, his gaze snapped to me, a rapacious glint in his single blue eye. It seemed to bore into my very soul, stripping away any pretense. 

“It’s all going according to plan,” he murmured, his voice a silken threat, and for a moment, an eerie feeling within told me he was addressing me alone. The fire that danced within his eye flickered a touch too bright, and it felt like he could see every thought swirling in my mind, every flicker of doubt, every spark of fear. 

It felt like he was about to eat me alive.

A violent terror surged through me, icy fingers gripping my heart. Adrenaline tapped into my veins, a primal urge to flee. 

_

Frantic energy fueled my movements. I shoved dresses, jewelry, all of my belongings, into overflowing wooden trunks. Their straining hinges mocked my desperation. My handmaid, silent but swift, followed my frenzied instructions. I knew then, with a chilling certainty, that I owed her my life after this escape. 

Aemond’s chambers, once a familiar haven, felt cold and sterile now, stripped bare of my belongings. Rain lashed against the open windows, mirroring the frantic rhythm of my heart. The journey ahead would be long and treacherous. Circumstances weren’t optimal, but there was no other choice at my disposal.

My husband was a murderer and a kinslayer twice over. And my intuition told me it would soon be thrice. He wasn’t just ruthless; there was an unsettling hollowness behind his actions, a chilling absence of remorse. He was a walking blight, a storm that devoured everything in its path. And I refused to be struck down by its lightning.  

The apartment doors shuddered open, shattering me into distraught. My flight instincts flared, but I refused to cower. My hand instinctively shot out, grasping my maid’s hand tightly. We held our breath as a large, porcelain hand reached out and pushed the door wider. 

Aemond entered, leaving the door ajar. His gaze, unwavering and cold, locked with mine. “Leave us,” he commanded, his voice a smooth, cold current. 

My handmaid curtsied, her grip faltering as she pried my fingers loose. With a hurried glance back, she scurried out, the heavy door slamming shut behind her. 

An oppressive silence descended, broken only by the frantic pounding of my heart against my ribs. 

Escape seemed impossible; the air thick with a chilling dread. 

“You sent for me, wife?” Aemond’s voice, a silken caress laced with steel, echoed in the cavernous chamber. He approached with a predative grace, each deliberate step shrinking the distance between us. 

Confusion slammed into me. I hadn’t summoned him. This was, by far, the most he’d spoken to me since our loveless union. 

“You are mistaken,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My feet, traitors that they were, retreated with each of his advances. Then, it dawned on me, that it might have been his intention to put me in a state of dubiety, making me more malleable. A cutthroat, not only lethal, but cunning.

He stopped beside my overflowing trunk, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips. 

“Travelling somewhere?” His single blue eye, unnervingly perceptive, held me captive. 

Panic clawed at my throat. I clenched my trembling hands into fists, slotting them behind my back, forcing my lips into a gentle smile. 

“I wish to visit my family,” I said. “With war looming, I wish for us to be together.”

Aemond took another measured step closer. “Ao issi aerēbas mirriot daor,” (You’re not going anywhere), he murmured, the High Valyrian rolling off his tongue like a sinister threat. 

A furrow etched between my brows as I attempted to comprehend his words. My grasp of the ancient tongue was limited, and whether he intended me to understand was a cruel game. Perhaps, it was yet another tool to exert his dominance. But based on his relentless pursuit, I gathered me leaving wasn’t an option he entertained.

“I am of no use to you, Aemond,” I pleaded, maintaining a safe distance. “Me staying serves no purpose.”

“On the contrary,” he purred, his voice dripping with a dark promise. His head tilted covetously, venom flashing in his eye. 

“We barely exist to each other,” I continued. “What difference would it make if I was half a world away?”

“It would make all the difference.” The warmth in his voice vanished, replaced by a glacial edge. “There’s the matter of heirs.”

Seven Hells. 

Anguish twisted my gut. Intuition, a primal scream, roared to life. Images flashed behind my eyelids – Aemond sitting the throne, and Aegon reduced to ash. 

Had this been his plan all along? Was he the reason for the King’s lethal end?

The pieces slammed together in my mind, a horrifying mosaic. 

I gasped, my back hitting the cold stone wall. Aemond’s ambition stretched far beyond my naïve expectations. Loyalty to his house, to his brother, had been a carefully constructed facade. Beneath it, he schemed, a shrewd predator stalking his ultimate prize. The crown. 

And the crown needed heirs. 

He towered over me, his presence overwhelming. He was much taller than I recalled, every inch radiating a rapacious tension. A hand braced itself against the wall, inches from my head. 

“What have you done?” My thoughts materialized into shaky words, laced with an enmity that surprised even me. My gaze raked over him, revulsion twisting my features. The green leather seemed to pulse, an illusion fueled by my churning stomach. 

A flicker, a hint of something akin to uncertainty, crossed his single eye. It darted across my face, as if truly seeing me for the first time. Perhaps he was. In this desperate flight, we’d never been closer. Close enough to be enveloped by his scent, a foreign musk that did little to quell my churning nausea. 

“Skoros iksin bēvilagon.” (What was necessary)

I frowned again, aggravated that he took to High Valyrian as an attempt to shut me out of his thoughts. My jaw clenched, frustration a bitter taste on my tongue. 

Malevolence rose like a flood as I leaned forward, so close that our noses nearly touched, “I would not have your child in a million years, kinslayer,” I spat, my voice trembling with contained fury. I lunged forward, aiming to push past him, to escape his suffocating presence. But his other hand shot out, slamming against the wall beside me, effectively caging me in.

A venomous glint flickered in his eye as he narrowed it at me through his lashes. A twitch played on his lips, a cat batting at a cornered mouse. “Be that as it may,” he said mellowly. “But even a bad wife must obey her king.”

A scoff escaped my lips, my eyes sizing him up and down. “You are no king,” I hissed, defiance lacing my voice. “You are not even a man.”

His reaction was swift and brutal.

One hand shot out and grabbed my face, forcing my head against the cold stone. Pain erupted at the impact, but quickly subsided as he leaned in, his hot breath fanning against my lips.

“Speak such treason again, and I’ll show you what I really am.”

“What will you do?” I spat back, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and insurgence. “Cripple me, like you did your brother? Force yourself on me?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he growled, his voice simmering with barely contained violence.

A tense silence ensued, the air crackling with his restrained fury.

My suspicions, already simmering, solidified into a horrifying certainty. He’d orchestrated his brother’s downfall on purpose. 

“Have you no honor?” I whispered, the words a ragged plea. 

The silence stretched, broken only by our ragged breaths. His hold on my face loosened gradually, his hand falling away. But his gaze remained fixed on me, a storm brewing within its depths. 

“You cannot stop me, Aemond,” I said, my voice shrinking. “I will leave this place, one way or another. You can play king in my absence, but it will be a hollow crown.”

“Kesan arghugon ao naejot se mōris hen tegon.” (I will hunt you to the end of the earth)

“Speak plainly,” I snapped, my patience with his cryptic pronouncements wearing thin.

A chilling smile, devoid of warmth, stretched across his lips. He pushed himself away from the wall, backing away, creating my long-desired distance between us. 

“You may go,” he drawled, the amusement in his voice laced with a dangerous edge, that sardonic smile still plastered on his lips. 

Acrimony filled my gut. What little I knew of this man, I feared greatly, but also told me this was a trick. He wouldn’t relinquish control so easily. He’d allow me to make my “escape”, only to have me snatched back by the King’s Guard, now under his control, a public display of his authority. There was no true freedom with him.

Maegor’s tunnels, a potential escape route, loomed tantalizingly behind me. If only I were alone, a simple push against the wall would send me tumbling into its dark embrace. But escape without a plan or supplies was a fool’s errand. 

My mind spun, each possibility twisting the knife of despair deeper. Even if I reached my family, what awaited me there? Shame would be their welcome. Aemond, no doubt, would make sure of it. 

The rain continued its relentless assault on the outside world, punctuated by the booming symphony of thunder. A flash of lightning illuminated the apartments, casting Aemond in a grotesque, menacing silhouette. 

Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I slumped to the floor, seeking solace in the meager comfort of my arms wrapped around my knees. Here I was, a prisoner in this gilded cage, condemned to bear the children of a traitor until flames consumed us all. 

Aemond crouched before me, his wrists resting on his knees. He regarded me with an intensity that bordered on scientific curiosity. A flicker of something, perhaps disappointment, played at his edges. 

“I’d take you for many things, wife,” he cooed, the endearment dripping with veiled malice. “But weak was not one of them.” His words landed like a body blow. “If I’d known you’d crumble so easily, I would never have wed you in the first place.” 

I sniffed and looked up at him, exhaustion a heavy cloak on my lids. “You did not have much of a say in the matter,” I countered.

A wicked smile twisted his lips and his head tilted to the side. “No,” he said softly. A sudden chill iced his demeanor. “And neither do you.”

He rose to his feet with predacious grace, leaving me pleated on the floor. He sauntered to his chair and seated himself, one leg propped up on his knee, his leather splaying atop the arm rests.

I watched him. His face was turned to the violent storm outside, immersed in contemplation, lightning whipping across his features. A vision of menace. A weapon poised to strike. 

“So, what is your scheme, Aemond?” I started; my voice hoarse. His head turned slowly, his gaze locking onto mine with the piercing intensity of Valyrian steel. “Do you envision a period of mourning for the King, followed by a convenient acclamation in your favor? Or will you hurry along the succession and carry out the deed yourself before anyone suspects?”

A single corner of his mouth quirked into a cruel smile. “Suppose I have not yet decided.” His voice was like liquid. 

Defiance flickered within me. “The court will never agree to this once they find out what you’ve done.”

Aemond hummed, a deep sound in the bottom of his chest. “Dragons don’t concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.” He leaned forward, resting his arms across his knees. “I am next in line to the throne,” he drawled. “None is better suited than I.”

I staggered to my feet and went to sit beside him. “With a legitimate heir,” I said carefully. “Your claim would be uncontested.”

He smirked, as though I’d read his mind. He leaned back, his eyes gleaming with dangerous delight. 

“A woman’s pleasure is,” he began, a slow, suggestive smile playing on his lips. His blue eye drifted down my form in a way that made my skin crawl. “Of as much importance as the seed itself.”

A hot flush crept up my cheeks at his implication.

“Which is why submission must be a willing act,” he finished, his voice dropping to a husky murmur.

I swallowed, provocation crackling through me. Did he truly believe I would succumb to his advances? He seemed to think he could manipulate anyone to his will, whether through seduction or brutality, though I had yet to see the former. 

“And if I refuse?” I challenged, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in my hands. 

A low growl vibrated in his chest, his face soft. “Then you’ll find yourself counted amongst the sheep,” he drawled.

Deflating, I sighed and dipped my head. The only path forward seemed excruciatingly clear. Raising my eyes to meet his, I lifted an eyebrow in rebellion.

“Consider me sheep then.” With that, I rose from the settee and strode towards the apartment doors, the cold of the metal handle stealing the warmth from my fingers as I heaved it open.

It shut then, with a loud thud, and I jumped, a sudden heat radiating behind me. Aemond’s fingers splayed on the oak door above my head. My pulse drummed in my ears, Aemond’s lips grazing my lobe, urging it to pick up the pace. 

“Jaelā naejot mazverdagon nyke jorarghutan ao, ābrazȳrys?” (You want to make me chase you, wife?) His voice rumbled into me, a low growl as potent as the thunderstorm.

The rolling, guttural words sent a strange warmth through my core. His air consumed me. A rich mixture of smoke, leather, and dragon, infiltrated my senses, intoxicating and unsettling in equal measure. 

“I can’t understand you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. I felt him smiling against my ear, a low chuckle reverberating into it, sending goosebumps erupting across my skin. 

“You won't need to,” he said softly. His hand drifted away from the door and closed around my throat, surprisingly gentle, yet the warmth of his fingers felt like embers branding my skin. They snaked around the back of my neck, the pressure tightening as he turned me to face him. His single eye, a bottomless well of intricacy, held mine captive.

My gaze flickered down to his lips. They were curved into a wicked grin.

His scent became a suffocating presence. The heat radiating from his body, fervid as a dragon, made sweat bead on my forehead. My entire being screamed I was at his mercy. He could crush my life out with a mere squeeze, or worse, with his single eye, he could strip me bare without ever laying a hand on me. 

But a strange fire flickered within me, a rebellion against his dominion. My hands, fueled by a desperate need for control, reached out and began loosening his doublet, my fingers slow and deliberate. 

Aemond stilled, his eye falling to my movements. He watched, transfixed, as I unfastened the green leather halfway down his chest, then trailed my fingers lower. His gaze darkened and his breath grew uneven, as the bulge beneath his belt pressed against my touch.

A visceral desire flared within me, a response I couldn’t fully comprehend. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, slowly drifting between my thighs at the sight of his desire. 

His grip softened at my nape, and with a surge of defiance, I ripped myself free from his hold, and landed a heavy blow to his stomach. But a wave of terror washed over me when Aemond barely flinched.

Panic clawed at my throat. 

Taking advantage of his momentary surprise, I flung open the chamber doors and fled, the sound of my pounding heart echoing in my ears. 

AEMOND

The aftershock of her blow lingered, a dull ache radiating from my gut, while I allowed her to make her escape. Fury, a familiar companion, usually surged through me, promising retribution, suggesting to make her death appear an accident. This time, however, a different heat consumed me, a mix of surprise and… arousal. 

Rarely did I misjudge a person. Yet, the meek mouse I’d wed had transformed into a daring she-wolf before my very eyes. This escape attempt, fueled by defiance, was a revelation. It made my dick hard. 

A rapacious glint flickered in my eye. A grudging respect, laced with something far more primal, coiled in my gut. I had underestimated her, and the unexpected turn of events had ignited a spark within me. 

A smirk twisted my lips, and I hummed with satisfaction, the thrill of the hunt coursing through me. 

“Jaelā naejot tymagon?” (You want to play?) I murmured, the challenge laced with amusement. “Kesi tymagon.” (Let’s play.)

I started into the storm-ridden castle. 

YOU

Immediate regret shot through me with a pang, a cold fist squeezing my breath. 

To toy with a dragon was like asking to get burned.

My lungs screamed in protest, my legs burning with each step down the Red Keep’s slick stone steps. Blood, metallic and sharp, left traces in my mouth as I hoisted my cumbersome gown to avoid tripping. The castle shuddered from the storm, which groaned and wailed its onslaught. Guards stood stoic at their posts, their expressions unreadable underneath silver helms. Appealing to them was a fool’s errand.

None dared defy the one-eyed prince. 

Driven by blind instinct, I found myself pushing through the massive doors of the throne room. 

The Iron Throne, a monstrous silhouette of twisted blades, dominated the chamber, its edges flashing white-hot under the lightning’s fury. I stumbled towards it, chest heaving, gasping for air. 

If it truly was cursed, could touching it offer some strange absolution, a release from the gilded cage that was my life? Surely, it couldn’t be worse than the fate that awaited me back in his clutches. 

Ascension. My trembling legs carried me up the steps, each one a monumental effort. Reaching the top, I lingered to sit, an action so simple, yet it loomed so immensely in my mind.

“Waiting to make your peace with the gods?” came a voice, and I turned with a gasp.

Aemond stood in the middle of the room, arms slotted behind his back, approaching with slow, menacing steps, like a predator savoring the hunt. Thunder boomed overhead. 

“No,” I countered, spite flaring hot in my chest. “Waiting for you to catch up so I can meet them myself,” I said, descending the steps. 

“Once more, so quick to admit defeat,” he taunted, venom dripping from his words like the rain outside.

I studied his sharp features, while the burden of my reality settled like a weight in my chest. “There is no escaping you,” I gritted out, holding his heavy gaze. 

His violence loomed heavy, and depravity flickered in his gaze. “Your perception waxes,” he conceded, and suddenly, the world tilted on its axis as he scooped me up and tossed me effortlessly over his broad shoulder. 

The journey back to his chambers was a furious ballet of resistance. My limbs flailed wildly, desperate for purchase, and obscenities, laced with an untenable fear, ripped from my throat.

A sharp slap landed on my behind, eliciting a yelp of surprised pain. 

“The more you struggle,” he growled, the sound a low rumble in his chest, “the worse it will be.”

A part of me recognized the truth in his words, yet a bestial defiance warred within, refusing to yield. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, I lunged for his silver hair, grabbing a fistful and yanking with all my might. 

He hissed through his teeth, followed by a guttural sound echoing deep within him. “Ilībōños,” (Bitch/Bastard) he cursed.

The apartment door slammed shut behind us as he entered, his movements purposeful. With a rough toss, I landed unceremoniously on the bed, the air whooshing out of my lungs on impact. Fury, a searing inferno, consumed me, each cell screaming in protest, my claws unsheathing. I wanted to hurt him. 

Anything within reach became a potential weapon. Pillows, a discarded jeweled comb – I hurled them all at him, each item a silent scream of rebellion. But his movements were swift, each projectile dodged with practiced ease. 

Frustration mounted, morphing into a desperate rage. I lunged at him, a clumsy attempt to push him back. But he remained immovable, an unyielding mountain. Undeterred, I pushed again, and again, fueled by a futile contempt. 

Finally, as I drew back for another pointless shove, his hands shot out, lightning fast, pinning my arms to my sides. He moved swiftly, his body caging mine in a steely embrace. 

“Lykirī,” he hummed, the word a low thrum against my ear. 

“Fuck you,” I spat, my chest heaving from my ambush.

Did he mistake me for his winged beast that he could command to his will?

My attempt to wiggle out of his hold was a pointless endeavour. Rage crackled in my veins, but it flickered under his touch. My breath hitched as he leaned closer, the heat of his body searing through my gown. The scent of him, smoke and leather, filled my senses. And the undeniable press of his erection against my stomach sent a jolt through me. 

This perverted man was enjoying my defiance. His grip tightened, a teasing hold that both frustrated and excited me. My body, traitor that it was, started to soften against him, a spark igniting beneath the embers of anger. 

“Have you had your fill of my company?” he whispered, his voice husky against my ear. His hands trailed down my arms, sending shivers skittering across my skin.

Every rational part of me screamed to break free, to run for the tunnels, to fight back. But the intoxication of his touch, the heat radiating from him, the suggestive murmur against my ear – they all conspired to trap me.

Before I could think, my head slowly turned from one side to the other. 

He hummed deeply. “Say it.”

Frustration warred with a strange vulnerability within me. My cheeks burned, and I clenched my jaw hard enough to taste blood. 

“I haven't.”

“You haven't what?”

Fury flickered back to life, fueled by his smug grin and the realization of how easily he’d manipulated me. 

“I haven't had enough,” I gritted out, the words a reluctant surrender. 

A growl of satisfaction escaped him before he grasped me by my throat, pushed me back against the wall, and tasted my next breath on his tongue. 

His lips, hot and demanding, devoured mine like a beggar, silencing the gasp that threatened to escape. Heat, a wildfire erupting at the junction of our bodies threatened to consume me. Fury, a simmering ember, still flickered within. I shoved against his chest and stomped on his feet; futile attempts against his unyielding form.

“Gaomagon vīlībagon nyke daor,” (Do not fight me) he said roughly against my lips, nipping at the bottom one. “Kesā botagon daor.” (You would not survive)

I didn’t understand him, and it urged on my fury. I opened my mouth with a quip in mind, but he used that opportunity to slide his tongue inside, hot and wet. The anger threatened to drown the blossoming desire, creating a tempestuous war within. I panted, torn between resistance and a strange, unfamiliar need, a fever writhing and pulsing inside my veins. My hands clenched in the rough leather of his doublet, a desperate attempt to maintain some sort of control. 

I closed my teeth on his bottom lip, and he hissed sharply, encircling my throat with his hand, pushing me against the stone. 

“Kelītīs,” (Stop) he growled.

The question of whether he even realized he was speaking High Valyrian was a fleeting thought. I melted into his rough hold, to his wicked mouth crashing against mine again and again, getting lost in the hot glide of his tongue. His rough kisses, the frantic press of his body, all contrived to unravel my carefully constructed defenses. A soft moan escaped my lips as my nipples brushed against his chest, sending sparks lower. He groaned low in his throat, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth.

With practiced ease, he untied the strings of my dress, letting the fabric pool around my ankles. I stood there in only my kirtle, breathless under his heated gaze. A dark groan rumbled from his chest as he slipped his hands beneath my thighs, effortlessly lifting me. My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. His grip tightened on my bare flesh, a touch too rough, and I retaliated with another yank on his silver hair. An angry sound erupted in his throat as he attempted to shake off my grip. 

He carried us to the bed, the world tilting on its axis as he settled me on top of him. Our mouths met in a frantic clash, a tangle of tongues and heated breaths. We tore away from each other briefly, just long enough for him to pull my kirtle over my head.

Naked and exposed, I felt a shiver dance across my skin under the intensity of his gaze. Something dark moved through his eye, and my skin prickled with goosebumps.

He gripped the swell of my hips, his palms sliding upward, a slow exploration that sent sparks igniting in my blood. The fight drained from me, replaced by a heavy languor. His fingers, surprisingly gentle for a cold-blooded killer, traced patterns across my skin, before cupping my breasts into a rough grip. A soft moan escaped my lips as his thumb brushed a nipple, and pleasure rushed to my core. He leaned in and closed his mouth over a peak, drawing it in with a slow, gentle suck. My head fell back, a groan escaping my throat. My hands filtered into his thick silver, my fingers impulsively easing off the leather tie that kept it out of his face, and it went cascading around his features like spills of moonlight.

Awe mingled with desire as I watched him continue to explore my body, his mouth leaving a trail of wet heat across my skin. I cupped his sharp face in my hands, the rational, caged side of me screaming to tear him off me. I made weak, pitiful attempts to do so, but Aemond growled his disapproval and sucked my nipple hard. The wet heat of his mouth tugged between my legs as he moved to the other, flames curling low in my stomach. I ground down on him, my wet entrance dampening the dark leather of his breeches, the friction sending a delicious heat through my core. A moan ripped from his lips.

I was on fire, a confusing mix of desire and desperation clawing at me. I needed something more, something to push me over the edge. My body moved of its own accord, grinding harder, seeking that elusive release. 

He released my nipple with a graze of teeth that sent a jolt of white heat through me, and looked up at me with his eye dark like the storm.

“Skoros gaomagon jaelā?” (What do you crave?), he rumbled.

Exhaustion gnawed at me, but a visceral need pulsed deep within. “Please,” I pleaded, the word a ragged whisper escaping my lips, the frustration of the language barrier a dull ache compared to the firestorm raging in my core. “More,” I begged, grinding against his erection with desperate mewlings. 

When his hand lowered to palm my pussy, my skin caught on fire, burning me from scalp to toes. Desire inflated in my throat when he ran his hand up my neck, into my hair, grabbing a fistful and using it to arch my head back, his touch both possessive and arousing. 

“Is this what you desire?” he rasped against my throat, his voice husky with restrained passion. His calloused thumb began drawing circles on my clit, a slow, deliberate exploration that sent frustration battling with a rising tide of pleasure. 

I nodded desperately. “Yes,” I gasped.

He slipped two fingers into my wetness, and I arched my back, groaning in pleasure and a little pain, his fingers filling me up to the brim. My hands found purchase in his hair, anchoring myself as he moved his digits, flames of pleasure licking at my walls. 

Ecstasy unfurled in my veins like milk of the poppy, mind-numbing, delirious, as he slid his thick fingers in and out of me, rubbing a sensitive spot deep within. Hot pressure expanded, and my eyes rolled back in my head. A throaty moan escaped my lips with every thrust of his fingers and a delicious rumble rolled in his chest. 

His grip around my hair suddenly vanished and his thumb began rubbing circles on my clit as he fingered me. I cried out, the intensity overwhelming, and I braced myself on his leather-covered shoulders, a cold sweat starting beneath my skin.

“Sholīze,” (You’re so wet), he groaned against my skin, the word a brand that sent shivers lancing through me, the heat beneath the surface threatening to erupt. I rolled my hips on his fingers, and a satisfied growl escaped his mouth, his eye dropping to witness me riding his hand as my pleasure ran down his wrist, my leg and onto his lap. 

“Shkelagon zhēdys,” (You’re making a mess), he whispered into my mouth, swallowing my desperate cries. 

A third finger, bold and intrusive, slid inside, the added pressure sending me over the edge. My vision swam, black dots exploding at the edges. My heart pounded to the fire searing through every nerve in my body. Throaty moans tore from my lips over and over, as I clenched around his moving fingers. He groaned with dark satisfaction, encircling my waist, pressing me against him as I rode out my orgasm. 

The storm within me subsided slowly. His fingers, once urgent, now moved slowly in and out of me while I caught my breath and the ringing in my ears faded. He didn’t withdraw until he’d coaxed out the very last tremor of pleasure from my body. 

A languorous warmth, a deep sense of satiation unlike anything I’d ever known, bloomed within me.

Lost in the afterglow, I trailed kisses up his neck, small noises of contentment escaping my lips. 

“Gevie,” he panted, slipping his fingers out of me.

I knew that word.

Beautiful. 

AEMOND

I never thought the act of making an heir would be this… riveting. 

So much pure heat, flame and pleasure, fueled not just by my own desire, but by the sight of her pleasure burgeoning under my touch. It was a new prospect entirely. I could have reached my own release simply from witnessing hers. 

But this was not going to make an heir, after all.  

She ran her fingers over my erection, her lips and teeth teasing a line down my neck as she came down from her high. My hand, forearm and lap were slick from her sweet desire. 

She settled back into my lap, a vision of post-orgasmic bliss. Her eyes, usually bright and defiant, were now hooded with languid satisfaction, her cheeks flushed a becoming crimson. Her lips, slightly parted, breathed shallowly. I pushed my thumb between them, and she met the intrusion with a beckoning glide of her tongue, the wet heat settling in my groin. I pulled my thumb free, wiping the evidence of her touch across her lips. 

This woman, this force of nature, was mine. My wife.

Lightning played across her features like she was its master. Like she embodied the raw power of the storm. 

Untamed, fierce, fuckable.

She was molded just for me.

Her fingers, tracing a familiar path down my doublet, encountered the bulge straining against the fabric, my dick throbbing at her faintest touch.

“Take it off,” she said, working on the buckle. I reached my hands up my neck, loosening the doublet from my frame. 

“Do not attempt any strikes this time,” I drawled, a playful challenge in my voice. I relished the smile that spread across her lips.

“You have my word,” she said softly. 

The leather of my arms whispered down, discarded on the floor like a shed skin. Her eyes ignited with raw desire, a flickering flame that mirrored the inferno that had been building within me. Her fingers, hesitant at first, traced a path down my chest, my abs, further, until her hand slipped beneath my breeches and over the length of my dick. 

I hissed through my teeth. The heat, a branding iron searing flesh, intensified as her hand, unsure but determined, wrapped around my erection, heat curling at the base of my spine. Her hesitant touch grew more confident as she stroked me from base to head with smooth, gentle motions, sending a low groan rumbling from my chest. 

I grabbed her face and grazed her chin with my teeth, making her stroke me harder. “I’ll fill you with my seed, wife,” I growled, the words rough against her skin. A promise, a threat, a declaration of possession – all rolled into one.  

Her sigh held a hint of resignation, contrasting the fire in her eyes. “As long as you’ll leave me alone once you’re done,” she mumbled, the words laced with quiet defiance. 

Fury, a red-hot ember, flared within me. 

I threw her down on her knees on the bed and yanked her head back by her hair until her head rested against my shoulder. The vulnerability in her exposed throat fueled a dark avarice within me. My erection pressed against the heat of her ass, restraint becoming an impossible enemy. 

“You’re bound to me now,” I growled in her ear, the words a possessive vow. “You’re not going anywhere.”

A ghost of a smile played on her lips, a silent challenge that both frustrated and excited me. I leaned in, whispering a single word against her ear, “Ñuhon.” (Mine) I nipped her earlobe, making her hiss. 

When I released her, she sagged forward, head hanging low. Her shoulders slumped, and she lowered herself onto her hands, the curve of her backside a sight that ignited a fresh wave of heat within me. 

I discarded my breeches, the urgency a physical ache in my core. Kneeling behind her, I pushed two fingers inside of her. She clenched down on me so tightly. I groaned and pulled my fingers free. As I rubbed the head of my cock against her wet opening, the heat of it almost burned me. A tremble coasted throat her, and her fingers gripped the sheets, bracing herself. 

I eased into her, and, gods spare me, she was so fucking tense, to the point she nearly resisted me entirely. I caressed her ass, her hips, running my hand up and down her back, attempting to relax her, uttering words I scarcely knew were the Common Tongue or High Valyrian. 

“Vīrȳn (take it), you’re so fucking wet, gūrogon mirre yno (take all of me).”

Until her walls softened and I watched myself slide into her, until I was as deep as I could go.

Seven Hells. 

The feeling was overwhelming. The way she clutched me like a wet fist. Every cell in me ached for more, to fuck her hard, relentlessly, but I gave her a moment to adjust, squeezing her, running my hands all over her. 

Soon, she was rocking back against me, and I gave her what she wanted, pulling out all the way before slowly pushing back in, every inch of me vanishing. She groaned and dropped her face to the bed, fisting the sheets in her hands. I gripped the swell of her hips, guiding her warm, wet pussy onto my throbbing dick over and over, watching their salacious union, my sight darkening at the squelching sounds that ensued. A deep hum erupted from my chest.

She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes hooded with lust, settling on each lazy thrust. 

“Iksis ao bisa ijiōrtan?” (Is this pleasing you?) I rasped, but before she could answer, I fucked her a little harder. It occurred to me that she probably could not have understood what I’d been saying half the time. 

Her head fell forward, and the sight of her biting down on her hand to quiet her moans sent a heady rush to my head, lighting me on fire. 

Thunder rolled overhead. 

I was completely lost in the heat of her, taking her hard, watching her ass bounce against me with every thrust. I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back against my chest.

She was panting, fucked into soft compliancy.

“To whom do you belong?” I growled in her ear.

She didn’t resist any of my advances this time. “You,” she breathed. 

“Say my name.”

“Aemond.”

“And who is your King?”

“Aemond.”

My grip snaked and tightened around her neck as I fucked her.

“Say it.”

“You’re the King, Your Grace,” she whined. “The first of your name.”

It set me on fire.

I pushed her back down and fucked her through her second orgasm, holding her hips up when her legs gave out. She shuddered and clenched around me, the pressure sending licking fires down my back, threatening to erupt. I gritted my teeth as I came inside of her, a white, hot fire shooting through me so hard, my vision went black.

My muscles shook from the aftershock.

I doubled over her, letting my forehead rest on her back as we came down. 

When I pulled out of her, I watched my seed leak out of her entrance like white tears. I plugged it with my fingers, burrowing deep inside of her, and she gasped.

“Dragonseed is precious,” I rumbled into her ear. “Would not want it to go to waste.” I kissed her temple.

“Tepagon aōha dārys iā dārilaros, dōna ābrazȳrys.” (Give your king an heir, sweet wife)

[nalyra-dreaming]

Can you talk more about Lestat's vagrant years?

Well, the part Sam referred to here, is something that happens in "Prince Lestat", there are (in the books) a few things leading up to it (I am pasting my summary from there here):

In the books:

In Prince Lestat - Lestat is wandering, while Louis is with Armand at Trinity Gate. He is somewhat jaded, removed.

There’s a lot of reasons, but in order to understand the situation (especially in respect to the endgame settings), there’s just a few things more I have to point out:

In Memnoch the Devil Lestat goes heads to head with a spirit claiming to be the Devil. Including going to Heaven and Hell, losing an eye trying to get the Veil of Veronica, later getting that eye back from Maharet etc. He falls into a… coma, in a church. Likened to Christ in various comments (!). Louis (and a few others) tend to him. Armand is so shaken by it he commits (tries to commit, it’s retconned later) suicide. Lestat wakes (at the end of The Vampire Armand, after Armand has drunk from him and has seen the spirit), listens to some music, and then goes back to dozing, while listening to music. And THAT (second) coma, or better mental absence, is very hard on Louis. Enter… Merrick. Only Louis and David are left, caring for the dozing Lestat in the flat at Rue Royale (and in the church, he moves around a bit, back and forth). Louis becomes obsessed with reminiscing, with trying to make his own peace with their past, and Claudia. He wants to raise Claudia’s spirit. David decides to help him. Merrick tricks them into turning her. And they do raise a spirit. Using torn-out pages of Claudia’s diary, in which she makes it very clear that she hated them both and used Louis to kill Lestat. Raising a spirit that claims to be Claudia. It’s quite the harsh encounter. And it drives Louis to suicide.

He puts his coffin into the courtyard of Rue Royale (there, where he fell to in the show(!)), and lets the sun burn him during the day. Asking David to scatter his ashes.

Only… he’s not ashes. He’s a burned husk, still firm. Too old already to be burnt to cinders during one day. And David doesn’t know what to do. And then… Lestat wakes up, and returns. He wants to know if Louis wants to return… but neither Merrick nor David can tell him.

And so Lestat makes the decision and uses his blood, and theirs, to bring Louis back, knowing full well that if he does this - then simple "suicide“ will be out of the question for Louis in the future. Essentially making Louis -almost- as strong as him.

And then… the Talamasca make them leave Rue Royale.

And Lestat lets the flood of new vampires drive him from New Orleans. Wanders. Louis goes to New York, to Armand.

Now - in the show:

Sam said the vagrant years are in-between, so we are talking about the time between murder night and modern times - considering Lestat was likely hurt in Paris and still healing (which we'll see next season), and still sounding weak in the "call" in 2x05 I think it was more between Louis' suicide attempt and modern times.

Memnoch likely has not happened, but Louis' suicide attempt has, and Lestat likely thinks he is dead. Lestat is older, it might easily be that his own suicide attempt in the Gobi desert has happened (and failed), but the aftermath, namely the body thief plot has not happened.

BUT - it might be that this, this despair at not being able to kill himself, and the despair over losing his family and especially Louis is what ultimately drives him to wander in the show.

Now, there are a few important aspects to this:

In the books, "The Voice" is rising during that time frame, while Lestat wanders. A long time frame, yes, but "The Voice" will be Amel, rising to consciousness, an "awakening" which drives various vampires to kill others, and Amel will be seeking for a new host - and he will ultimately end up in Lestat (though that likely has not happened yet)

Lestat encounters Seth and Fareed - and fathers a child, Viktor. The show has already opened the parallels for Claudia and Rose, and I do not think that IF they go there, that they will miss out on Viktor

EDIT: Forgot Rose's rescue, which would fall into this time frame as well

Magnus and Raymond as well as others are introduced - the show might choose to skip them

RHOSHAMANDES is introduced during this "awakening" arc as well - I do not think they will skip HIM so it will make sense to introduce him in some kind of manner

And: Louis... comes to accept himself and his own story in that book

Details obviously excluded, but I do think that the "vagrant" years will maybe give us Lestat's suicide attempt, him mourning Louis, the Voice rising to consciousness, and Rose and Viktor, as well as Rhoshamandes.

It will depend on how they spin it, but that way they could make all the later arcs click into place properly, while at the same time using the decades they added in through their shifting time frames.

It's clever, and I personally am mightily excited that they seem to do it like that :) (even if I wished they had not (imho) connected to Amel to 1x05, as said before)

[1920sladydectective]

Value - 2K Angst Drabble

This one is for @uselessbard1031 who I rambled to endlessly last night. Thank you for entertaining me haha <3

Used third person and gave reader/oc a name to trial if I liked writing like this

Ambessa Medarda has known true love with her wife, and yet she underestimated the value of trust - losing what little light she had.

Warnings: This is an Angsty, Hurt No Comfort One with a Death at the End so please don’t read if that’ll upset you. Some swearing and suggestiveness but it’s not the focus.

She’d been gone for nearly three months and Ariadne was dreadfully bored.

She was not dependent on Ambessa for entertainment, nothing so ridiculous, but she did make everything more colourful. More red.

Having endless money and power meant that sneaking about was a thing of the past. The Medarda crest, solid gold, sat shining on her chest as she floated about rocky cobbled streets. There was nothing new, there never was, but she was not permitted to travel beyond Noxus Proper without her. Normally, this meant nothing as she was her constant shadow, the gentle, hypnotic pairing to her razor edge. But this time, with nothing more than brawling limbs and smashed skulls, her dangerous dance was not required. So here Ariadne was, eating the same old woman’s sweetbread four streets from the dock whilst yet another report was piled on her desk at home.

Ambessa’s firm hands ripped the leg from the charred chicken, dark eyes fixed on a tattered battle map. The uselessness of her scouts was astounding and would not go unchecked. They were essentially blind, running out of resources and fatigued from months of mindless, tactless brawling. The fact that it was in Ionia did not help, with plush swirls of magic and deception twinkling all around. She missed her wife, her etherealness echoed here like an aftershock determined to drag her back home. A few more weeks my love, her tired mind called. If she focused she could see the curl of her hair, the smirk of her lip, hear the lightness of her gasps. Ambessa had mutilated the chicken with her teeth, Ariadne the thing in her grip in her mind’s eye.

Books and scrolls were scattered across a weathered, creaking table. Most of the surroundings had been turned to ash and cinder anyway, with no viable way to hide or reposition. The only true way was left, which heralded their salvation. A way to hide, to act from the shadows, lined with the very resources they needed. It had been a debate for mere seconds, but her smog covered, silent tent reaffirmed that left was the only way to go.

It took two weeks of blood, sweat and fury, but the ground yielded to them. Emerald greens and pretty blues were tinged with a corrosive brown, the very core of the soil’s nutrients being harvested till the land began to wheeze and sigh. The trees here had a particularly hard, spiraling texture that made for a perfect building resource. Each thing they took strengthened them, Noxians rising from the ashes of their struggle with hardened, determined looks. The small, serene pools would cleanse themselves eventually, Ambessa reassured her officers as they tinted it crimson from dried Ionian blood. They were cleansed, restored and Ambessa once again thought of her wife, grateful she had been blessed with knowledge of such a place and sure of her understanding.

Ariadne was struggling to master where the sun would fall. She was a proficient painter, all mediums yielding to her and yet without her reference she was stuck. Her painting knife clattered against marble, aching back crackling backwards as she surveyed the scene. Her scribbles could wait, news had reached them that the battle was finally won. Ambessa would be home within the week and celebrations didn’t plan themselves.

It took her years to adjust to the boastful nature of Noxian victories, but now she relished in it with a ferocity rivalling Ambessa herself. Food, wine, glittering decoration. All of it to honour her Warrior.

Nights were restless, her own duties weighty when she governed alone. Each choice felt sticky, lingering as she honoured the fickle balance of the Noxian and Ionian within her. It felt easier now, nearly two decades after their wedding, to see how she merged with her beloved wolf. She was more giving, more aware of the dusting of people that coated their every path. Ambessa tempered her kindness with the lens of reality, dust was an endless, ever renewing resource and she could not aid and cleanse it all. Though she made these choices she was glad for her wife’s return. The boat docked early afternoon, a well rested legion ready to prepare for their welcome party.

Ambessa only appeared moments before the hosting would begin, which was predictable and infuriating. Ariadne’s body sang a siren song, pushing her into strong, certain arms.

“Hello, Little Moonbeam,” Ambessa said, eyes glowing as she pawed at her silk clad hips.

“Lupus,” She responded, planting a charged kiss to her cheek, “How lovely to see you after so long,”

Ambessa snorted, “I’d like to see you continue pleasantries when I bend you over and use you in front of all of our men,”

“Empty threats don’t suit you, you wouldn’t ruin my little soiree,”

“I might,”

“There is stuffed lobster and enough left over butter that you can lick it from my skin later,”

“I suppose I can schmooze for a few hours,” She conceded with a grin, hand squeezing her ass before wandering off to greet people.

Ariadne rolled her eyes. Her precious, silly woman. Commanding and brutal, with the tenderest voice in all of Runeterra. Champagne bubbles tickled her nose as music and movement enthralled her senses. This was a success, perhaps her best yet.

Hours dashed past, stomachs and hearts heavy with rich, decadent food and an overindulgence of spirits. Ambessa was practically tugging her back to their chambers, filthy words and wandering hands.

Sprawled half naked across their bed with pretty beaded clips carving into her head, she watched her look around.

“Where’s the butter then, hmm?” Ambessa bit at Ariadne’s raised ankle, looming above her.

A light, shining laugh pierced through the warlord’s heart as she shook her head, “Not yet, you always tell me of the battle first,”

“We fought, I smashed things, we won,” Her lips were frantic, impatient, nose nuzzling her ankle.

“Lupus,” She whined, “Please tell me properly,”

“Gods,” A grunt as she flopped next to her, mattress bouncing, “Fine,”

Ambessa’s storytelling was astounding, the fight a harsh mashing of colour and feeling hanging over Ariadne’s eyes as she curled closer. Gasps left her, pride burning low in her stomach as she envisioned her victorious, otherworldly wife conquering yet another patch of their little world.

One thing stood out, a confusing detail, “Where did you end up? The letters didn’t say, but clearly something changed the tides,”

Ambessa tensed, rationality returning slowly. Fuck. Yes.

Ariadne frowned, sitting up, “Ambessa? Nowhere bad I hope, you said there was lots of ash and destruction,”

A click of an unsure tongue, “Western Ionia, just to the right of the Grove,”

Her face dropped, eyes wide, “Was it safe? Please tell me you checked,”

“I preserved it as best as I could, Moonbeam,” Ambessa’s voice was so gentle, “I’m sorry,”

Rage curdled her very blood, “Those bastards,” She spat, “That was such a sanctuary and they ruined it? For a petty patch of land?” That was the Noxian talking, conquest, a necessary and easily accepted part of life.

“I know,” The warlord continued, “It was needless, if they had surrendered we wouldn’t have needed to utilise it,”

No, a hopeful part of Ariadne cried, She misspoke.

“Utilise it?” Her voice was even, eyes understanding.

“Yes,” Ambessa nodded, spurred on by her calm reaction, “It was the only way to ensure victory, the resources there were far more valuable than I’d realised,”

Valuable, the darkness sang, valuable indeed. “And this was clearly the only way,”

“Exactly, I told Rictus you would understand, we couldn’t retreat when we were so close,”

It settled on her, warm and weighted like a bath as it dragged her under. Retreat was an option, just not one acceptable to her warlord’s pride. Seventeen years of her life was draining away now, crimson as it leaked from her soul.

“I understand exactly, General Medarda,” Her eyes were dull, “Victory was secured,”

“I-Yes,” Ambessa said, face still and sharp at her wife’s shift.

“Such a small cost this time too,” She continued, venom sharp and tart, “A true relief, you have only lost your wife,”

Powerful shoulders twitched, any attempt at words flattened by the sudden onslaught of vicious, slicing words Ariadne unleashed.

“Your only boundary, your only concession was my Grove,” Spit and iron tainted her tongue, “I conceded all else, gave myself to you without restraint. I allowed you to kill my people, steal their land and destroy their traditions and in return you promised me that it would remain preserved,”

“Allowed me?” Ambessa scoffed, despite herself, bitterness merging with panic, “I do not need your permission, you forget yourself,”

“Clearly,” The shadows were turned on the warrior now, sharp nails carving through the skin on her thigh, “I never should have submitted to your obsessions, becoming another battered trophy,”

She growled, grip crushing a dainty wrist, “Obsession? I love you wholeheartedly and this is the thanks I get?”

“You wouldn’t know love if it choked your very soul from you, Lupus,”

She retreated now, too late, warm platitudes on those plush, devouring lips.

What a battlefield their bedroom would make, the landscape a No Man’s land of affection and betrayal.

Violent hands flung the Medarda crest across the room, a window shattering to beckon in icy winds. Perfect, true, poetic. The artistic side of Ariadne relished in the physical markers of her turmoil, each part of her breaking as their space devolved into ruins.

Ambessa dodged each projectile, with increasing concern. This was not the anger she had anticipated, there was no balance of wills here. Her darling wife’s eyes were wrong, black as molten tar as she obliterated their life together. No calling, no sweet words, no reprimands brought her back from the cliff’s edge. The rocky waves summoned Ariadne and she fell, willingly, into the vengeful murky depths.

Fury licked at her, hungry and strong, “You won’t even give me a proper fight, you destroy our marriage and then coddle me like a fool,”

“I don’t want to fight you,” Ambessa said, shoulders passive, “I want to listen, my darling, to help you recover,”

“I don’t give a fuck what you want,” Adriadne screamed, lungs full of lava, as she threw the ornate pollarm on the wall to her, gripping one herself “Fight me you Coward,”

Ambessa caught it instinctively, brow furrowed, “That is enough, Ariadne,” She stepped forward, “You do not know how to use that, you could hurt yourself,”

The precision of a painter, swift and true, sliced Ambessa’s face from nose to crown. Soft, curling locks drifted on the cold wind, blood seeping into her mouth. There was no transition, no gradual decline.

Ariadne lay face down on the silk sheets, with her arms painfully pulled behind her, a firm knee on her lower back to keep her pinned, “Are you quite done?”

She was no wolf, the woman towering over her ensured she would never wish to be and her adrenaline bled out. The result was more than she could have feared, glassy eyes observing the bombed out craters in her surroundings, her thoughts jumbled.

“Moonbeam?” It was so sweet, a hypnotic hum to soothe her and she let it, just for a moment, just to gather her thoughts.

Ambessa relaxed as her wife’s body went limp, crawling over her form and pulling it into her embrace. Her nose, now cold from the night air, bumped against her collarbone as she rocked and shushed her.

“Everything’s going to be okay, little one,” She sounded so sure, so certain, “You’re not going anywhere, I have you, we’re going to be just fine,”

Ambessa was right, she realised, she wasn’t going anywhere with a wife such as hers.

Ariadne couldn’t have that, Ambessa deserved to lose as she had.

Serene, with considered movements, she took the dagger from her wife’s belt and slashed her own throat.

The gargle was wrong, the pain immaterial as she felt searing pleasure at the warlord’s watery, desperate eyes.

Let your ‘love’ choke you, Ambessa Medarda.

Ariadne was finally free of her invisible cage, soul dancing off to a thriving forest where the sun settled just as she had imagined it would.

[draconiselegy]

thinking again—painfully, reverently—about how hiccstrid is not just romance. it’s norse myth. it’s elegy.

There is a tendency in modern fandom to mistake quiet for simplicity. To look at Hiccup and Astrid and see only the soft shape of a canon romance, outlined in tropes and smoothed by animation. But those of us who study, who feel, who have bled on vellum and torn open myth with our bare hands—we know better.

Hiccstrid is not a love story. It is a mythic structure. It is sacrifice and sanctity, a blood-wrought saga masquerading as a DreamWorks subplot.

Astrid is a Valkyrie not by aesthetic but by function: not plaited hair and feminine glory, but the raw, god-touched grit of bearing witness. She does not pluck Hiccup from the battlefield—she walks onto it. She waits beside him in silence as the smoke rises. She sees him fall, and still she says: I will not leave you in the ash.

And Hiccup—he is no dragon-slayer. He is Baldr, struck not by mistletoe but by mercy. He offers peace and is punished for it. A martyr, not to a god, but to a future. To hope. His love is not loud, but it costs him everything.

Their bond is not loud, not sweet—it is ritualised survival. It is the ancient, aching logic of saga: loyalty that eclipses reason, affection that endures ruin. It is the unspoken vow: I will be there when the world ends, and I will hold your hand in the cinders.

—

Cf. the Völsunga saga, in which Sigurd dies not at the hand of an enemy, but from betrayal rooted in love—a parallel to Hiccup’s continual self-sacrifice for peace. Astrid echoes Brynhildr: a shieldmaiden both warrior and judge, ever straddling the divine and the doomed. See also Njáls saga, for the motif of steadfast bonds forged in war-time trial, and Gísla saga Súrssonar, where doomed loyalty supersedes survival.

And of course: sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt.¹

There are tears in things, and mortal things touch the soul.

¹Virgil, Aeneid, Book I, line 462. A line, I think, Astrid might have whispered into Hiccup’s collarbone.

[thebigbiwolf]

Starvin' Darlin - Chapter 2

Pairing: Not quite friends to lovers Astarion x OC/F!Tav

Chapter Summary: Seeing Evelyn with Gale stirs up some unfamiliar and VERY unwelcome feelings in Astarion. And for some reason, she graces him with a midnight visit. I'm terrible with summaries but here's what's in store for you:

* A bit of possessive!Astarion if you squint

* More pining

* More biting

* Deep DEEP emotional constipation (my personal favorite)

Fic Tags: Minor spoilers for Act 1, The Bite Scene, Emotional slow burn, Angst, Teasing, Frottage (god I'm sorry), Pining, This is my first ever fic so idk how to tag things appropriately but you get the gist.

Fic Warnings: Eventual Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubcon (I cannot stress this enough), Bloodlust/Loss of control, Mentions of blood, lmk if you need anything else tagged.

Read on AO3: Here

Word Count: 5k

A/N: School and life have been kicking my ass but I finally got around to finishing this chapter and I couldn't wait to post it! I'm having so much fun writing in Astarion's POV. Huge thank you to my bestie @imaginarydromedary for being the best beta ever and for your endless patience with me.

The morning that follows that fateful night in Evelyn’s tent goes rather well, all things considered.

She approaches Astarion first. A pleasant surprise, considering they could hardly look at each other after he ravaged her the night before. 

He looks over the novel he had been skimming, Shanties for the Bitch Queen . Admittedly, not one of his favorites, but reading material was scarce these days. He closes it with a soft thud and rises to meet her, all pleasant smiles and perfectly coiffed hair. 

“Good morning.” he says, a curious tilt to his head. 

She looks a bit more pale than usual with faded, grim circles forming underneath her eyes. Her bun is a bit unruly, some strands falling into her face and parted by the wine-dark bone of her horns. She either didn’t sleep well or is still reeling from the anemia. 

The bruise he administered had spread and darkened, plainly visible even under the black ink of her tattoos. It seems she found no use in hiding it, then. Very well. It’s not like they keep extra scarves laying about the camp, anyway.

“How do you feel?” he asks, gently. He doesn’t mean to provoke her, but his curiosity is getting the better of him, and the slightest hint of shame is beginning to burrow its way into his conscience. Ugh . He thinks he prefers the tadpole.

“A bit woozy.” She responds, “I woke up this morning with the intention of asking you how one usually fares after being drained, but then I remembered,” she stops herself when she realizes what she’s about to say: I was your first. Unspoken, but lingering between them . It makes him want to laugh; A woman with a reputation such as hers acting so bashful .

“It’ll pass,” he reassures, “Just be glad I’m not a true vampire. A bite from one of them and you might wake up as a vampire spawn, like my good self. All of a vampire’s hunger, but few of their powers.”

“Speaking of hunger,” Evelyn says, realizing she’s famished. She turns from him and begins making her way towards the campfire. Finding that only charred logs and old cinders remain, she runs the black tip of her boot through the ashes with the intention of stoking the fire back to life, dust clouding, then dispersing before her.

He follows closely behind, observing. She seems well, all things considered. A bit out of sorts, but nothing a bit of rest couldn’t cure.

“You know, I had considered bringing you an apple,” Astarion starts, hovering by the pit, “Leaving it by your bedside before you rose for the day - ever the gentleman, but,” he clears his throat. 

That newly recognizable twinge of something is curling its way back into his chest, causing him to squint in discomfort. 

In truth, he didn’t know how she would react to him encroaching on her space. Not after that dreadful attempt on her life. He is a monster, after all. That, and she had already been so insufferably forgiving. Such kindness is likely to reach its end sooner rather than later.

“I - erm, didn’t want to disturb your rest.” is what he finally settles on. Polit , he thinks, Best not overdo it.

“That would have been nice of you.” She says it quietly, more to herself than to him.

“Oh, darling, you have no idea how nice I can be.” The flirtation sneaks its way out of him on an impulse. He’s about to apologize, something he seems to be doing a bit too often for his taste, when out of the corner of his eye, he catches one of their companions making their way towards them. 

“It appears we have company.” Astarion sneers, “And here I thought I was going to have you all to myself this morning.”

To the elf’s surprise, most of them were quick to come around to the idea of a vampire spawn slinking about. Especially once they found themselves in the middle of an ambush, and Astarion very quickly made good on his promises to her. 

Newfound strength coursed through his body, her blood weaving threads of heat through his veins as if it were his own. His speed was unmatched, cutting down half a dozen goblins before they had a chance to wail.

 It was exhilarating . 

The day flew by in flashes of red. Despite the many unnecessary stops Evelyn insisted on making to help undesirables, Astarion’s emotional high managed to remain relatively intact. That was, until their group settled in for the night.

As most of the others retired to their tents, the elf prepared for his nightly ritual: sifting through his collection of tomes and selecting one to read under the stars - his favorite way to end the evening. 

It was supposed to be perfect. Uneventful. Quiet .

But, there was Gale: lost in thought and muttering to himself, or maybe to the conjured image of some woman’s head floating above his hand. Astarion may have been able to ignore that in itself, but the sound of light footsteps drew his attention. 

Evelyn was approaching the wizard. 

He scoffs. Of course Gale was showing off in hopes of procuring her attention. The man was practically putting on a damn light show in his desperation. It’s not enough that the wizard eats valuable items they could be using to pawn for coins, but does he really have to be such an unbearable distraction as well?

“Pretty,” he recognizes the word as it leaves her. The sound of their chatter was too faint for it to carry its way to his beautifully pointed ears, but he could just barely read Evelyn’s lips at this angle.

Gale startles, dropping his hand along with his focus. The woman’s visage vanishes. He looks embarrassed, shifting uncomfortably as he no doubt explains himself in some horribly mundane fashion.

Astarion returns to his book, scanning over the page, but the words refuse to settle in his mind. He stares at the ink, willing the sentences to fill his head with anything other than the nonsense unfolding in front of him, but his focus stubbornly remains on the chattering pair.

Gods, he’s talking her ears off. 

At any moment, Evelyn will dismiss the man, embarrassing the hells out of him, which will make for an excellent show. That in itself is enough reason to keep watching. But the longer this goes on, the less he’s sure. 

She seems to be enjoying their chat, nodding in agreement at Gale’s words, listening to him without so much as a hint of impatience. Gale then steps behind her, a bit too close for the likes of an average, friendly conversation. His chest almost touches the woman’s shoulder as he moves into her space, the cloth of his nightshirt just barely grazing her. 

Something within Astarion begins twisting in protest. His thumb runs over the long-forgotten page in circles. The rough texture reminds him that yes, he was supposed to be reading, or at least attempting to look disinterested, but he can't will himself to turn away.

Gale smiles softly down at her, then begins to move his arms in a way that could only be described as a poor imitation of a wounded bird. Purple light emanates in front of the two of them in response. More magic tricks. Of course. As if that would be enough to impress the woman who’s supposedly been at the receiving end of every imaginable courting attempt in Faerun. 

Astarion rolls his eyes, content to continue his chapter of The Realm According to Bumpo, before he notices Evelyn following suit, imitating the very same motions. She, however, has a grace about her, unlike the bearded beast at her side. Her movements are quick and decisive, abandoning all flattery for precision. The burst of light emanates from her palms, just as it had for the wizard.

She looks pleased. Elated, even. This is the first time he’s seen her smile since she made a fool out of him in her tent, caressing his body and reveling in its reaction, like he was some sort of toy. Though her expression looks different to him now. He can’t quite place his finger on why.

He swallows, attempting to alleviate the tightness in his throat. 

A purple aura starts radiating around them, dancing and swaying in waves, as if the two were surrounded by a flowing channel of lavender, smelling of rosewater; the sun setting over a dark ocean. Even from a distance, the sight pulls at something inside him. An unwelcome ache settles within his chest.

Evelyn turns to the man next to her, unaware that they’ve been drawn closer by the magic enveloping them. She tilts her head back to meet Gale’s gaze. The way he’s looking at her, the flecks of gold in her irises locked with his: deep, brown, and moving, makes Astarion’s skin itch.  

He finds himself wondering what color his own eyes were before his transformation. Were they so seemingly honest, so trustworthy in their melanism, before they became what they are now? Sharp, red, and tinted by bloodlust. Wouldn’t they be boring? 

“You’re staring.”

He’s pulled from his brooding by the sound of Shadowheart’s observation. He hadn’t noticed her approaching him, distracted by that sickening, sweet smell. “Or has the tadpole gifted you with the ability to telepathically commune with books?”

“I’m simply admiring our wizard’s talents.” Astarion says, dismissing her with a wave, “Making sure all those expensive boots and rings haven’t gone to waste. It would be a pity, wouldn’t it? Unnecessarily sacrificing clothes that may have suited you while you’re having to traipse about in a tin can?”

The cleric snickers, “I see. Is that why you look like a kicked pup? Or, are you upset that your master’s replaced you with a new lapdog?” 

He slams the book closed. The sound surprises Evelyn, and the magic surrounding her and Gale dissipates. 

He doesn’t dignify Shadowheart with a response, nor does he spare a second glance at the others before retreating to the quiet solace of his tent.

”That wretched little…” He grumbles to himself as soon as he closes the entrance, tossing Bumpo atop the other novels in his collection, all piled haphazardly on the small desk occupying a corner of his living space. 

This type of reaction was unusual for him. Astarion would normally be happy to engage in petty banter. The more scathing, the better, but Shadowheart had somehow weaseled her way into a tender area. It left him feeling exposed, and a bit nauseated at the idea of allowing someone so clearly beneath himself, at least in terms of wit, to get the better of him. 

Taking a deep breath, Astarion focuses on releasing the tension in his jaw. Best not to let this ruin his entire night, he reasons, before lighting  several half-melted candles littering his quarters. Their flames emanate a soft, golden glow, and the process is meditative enough to finish soothing him. 

He doesn’t have watch tonight, so he allows himself some extra comfort, removing his shirt before sinking down into the soft furs of his bedroll. Astarion closes his eyes to trance, thinking the extra rest will do him some good, but the image of Evelyn rushes back to his mind -  the way her soft lips parted in surprise, realizing her and Gale’s close proximity, and how his gaze flitted down to her mouth in return..

The wizard should be wearing a damn collar around his neck with how she commands his attention. It’s pathetic.

It couldn’t be a matter of coincidence, surely. She must know the effect she has on the man. If Gale harbors feelings for her ( yuck ), even if it were the result of close quarters, Evelyn could use it to her advantage. She had just revealed the effectiveness of similar tactics to him last night, and a powerful wizard would be a powerful ally. 

Whereas, Astarion is just… a vampire spawn. Not even a true vampire. A slave. A nobody.

He rubs his face in frustration. The Sharran did have a point. Astarion may have an insatiable appetite, happy to receive all matters of attention from whatever suitors decide to shower him with it, but what about her? What if Evelyn found him less interesting, less worthy of her time and, subsequently, her protection? 

No. His ego balks at the suggestion. 

Besides, he had felt her lust for him not 24 hours ago. It moved through him as though it was his own, and the taste of her still lingers on his tongue. He heard the hitch in her breath - felt it under his own lips, and reliving the memory still stirs a familiar hunger within him. 

Though, they still haven’t spoken about it. 

The usually quiet, insecure part of him wonders if she’d just rather forget it altogether. He could empathize with that, at least. It’s easy enough for him to imagine their last encounter may have left her feeling disgusted, used.

Guilt worms its way back into his mind, cozying up right next to his tadpole but oh, so much worse . 

He hasn’t felt like this since the beginning of his servitude. He assumed the emotion had been neglected long enough to be left entirely behind him, overshadowed by the threat of whatever new, interesting ways Cazador would think of to torture him at the mere suggestion of disobedience. But here, in the thin veil of safety he’s allowed himself to believe shrouds him, he aches. 

It’s unbecoming.

Instead of resting as he should, Astarion isn’t quite sure how much time he spends ruminating on ways to quietly rid the party of Gale, before he hears the faintest rapping at the canvas of his tent. 

At first, he believes he imagined it, and gives the noise little consideration before settling back into his trance. But then, he hears it again: quick, rapid tapping. A knock. 

It surprises him. He hurriedly moves to stand. In the faint glow of the candlelight, the shadow at his doorstep dances against the closed fabric, smaller than himself and horned. A visit from Evelyn at this hour? Strange.

He undoes the ties and opens his space to her. 

Her hair is undone, dark waves falling over her shoulders and obscuring the marks he gave her. She’s wearing the same clothes she wore to bed last night, the very same black breast band. It smells as if it's been washed, though, with no lingering scent of her blood. Her loose, matching trousers settle high on her waist, just above her navel. She looks exhausted. 

Being run ragged by the events of the day while also having to contend with a missing pint or two of blood may have had more of a negative effect than anticipated. 

Evelyn doesn’t say anything at first, but he catches her eyes glancing at his bare chest before retreating back to his own, cementing themselves there. He raises an eyebrow at her, smirking, and thinks about teasing her. The temptation threatens to get the better of him, but he refrains, not wanting this unexpected visit cut too short. “Need something?”

“I was hoping we could talk.”

Her stare is unwavering, a commitment worthy of admiration.

“Right this way.” Astarion bows slightly towards her, an arm raised behind him to gesture her inside. She steps past him, careful to not brush against his exposed skin. He closes the entrance behind them, shutting out the ambient noise and drowning them in silence. His space is large enough to accommodate himself and his essentials quite comfortably, but it's infinitely smaller with her here.

“I hope I didn’t disturb you.” there is a hoarseness to her voice. She must have woken up just before making her way over.

“No, actually. I was just catching up on some reading.” Not entirely a lie. He had been reading at several points tonight. “What is it you want to discuss? I’m assuming there’s a reason this couldn’t wait until morning, not that I mind.”

“It's about you.”

Oh. No midnight gossip, then.

"I’ve been thinking about how we’re going to continue feeding you.”

“You’ve been up all night tossing and turning because you're concerned about my eating habits?” he responds, unamused, and crosses his arms.

“I have not been tossing and -” she’s about to argue with him, he thinks, but her exasperation causes her to lose her concentration. She breaks eye contact, distracted by the toned curves of his biceps, then snaps her gaze to the floor. “Would you please put on a shirt?”

“Ha!” His laugh is humorless. “I’d like to think we’re well past the point of propriety. Besides, you're in my tent.”

Evelyn pinches the bridge of her nose. “I knew this was a mistake.”

“Come now, darling. Why are you really here?”

She sighs in frustration, as if he should already know.

“I wanted to talk about last night.”

“Ugh, I’ve already apologized. What more do you want?”

A moment passes in uncomfortable silence. He can practically hear the gears grinding in her head as she searches for the right words, and he'd give anything to reach out with his tadpole and take the unfiltered thoughts from her mind. Instead, he takes pity on her.

“Unless, you’re looking for another nibble?” 

It's a joke, a way to clear the tension from the air. Entirely unserious.

She doesn't laugh.

Instead, she looks around the room: first at his assortment of decorative pillows, then to the empty elixir bottles piled in a corner, anywhere but himself. "Well, I - I don’t know.”  She clears her throat. “I just figured after today’s performance, it may be for the best.”

Wait. What?

He stiffens, so taken aback by her suggestion that the elf almost believes he’s still mid-trance. 

“What?” 

“I may be willing to help you again, when necessary.”

She has to be joking.

“You’re joking.”

“No. I’m serious, if it would help.”

“It would.”

“Then, yes.”

They stand almost toe to toe, Astarion once again absorbing her warmth. He hadn’t noticed their height difference the first time they did this, too busy devouring the poor woman like some deranged beast, but it's notable here, on equal footing. Peering up at him, her nose aligns with his collarbones.

"Tonight, then?" she asks.

"Eager, are we?"

She shrugs with indifference, "Just in case we run into any trouble at the goblin camp tomorrow."

The very picture of practicality. What else did he expect?

"Alright, then."

"Alright."

That nagging sensation begins to tug at him again - the very same one he felt as he had stepped out of her tent last night. A weak but unshakeable tension, like a magnet, uncomfortable as it is alluring. The force of it draws his body closer to hers where she stands, hands clenched into fists at her sides.

Underneath her calm exterior, Evelyn’s heart is pounding. Though her breaths are steady, controlled, he can hear it from where he stands. For a moment, those are the only sounds filling the space between them, until the tiefling speaks up.

“You’re tall, for an elf.”

An oddly-timed observation, but a true one. His brother, Petras, was always outwardly envious of him for it. Though, he's not sure why it sounds so flattering coming from her lips.

“How kind of you to notice.” 

She scans the room, searching for something, until she spots the table. Her fingers run along the dark ringlets in the wood, tracing the hardened puddles of forgotten wax, until they reach his heaping pile of books. She taps her fingertips on his leather bound copy of Bumpo . 

“May I?” 

He nods, unsure of what’s been asked of him. 

Evelyn gathers the novels in her arms before piling them carefully onto the floor in a few leveled stacks, clearing the space. ”That should be enough room for one of us to sit,” she says, evenly. 

Then, there is a heavy silence; anticipation. It hangs in the air thick as smoke, twice as suffocating. She's only taken a few steps from him, but it’s as though she’s crossed an ocean. The distance between them begins to develop its own gravitational pull, making the hairs on his arms stand on end.

“Whatever’s most comfortable, dear."

The tiefling nods, then plants herself on the table’s surface, legs hanging over the edge. Evelyn is now eye-level with him, her irises glossy; catching and reflecting what little light dances off the few remaining candles beside her.

She tilts her head at him, expectantly. Her face remains neutral - practiced, as though she feels nothing at all; as if she isn’t trying to drive him mad.

She’s back to playing her little games.

Fine.

Astarion’s posture straightens as he strides towards her, confidently closing their distance. He places his hands at her sides, not quite touching her, but still close enough to feel the heat emanating from her body, even through her clothes.  

“Now, where would you like it?” The question sounds innocent enough, but the double meaning is not lost on her. 

Her grip tightens at the table’s edge, knuckles whitening. 

His head tilts downwards, looming over her like a predator, and the scent of vanilla invades his nostrils. The sweetness settles on his palate before spreading across his tongue, coating it with a rum-like burn. He runs the flavor over the sharp edges of his teeth.

"I could do it here," he whispers, dipping his nose and running the tip of it along her nape. He quietly revels in how she prickles beneath him, her body betraying her feigned indifference.

"Or, here." One of his thumbs trace the flat of her wrist in slow, circular motions, causing the pulse beneath it to flutter.

"Or…" His other hand slides atop her knee, fingers gripping and parting her thighs just slightly…

She snaps them shut.

"Just do it, dickhead."

He hums a laugh. 

“As you wish.” 

The cool brush of Astarion’s lips on her neck has Evelyn’s heart racing, a frantic drum beating against his ears. It’s just as intoxicating as he remembers, threatening to muddle the edges of his mind. “Just try to keep still for me.” he whispers.

The warning is sincere, but the stubborn woman misinterprets him. Thinking he’s toying with her, she opens her mouth, intent on insulting him, but stops short, whining pitifully when his fangs break the surface of her skin. Her body flinches at the initial discomfort, but otherwise remains virtually motionless; compliant.

Drinking from her now feels like an entirely new experience. This time, he anticipates the raging current - knows how to find his footing. Rather than being ripped under, it feels as though Astarion is floating, enveloped in warmth unlike any he’s ever known. At best, he would imagine it similar to a hug, had he ever been on the receiving end of one.

He begins to lap at the wound to keep it from closing, the press and drag of his tongue drawing out a few small, involuntary twitches from the girl. She’s being so good for him, staying put like she’d been told; fighting her own restlessness, the urge to squirm in place.

If only she would allow him to reward her, to offer his body in exchange for this endless parade of favors, he would take the chance in a heartbeat. It would be so, so easy with her, unlike any miserable encounter he’d been forced into partaking in the last few centuries. He knows he would enjoy her body, along with all the lovely little sounds she would make for him; the temporary bliss.

And it would be a fair price to pay for keeping him safe, fed, and warm . 

The mental image has Astarion’s hand moving without his knowledge, too engrossed to notice his own palm caressing the side of her face. His thumb traces the edge of her cheek as he holds her there, allowing the weight of her head to rest against his fingers. Dark strands of hair brush against his knuckles, bringing him back to the present.

He thinks Evelyn hasn’t noticed yet, believes himself safe to correct the mistake without any mutual discomfort.

Which leaves him infinitely more overwhelmed when her smaller hand grazes up the length of his arm, wrapping it around his wrist to keep it in place. Her body relaxes into his touch, seemingly more grounded. 

The intimacy is like a punch to the chest.

She’s suddenly too close for comfort. It’s claustrophobic - suffocating, strangling him along with whatever sense he had left, apparently. That damned vanilla, the dizzying scent of her blood -

Air, he thinks, I just need some fresh air.

Astarion pulls away from her, readying an apology and an excuse to swiftly dismiss the woman. 

But when Evelyn meets his gaze, the words die prematurely.  

She is a vision , freckles dappling her skin like star-covered porcelain, now flushed red from nose to cheeks. The whites of her eyes have gone glossy, dazed and dream-like, tempting him further into her space.

Her tongue darts out to wet her parted lips, the small gesture commanding his attention. He finds himself entirely fixated on them, as if it would take another life-altering, unnatural disaster to pull his focus away. 

Evelyn’s lashes flutter in recognition, then she quickly releases his wrist. The residual heat fades before he can appreciate it, leaving him cold once again. 

“Oh, sorry.” 

“My apologies."

Their speech overlaps, then silence fills the room again, and they are left to stare at each other. His hands suddenly feel much too idle at his sides, itching. He throws on a polite smile, a familiar mask, but the expression doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Astarion has never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. His hunger is sated, and he should feel satisfied. He should feel like a new man. 

So why, then, does he only feel this intolerable weight in his chest?

Why does his stomach turn at the idea of her so carelessly offering herself up to any vampire spawn, let alone himself , despite the obvious danger? 

Why is he so deeply frustrated by her lack of self preservation?

Isn’t this exactly what he wanted; to have her crawling back for more?

He can't help but wonder if this sudden apprehension is part of her little plan: to confuse him, drive him to distraction, then bring him to his knees like every other unfortunate man she’s had in her sights before robbing them and tossing them aside.

Out-seducing a vampire would admittedly be an admirable feat, but why? What could her angle be, when Astarion has nothing to offer her? 

“Are you alright? You look… lost.” 

He blinks back to the present. 

“I - ” He coughs, " Ahem . Yes, dear. Of course.” 

Hot, crimson streaks drip down the sharp bone of his chin. He springs into action, away from her unfavorable concern, and grabs his nightshirt from off the floor behind him. He has just the one, beautifully embroidered and sewn back together countless times by his own hands, now being used in place of a common napkin. 

Evelyn gasps. The sound is like ice, piercing his chest when he realizes his mistake. The devil’s never seen him without a shirt on before now. Meaning, she had never bore witness to the elaborate poem carved into his back - ugly, raised scars painting his flesh and soiling his otherwise perfectly sculpted muscle. 

He regrets not humoring her request to redress earlier. 

The elf plays off the noise as if he hadn’t heard it, turning to hand her the clothes and hoping she knows better than to mention anything of it. She silently takes the garment from him and places it where he had bitten her. A blooming red stain soaks into the pale fabric. He’ll have to work on getting it out for the next several days, if it decides to come out at all.

Evelyn finally moves to stand, teetering a bit from lightheadedness. Astarion reaches out to steady her, but she shakes her head, declining. 

“I’m okay.”

He retracts his hand. The damned thing’s gotten him into enough trouble tonight already. 

“Well then, you should get some rest.” 

She scoffs, “Wow, not even a thank you?”

He lowers his voice, practically growling at her, “My dear, if you’d allow me to properly thank you, you wouldn’t be leaving this tent. Maybe not for the next week, if I’m feeling generous.”

A pretty little flush once again spreads across her face. He’s rather pleased with himself, thinking he’s finally stunned her. 

“And if you weren’t feeling generous?”

Rising to meet him, then. She is playing a very dangerous game.

Astarion closes what little distance there is left between them and grabs her face by the jaw, grip firm . The force has her stumbling, the back of her thighs meeting the hard edge of the table. Wood digs into her skin as the legs grate loudly against his decorative rugs, shifting from the sudden push.

Evelyn’s eyes shut, brows furrowed and panting as she clutches his forearms to steady herself.

To his wicked delight, she does not pull away.

His thumb drags over her bottom lip. The effort she’s expending not to whine at his gentle touch has him reeling. Her skin burns beneath his palms. 

“Then, I’d strip you, tie your limbs to this desk,” he murmurs against her lips, before tilting to whisper his confession hot in her ear. 

“And you wouldn’t be leaving this tent. Ever . ”

He abruptly releases her, turning away and waving her off. 

“Now, go. We have a big day tomorrow.”

Not sparing the woman a glance, he begins gathering his books and setting them back onto the table beside her.

She says nothing in response, but he hears her tear open the entrance to his tent and step out into the night.

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

It's time to do something very important that we've been putting of for a while.

We're going to buy the FALN pants from Cuno.

CUNO - "Cuno's like Cuno's dad -- Cuno doesn't give a fuck about anything."

3. "I want to buy the FALN pants."

CUNO - "Here, pig. We FALN now. Performance buddies." Cuno unzips his jacket again and pulls the pants out of the plastic wrapping.

Item gained: FALN "Modular" Track Pants

CUNO - "Cuno can already see you soaring through the air like a fucking eagle." He looks at you with pride. "Pig's in Cuno's debt now. Money-debt."

Task complete: Buy FALN pants from Cuno

+10 XP

FALN "MODULAR" TRACK PANTS

+1 Savoir Faire: Spacious crotch/liquid fit -1 Physical Instrument: Performance-unlimited

Entry level FALN Modular track pants, meant to get the urban athele started down the FALN-path. Labels say Hydrophobic 100%, SymanTec, and FALN Mirova Lab, creating an air of pseudoscientific mystery around these pants. They feel rubbery and futuristic to touch.

🎵 The Field Autopsy

THE HANGED MAN - The man is decomposing visibly now. Every hour he looks less like a creature and more like a pile of intestines...

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant adjusts his glasses and takes a deep breath.

2. "Let's bag him. Take him away." (The lieutenant takes the body away -- you work alone for the rest of the day.)

KIM KITSURAGI - "All right." He takes out a shiny black body bag and starts pulling the plastic over the dead man's face.

Task complete: Send victim's body to processing

+30 XP

Level up!

KIM KITSURAGI - "I will need a little help carrying him -- you take the hands, I'll take the legs."

Bag the corpse and drag it to the motor carriage. [Leave.]

Kim is gone.

We *did* want to talk to Klaasje without Kim here, but she's turned in for the night, so that will have to wait.

🎵 Instrument of Surrender

SHIVERS - All around you, rain falls on the great city of Revachol. Rain drips from the eaves and floods the gutters, washing the filth away.

The spring thaw must be here. The snow is melting...

What am I doing?

SHIVERS - Looking up at the sky, cold water dripping from your hair.

What do I see?

Shake the shivers off. [Discard thought.]

SHIVERS - Grey sky like great battleships, clouds colliding with one another. Rain falls down on the world.

How does it feel?

SHIVERS - Humid. Your coat shields you from the rain while the city shivers around you.

What is in the west?

What's in the east?

What's in the north?

What's in the south?

"Motherfucker." [Finish thought.]

SHIVERS - Sheets of rain over the water. A flight of stairs leading into the ocean. Wave after wave washing the coast of Martinaise, with its motorboats and gently swaying reeds.

The ruins of a half-sunken seafort crumble on an inlet. Beyond the Bay of Revachol, ghosts rise into the sky.

Who are you, ghosts?

What is down the shore?

Run your fingers through your dampened hair.

SHIVERS - The skyscrapers of La Delta, the financial district. Faint golden light seeps from the office windows.

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] - Will you ever go there?

Will I?

Let go of the feeling.

SHIVERS - No. You are just one of the hundreds of thousands who watch them rise across the bay from Martinaise every day.

2. What is down the shore?

SHIVERS - Urban coastline, rain dripping off eternite-covered roofs. Cinder blocks left over from half-finished construction. A defunct research and development building once seized by revolutionaries. An old wooden church stands on stilts above the water.

And beyond that?

SHIVERS - Coal City, end of all lines.

3. Run your fingers through your dampened hair.

SHIVERS - Your hair is an oily mess flecked with ash from neighbouring coal plants. Smoke stacks rise somewhere in the distance.

🎵 Red Rock Riviera

2. What's in the east?

SHIVERS - The great gates of the industrial harbour are locked. A chill runs down your back. You shudder like an animal trying to shake water from its hide.

Clench your teeth to stop shuddering.

Shake your shoulders again.

SHIVERS - Behind the gates -- heaps of supply crates. Red and blue metal shipping containers slick with rain. The Greater Revachol Industrial Harbour is an artificial mountain range. Immense wealth resides within, and immeasurable poverty in its shadow.

And beyond that?

And before that?

SHIVERS - You -- on the Martinaise plaza. A small dot looking up at the sky. Droplets form on your eyelashes.

And beyond that?

SHIVERS - La Drisienne, King Dris's Passenger Harbour. Cruise ships flanked by dock arms. Cranes watching over the mouth of the river distributary.

What is across from the distributary?

SHIVERS - Couron, the lower middle class. Distributary after distributary cuts the city blocks in half. Seven-story buildings trail off into the rain.

What is beyond the Couron?

SHIVERS - A silvery curtain of rain over the houses. The class divide.

2. Shake your shoulders again.

SHIVERS - You shudder, looking down at your feet. Dirty rainwater runs veins into the plaza snow.

You realize you have no shoes on. Your feet are red with cold.

This is incorrect. This dialogue wasn't programmed to account for wearing anything other than the green snakeskin shoes Harry had on him at the start of the game.

3. What's in the north?

SHIVERS - Capeside apartments -- tower blocks crowd one another, 4.46 mm bullets still lodged in their war-torn stone walls.

Hallways collapsed from the mortar hits of a war that was lost long ago. Clotheslines go to waste in the rain. Radios play.

And closer to here?

SHIVERS - A yard. Rain falls onto the roof of a woodshed. The lingering odour of decomposition mixes with that of damp soil.

4. What's in the south?

SHIVERS - A traffic jam. Rain thrumming on the roofs of motor vehicles. Inside, drivers watch water streaming down their windshields. The statue of a king shudders, he too is cold. The canal bridge has been raised.

What's on the other side?

SHIVERS - The road ascends; a raised motorway loops above the ghetto. Beneath its concrete columns -- a sea of rooftops, woodwork, and tar stretches northward. Four-story buildings as far as the rain can fall. The snows melt in Jamrock.

Where the hood, where the hood, where the hood at?

Why am I not there?

Shudder, look further...

SHIVERS -

HAVE A BROTHER IN THE CUT. WHERE THE WOOD AT?

2. Why am I not there?

SHIVERS - To be in Martinaise, where no one goes. At the run-off point of a long-forgotten canal, in the whitest part of town. In the shadow of the day the Revolution failed.

White is the color of communism in Elysium, remember.

What am I doing here?

SHIVERS - Standing in the rain, looking north, where Jamrock Rock City stretches inland.

3. Shudder, look further...

SHIVERS - In the rain-swept distance above the rooftops of Jamrock, a re-purposed silk mill stands perched above the motorway exit. Precinct 41 hunches in the rain.

+5 XP

MACK TORSON - "Wonder if Vic's found his long lost boyfriend yet." He looks over at Chester McLaine and breaks into a laugh at his own joke. The rain falls outside.

CHESTER MCLAINE - "Mack, they're *hetero-sexual life partners*. It's not like that," his partner smirks. "But yeah. There's trouble in paradise for that duo, Tequila Sunset has..." The sound of the rain grows so loud it drowns out his voice.

SHIVERS - Your vision blurs. You wipe your face with your hand. The rain stings your eyes, making you look up and blink.

5. What's above?

SHIVERS - Coalition aerostatics hang like apparitions under the cloud cover. Way up there -- where rain forms -- rotors flutter silently. Your sight clears.

6. What's below?

SHIVERS - Collapsed storm drains. Old sewage systems flooded with rainwater. Hidden weapon caches from the Revolution. Doors leading down to Le Royaume -- the catacombs to which, for three centuries, they delivered the blue-blooded dead.

7. "Motherfucker." [Finish thought.]

SHIVERS - These spring thaw will not last. The winter will return to Revachol.

+5 XP

No point staying out any later without Kim here. Let's turn in for the night.

Seems the walker was either very confused or drunk out of his mind.

SHACK DOOR - It's getting cold this late in the night. Time to call it a day.

Enter the shack.

Not yet. [Leave.]

🎵 Coastal Shack

SHIVERS - A brisk coastal wind still howls against the window of the shack. Occasionally the waves crawl in under the foundation, producing a low hum...

Listen.

Shake it off. [Discard thought.]

SHIVERS - The room feels muffled, like you pulled your hat over your ears. Outside, it is cold and windy, but you're inside, and it feels safe and warm.

SHIVERS -

WHAT IS THIS PLACE TO YOU?

[thorongil82]

Till Death Leads Us Away

When he returns to Katolis, he makes sure Sarai's okay. That when Sol Regem burnt to cinders, she remained untouched. And when he begs for forgiveness, he weeps. A waiver every sentence. A sniffle every break. A break every second. And his family hold him close. Chase his blame to ash and flame.

And when she watches she aches. To reach and comfort the one younger than him. The one who has needed to defend his throne. To aid he who has brought their worlds together.

And when she kneels before Sarai, she promises to keep him safe. And in return, if she may ask, please let her mothers know her fate.

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

When the war is over, she finds herself before her mothers. She tells them it's all over. That they can truly rest. That no one else should ever have to sacrifice themselves as they did. She tells them how her brother grows. How strong he is. How he's kept her safe and sane. And she quickly brings herself to touch on how well Ezran has kept her on task, to bringing the conflict with Aaravos to an end.

When he arrives to celebrate, he first visits the queens. He pays respects, he thanks their aid, he hopes things could be better. And then, when he could talk of peace, he makes sure to praise their daughter. Her aid to ally, her call to arms, her sass, her wit, her charm.

He knows she's helped him more than he could ask for, and he says he'll help her till forevermore.

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

When he comes of age, he already knows the burden of his rule. That his partner had best be prepared to rule. That love must take a back seat. And yet, he confesses to his mother, that welcoming smile across his face. He nearly begs to be able to do as they did, wed for love instead of strength.

And though no name passes his lips, the bow may well have shot.

Opelli's invitations have been sent, and no Queen would dare beset, that the closest of their allies would come of age without their presence. Immediately Aanya declares to go, forgoing her council's stares. She knows just where she needs to be. Katolis is her goal.

And when she arrives, she pays respects, Sarai's graceful smile aimed down. As she vows, knowing full well how, greedy nobles seek to strike.

So though she knows this party's thrown to maybe bring about a partner fair, Aanya'll forgo her ache to truly make sure her close friend's heart is treasured.

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

When word reaches him of Neolandia's betrayal, he rises to his feet. Sends word out to Amaya before rushing off to meet his stead. Not caring for the setup rush, he'll march with what he can. To Berylgarten he needs to ride, he aid his friend, his heart is soul.

Katolis cuts through the Mad King's force, breaking through the chain linked frail. Immediately the king seeks her bow, her crown, her ring, her veil. In pushing through, he looks beyond the throne to the lonesome lake. Mayhaps he seeks her mothers' may have seen her living wake.

And when he spies her caked in blood upon the slate, he holds her close, sweeps blood and tears from her face, and wishes he could kiss her till he knows she's lived her fate.

There's too much blood, too little light, the dead tower oh-so high. The seige was swift, vicious and bereft of mercy for their plight. Aanya had prepared, feared every day for vengeance for Kasef's death. Yet peaceful times leave lacking signs of defences wholly held.

Neolandia attacked as swift as they could in strength beyond their means. A swift attack, one strike alight, aimed straight to kill the Queen. They carved their way to the castle gates, the capital besieged. A call sent out, more hope than faith, that aid may come their way.

When Katolis' horn blew out so loud, she could barely hear their call. To busy defending her people's home, she'd been lost to death and war. And only seeing Ezran's crown, coupled with Aihling's fall, could Aanya finally rest, her battle-weary form collapsing into her king's soft grasp.

Beneath her mother's visage, he gently cleaned away the muck, crimson ichor stained her face. She could finally rest within his arms, longing for one last request.

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

A final peace brokered between men and elves was born at last by all. Berylgarten's attack the final nail to bring all together as one. Neolandia's collapse, their monitered rule brought peace to human lands, and with the end of this final war elven-kind followed in peaceful bands. As part of this, the border of Duren and Katolis shared a new town, by insistence of the King and Queen new statues would be set aground. The Queens of Duren, the Queen Sarai, measurement of their sacrifice, and by her side, King Harrow's kindly smile completes their hopeful mound.

Despite the incomplete nature of the courtyard, Ezran brings Aanya to this spot. He smiles and laughs as she jokes and scoffs, no rule between them at all. And though Opelli may well kill him for his lack of contemplation, it's in this new home - before their parents, he proposes marriage to her.

She cups his face, kisses him so soft, she whispers yes evermore. And when the town is finished do they wed, beneath their parents' caring looks, a bond forged in sacrifice and love.

[bestworstcase]

Psychopomp Cinder

false! silver-eyes are psychopomps.

cinder is a phoenix

even the smallest spark of hope is enough to ignite change -> the light of hope is taken/and discontent is the contagion/the blinding eyes/that burn a yellow flame/the embers that remain will light the fuse of condemnation -> out of the ashes a new flame ignite.

fire is hope. the death of hope is wrath. wrath is fire. when salem says she’ll devote all her efforts to extinguish ozpin’s hope, she doesn’t mean she wants to crush the world in despair; she means to incite revolution. cinder is the conflagration that destroys hope and the new flame born from the ashes.

’s partly why she keeps having death fake outs. she’s the phoenix burning and rising from her own ashes.

also this and this and this and this and this and this and there’s more but i can only hunt through my blog archive for so long before the marbles fall out of my head.

[ruiniel]

A name, a heart

Rating: M

Relationships: Galadriel/Adar

Additional Tags: TROP S1, Written before S2, Past Relationship(s), Flashbacks, Emotional, Crossover, Imprisonment, Past Torture, The Silmarillion References, Original Character(s), Heavy Angst, Dialogue Heavy, Mild Sexual Content, another AU name for Adar

Count: 5.3k

Also on AO3

Written for @tolkienrsb 2023 for @clumsycopy's wonderful art. See the artwork here.

Summary:

The world is on the precipice of another change, shaken to its foundations. In the immediate aftermath of the 'creation' of Mordor, a weakened Galadriel seeks her companions and is captured by the enemy. What happens when the past and present converge? A short story about choices.

An ashen haze blankets the land between her fluttering eyelids, casting a reddish hue upon all it touches. Her heart races—she remembers little of what had come to be, at first. 

A hissing sensation like a wolf bite on the exposed skin of her forearm jolts her to consciousness: a ragged dark burn.

She remembers, then: the catastrophic explosion; the anger of the mountain; the burst of fire and poisonous fumes enveloping them. 

She tries to move, but sees restraints tethering her to the earth, binding her to the trunk of a tree. The elf struggles—to no avail. Her sharp gaze seeks through the smoke and cinders in a desperate pursuit. She twists and turns, attempting to find a vulnerability in the bindings. But all is agony, for the rope digs into her burns, and her efforts yield a blaze of pain. 

I was… I was searching for the others… I was… alone…

Her companions, her friends, her comrades in arms. Anguish grips her by the throat, and her voice cuts through the choking air, calling out names that echo faintly in the distance.

There is no response, but for the eerie silence of a world forever altered. 

Striding forward… I was… searching for the others… she repeats in thought. Her steps had been cautious, deliberate, but she could barely see, hear, or stand. And now fresh wounds plague her, and she is trapped, with ash on her face and lips and uncertainty in her heart.

I am… captured…  

“Halbrand…” A name she knows. “Elendil…” she repeats the names over and over. 

Now she strides forward, stumbling through the nether, the harshness of the landscape assaulting her senses. Now she stumbles, now she rises, eyes stinging and lungs begging for release, but she carries on. 

Everything… burns…

Something cold and rough on her skin, crawling. Her eyes snap open, and she coils like a cornered animal, her instinct to reach for her sword.

I am… bound…

She falls, sliding against the tree trunk. Her back meets hard earth. Her tattered gambeson is torn, her breastplate—all her armor—gone. 

“Stay… away from me…” she hisses at the twisted figure looming over her, shakes her head to be free of the touch, fails. Stubbornly, the elf seeks to keep her eyes open, but she is thirsty and exhausted, and the burns ache; her bones hurt. “... Halbrand… Elendil…”

She is restrained with crude yet sturdy knots. The commander of the northern armies turns on her side, gasping in pain and hopelessly trying to observe yet another figure, having joined the first. 

No… not them…  

The guttural sounds reach her amid a stifling fog. “... fever took’er. She’s not in ‘er right mind, hasn’t been for a while now.”

I must escape, I must … Her eyes move rapidly beneath her lowered lashes, but that only enhances the pressure upon her temples, the shortness of her breath. 

The clink of steel on steel, a heaviness of step; a presence, more dangerous than any of them, for she yet feels a remnant of that which rests within her: the fringes of a fëa, so close, so close… pulsing like a gaping, infested wound; a voice that had riled, challenged and mocked her mere days before.

Must… escape…

“Unbind her, for now. I will consider the rest.” The sheen of murk in green eyes, of twisted anger, of triumph. 

“Yes, lord Father.”

A grin, a clawed hand reaching for her, the tendrils of the shattered fëa like dagger wounds to her own.

Galadriel screams.

※※※

Hours, perhaps days, pass this way. The elf drifts in and out of awareness, memories milling like smoke about her. Sometimes someone moves her, and she has not the strength to defend herself; vulnerable. She curses them in her mind.

Other times, instead of the cold, clammy touch, there is warmth. She tries opening her eyes then, tries to see—but the vision is blurry, bedecked with green and a memory so faded it fails to resurface, like the sunken skeleton of a warship drowned by Ossë’s fury. 

The cloth sticks to her skin, her hair reeks of smoke and sweat. Sometimes she finds enough strength to lift herself up, to prop her back against the tree she is shackled to.

It is then, ignored and unmoving, that she watches them milling about, building. Her heart is heavy with disdain, but something is different here. As time goes on, something shifts—indefinable, at first. Galadriel sees an order of sorts: gestures that are not threatening, glimpses of conversation and collaboration. She sees them caring for each other in strange ways: there is no affection, no show of tenderness—nor would she expect such, knowing what she does of orcs. She felled them by the hundreds, thousands, Age after Age, and now here she is: the prisoner of a ragged legion that somehow succeeded what the great Sauron had not: forging themselves a kingdom in Middle-earth. Their language, once nothing but guttural grunts, in time becomes a hackling noise she can filter from her thought.

They heed her not, but each day—or what she thinks is a new day—Galadriel finds two crude, carven bowls by her side: one with murky water, the other with an assortment of something undefinable.

“Eat,” orders one. 

She acts as though she’s not heard, struggling against the bonds again. Usually, they leave her be after this. 

“If you don’t eat, you die,” the orc insists. 

Galadriel looks to her tattered clothing; someone had stripped her of her plates, yes, and there are foul-smelling bandages wrapped around the wounds on her arms. “What would your master keep me alive for, I wonder?” Her gaze cuts to the orc, scalding, though the creature seems unperturbed.

“You may ask him yourself,” the orc mumbles, looking away as he trudges off, leaving her somewhat uneasy.

“Kill me and be done with it, then! What’s the purpose of this?!” she cries after the orc.

“Adar, stubborn, this one,” the loathsome being grumbles as footfalls draw near. How she would gift the fiend the sharpness of a blade.

“Adar…” Galadriel snorts, speaking to herself. “That is a name of honor among the elves. One your kind would know nothing about!” she cries, her voice hoarse with disuse.

“Honor… is such a relative ideal.”

She starts. She knows that voice. Her eyes narrow as Galadriel regards the speaker with skepticism and loathing, looking up from the boots planted before her. How had she not noticed the filth?

“Still, you do not understand…” the tall leader she had kept bound in a shed not long ago now stares down at her, then at the ashen ground between them. “We are more than a tribe, more than a legion. We are a family, bound by something deeper than blood. We sought a home, a place of freedom, away from the chains that have confined us… for so long.”

Galadriel’s eyes narrow further, her initial contempt now tinged with curiosity. “You sought a home and took it from others. Chains? You speak as if you were once enslaved.”

Adar’s gaze remains steady, his voice low but resolute. “We were. Enslaved by chaos, and after… by the savagery of a world that gave us no choice but to become what we are.”

She studies him, the flicker of something deeper stirring her heart. “And what are you, Adar, but a father to these beasts?”

His eyes hold hers, unflinching. “We are orcs, Artanis,” he says. “Uruk,” he repeats slowly, meaningfully, recalling their first encounter.

Her throat bobs. “How do you know my name?” The memory from before rises slowly from the depths, but now she desperately does not wish it to, though she knows not why.

“But we are also warriors, survivors, and yes, we are capable of feeling, of care… daughter of Arafinwë,” her captor follows—in Quenya.

He stands there, straight and expressionless, watching her.

Galadriel blinks. “You remember your mother tongue.”

One of the first… among the first… the Moringotto, he…

A shift in the air; the unseen wound pulses again—his, she senses it now—making her sick and there is no doubt: this fëa is twisted and fractured beyond hope.

He whom the orcs call ‘father’ tilts his head in silence, staring through her. “It is not my mother tongue.”

Galadriel struggles anew, despite knowing it is futile. “What will you do to me?” she snaps.

He watches, unmoving, and she detests him all the more for this pretense at civility.

“What would you have done to me, Arafinwëan?”

“You know my name, know of my family,” Galadriel shudders. Her features tighten. “When were you taken?”

He looks up at the reddened skies. “Long ago. Longer than you recall.” It is stated as fact, in a strange voice that drips scorn, but also—something else. “What does it matter?” the uruk asks the skies in a faraway voice.

Galadriel glances up at him, clad in remnants of First Age plate, the details long faded. “Answer my other question, then.”

His gaze lowers, meeting hers, his green eyes holding a flicker of something she cannot quite fathom. “Well, to tell you the truth…” Slowly he descends, level with her eyes.

Galadriel draws back. 

“I find it strange… very curious indeed…” 

He seems to want to reach for her; Galadriel lifts her chin in defiance, though his proximity feels… feels…

“... how swiftly the tables have turned.”

He closes his eyes, and Galadriel squirms as an image flares before her, like a veil embroidered in silver and gold. 

Two figures, together upon a verdant hill. Fireflies, golden-green, and a warm hand on her knee. 

...do you ever dream of freedom?

Her eyes flare open, meeting his. “...no… it… it cannot…“

He lowers his head, lets her simmer, suffer, toil.

“… you… the-the things you’ve done… you…”

The uruk meets her gaze then, a flash of misery in his darkened stare, so swiftly smothered she might have imagined it.

Galadriel looks closer: at the scars etched across his features, at what they disguise. His dark hair, contrasting sharply with his pale, ravaged skin; green eyes, once lit by Telperion’s enigmatic light. 

“Do you still dream of freedom, Artanis?”

The words, the voice, hurl her spirit through a lashing of loss and memory: past the struggles of a new world, beyond comfortable ignorance and seas of sunken dreams. 

Shivering, barely breathing, she shakes her head mutely. “You… you were gone… you are…”

The uruk stands, fists clenched at his sides. “I am what you see before you.” He looks at her one last time, then turns and makes to leave.

“Wait...” The word struggles in her mouth, ribbons of buried pain tangling them together. The sounds refuse to form. “Wait… ��� she croaks.

I want you to live...

Her cry pierces through the mist, gaining berth like endless ripples in the tides of time.

“Oren!”

The uruk stops in his tracks.

※※※

In the dim light of a late hour, two elves lie beneath the glittering boughs of Irmo’s gardens. Artanis twirls her fair hair, shimmering gold and silver, then gazes up at the one whose presence seems to ignite this very stillness with vigor and depth.

“Do you ever dream of freedom, Oren?” she asks, her voice soft, laced with longing. Her head rests on his shoulder. 

Oren’s eyes are the color of deep, wild forests, darker now that his expression turns contemplative. “Freedom is a concept that touches every heart, even those who dwell at the feet of the Valar.”

Artanis sighs, her eyes fixed on the horizon. “But here, even in this blessed realm, there are rules and expectations. Is it truly freedom if we are bound by the very ideals we impose upon each other?”

Oren’s long fingers brush her cheek, a tender gesture she absorbs like grass does dew. “Perhaps… true freedom lies not in escaping the rules, but in finding ways to shape them, to create a world where every creature can thrive.”

He’s been alive for longer than she. He’d known the old world. Perhaps that is the reason Artanis cannot comprehend him, at times. 

“Do you not miss them? The starlit lands of your begetting? Home?”

Oren hums, his chest vibrating with amusement. He is warm, so warm, and she ought to have a care, but why should she? He does not follow the Noldorin laws as such, either way. Artanis finds she enjoys that, perhaps more than she should.

“Are you laughing off my honest question?” she demands, lacing her fingers with his. 

“Home is here,” Oren says, placing her hand over his heart. “Where you are.”

Her spirit sings. They met during a festival once at the base of Taniquetil. Artanis discovered he was one of those who’d come, a child being, to the Blessed Realm after the Great March. His parents had perished on the way, after they crossed the mountains.

Artanis did not know of death. It frightened her, but fascinated her, and before she knew it, it was always more questions, more encounters, more, more, more, day after day.

Now her cheeks feel hot while the conversation delves into other depths of thought and reasoning, each word carrying a weight of dreams and yearnings roaming beyond the confines of Valinor.

The echoes of their heated argument still resonate through the halls, a stark reminder of the division breaking kin and kindred apart. Artanis paces, her eyes ablaze with determination.

Oren watches, a meld of concern and frustration on his sharp features.

“You cannot, Artanis,” he pleads, voice laced with worry. “The lands beyond these shores are warped, changed by treachery of the Moringotto.”

Artanis stops abruptly, her gaze locked to his. “And that is precisely why I must go. That which he stole is the last remnant of our former life here, Oren. It holds a power that must not remain in his grasp. We must retrieve it, attempt to restore the light swallowed by chaos, and gain our freedom by doing so.”

Oren’s hands clench into fists, his jaw set. “And what of us? What of those dreams, all those words of a future? Together?”

She reaches for his hand, her touch gentle yet resolute. “Our dreams, Oren, are woven into the tapestry of Arda. I cannot turn my back on this. I must go.”

“My dear, dear Artanis.” Oren sighs, his long fingers barely grazing her cheek. When hers encircle his wrist, his blood quickens, as happens much too often lately for his liking. “Would you go forth into the unknown, so eagerly hunting a darkness I long to forget? Did I not share of what lies beyond the light of Valinórë?” He watches the changing gleam in her eyes, brimming with light, remnants of the last heartbeat of a realm now withered and cold. Oren does not even consider his impulse as his thumb runs a soft line beneath one golden lash; her grip tightens around his hand.

 “Look around us, Oren,” Artanis says with a sad smile. “There is no more light in Valinórë.” 

A crystal-cutting gaze he’d come to know of the daughter of Arafinwë in her most decisive moments draws him hopelessly in, as does the stubbornness which now evokes a feeling buried beneath forgetful years of bliss: fear.

“I would go to fight it,” she continues, her other hand warm against his chest, fingers pressed over his heart, “to defeat it, and see a world you were forced to leave behind,” she hesitates, “one you could live in again, free, in the lands you once called home—your true home, and ours.” 

Her hold on his wrist slackens, and despite the pull of his spirit, Oren pushes against the snares of need. “Prince Fëanáro speaks in the heat of despair,” he follows in his frank, unadorned manner, knowing well her usual stance on any matters concerning her half-uncle. “And yet, you follow the glint of madness in his eyes. You, Artanis?”

 “But you forget, a prince he is no longer,” Artanis retorts, her pleading turned stone as she takes a step back. Death has found a king in the Undying Lands, and now a son takes up a father’s banners. “I follow the promise of freedom.”

“And what if all you find in Endórë is thralldom?” 

He utters each word with care, a pointed pressure recalling old pains. She has begun to lose her temper, he can see it, and the rays of her will feel like the palpable brush of naked flame: distracting, bewildering. When was the last time his own composure and patience had slipped in this manner? Oren wills himself to stillness.

“You would have me stay behind, forgoing my family where I could aid them,” she says. “Like a craven.”

There it is. When Artanis feels cornered, she knows where to aim and at any other time, with any other occasion in the past, he might have been tempted to spar. But now Oren nears her, close, closer on quiet steps, his eyes carrying their own light. She once told him they must be akin to the cold reflections of stars in old rivers.

“I would have you live. This is a fool’s errand.” He appraises her stiff bearing, her fëa binding itself around her like a shield; and he remembers how one can be painfully, utterly alone.

The flickering candlelight licks against her features, enhancing the gold in her irises and the defiant sickle-smile on her lips. “My decision is final. You may choose to join my family, or to remain and tend to the ashes here.” 

No sooner does she turn to leave than Oren catches her by the hand. “Please.” 

He never begged anyone for anything in all his days. “Beware the one using wrath as their guide, for it will be their ruin. And yours.”

Artanis snatches her hand away; it hurts like a blow.

“I feel no fear. There are ones who can stay the flames of my uncle’s moods.” She regards him one last time. “We leave as soon as all is prepared. Seek me out if you choose to come.”

“And what if I choose to stay?” Oren calls after her retreating figure, receiving no reply.

※※※

There is no end to this. She slashes and cuts, parries and strikes down another beast, then another, and another. The daughter of Arafinwë struggles amid yet another battle, her fingers stiff around the hilt of her sword. They’ve reached the lands of Endórë through Ice and death, and the beasts of the enemy sprout in endless numbers. Not a day passes without a skirmish. Now, she looks to the left, gathering the state of affairs: her brothers each hold their own, her cousins are well enough—though still mourning the loss of Arakáno, the youngest. She seeks through the mayhem, meeting a pair of emerald-green eyes in a silvery visor. 

She sighs in relief as Oren nods, continuing to fell enemies left and right.

At first, Artanis had hoped he would change his mind and join the host departing darkened Valinor for Endórë. She never imposed such on him, but in truth, would have been devastated if he hadn’t come. Yes, she is selfish. But he is here, and that is all that matters. After many arguments, he chose to follow her, their people. Oren was deemed a valuable source of knowledge besides, having walked the wilds of Beleriand where many had not.

They seek each other on the battlefield, no matter the situation, in every budding conflict. No matter the challenge, one truth remains: together they are stronger.

When he fails to appear in the sphere of her sight for longer than she is used to, Artanis wavers, but carries on. It is the nature of such battles. I will find him after, when we reconvene. We’ve done this before. It is always the same: a verbal lashing, an irate but relieved reunion, a reiteration of strategy.

They made the right choice to journey here. She sees no regrets in his eyes whenever Oren looks at her, his gaze her guiding light amid an ever twilight. She will find him later. It is always the same.

※※※

Galadriel snatches her arm away, unable to stand the touch of the orc upon her. 

“If you do not let him help, the wound will fester. You may be immune to pestilence, but trust me, it will keep you well and weak for a long while.”

Galadriel stares at the uruk as his subordinate unfolds an array of bowls, pouches and strips.

“Trust you... what is he doing?” 

“Drakgna is a healer,” says Adar—Oren—gazing at the gestures of his orc, eyes not straying her way.

Galadriel peers at him, unable to tear her own eyes away. It had taken her a long while to come to terms with who he is; what he’s done... is another matter altogether.

How had she not seen it? Back in that shed, she’d looked him in the eye and had not recognized him, had told him she would be the end of him and his ilk. Now it all seems to fit together, like a poorly done child’s guessing game. Yes, she remembers.

The sadness that lingered in his eyes always, the high cheekbones, the rich, sable hair—remnants, pieces of it all. The way he moves, the quiet confidence. The ruthlessness and cruelty… they are new, altogether new, but can she blame him? She wants to. She must. She should.

“I’ve searched for you then,” Galadriel murmurs, so faint no human ears would hear. “For days, weeks. Months.”

“And your search would have been in vain,” he says, and now the inflection of his voice strikes differently. “Lest you sought the deepest dungeons of the Moringotto, and even then…” he trails off, staring at the orc now bandaging her arm.

“When the War of Wrath ended, they did.” She’d buried him long ago, in truth. She’d learned to live without, found another. And now… now he is here. “Why did you not seek me out when you escaped?”

He laughs; it is bitter. “I have fought against my kind, at the end of all things, before the world was changed. I knew little of myself in those days, and remembered no one. Least of all, the trappings of my former self’s heart.”

“Trappings,” Galadriel mutters, hissing at the salve the healer is applying with such care it leaves her bewildered.

“Yes, Artanis. All was an eternal shackle, from the bindings around my fëa to the bonds fastening my limbs.”

She tries to hate him still, remembering what he’s done, what he’s brought about.

She cannot. She missed hearing her name this way, and it tastes of childish fancy, of a time when all was well.

“But… you were right, in the end. After all… now,” he gazes at his clawed vambrace, curls his fingers in his palm, “I know what true freedom is like.” His eyes stray toward the dying forest, to the orcs moving in broad daylight without issue. 

“Oren—”

“I’d dream of you, sometimes,” he suddenly speaks, rendering her silent. 

Galadriel hisses; the peculiar, rough bandage feels oddly cool on her burn wound. 

“... most often, there was absolute darkness. And then…” he looks up at her, before his gaze tilts back down.

“... and then?”

Their exchange back in that shed flows through her mind, every word, every look and cold, acidic reply. 

“You’d always remembered?” she asks when he falls into silence. 

A nod. 

“... why didn’t you…”

“Speak?” Oren asks, half a smile pulling at his scarred lips. “To what end? You were so driven, so angry you could not even see me.”

He throws her a side-glance, then looks back to the ground. “Our ways have long since parted.”

“Indeed, they have.” Again she is wroth, but not with him.

“It was always night in my dream, a choking void,” Oren continues, closing the subject. “It all began during the first years of torment—in the times between their experiments, I was left to linger in the dark. Unchained. I could not go far. They’d used something to blind me. “But then, you would appear, donned in flowing white, with stars and moonlight about you, your robes glimmering with them.”

Galadriel swallows. “Our last evening together, in Valinor.”

Oren stares ahead, listless. “It kept me alive for a good while, that dream. You always carried golden flowers, and lay them in my lap.”

“I never did that.”

“I know,” Oren says, and to her utmost surprise, smiles. “That was my own thought. They were fresh, the flowers. Alive. All that I was not.” He gazes at her then with a stare that holds the weight of a thousand years. “For that dream alone… I grant you your release from bondage. Once.”

She swallows. “Oren…”

She tries reaching for him despite herself; he stands. They are alone, the healer having retreated.

“That is no longer my name.”

Her voice is a desperate whisper, carried by the putrid winds. “Come with me.”

His gaze turns heavy, eyes glowing with faded light. “The paths we walk are our own. My kin, my children—there is a bond that ties us together. I cannot abandon them. You knew this before you even asked.” He produces a dagger, takes her hand, and cuts through the ropes.

Galadriel stands wearily, grimacing at the stiffness in her back and legs, the renewed blood flow making her dizzy. Nearly falling forward, she meets support by way of a chain-mailled arm. She looks him in the eye again. Yes, it is he. She takes a step back, heart heavy yet resolute. “Our choices shape our future. You choose to remain and lead those born of darkness.”

They stare at each other for a long time. 

“Aye,” says Oren, “I choose it, Artanis. Just as you chose to come here, an Age and more ago.”

Galadriel nods, presses her eyes tightly shut. She whirls away from him. “You will be hunted.”

“I am well accustomed to it.”

A hand, warm and scarred, brushes against hers ever so briefly. “Go, commander. You killed your jailors, you plotted your escape. You know nothing of their whereabouts.”

“You know I cannot lie about this.”

There comes no answer. She swallows, turns around after a moment, an eternity of doubt.

“But there are those who lie to you,” he says.

Galadriel frowns. “What do you speak of?”

“Your allies… are not all what they seem,” Oren grins, all tenderness and reminiscence gone from the elf she once knew. Now the uruk speaks.

“No one is what they seem, are they, Oren?” she retorts, surprised at the flash of anger, suppressed from his expression.

“Heed me. Trust not the most gifted of them.” And with that, he smiles, a smile that rends her hapless and burning all the same. 

She cannot find her words, not until he’s already walking away. 

“What does that mean? Oren!”

She follows him, knowing she should not. But the burn within, leaving her raw and yearning for an Age, guides her steps, and she does not stop until her hand is on his arm, does not stop when she is suddenly drawn close into a crushing embrace.

This is all they’ll ever have. No one will ever know.

No one…

“... the river,” he murmurs, and she nods, reason abandoned as they drift together not far, towards a river yet untouched by the blight settled over the land. Feverish again, she swiftly discards her clothes, as she watches him do the same. She watches the scars, feels the muscle beneath as he crushes her in an embrace, delving with her into the water.

It is cold; beneath the river she kisses his mangled cheek, his chin, returns for air only to be drawn back and held, to feel claws scraping the skin of her scalp, gliding to the nape of her neck, down her spine. He’d always felt like home, and the wound to his fëa aches, hurts her too.

“... is this a dream as well?” Oren asks her, or no one, but she hears it, and knows he has spoken into her thought, as they used to do hundreds of years before when she was a sapling and he was her guide, her first love, her first notion of freedom.

It does not last long. He finds a spot to retreat to: a hidden cove close to the riverbank, unspoiled and fragrant. 

She’s not felt the touch of another upon her skin for so long, and now every glide and warm slip of roughened, clawed fingers steals a sigh from her; Galadriel clutches at his back, finds herself biting at his kiss.

There is no tenderness: it all happens fast, rough, angry almost—on both sides. She gives him no ground, he yields none either. She moans into his famished kisses, wraps her legs around him, sets free the unmatched relief and flood of light drowning her within; gifts it to him.

She feels his pain, feels the dark repelling her, but he will not release her: he fights it, fights against the urges foreign to his first kin, instilled into him by warped intent. He protects them both, driving into her and burying his head against her neck, whispering her name in time with her sighs. 

“I thought you… were dead…” she utters between kisses, hips tilting upward.

“I was,” Oren binds an arm around her, raises her as he sits and easily places her into his lap.

Galadriel gasps: he feels good, and she sees him now where she had not before. 

“Oren…” 

She thinks she sees a sickle moon, languishing in the sky.

“Oren, I…”

Her robes are white, the night is black. Above her, he is crowned with stars, his eyes are kind and his touch is gentle, and when she speaks the words, he lowers his head to rest upon her breast. “Is this my dream, or yours?”

“I do not know,” comes the faint reply.

But they know the truth: it does not matter.

※※※

Come morning, she awakens to the cold. Galadriel places a hand to her temple, then, seeing herself alone, swiftly dons her garments. Her pieces of armor, once stripped away during the first days of capture, now rest by the closest tree. Her sword is there also, in its scabbard.

Cautious, wondering where he’d gone, Galadriel takes a few steps, and between ancient trees she sees him. His back is turned. She waits.

“You must leave now.”

She’d expected this. “Are you certain this is your wish?”

A beat of silence, and another. “You are living your truth, Artanis, as I am mine. I cannot join you anymore than you can stay.”

It should never have been this way. The guilt she feels overpowers her, but somehow she yet stands. 

“Remember what I told you,” come the last words Oren speaks before he departs, and his figure fades into the distance, silent in its wraithlike stalk; not once does he look back.

Galadriel turns away, wiping her eyes. She rushes, facing the horizon lying ahead beyond dust and poison. She walks.

One step, then another. She walks, and walks, thinking of the touch impressed upon her skin, burdened with longing, of a green gaze upon her. She walks until the sun pierces through the smog, brushing her with golden rays; she falls. 

On her knees, her forehead against the cold, filthy ground, she weeps until she cannot, until there is nothing left to shed, until the pain has become a dried stream stinging her eyes and burning her chest. She cannot ask why, it would be useless.

The world is changed. All around her, it bears scars old and new—including her, including them. They each have their role set, the pieces are on the board, falling or advancing or forcefully flung aside. And yet, there remains a shard of hope; one forged long ago and living by the memory of warmth, nurtured once by two twined hands beneath the tinted skies of Valinor.

[pirate-banana]

hello, it's me again at 2:30am, thinking about Asgore........ WAOUOUGH. Does he destroy your mercy button because he knows he wouldn't last? because he knows he would take it? Are his eye flashes a requirement of his trident attack, or is he signaling to make things fair? He gives you every last chance to take care of unfinished business, but is he really saying "run! run as far as you can! I will not chase you."? You tell him he's killed you five times. He nods grievously. You tell him he's killed you too many times to count. He nods pitifully. How many times has he been through this song and dance. How many times has a determined child reached him. Trying to bring Justice, pleading with him not to fight, begging him to see reason. He doesn't want to cross the barrier, not really. Hating humanity is a lie he tells himself, if he even bothers to tell himself it anymore. Or does it loop through his head? Who is he doing this for, again, he wonders, as he trains a hotheaded youth in the ways of combat he hopes she never sees. What is the nature of his duty? By the time you reach him, he is fighting with everything he is, but is he really trying? He declared war on humanity, but the true war he fights is with himself. He gives it everything he has, but that means not fighting with his true potential. A loving, caring man reduced to cinders every time a child falls. They come, they leave, they die. And like a phoenix Asgore rises from the ashes, but a little weaker this time. Unwavering in his convictions, but a little less certain in the reasons behind them. All he wants is to see his kids again. Ugh. I can't properly express what this goat man does to me. Kind beyond measure, but the weight of the hatred he makes himself bear, the gaping hole of a sunk cost, turns him into something much, much worse than the loving monster he otherwise is. A man that refuses to chase his goals, but refuses to free himself of them. A man that can not, will not, break, but is screaming out to the world in a prayer that something, someone will break him. That he can be free from this terrible, terrible self-inflicted burden that is so integral to his being. And when he lies defeated, broken but not yet dead, trembling, he allows himself to be put back together. AND THEN THAT FUCKING YELLOW PETALED MENACE!!!!! (jk love you too flowey, I am just sobbing about someone else for a change). Anyway... Asgore good. Want 2 give the man a hug, but that would probably make him fall down. Maybe a cup of tea is a better option.

[bakuliwrites]

Lunar Halo, Chapter One- Acolyte

Rating: 18+ (for future chapters), Minors DNI!!!!!

Chapter Links: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, Ending 1, Ending 2

Fandom: Dark Souls

Relationships: Dark Sun Gwyndolin/OC, Dark Sun Gwyndolin/Chosen Undead

Tags for Whole Work: Major Character Death, Angst, Fluff, Smut, Romance, Grief/Mourning, Body Horror, Body Worship, Oral S*x, Penetrative S*x, Vaginal Fingering, Friends to Lovers, Bodyguard Romance, Blades of the Darkmoon, Marriage (and not in the Dark Souls 3 definition of it...), Marriage Proposal, Gwyndolin uses he/him pronouns, Falling in Love

Chapter Summary: Gwyndolin receives a prospective new acolyte for the Blades of the Darkmoon. He has little hope for her success. Read here or on my AO3

She kneels before the misted gate on bended knee, head bowed in reverence to an unseen god. It has been so long since Gwyndolin last received any visitors, since he last received a prospective acolyte. Her garb is simple, robes sullied by calcium dust, bone ground to powder by the cyclic passage of time. Dark blood crusts beneath her fingertips, metallic remnants of enemies disposed of. The woman appears haggard, gaunt, perhaps hollow. Until, at his words, she lifts her face and Gwyndolin realizes that she is merely weathered by the weight of this world’s sins. She will be perfect for his order.  

“Now thou art a Blade of the Darkmoon,” Gwyndolin proclaims, gazing at the figure knelt before the Tomb of his Father. A fragile mortal, who will no doubt be reduced to a pile of cinder and charred bone soon enough, as it happens with most of his human initiates. But Gwyndolin cannot afford to be picky. Not with the state of the world: an ash heap of desolation and ruin. As long as this creature, in all its sublunary brittleness, can pledge loyalty to the Dark Sun and his covenant, that is all Gwyndolin can ask for. 

“Hunteth the enemies of the Lords, by the power of the Dark Sun,” he blesses, permitting his newest initiate to rise. She does so with grace, bowing her head as she pledges herself, swathes of dust sloughing off of her robes.

“It shall be done, Lord Gwyndolin,” her voice sounds, her hand to her heart, “My fealty is to you, to the Covenant, and to the protection of the Lords in their holy thrones.”

“Very well,” the Dark Sun returns, waving a hand in dismissal, not that this mortal can see him through the dense wall of fog separating them, “Carry out thy duties in this land. Return to me when thou hast something to show for it.” 

With a chivalrous bow, she marches off, either to dole out punishment in the name of the Darkmoon or to die in the name of justice. Or perhaps even to become kindling for the Flame. Gwyndolin glides back to his seat beside his Father’s grave and solemnly waits. He has little hope for her success, but he will hope nonetheless. As is his duty, ever faithful Gwyndolin, child of Gwyn.

“I have returned to you, My Lord,” her voice sounds, cutting through the fog and lifting Gwyndolin out of sorrowful daydreams and worried ruminations. How long has it been since she left? Weeks, it seems. Years, perhaps. Regardless, this Blade has returned, and she has returned victorious.

“I bear gifts for you. Proof of my work,” she speaks, laying out a bounty of ears, withered and dry like bunches of morels one might pluck from fertile woodland dirt. Earthy offerings that reek of misdeed and guilt, sin pooled in the wrinkled folds of skin. 

“So many sinners,” Gwyndolin sighs, troubled by the sheer number of trophies she has brought him. Yet proud that his newest initiate has not proven to be nearly as fragile as he initially thought she might be. Perhaps there’s hope yet. 

“Thou hast done well, Blade of the Darkmoon. Please, state thy wish.”

“I ask only for what you are willing to provide, my Lord,” she humbly returns, knowing her place in this hierarchy. For such loyalty, Gwyndolin will reward her handsomely.

“Thank you, my Lord,” she speaks, stashing away her new gifts, rising to once again depart and carry out her duties. Duties that are, perhaps, endless in this sin-bloated world. Gwyndolin is impressed by her abilities. Even his greatest Blades have not been able to bring him such abundance. 

“Thou art quite skilled,” Gwyndolin calls after her before she can disappear. His Father was not one to praise, but Gwyndolin does not have it in him to withhold it when he deems someone worthy of his regard. He halts her in her steps, watches as she slowly turns around, eyes searching but not seeing through illusory gates. 

“I thank thee, Lord Gwyndolin,” she manages, her expression stoic, though Gwyndolin can see the humble joy in her eyes at his compliment. 

“Return to me with more to show and I can promise thee, thy reward will be most handsome, indeed,” he ensures. She gives a solemn nod, pressing her hand to her heart as if to say, “It will be done.” 

“Blessing of the moon upon thy journey,” Gwyndolin’s voice calls after her as she vanishes into the folds of the night.  

She returns to him, always with ears, always with justice served. Gwyndolin’s gifts are bountiful, well-deserved for a Blade so skilled, so loyal. She lays the ears of the guilty out before the fog barrier, gifts of flesh on an altar of stone. Every time, he asks her what her wish is. Every time, she humbly accepts whatever it is her Lord has to give. She’s a curious thing, he comes to realize. Quiet, solemn, but he gets no real sense of hostility from her, as he does from most things in this crumbling kingdom. Even Yorshka seems rather fond of her. 

“She is kind,” his sister explains, “Once, she brought back some budding green blossoms for me, when I told her that it had been a long while since I was last graced with the delicate fragrance of one. She returned from her journeys with not one, but three.”

Gwyndolin smiles to himself. To hear that a Blade is so kind to his younger sister brings joy to his heart. Though they have each other, the siblings live in relative solitude. Cast aside by other gods when they still walked the earth, Yorshka and Gwyndolin have never been accepted. Instead, they were abandoned for their perceived defects by a Father obsessed with perfection. Perhaps this Blade does not see such features as weaknesses, or maybe she simply doesn’t care.

Later that day, as she kneels before him, Gwyndolin lets his eyes sweep the length of her body. The weight of the punishment she dispenses is apparent in the slump of her shoulders, the bend of her back. Her robes are ratty and her armor unpolished. Aside from the fact that it does not look professional, the abysmal state of her garb is a matter of safety. Gwyndolin will have something stronger and more fitting of a Blade of the Dark Moon crafted for her at once, he decides.

“It is thankless work, ridding this world of sinners, is it not?” Gwyndolin speaks to her, compelled for some reason to address the weariness that pulls down the corners of her lips and has formed the exhausted shadows under her eyes. She smiles ruefully. 

“It must be done,” she returns, polite and restrained as always. Pity wells in the Dark Sun’s heart at the state of this poor creature. 

“Thine armor is beyond reproach,” he coldly declares, “Thou shalt have a new set crafted before thy next journey. I shall have it taken care of.”

“My deepest gratitude, my Lord,” she thanks, her voice almost a whisper in her deep fatigue. The Dark Sun sighs.

“When was it that you last rested?” he interrogates, listening to her bones crackle as she lifts herself from where she kneels. She looks neither young nor old, yet her body reflects that of a weathered soldier, doomed to innumerable years of punishing service. She does not answer her Lord’s question, too weary to know when her last slumber was. 

“There is a bedchamber down the hall. Rest and gather thy strength before setting out once again,” the Dark Sun commands. And his Blade does as she is told, dutifully resting until she has gathered strength enough to set off once more. 

A/N: Hello everyone! I have been wanting to write a fanfiction for Dark Sun Gwyndolin for a very long time now and I'm happy I've finally gotten around to it. I started writing this with the intent of it being a short spicy work and, as I should have expected, it has turned into an eleven chapter long work. I really shouldn't be surprised that this has happened. I went into deep dives for lore, which was a lot of fun. There's so much to interpret in Dark Souls, so much mystery. This fic will just feature some interpretations of certain events/characters. I am by no means an authority on Dark Souls lore. I really just wanted to have fun writing a fic for my favorite character in the series :) I technically have all eleven chapters finished, but I have decided to post each chapter over the course of the next couple weeks. I plan to try to post every other day. This will give me time to do some editing on the chapters. Thank you so much for reading! I am excited to post more. I hope you are doing well! Lots of love 💜

[fate-magical-girls]

Every "original" Cinderella story has some cool features, which would be very different from what modern readers are used to when it comes to the idea of Cinderella. Grimm and Perrault's versions are just the most famous, so it inevitably comes down to modern audiences comparing and contrasting just these two versions.

Rhodopis' story exists in two versions, one where she is a courtesan who married a pharaoh, and another where she's a courtesan who marries a rich man. In the second version, she was best friends with benefits with the storyteller Aesop and her lover was brother to Sappho. Rhodopis wasn't exactly welcomed by her new family, as Sappho wrote satires about her. Nevertheless, she ended up a very successful and very rich courtesan who made huge donations to various sanctuaries.

Ye Xian is a story adapted from indigenous peoples from China's southwest. It shows a lot of continuity with the Vietnamese story of Tam and Cam. Both of these stories offer a postcript on what happens after Cinderella marries her prince. The Tam and Cam story uses the True and False Bride motif, where the evil stepsister kills the heroine and steals her identity until the prince can uncover the truth. Ye Xian's postscript is that her descendants eventually abuse her fish benefactor's gifts until the fish's grave stops responding, and their kingdom falls when their people revolt. Ye Xian's story was mostly concentrated around Southwestern China and was relatively obscure among Han Chinese until the modern era, when Western folklorists traced its connections to Cinderella. In traditional Han Chinese Cinderella stories like The Phoenix Returns Home, the emphasis is on the ugly stepsister trying to steal Cinderella's husband, and often the happy ending includes the stepsister being married to an ugly rich guy who wants to marry Cinderella.

There's also a tendency for Chinese writers to apply Cinderella motifs to historical people, with these stories often overlapping with the motif of the Calumniated Wife, where Cinderella is abused or abandoned by her family for marrying a man they don't approve of. Figures who receive this treatment are the wife of Tang Dynasty general Xue Rengui and Empress Li, the final empress dowager of the short-lived Late Han Dynasty of the Five Dynasties period, as well as the purely fictional spin-off fairy tale of Wang Baochuan. Another historical figure who fits the Cinderella motif is Wu Zetian, China's only reigning Empress. She and her mother were harassed by her older half brothers, who barely acknowledged them as their relatives, to the point that Wu Zetian embraced the chance to enter the Imperial Harem so she could be away from her brothers. Of course, since Wu Zetian was neither fragile nor saintly, it's hard to associate her with the image of Cinderella.

The Grimm and Perrault version of Cinderella, with the prominence of the tree and the lost slipper, as well as Cinderella's persecutors being her family, tend to reflect French and Italian story motifs, with the earliest versions cited as Giambattista Basile's stories and Marie de France's lais. In Northern European areas, this story motif is found the most in Ireland and Scotland. Scandinavia, England, much of Germany, and several Eastern European countries seem to favor other types of Cinderella:

Cap o' Rushes, where Cinderella's cinders are a disguise she willingly takes on to find work in a manor, as she's on the run from her family for whatever reason. Her dresses for the ball are pre-prepared and worn underneath her Cinderella disguise, and she goes to the balls with the specific goal of seducing the prince. Her persecutors are her employers or her fellow servants, and no false brides compete with her.

The Ash-Lad, where Cinderella is male, a youngest son underestimated by his family because social awkwardness, laziness, or slovenliness. However, when disaster strikes, he rises to meet the challenge. He usually marries his princess after rescuing her from danger. His persecutors are his family and a False Hero who tries to steal his identity and achievements.

Frau Holle, where marriage to a prince is optional, and the main plot is Cinderella passing the secret character test posed by supernatural forces and gaining riches, while her ugly and rude stepsister fails the tests and suffers disaster. (Though there is a Three Heads at the Well variant where the stepsister marries a kindhearted cobbler.)

My personal theory as to why the Grimm Brothers included the Ascheputtel version of Cinderella, despite it being full of foreign story motifs, is that they're trying to draw a connection between Cinderella's dead mother (the magical tree sprouting from her grave) and Svipdag's dead mother from Scandinavian legend, the witch Groa. Aschenputtel assumes the role of a pagan Scandinavian hero, calling up the spirit of a dead prophetess to aid her.

I’m tired of hearing people say “Disney’s Cinderella is sanitized. In the original tale, the stepsisters cut off parts of their feet to make the slipper fit and get their eyes pecked out by birds in the end.”

I understand this mistake. I’m sure a lot of people buy copies of the complete Grimm’s Fairy Tales, see their tale of Aschenputtel translated as “Cinderella”, and assume what they’re reading is the “original” version of the tale. Or else they see Into the Woods and make the same assumption, because Sondheim and Lapine chose to base their Cinderella plot line on the Grimms’ Aschenputtel instead of on the more familiar version. It’s an understandable mistake. But I’m still tired of seeing it.

The Brothers Grimm didn’t originate the story of Cinderella. Their version, where there is no fairy godmother, the heroine gets her elegant clothes from a tree on her mother’s grave, and where yes, the stepsisters do cut off parts of their feet and get their eyes pecked out in the end, is not the “original.” Nor did Disney create the familiar version with the fairy godmother, the pumpkin coach, and the lack of any foot-cutting or eye-pecking.

If you really want the “original” version of the story, you’d have to go back to the 1st century Greco-Egyptian legend of Rhodopis. That tale is just this: “A Greek courtesan is bathing one day, when an eagle snatches up her sandal and carries it to the Pharaoh of Egypt. The Pharaoh searches for the owner of the sandal, finds her and makes her his queen.”

Or, if you want the first version of the entire plot, with a stepdaughter reduced to servitude by her stepmother, a special event that she’s forbidden to attend, fine clothes and shoes given to her by magic so she can attend, and her royal future husband finding her shoe after she loses it while running away, then it’s the Chinese tale of Ye Xian you’re looking for. In that version, she gets her clothes from the bones of a fish that was her only friend until her stepmother caught it and ate it.

But if you want the Cinderella story that Disney’s film was directly based on, then the version you want is the version by the French author Charles Perrault. His Cendrillon is the Cinderella story that became the best known in the Western world. His version features the fairy godmother, the pumpkin turned into a coach, mice into horses, etc, and no blood or grisly punishments for anyone. It was published in 1697. The Brothers Grimm’s Aschenputtel, with the tree on the grave, the foot-cutting, etc. was first published in 1812.

The Grimms’ grisly-edged version might feel older and more primitive while Perrault’s pretty version feels like a sanitized retelling, but such isn’t the case. They’re just two different countries’ variations on the tale, French and German, and Perrault’s is older. Nor is the Disney film sanitized. It’s based on Perrault.

[jon-sedai]

There’s something weird I never noticed before. So in ASOS, Stannis tells Davos that he saw the upcoming battle against the Others in one of Melisandre’s fires.

The ashes were white, rising in the updraft, yet all at once it seemed as if they were falling. Snow, I thought. Then the sparks in the air seemed to circle, to become a ring of torches, and I was looking through the fire down on some high hill in a forest. The cinders had become men in black behind the torches, and there were shapes moving through the snow. For all the heat of the fire, I felt a cold so terrible I shivered, and when I did the sight was gone, the fire but a fire once again. But what I saw was real, I’d stake my kingdom on it.

- Davos IV, ASOS

The “men in black behind torches” seems to suggest Night’s Watchment who are in the process of confronting the Others (“shapes moving through the snow”). I think it’s quite interesting that there is a sort of Azor Ahai imagery with these men, as they hold burning torches.

But then as I was reading this passage, I was suddenly reminded of one of Patchface’s jingles.

“Under the sea, it snows up,” said the fool, “and the rain is dry as bone. I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.”

- Prologue, ACOK

And I got to thinking, it seems that Patchface and Stannis are seeing the same thing (snow “falling” upward). Stannis also sees snow falling downwards, which kind of evokes a cycle. We don’t really know exactly what Patchface saw since the entire section contains several broken up and vague “prophecies”.

But regarding what we do know, my initial assumption was that Patchface’s jingle was essentially about death and the rising of wights. But then I also considered that he could also be referring to Jon Snow who seemingly dies at the end of ADWD and might be resurrected in TWOW.

They found Her Grace sewing by the fire, whilst her fool danced about to music only he could hear, the cowbells on his antlers clanging. “The crow, the crow,” Patchface cried when he saw Jon. “Under the sea the crows are white as snow, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh.” Princess Shireen was curled up in a window seat, her hood drawn up to hide the worst of the greyscale that had disfigured her face.

- Jon XI, ADWD

P.S: Coincidentally, Jon would (more generally) be among the men in black presented in Stannis’ vision since he is a member of the Night’s Watch; these men are also referred to as crows.

And speaking of Jon, we know that Melisandre has received visions of Jon’s death and possible rebirth.

The flames crackled softly, and in their crackling she heard the whispered name Jon Snow. His long face floated before her, limned in tongues of red and orange, appearing and disappearing again, a shadow half-seen behind a fluttering curtain. Now he was a man, now a wolf, now a man again. But the skulls were here as well, the skulls were all around him. Melisandre had seen his danger before, had tried to warn the boy of it. Enemies all around him, daggers in the dark. He would not listen.

[…]

“What do you see, my lady?” the boy asked, softly. Skulls. A thousand skulls, and the bastard boy again. Jon Snow.

[…]

Yet now she could not even seem to find her king. I pray for a glimpse of Azor Ahai, and R’hllor shows me only Snow.

- Melisandre I, ADWD

So Mel is seeing Jon in danger, but the “now he was a man, now a wolf, now a man again” seems to suggest that he will return. She has tried to rely this information to Jon and we get a rather funny exchange, where Jon assumes that the “snow” Mel is talking about is frozen rain.

“And what of Mance? Is he lost as well? What do your fires show?”

“The same, I fear. Only snow.”

Snow. It was snowing heavily to the south, Jon knew. Only two days’ ride from here, the kingsroad was said to be impassable. Melisandre knows that too. And to the east, a savage storm was raging on the Bay of Seals. At last report, the ragtag fleet they had assembled to rescue the free folk from Hardhome still huddled at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, confined to port by the rough seas. “You are seeing cinders dancing in the updraft.”

- Jon X, ADWD

Note: I searched “updraft” and got this definition: “an upward current of air.”

Jon thinks Mel is talking about the very literal snow moving upward(?) in the air, but she says,

“I am seeing skulls. And you. I see your face every time I look into the flames. The danger that I warned you of grows very close now.”

Not snow, but Snow.

And just a final (random) thought to wrap this all up,

“One bird croaking my name was bad enough,” said Jon, “and snow’s nothing a black brother wants to hear about.” Snow often meant death in the north.

- Jon II, ACOK

Hmmm 🤔



[bestworstcase]

All the Ash Burnt Roses Leave

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.

Hope never comes easy, but oh, does Cinder Fall know anger: charcoal black and red as flame. The furnace, the forge, the fire—the forest that grows after. When a phoenix rises from its ashes, does it still feel the inferno roaring in its chest?

Sometimes it takes a smaller, more honest soul.

This time, it takes a pyre.

[etruatcaelum]

Always, those who knew of her beforehand expected a dragon. Salem couldn’t fathom why. Even among the very oldest grimm in the world, most were not especially large, and few people had ever laid eyes upon a leviathan. They were a rarity even to huntsmen. And yet: no one, it seemed, could hear tell of an ancient grimm without imagining a creature of monstrous size.

Salem would mind it less if correcting the misconception diminished the fear, but it seldom did.

Dismally, she watched the young woman fold onto the floor: cratering like the sapped walls of a besieged fortress. Even the fumes of desperation could only last so long, Salem supposed, before exhaustion had its due.

The kettle hissed a warning. Salem swept it off the stove, relieved to fall into the comforting ritual of preparing the tea. Conversation made her… tired, in a bone-deep way that had nothing to do with physical fatigue, although this one had, she thought, gone rather well.

She worked methodically through another stack of her journals while the tea steeped, then refilled Cinder’s mug and poured two more; one for herself, and one for the garden.

The backdoor creaked gently behind her. It was well dark now, the night cool and polished with aftertaste of a fierce storm. Stars pierced the fraying veil of the clouds here and there, but Salem could see nothing of the moon save a diffuse, pearly glow to the east.

To honor what was, in the name of what is, on behalf of we who are yet becoming; so do we commemorate the ashes, for it is from the ashes we rise. May we all be unbound.

Tea splashed over the soil, glistening darkly. Her breath streamed through her lips in a plume of silver, and the frost-bitten foliage whispered its thorny secrets.

Salem went back inside.

She washed the libation cup before taking up her tea, which still steamed gently. For a while, all was quiet stillness. The silphai completed their labyrinthine patrol of the foundations and began to march in curving lines up the walls to survey the rafters; Salem watched them, and drank her tea in slow, measured sips.

Cinder came skulking back down the lane at last, radiating enough resentment to fry an egg. She had, Salem was utterly unsurprised to see when Cinder shoved open the front door, declined to carry home any food for her guest.

The first thing out of her mouth was: “What are you going to do to her?”

Lifting an eyebrow, Salem slid Cinder’s mug across the table in invitation and murmured, “I am inclined to give her what she asks for. It remains to be seen whether that is what she wants. The results will be interesting, either way.”

Cinder eyed her shrewdly before pacing over to the table. “Who was that hound?”

“An old friend,” Salem said. Cinder gave her a look of eloquent disgust, which she deigned not to notice. “He is undying; his soul and his self remain tethered to his corpse and eventually spring back. I have been trying to… fix him up.”

“‘An… experiment,’” Cinder said, in an uncanny if rather mocking imitation of Salem’s own voice. Salem blinked.

“Well. That also.” She set her mug down, tracing the rim with her talons. “Did you bring her to me because you were afraid to return empty-handed?”

Cinder bared her teeth. “No.”

“I have asked you not to lie to me.”

Snarling, Cinder spun away from the table, hand whipping out to knock her mug into the wall with enough force to crack the plaster, and stormed across the room. The back door opened and slammed; Salem stood rigidly for a moment, staring at the spray of porcelain shards left behind, the tea bleeding from the wound in the wall.

Then, gritting her teeth, she whirled on her heel and went for a rag to clean it up.

Kiara stared in bewilderment. Where was the disgust, the anger, the realization that Kiara was a tainted thing from the other side of the tracks that didn’t belong anywhere? Least of all here, with the history she carried with her. Why would a woman who was so wronged by Light and also grimm, be willing to take on someone who had been both steeped in the traditions of the worship of Light, and grown up hating grimm and learning the ways of the huntsman? And for nothing?  Why would all of that be of no consequence?  Her fear dimmed and settled into something much quieter: suspicion.    What was Salem getting out of this? It was not very generous, or even respectful to assume something deceitful of Salem when she was being so agreeable, and it was considered bad practice to question a gift freely given, but Kiara couldn’t help it.  She had been dragged here blindly with nothing but vague implications that Salem was not to be trifled with and would not take kindly to her request, and now that Salem knew in no uncertain terms exactly what Kiara was and what she was asking, she did nothing but offer her help freely. It was too easy. There had to be a catch  She fought an internal battle for control of her thoughts and feelings, trying to wrangle them and bridge the divide that had formed.  There was one part of her that chided, asking if it was too much to believe that Salem had been a kind woman, and that woman was still at the core of what she was, even now. But the other part was strong, insisting that that was too unlikely an explanation  Salem was perpetuating a war that was responsible for the fall of mankind’s greatest city, and attacks that targeted schools with children in them. Perhaps the war was justifiable in its cause – Kiara had not yet determined this – but the method was unscrupulous. This did not speak of kindness or compassion.  But then; how she had treated Cinder, how she behaved towards Kiara now . . . what was Kiara to make of any of it? It didn’t matter.  It didn’t matter.  She was here, she had survived the journey and this encounter and made her request, and despite everything, it had been accepted.  So what if Salem had ulterior motives?  She would ask Salem her questions about the war, about why she had elected to help Kiara – and maybe even about what she had said of fending off the judgement of Light – if and when the opportunity arose later, but for now, all she needed to know was where they would go from here.  All emotion began to ebb out of her. 

“I thought you would be some kind of leviathan; a grimm beast too great and horrible to comprehend, that would as soon eat me as help me.” It seemed so silly now. “Instead, you are a quiet, well-mannered woman who seems to have some love of books . . . and tea.”    Now that she was at last resolved and her aid was secured, exhaustion made it’s last, hard pull, reaching up and sinking it’s hooks in and tugging down hard, and there was no longer anything Kiara could do to stave it off. Adrenaline and the power of her mind alone had kept her afloat this long, but as she made her way to the wall beside one of the bookshelves, she could tell that her legs could hardly hold her anymore.  Her back hit the wall as soon as she reached it, the impact causing a grunt of pain to escape her lips, followed by a hiss as she slid down it, her joints burning and trembling in protest at the act of lowering herself. She ended her slide on the floor with her legs sprawled out in front of her and her head tipped forward. Darkness crept in at the edges of her vision. She needed to remove her prosthetics and disinfect the suspension systems, needed to care for her stumps and let them breathe, but she was suddenly too tired to even move. 

“I am . . . grateful to you . . . Salem. Thank you for agreeing . . . to . . . for . . .” were her words coming out slurred? She fought to continue, not sure where she had left off. “I suppose we should discuss where . . . how . . .” she didn’t know what she was saying anymore. Not even the pain, now indistinguishable in its origin, could keep her conscious anymore. 

[battleangelaelita]

Because I’m back on my bullshit and apparently one major Azula-centric fic is not enough, I’ve drafted treatments for two more in between picking away at the next chapter of Cinder.

Shattered God

The first, more fleshed out of the two, I’ve given the working title Shattered God, and in vibes I’d say it’s got a healthy dose of John Le Carre spy fiction. It begins ten years after ATLA’s finale, with Azula living under an assumed name in the nascent Republic City. This is not a redemption arc fic; in the time since she escaped the asylum she was incarcerated, she’s tried very hard to just leave it all behind her.

Some days, she’s almost succeeded in forgetting about her old life. Here, as “Lazuli”, she’s made a life of her own, by her own sweat and blood. It’s something she can be proud of, an achievement that can never be taken away. She fell into the brickmaker’s trade when she arrived here, and now she’s a master of the craft. Every day she goes down to the docks with her earthbending apprentice and they buy clay, ash and chalk. They mix them in the right proportions with waterbenders working hand in hand, and they mold them into bricks. When they’ve dried, they kiln them, leaving behind something that will outlive any of them; bricks are used and re-used as structures rise and fall.

This daydream where she can forget she’s Azula ends one day when Toph arrives to arrest her. Azula decides to go quietly. This turns out to be Zuko’s rather heavy handed way of recruiting her for a special job; he’s known her whereabouts for several years and decided to let sleeping dragons lie.

There was an attempted assassination against Zuko and his wife, Fire Lady Katara. Though it failed, it was clear immediately that this plot had men on the inside. There’s a fifth column forming against the Fire Lord, and without knowing who to trust, in desperation Zuko has turned to the one person 1) canny enough to unravel the conspiracy 2) who could not possibly have been involved: Azula.

After a very tense meeting, Azula agrees with great reluctance. It’s only the knowledge that the plot also targeted the Fire Lord’s infant child that sways her, even with Zuko’s strongarming. There is no love lost, but Azula will sus out the traitors.

Act II will be Azula working clandestinely through the threads of evidence, and the many power players in the court. Faced with an overabundance of people with means and motive to be involved in a potential coup, she has to tread carefully. Azula’s not the prodigy she once was; she’s tried to leave that martial part of her life behind her, and her minimally treated PTSD poses a serious threat if she does get into a fight.

Cast-wise, Azula’s interactions, besides the unresolved conflict with Zuko and Ursa, will revolve around Aang and Mai--two people at the top of Zuko’s suspect list, but who nonetheless still are willing to help regardless of how they’ve been personally hurt by the Fire Lord and Fire Lady.

Untitled Irredeemable Azula fic

The second one is less fully fleshed out. It is at this point mostly a concept, and I am still working out how to make the plot and structure less obviously derivative. But the basic idea that has been haunting me is a burning need to create an ATLA story where Azula can play the role of the monster that some people think she is, and do so in a way that can really just pull the rug out from under the reader.

The concept has been heavily inspired by one of my favorite novels, Use of Weapons by Iain M. Banks. It’s one of the few works of fiction that deploys a devastating third act twist that totally turns the reader on their head about the entire story thus far, yet has already given you ever clue you need to know the twist.

The spoiler free version is that it’s a story about a man named Zakalwe whose been spending decades playing mercenary for the good guys, fighting their fights against impossible odds because he’s got a knack for that, while trying to live with and redeem a past that’s haunted him. It’s slowly fed to the reader that many years ago on his home planet, Zakalwe and his foster brother Elithiomel had a very fraught relationship being raised in an aristocratic military family, fighting for recognition for their achievements, the affection of their family, and their place in this rigidly militarist society (does this remind you of anybody).

This conflict culminates in the two of them being major leaders on opposing sides of their country’s civil war, and the man called Zakalwe has been living in the shadow of their final confrontation and how it tore their family apart.

The challenge, of course, is keeping the twist and it’s revelation without being too derivative. It may ultimately not be worth the trouble. I’m mostly throwing this into the void with the hopes of finding at least one other ATLA fan who has also read Use of Weapons and can maybe talk sense into me.