#( thread: hidden in the hillsides )

[higaneion]

hidden in the hillsides

The cold had only subsided for a moment before they were tossed back into the cold. The company she had was not of the talkative sort making the trip that much longer. Weiss in particular who had not so much as spoken a word when she had joined, she almost appeared out of nowhere. At the very least there was comfort that she didn't seem like her brother. She hadn't seen anyone like the two, no Ilians anyway, aside from the curious one she had chanced upon the ship. Ephidel as she recalled. Were they from that town of Ilia as well?

Lilina holds her arms tightly to her to trap any heat from whatever warmth the tavern might have provided them. She glances toward the other two from the original shipwrecked party. Though she knew Edelgard as the house leader, she had little information to go off beyond that. Corrin she had little information about at all. And as they delve deeper into Ilia's small villages and coves, Lilina herself was like a stranger to the country as well. If anything, so long as they leave with their lives, it served as an learning opportunity all around.

They arrive at the entrance framed by a structure dusted in ice and snow. Nothing seemingly out of the ordinary, yet, though Lysander's words echo in her mind. Condemned. For what, she wonders.

Spinning to face her party she starts, "This is the last chance to turn back to the tavern. Otherwise, we will press on."

Fingers lean down to grip the axe attached to her hip that she has come to rely on this trip. May the Saint herself, no, she pauses mid-thought, may her father watch over her. Even if her faith and knowledge of the Saint had wavered, she had the motivation to honor the Ostian name.

@hresvelged @duskofendflame

[shaiyasstuff]

a dance of ice and fire | zayne | chapter four

synopsis : Betrothed to the Crown Prince for the sake of peace, you are seen as a weapon to be wielded, not a queen to rule. But it is not your arrogant, power-hungry fiancé you fear—it is his brother, Zayne. As alliances shift and tensions rise, one truth becomes clear: he never wanted the crown, but for you, he will take it content : medieval!au, strategist/advisor!zayne x princess!reader, loads of eye-fucking, savage reader and zayne, political intrigue

parts | one | two | three | four

It had been years ago.

Before the crown had weight. Before your name became a weapon sharpened by politics and prophecy.

Back when it was just you and him.

And the ruins.

They lay hidden beyond the palace gardens, carved into the edge of the hillside, mostly forgotten.

The walls were half-crumbling, the stone sun-bleached and cracked, but what remained still whispered of something old.

Something once sacred.

The scent of nightshade lingered in the air, woven into the roots that had pushed their way through the stone.

You remembered it vividly—not because it was sweet, but because it wasn’t. It was dark, earthy, bitter on the inhale.

It smelled like secrets.

And it had always led you back here.

You had shed your royal shoes the moment you’d arrived, letting your toes press into the warm moss-streaked ground.

The hem of your training robes trailed after you like a flicker of smoke.

Across the ruin, Zayne leaned against a broken archway, arms crossed, gaze trailing lazily over the horizon.

The wind caught at his silver-threaded cloak, tugging at it like it too was trying to pull him toward you.

He was already watching.

He always had.

“You’re supposed to be in etiquette drills,” he said without looking.

You lit a flame in your palm instead of answering.

He glanced at you then, and his mouth curved, just barely.

“You never listen.”

“And you never leave.”

You both knew why.

You sat on a fractured column, letting the flame dance up your wrist, curling like ribbon. The heat felt good—not wild, not violent.

Just honest. Uncontrolled.

“They keep telling me it’s dangerous,” you said. “Too unpredictable. Too emotional. Fire doesn’t belong in courtrooms and council halls.”

Zayne tilted his head slightly.

“Then they’ve never stood in your fire long enough to understand it.”

You looked at him then, really looked.

He was always so composed.

A breath behind the moment.

A man made of shadows and stillness, constantly watching, always calculating.

And yet here—he was different.

Here, he let his silence be something other than armor.

“How long have we been coming here?” you asked.

Zayne didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted toward the cracked arch behind you, half-eaten by ivy and time.

“Since before you learned to summon flame without flinching.”

You smiled faintly. “You always flinched first.”

“I was being cautious,” he replied, mouth curving. “You were a walking inferno with no sense of direction.”

“And you were a ghost who never said anything real.”

That made him pause. He glanced at you, then away, as if the truth weighed heavier in this place.

You held your hand out between you, the flame floating above your palm like a promise.

Zayne hesitated.

The wind rustled the moss at your feet. Birds stirred high in the trees. Your heart thudded like it had the first time you’d let your magic slip free in front of him. No titles. No tutors. Just you and the boy who never ran.

Then—he raised his hand.

Frost bloomed along his fingers, delicate, spiraling. The air between your hands warped, where fire met cold.

You braced for resistance. For steam. For fight.

But it never came.

The flame leaned into the frost. The frost curled toward the flame.

Not battling. Balanced.

Steam rose in gentle spirals. The warmth of your magic kissed the sharp chill of his and became something entirely new.

Not fusion. Not conflict.

Just… coexistence.

“How?” you asked softly. “How are you not afraid?”

Zayne’s eyes met yours. “Because I’ve never seen your fire as a threat.”

He dropped his hand slowly, frost fading from his skin. But you still felt it—that moment lingering in the space between you.

That rare, impossible stillness.

The kind you only find once.

The kind that leaves a mark.

You turned away from the magic, suddenly too aware of your heartbeat, the flush in your chest.

“They want me to be something I’m not.”

Zayne was quiet. Then: “Then be something they’ve never seen.”

You looked at him over your shoulder, and he was already walking away, steps slow, cloak dragging through the wild grass.

He didn’t wait for your reply.

He didn’t have to.

He had already seen you for who you were, long before the crown ever did.

Years later, when the empire began to splinter beneath the weight of fear and ambition, you would think of that moment—

Of fire and frost and steam rising between your palms.

Of the scent of nightshade and dusk.

Of the one boy who never moved.

And you would know.

This was never about magic.

It was about recognition.

About a boy who saw your fire and didn’t run.

And a girl who finally realized she never needed to burn alone.

—•

The eastern wing of the palace was quieter now. After the court had fractured, certain halls were left empty—not abandoned, but avoided.

As if silence could smother the tension that had begun to pulse through every stone of the empire.

You walked those halls anyway.

Not because you didn’t feel the shift—but because you no longer feared it.

Zayne had sent for you. No formal summons, no herald.

Just a folded slip of parchment left at your chamber door, sealed with his signet and a single word in his handwriting.

Come.

You found him waiting in one of the old council rooms—unused, tucked deep in the wing reserved for visiting nobles, away from the eyes of the court.

The fire was lit. The chairs had been dusted. But the air still smelled of old wood and parchment and secrets long since buried.

Zayne stood with one hand braced on the edge of the map table, posture deceptively casual.

He glanced up as you entered, expression unreadable.

“He’ll be here soon.”

You didn’t need to ask who.

“You’ve already spoken to him.”

Zayne didn’t deny it. “Briefly. Just enough to make him curious.”

You stepped closer, circling the table, eyes scanning the map spread across it. Lines redrawn. Borders bristling with new names.

“And now you want me to convince him?”

Zayne looked at you then, and his voice dropped. “No. I want him to see why the court is watching you and not my brother.”

Before you could reply, the door creaked open.

A tall man stepped inside—middle-aged, his silver-and-black robes worn with the kind of pride only old blood still carried. House Velithar.

One of the most ancient noble lines in the empire, known for neutrality, tradition, and power held behind closed doors.

Lord Thalos.

He inclined his head to Zayne first, but when his eyes landed on you, he paused.

Studying.

Measuring.

You met his gaze without flinching. “Lord Velithar.”

“Your Highness,” he replied smoothly. “I expected to be speaking with the prince alone.”

Zayne’s smirk was almost imperceptible. “That would’ve been a waste of your time.”

Thalos raised a brow. “No faith in your own diplomacy?”

“Plenty.” Zayne stepped back from the table, gesturing toward you. “But she’s the reason the court is shifting. I’m just moving the pieces.”

Your gaze didn’t leave Thalos. “I hear your house has remained neutral since the fractures began.”

He gave a tight smile. “Neutrality is a tradition in my bloodline, Your Highness. Until there’s cause.”

You stepped forward.

“Then I hope to give you one.”

The air in the room shifted. Tension—not of conflict, but of gravity.

Because this wasn’t just a meeting.

This was Zayne placing the next piece on the board. And he was trusting you to make the move.

The room’s atmosphere thickened, the weight of unspoken possibilities pressing against the walls.

Lord Thalos’s gaze remained steady, his expression a mask of practiced neutrality.

“A cause, Your Highness,” he echoed, voice smooth yet edged with curiosity. “And what cause might that be?”

You met his eyes, unflinching.

“The empire stands at a precipice. The current path leads to division, to ruin. But there’s an alternative—a united realm under just and visionary leadership.”

Thalos’s brow arched slightly. “And you propose this leadership comes from…?”

“From those who understand the true essence of power,” you replied, your tone unwavering.

“Power that doesn’t seek to dominate but to uplift. Power that listens, adapts, and leads with wisdom.”

A long pause followed. Thalos’s eyes drifted to the map table between you, the lines and markers etched into its surface like scars.

“Many have spoken of unity. Few have achieved it. Fewer still without bloodshed.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice.

“Because they sought obedience, not loyalty. Fear, not trust. That is not the empire I want to inherit. And it’s not one the people will survive.”

Zayne’s presence shifted behind you—silent, supportive.

“I know House Velithar has never been hasty. You hold your ground when others sway with the wind. But that same ground has become a fulcrum. Where you choose to lean will tip the balance of the court.”

Thalos studied you again, longer this time. Not just as a royal. Not even as a politician. But as something else.

“You speak like someone who knows what comes next,” he said at last.

“I don’t,” you admitted.

“But I know what we must avoid. Civil war. Fragmentation. Another generation raised in the shadow of suspicion.”

You let the next words fall softly.

“Your house has kept the peace for centuries by staying out of the storm. But now the storm is here. Silence will no longer shield you—it will condemn those who trusted you to stand when it mattered most.”

A silence settled over the room, heavy and reverent. The hearth crackled softly, the only sound in the hush of what felt like a turning point.

Thalos’s gaze shifted between you and Zayne. “You ask much.”

“I offer more,” you said quietly. “A future.”

Finally, Thalos inclined his head, the motion slow but deliberate. “Then show me that future. Let it be more than words. And House Velithar will not stand idle.”

Zayne’s voice cut in, quiet but sure. “You won’t regret it.”

Thalos looked toward the door, thoughtful.

“History remembers those who chose wisely… but it never forgets those who waited too long.”

With a final nod, he turned and left the room.

The alliance was tentative, but it was a spark—a beginning. And in the quiet corners of the palace, amidst shadows and whispers, the foundation of a new era was being laid.

The heavy wooden door closed behind Lord Thalos, leaving the room cloaked in the soft glow of the hearth.

The scent of aged parchment and burning cedar filled the space, mingling with the subtle tension that lingered after the noble’s departure.

Zayne leaned against the edge of the map table, arms crossed, a contemplative expression shadowing his features.

But you didn’t speak right away.

You let the silence stretch.

Because this was more than a victory. It was the first time someone outside of Zayne had truly listened.

You moved toward the map, fingers brushing the edge of its wooden frame, grounding yourself.

There had been a time—not long ago—when your voice barely left an echo in council chambers. When you were spoken around, not to.

A royal, yes, but an ornamental one.

A symbol of unity with no real weight.

And perhaps you’d played into that role at first. It was easier, quieter, safer to keep your fire hidden.

But Zayne had seen it. That day in the ruins.

He hadn’t flinched.

He hadn’t tried to mold you into someone you weren’t.

And that moment, fleeting and fragile as it had been, had planted something deep in your chest.

A belief that your voice didn’t just deserve to be heard—it could change the world.

You looked at the place where Thalos had stood, still feeling the weight of his gaze.

He hadn’t pledged himself to the crown.

He’d pledged himself to you.

Not because of your title.

But because of your truth.

And perhaps—because of your family, too.

You had been born to a line of queens known not for war, but for sacrifice.

Women who bore the burden of peace without recognition.

Your mother had died young, her name barely spoken anymore—except in whispers, when someone remembered the treaties she’d kept from shattering.

But it wasn’t just her legacy you carried.

Your grandmother, Queen Eira who had once halted an uprising not with blades, but with a single speech that moved enemy generals to lay down arms.

Her words had been studied, recited, feared by those who thought emotion was weakness.

You’d read her journals in secret as a child, tracing your fingers over the faded ink as though it might pass her strength into you.

Yet despite that bloodline, you had never been raised to lead.

Not truly.

Your father had remarried within months of your mother’s death, wedding a noblewoman whose family controlled a vast swath of the western provinces. It had been a strategic alliance—cold, practical, distant.

From then on, you were a reminder. A relic of a union born of love in a court that now had no time for sentiment.

The new queen had children of her own.

The court whispered of succession changes, of heirs with purer bloodlines, better manners, less flame.

But you remembered your mother’s fire. You remembered the echo of your grandmother’s voice in the walls of the old library.

You remembered who you were before they tried to make you forget.

You weren’t just a symbol.

You were the storm they didn’t see coming.

And you would not carry their legacy in silence any longer.

In court, you had learned early.

Affection came with conditions. Approval came with silence.

Fire was dangerous.

But you were done dimming yourself to survive.

You would rise—not in spite of your fire, but because of it.

And anyone who dared stand in your way would learn what it meant to be forged by flame.

You could see the flicker of thoughts behind his eyes, calculating the next move in this intricate game of power and allegiance.

“Well,” you began, breaking the silence, “that went… better than expected.”

A corner of Zayne’s mouth lifted in a half-smile. “Thalos is a pragmatist. Appeal to his sense of legacy, and he’ll listen.”

You nodded, tracing a finger along the edge of the map. “Still, aligning with House Velithar is a significant step. It sends a message.”

“Agreed,” Zayne replied, pushing off from the table. “Which is why we should consider our next ally carefully.”

He moved to a nearby cabinet, retrieving a decanter of amber liquid and two crystal glasses. Pouring a measure into each, he handed one to you.

“To new alliances,” he toasted, raising his glass.

You clinked your glass against his, the sound crisp in the quiet room. “And to the challenges they’ll bring.”

Zayne took a sip, his gaze thoughtful over the rim. “I’ve been considering Lord Aelric of House Draven.”

You nearly choked on your drink, coughing slightly. “Aelric? The same Aelric who once challenged a visiting ambassador to a duel over a misplaced compliment?”

Zayne’s eyes sparkled with amusement.

“The very same. Though, to be fair, the ambassador did have a rather condescending tone.”

“And Aelric responded by nearly skewering him in the grand hall,” you retorted, shaking your head. “He’s unpredictable, Zayne. A loose cannon.”

Zayne shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Perhaps. But he’s also fiercely loyal to those he deems worthy. And his influence among the younger nobles is considerable.”

“Influence or infamy?” you quipped, arching an eyebrow.

He chuckled softly. “Sometimes, they’re one and the same.”

You sighed, swirling the liquid in your glass. “Approaching Aelric means courting chaos. Are we prepared for that?”

“Chaos can be a powerful tool,” Zayne mused, his tone turning serious. “If directed correctly.”

You studied him for a moment, recognizing the familiar spark of strategy in his demeanor. “You have a plan.”

“I always have a plan,” he replied, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

“Care to share?” you prompted, leaning against the table beside him.

He tilted his head, considering.

“Let’s just say, Aelric’s… enthusiasm could be harnessed to our advantage. With the right guidance.”

“And you believe we can provide that guidance?”

“I believe,” Zayne said, his gaze locking onto yours, “that together, we can turn even the wildest storms into favorable winds.”

A smile curved your lips. “Ever the optimist.”

“Only when it comes to you,” he murmured, his voice low and sincere.

The warmth in his eyes sent a flutter through your chest, a reminder of the bond that had grown between you amidst the political machinations and looming threats.

Setting your glass down, you straightened.

“Very well. Let’s prepare for a meeting with Lord Aelric. But perhaps,” you added with a teasing glint, “we should remove any dueling weapons from the room beforehand.”

Zayne laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “An excellent precaution.”

As the fire crackled beside you, the two of you delved into planning, the weight of the empire’s future resting on your shoulders, yet buoyed by the unspoken understanding and shared resolve that had always defined your partnership.

Later that night, you found him in the old observatory.

The room was quiet, lit only by the moon spilling in through shattered glass. He stood at the far edge, hands clasped behind his back, posture still—like he was carved from the dark.

He didn’t turn when you entered.

You didn’t announce yourself. You simply watched.

Zayne was always composed. Always precise.

But here, with no audience, no roles to play, you saw the crack in the armor. The quiet tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw clenched just slightly when he exhaled.

He carried so much.

Not the weight of expectation, like Kael.

But the weight of knowing where all the pieces on the board would fall—and when he’d have to let some of them break.

You wondered if anyone else ever noticed.

If anyone else had ever stood in the dark and realized he wasn’t just a strategist.

He was a shield. A blade. A boy who learned to stay quiet so no one would ever hear him break.

He turned then, just enough to glance your way. “You should be resting.”

“So should you.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We’re too far in for rest now.”

You didn’t step closer. You didn’t have to.

He knew you saw him.

And for once, that seemed to be enough.

—•

The imperial study was a sanctuary of order and tradition—mahogany shelves lined with ancient tomes, the scent of parchment lingering in the air, and the soft glow of afternoon light filtering through ornate lattice windows.

Yet, today, the atmosphere was charged.

Crown Prince Kael stood rigid before the Emperor’s desk, his fists clenched at his sides.

“You summoned me.”

The Emperor didn’t look up from the parchment in his hand.

“I did.”

A pause.

Kael waited, jaw tightening.

“Well?”

Finally, the Emperor set the page aside. “Your behavior at the council meeting—unacceptable.”

“They insulted our house,” Kael snapped. “What was I supposed to do? Let them slander us in front of half the court?”

“Yes,” the Emperor said evenly. “You let fools reveal themselves. You don’t raise your voice—you raise your station.”

Kael took a step forward, voice lowering. “So I should’ve just stood there? Let them undermine everything we’ve worked for?”

“We?” The Emperor’s tone cooled.

“You’ve been ruling in theory, Kael. Not practice. This court bleeds power in glances and implication, not threats and bluster.”

Kael’s nostrils flared. “So this is about Zayne, then.”

“Zayne knows when to hold his tongue.”

“He never has to speak,” Kael shot back. “You listen anyway.”

A flicker crossed the Emperor’s face—brief, unreadable. “Because he understands diplomacy.”

“And I don’t?”

“You understand fire,” the Emperor said. “But fire consumes.”

Kael’s voice rose. “I’ve trained. I’ve led. I’ve done everything required of me, and still—”

“Still you act like a boy begging for praise,” the Emperor interrupted, voice like steel. “You are the Crown Prince. Act like one.”

The silence afterward rang like a slap.

Kael straightened slowly. “Tell me something, Father. If Zayne had spoken as I did—would you have reprimanded him?”

The Emperor met his eyes. “Zayne would not have needed to.”

Kael’s throat tightened. “Then perhaps you should’ve named him heir.”

The Emperor stood, slow and deliberate. “Don’t mistake restraint for weakness, Kael. Or silence for approval.”

Kael gave a cold, short laugh. “I don’t mistake anything anymore.”

The Emperor exhaled. “This discussion is over.”

Kael bowed stiffly, voice low. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

And then he turned and left, the door closing behind him with a final, echoing thud.

The Crown Prince’s encounter with the Emperor left him seething, his father’s unwavering support for Zayne a bitter pill to swallow.

The corridors of the palace seemed to close in around him, each step echoing his growing resentment.

In the dim light of his private chambers, Kael paced relentlessly, his thoughts a turbulent storm.

“Always Zayne,” he muttered, the name dripping with disdain. “The perfect son. The flawless strategist.”

He stared at his reflection in the glass—sharp eyes, clenched jaw, shoulders weighed down by expectation.

“And what am I?” he whispered. “The heir in name only.”

He had trained all his life for this.

Worn the crown’s shadow on his back like a brand.

Sat through a thousand council sessions, led war games, made sacrifices—yet none of it seemed to matter.

Not when Zayne entered a room with his quiet confidence, his calculating grace. Not when their father’s gaze lingered just a little longer on him.

Kael’s fists clenched at his sides.

Zayne didn’t even want the throne. That was the worst of it.

He walked through politics like a ghost, never seeking power—only wielding it when it suited him. He made no grand declarations, offered no passionate speeches.

And somehow… that made people trust him more.

Because Zayne didn’t have to try.

And Kael had always been trying.

He remembered being ten, standing beside their father during a state ceremony. Zayne had barely spoken, just bowed at the right time, his silence elegant.

Kael had memorized three speeches, practiced his lines until his throat was raw—and still, the Emperor had only praised Zayne’s restraint.

“A true ruler knows when not to speak.”

The words had haunted him since.

Kael ran a hand through his hair, the weight of years pressing in.

His failures weren’t just his own—they were magnified, repeated, measured against a brother who never seemed to falter.

“If Father cannot see my worth,” Kael said aloud, voice shaking with fury, “perhaps it’s time I show him.”

A dangerous thought curled in his chest.

Not impulsive. Not this time.

Deliberate.

Zayne played the long game, moved pieces in silence.

Maybe it was time Kael made a move no one could ignore.

Maybe then, the empire would finally remember who the true heir was.

—•

The chamber was dimly lit, the flickering light of the hearth casting elongated shadows on the stone walls.

A heavy oak table dominated the center, its surface strewn with maps, parchments, and the remnants of a hastily concluded meal.

The scent of wax and aged wood mingled in the air, a testament to the room’s long-standing role as a clandestine meeting place for the realm’s strategists.

Seated around the table were four figures, each bearing the weight of their titles and the gravity of the moment.

You, the empire’s guiding light, sat at the head, your gaze steady and contemplative.

To your right, Zayne, ever the vigilant strategist, leaned forward, his fingers lightly drumming on the table’s edge.

Opposite him, Lord Thalos of House Velithar maintained his characteristic poise, his expression inscrutable.

Beside him, Lord Varyn of House Draven, a man known for his fiery temperament and unyielding loyalty, shifted impatiently in his seat.

“We stand at a crossroads,” you began, your voice cutting through the silence. “The empire’s stability teeters, and our next actions will determine its fate.”

Lord Varyn’s brow furrowed, his impatience evident. “Then let us act decisively. The longer we wait, the more our enemies consolidate their power.”

Zayne interjected smoothly,

“Decisiveness without strategy is folly, Lord Varyn. We must ensure that each move is calculated.”

Thalos’s gaze shifted between the two, “What, then, is our proposed course of action?”

You unfolded a map, revealing marked locations—strongholds, supply routes, and key territories.

“Our first objective is to secure the allegiance of the borderlands. Their support will bolster our resources and strategic positioning.”

Varyn’s eyes narrowed, “The borderlands are rife with dissent. Their loyalty is fickle.”

“Precisely why we must act,” you replied. “By addressing their grievances and offering protection, we can turn them to our cause.”

Thalos nodded thoughtfully, “And what of the Crown Prince? His recent actions suggest unpredictability.”

Zayne’s expression darkened slightly, “Kael’s recklessness is a concern. We must anticipate his moves and be prepared to counter them.”

A tense silence settled over the group, each member lost in their thoughts. The weight of the empire’s future pressed heavily upon their shoulders.

“We must remain united,” you asserted, your voice firm. “Our strength lies in our cohesion and shared vision for the empire.”

The lords exchanged glances, a silent agreement passing among them.

“For the empire,” Thalos affirmed.

“For the empire,” Varyn echoed.

Zayne’s gaze met yours, a subtle nod conveying his unwavering support.

“For the empire,” he murmured.

As the meeting adjourned, the flickering flames of the hearth cast dancing shadows on the walls, mirroring the uncertain path that lay ahead.

But with allies such as these, hope remained—a beacon in the encroaching darkness.

The council chamber had emptied, leaving only the soft glow of candlelight flickering against the stone walls. You stood by the window, gazing out at the moonlit courtyard, your thoughts drifting to the upcoming challenges.

Zayne approached quietly, his presence a comforting constant amidst the uncertainties.

“When do we meet Lord Aelric?” you asked, turning to face him.

Zayne’s eyes met yours, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Soon. I’ve sent a discreet message to gauge his interest. If he’s receptive, we’ll arrange a meeting within the week.”

You nodded, appreciating his careful approach. “Good. His support could be pivotal.”

Zayne’s expression turned thoughtful. “Indeed. But we must tread carefully. Aelric is known for his unpredictability.”

“Then we’ll ensure our proposal appeals to his sense of honor and ambition,” you replied, determination in your voice.

Zayne’s smile widened. “As always, your insight guides us.”

Together, you turned back to the window, the weight of the empire’s future resting on your shoulders, yet buoyed by the strength of your alliance.

masterlist

[madaboutmunson]

A Pearl's Thread

Fic for @stmonstercalendar #StrangerThingsMermayBingo2025

Using Prompts: Fashion/clothing, High Fantasy AU, Childhood Friends, First Kiss, Pearls Hurt/comfort, Happy Ending Guarantee W/C = 27.7K Summary:

Two friends coming of age navigate their respective worlds as traditions, loyalties, and hidden truths begin to surface. Guided by the expectations of others, courage and the pull of something more, they must find a way to rediscover what was lost. A tale of magic, longing, and choices that change everything.

TW: Blood (minor), Body Injury (graze), Mention of loss of parent

Ao3 Link

Chapter 1: This Wall Between Us

In a coastal kingdom, far, far away, two friends were enjoying a simple summer.

“What could you possibly be doing that’s better than a celebration?” Steve asked, dropping into the lush summer grass with a sigh. His belt pouch and small knife thudded dully beneath him, louder than the soft thump of his slender frame against the folded green tunic that lay on the ground. The day's heat allowed him to be comfortable in only a shirt, tights, and those long, curled shoes his mysterious friend always found amusing.

Eddie, barefoot as ever, lounged against the hillside twirling a wildflower between his fingers, the same ones they'd been weaving into crowns all afternoon.

“I told you,” Eddie murmured, laying the flower gently between them. “I’ve responsibilities.”

Steve scoffed softly, nudging a clump of clover with his shoe’s curled toe.

“Could you not ask to stay just a bit longer? My parents care not so long as I don’t return with bruises or stories I oughtn’t be telling.” He grinned. “Well…stories they find out about, anyway.”

Eddie smiled, though it was more regret than amusement. “I can’t, Steve. I’ve things to protect.”

“Protect what?” Steve huffed, flopping backwards into the grass with a frustrated groan. “You always say that, but you never say anything. You talk in such riddles!”

Eddie tilted his head toward him, the breeze catching in his tunic.

Steve rolled onto his side, grass tangled in his hair, burrs stuck to his tights from their last expedition.

“You said you had an idea for a great sea monster to add to our map,” he prompted, hopeful.

“We don’t have time today,” Eddie replied gently. “Our map has to be perfect for any future adventurers to follow. We should not want to rush it.”

Steve sat up sharply, brushing the burrs from his tights with more force than needed. He looked at Eddie like the words didn’t make any sense. Like they were written in some other language.

“So stay. Let us take our time,” he said, not quite whining, but close. He knew it was moot against something long decided, a sad part of their routine.

He picked up a nearby twig and snapped it in half, his fingers restless.

“You know I’d never tell,” Steve muttered, quieter now. “You know that.”

“If I told you,” Eddie said gently, “and someone came after you for it… or you whispered it in a fever, or let it slip without meaning to…it would all be in danger. I could not bear that.”

“Why don’t you trust me?” Steve’s voice cracked a little, not from anger, but because it hurt. “You say you protect them. I’d protect you. I would. Swear it on every star in the sky and-”

Eddie’s sigh interrupted him, and they both knew his answer could not be changed.

Steve propped himself on his elbows, his jaw tight, holding back the rest of what he wanted to say.

He leaned over hand to his heart, “I’d never do that to you. Truly. I’d sooner bite off my own tongue than see you hurt. You are my greatest, truest friend.”

“I know,” Eddie said softly. And he did. That was what made it all so cursedly hard. “And you, mine. If I were to tell anyone, it would be you. But I cannot tell a soul.”

They sat quietly for a while. Steve twisted a blade of grass between his fingers, chewing his cheek. Dragonflies flitted around, drifting through the golden light of the setting sun, their wings casting large web-like shadows across the hillside. The quiet between them hung like spun silk.

“I just don’t like it,” he muttered. “This wall between us.”

Eddie looked down at the dirt between his bare feet. That was what made Steve different. Special. There was very little he cared for more than Eddie… and that was new. To be the centre of someone’s care.

Steve caught the hint of a smile on Eddie’s face and mirrored it without thinking. His friend wasn’t like anyone he’d ever known. Gentle and careful, always seeing the good and wonder in small things. And more than anything, he cared . About whether Steve was cold. Or hungry. Or happy. He cared in a way no one else ever had.

“So… shall we meet again tomorrow?” Eddie asked, feigning lightness, though they both knew the answer, because Steve was dependable like that.

As sure as the tide would go in and out. As sure as the sun rose and set. Dependability wasn’t new to Eddie at all, but he didn't expect it from someone like his springtime friend. Not a boy who had taught him to climb trees, to run through fields until their lungs gave out, exploring with things called maps to find false treasure, playing knights and monsters, basic reading and writing, and tracking animals. 

His heart was as wild as it was sure.

Steve gave him a look that said, ‘Of course,’ but still answered aloud, like it was a truth that needed speaking.

“Aye. Always.”

They were quiet for a beat, watching how the light stretched long and low across the hills. It was time.

Steve stood first, brushing grass from his tunic, only to find dirt stains across the front. His eyes went wide.

“Oh no! Look at this! My father will have a fit.”

Eddie laughed gently, leaning over to inspect it.

“Nothing a little water won’t mend. Besides, it’s green. You’re lucky. Grass won’t shame it too much.”

He gestured to his own tunic, streaked and smudged with days’ worth of dirt and dust.

Steve chuckled, then, without hesitation, wrapped his arms around Eddie. It was the kind of hug neither of them had known before meeting one another, warm and sure.

Steve sighed, “Until tomorrow, Eddie.”

“Until tomorrow, Steve,” Eddie replied, and they parted ways. 

The crowns they’d made lay forgotten, twirling in the wind, as the hillside whispered their parting.

Read more on Ao3

[ranchracoon]

Ch. 2 Angie

You carried one bag over your shoulder and the other two in your hands as you tagged along behind Mother Miranda. The two of you walked down the same path past the church and through the village center; you glanced around for any sign of your aunt's carriage but saw none. A castle in the distance caught your attention, its gothic architecture was beautifully sinister as it stood over the village like its watchful protector. People who passed by would bow their heads and tip their hats to Mother Miranda, their attention never lingered on you.

Mother Miranda led you to a large, circular site with three distinct paths: one goes to the bay, one goes to the hillside, and the other is blocked by two wooden doors. The door had a golden circle with six crow's wings attached to it. A gurgling cough caught your attention, and your eyes widened at a giant man. He sat in a horse drawn carriage with the back open, a table oit front with various objects and trinkets, and dried meats hung from the doors. His blond hair was slicked to the side and thinning, his entire belly hung over his legs and he had the widest grin you had ever seen.

"Ah ha! Good morning Mother Miranda!" The man bellowed.

"Good morning Duke, how are you doing today?" She asked.

"Well as always! Could I interest you in something? I have a whole new assortment of scented candles."

"Perhaps when I return, I am escorting Y/N here to the Benviento residence." She replied.

The man looked at you and smiled again, "good to meet you Y/N, I am the Duke. Exporter of goods from all across the world so if you ever need anything please stop by."

You gave him a nod and a half smile then continued to walk behind Mother Miranda. What an oddly welcoming man. You passed through the large wooden doors, they creaked and groaned from lack of use. The path was overgrown, the tall weeds brushed against your pants and even Mother Miranda hoisted her robe to keep from catching. The morning fog covered your shoes, from a distance it looked like you and Mother Miranda were floating. She seemed completely unbothered by the various headstones you passed until the two of you approached a tall stone structure with the name 'Claudia' etched on it. There were dolls surrounding the headstone with burnt candle nubs at the foot. Mother Miranda paused and bowed her head, she said some incoherent words then knelt down and lit a still standing candle by the grave.

The wind blew the dead leaves past your feet, it whipped a few strands of hair loose that fell in front of your face. You shook it from your head and realized that Mother Miranda had started to walk away without you; you sprinted to catch up and fixed the bag on your shoulder that had started to slip. The path curved and you paused to take in the view before you, it was otherworldly. The waterfall reflected the threads of sunlight that leaked over the mountain range with the rising sun, the spray of water created a shimmering rainbow over the mansion. The mansion itself was beautiful with rustic red wood on the outside, white stone for walls, and a regal, black iron fence surrounding it. A greenhouse was hidden off to the side but looked completely abandoned and overgrown like the rest of the path.

Mother Miranda knocked on the mahogany door and waited patiently, behind it you could hear muttered words and what sounded like a lady rambling. The door swung open violently and revealed a short, older woman whose scowl was worse than your aunt's, if that was even possible. You audibly gulped as the woman looked you up and down, she had bulging brown eyes, a hunched back, her hair was as gray as dust, and she wore a white apron that seemed to consume her whole tiny body. She was thin enough that if she turned sideways she would be invisible. The woman grumbled and waddled out of the way, still mumbling under her breath.

"Hello to you too Angie." Mother Miranda said with a bite.

Mother Miranda walked in and turned to look at you, her smile continued to radiate kindness and warmth, and you wanted to melt into a puddle underneath it. It surprised you such a woman could say something remotely unkind, but it appeared this Angie woman was the exception. Angie came out from around the corner with a broom in her hand and stopped in front of you. You forced a smile toward her and set down the briefcase to hold out a hand to her.

"Hello Angie, I'm Y/N." You said kindly.

"Don't care. Come with me." She retorted.

Angie walked away and you glanced at Mother Miranda who only gave you another smile and mouthed 'good luck.' She left through the front door, now you were completely alone with a woman who you were certain was going to cut out your eyeballs. Something hit you in the back of your head and you yelped from the pain as you shot your hand to where it struck; when you looked down, there was a small wooden figurine. Angie grumbled and tapped her foot just after you looked up at her. You picked up the briefcase and hurried up the stairs, she led you to a door and hit it with the handle of the broom.

"You're room. If you need anything, get it yourself. Put your stuff away, apparently I'm supposed to show you the ropes."

"Thank you." You mumbled.

Angie huffed and waddled away toward the stairs, you sighed and pushed open the door. The room was slightly bigger than the room you stayed in last night. There was a desk next to the door, a bed in the far right corner with a nightstand, lamp, and floatong shelf next to it, and a dresser against the wall across from the bed. You placed the briefcase on top of the small desk then the other two bags on the bed, it sprung to life and a thin cloud of dust billowed up. You coughed and backed up to the window to crack it open, the refreshing air was nice but was quickly interrupted by Angie yelling at someone or something.

You briefly poked your head out to see there was a strip of land then the waterfall. Before you go through with jumping you bring your head in and sign heavily. Spinning around on your heels you make your way back downstairs. Once down there you wander aimlessly through the main area, a sitting nook, a living/office space, and back around. No sign of her.

"What are you doing?" Said Angie from behind you.

"Ah!" You screamed.

You turned around quickly, she blinked at you as you collected your heart after it burst from your chest. Angie walked away to start the guide, she showed you the entertaining room, the sitting room, literal piles of rope, and lastly a hall with an elevator. The two of you rode the elevator down, it groaned and gently swung as it descended. Your knuckles turned white from the death grip you had on the railing, this elevator and Angie were going to be the death of you. It screeched loudly and clanged to a stop, sweat beaded around your collar and the small of your back from nerves and stress. Angie smacked her hand loudly on the side, a beat later the door opened.

"To your left is the lord's office. You are not allowed to go in there under any circumstances." Angie warned.

For someone so tiny and old she sure moved fast, you had to fast walk to keep up with her. She pointed to another door to your right.

"Storage, and at the end of this hall to the left is the lord's workshop. You're not allowed there either."

"Why?" You asked.

"Because I'm Mother Miranda and said so." Angie sneered.

"As you wish Mother Miranda. I would never dream of disobeying you." You said sarcastically.

"Mother Miranda? Do I look like a six foot tall doll? And they say I'm crazy." She muttered.

You groaned under your breath and rolled your eyes, that was a mistake. Angie hit you in the chest with the end of her broom, you grunted and held the spot she hit.

"Roll your eyes again and I'll pluck them out." She threatened.

Knew it. You thought.

She walked through the kitchen to show you where the cooking utensils, food, spices, and anything you might need were. The door at the end of the hall was also forbidden. You peaked out from the kitchen toward the door, the lord's bedroom. When are you found to meet this lord? You glance back over your shoulder at Angie who was talking to a little porcelain doll that sat on a table in the hallway. Not your issue.

"Angie?"

"What?" She answered quickly.

"When do I meet Lord Beneviento?" You asked.

"You don't."

"What do you mean?"

"You deaf? The lord doesn't like to be disturbed. I've never seen em."

Your eyes widened, "you've never seen them? How do you know there is one then?"

"Because last I checked ghosts don't eat or wear clothes. The food is always gone and there's always dirty clothes."

You furrowed your brow at her but decided to keep your mouth shut to avoid being hit again. How could she have worked here for so long and never seen them? Certainly they would have had to come out at some point. Angie went back upstairs with you and pointed you in the direction of the supply closet, when you opened it brooms and mops fell at your feet. You groaned again at the state of the closet, the mops and brooms were disorganized, everything was shoved and thrown in there.

"Starting now, you cook, you clean, you do the laundry, get the groceries, and you don't talk back." Angie ordered.

"What will you be doing?" You asked curtly.

"Bossing you around." She laughed.

She wasn't joking when she said she would boss you around because that's exactly what she did. Day one she had you scrub the floors on your hands and knees until both were red, swollen, and raw. She would hit you with that damned broom anytime you got snarky or rolled your eyes. You kept telling yourself this was better than being on the street, at least you have a roof over your head. You wondered what would happen if Angie and your aunt ever met. They would eat each other alive, or become best friends who would team up on you.

You stood from your knelt position and leaned back to pop your back. A bell dinged in the main room, you glanced toward the sound then Angie as she pointed to the elevator.

"Dinner time. Workshop." She ordered.

"How do you know?"

"You ask a lot of questions. Ugh. Each bell has a distinct ring, when you've been here long enough you know which ding and ring is which." She answered.

The elevator clanged to a stop and you both stood there, Angie groaned and cleared her throat as she waved her hands in front of her. You banged the wall and the door slid open, she hummed while she walked into the kitchen and pulled out pots and pans. You attempted to follow along with what she was making but she merely smacked your hands away so you decided to stand off to the side. Angie ended up making..something. It had food in it but it certainly didn't look like food, and now you felt bad for the lord. Maybe they are a ghost? Perhaps they died after consuming whatever it is that Angie made.

It took a minute but you found your way to the workshop, you knelt down and set the tray down by the door. Curiously you looked up at the door then over both shoulders before you leaned into the door with your ear pressed on it. There wasn't a sound, you thought you heard footsteps but they were so light it was hard to tell. You sighed softly and knocked on the door before standing to return to the kitchen.

Continue Reading

[conundrumoftime]

Fic snippet train

Tagged by @feanors-mom : Share a snippet from a fic that you loved writing but doesn't get a lot of attention! Then tag three other people. I wanna see your writing. :)

This is from ‘Not one before another’, which is Elladan/Elrohir which is not everyone’s kind of thing ship-wise. But this snippet isn’t about either of them, it’s about the other twins they’ve heard stories of: Eluréd and Elurín and Amrod and Amras.

—

Two silver-haired twins: children, princes, raised on dreams and honey-cake. They were left abandoned in a dark forest by their cruel captors and after this their tale splinters like light through a prism.

It might be that they were taken by the birds. This is the story that Elrond grew up with: the one told to him by his mother in a house by the sea, the one he once recounted in innocence to a foster father who turned his face away. The little twins had stood there alone in a glade of fallen leaves and a sparrow had flown down beside them, and then another, and another; and then bright goldcrests and jays and dippers hopping up from the stream, wine-red crossbills, bluethroats and woodpeckers, one by one by dozens until the laughing children were lifted by soft-winged owls and taken to a distant haven where no wars and no sorrows could reach them again.

It might be that they were found by their mother’s distant kin and hidden, kept safe from anyone who would see lost Sindar princes as a hunting prize. It might be that their silver hair was dyed with madder root, that they were taken in by other families, that they were allowed to grow up unremarkable – that they were allowed to grow up.

It might be that they were taken in by others: by the Laiquendi who passed through those forests sometimes, by the Avari who walk quiet and unseen in the twilight and go where they will. It might be that somewhere they live in Middle-earth still, their arms ringed with Laiquendi tattoos or their silver hair in the beaded braids of the Avari; it might be that they have forgotten their Sindarin tongue and their Sindarin names.

It might be simply that they died.

Whatever happened to them, there is no way of knowing here. They have disappeared into the pages of stories, two silver-haired figures holding hands in the illustration of a children’s book. They are gone.

———

Twins with red hair and freckled faces, children playing on a distant wooded hillside which exists nowhere on Middle-earth. Their names are little-spoken here in Imladris and when they are it is as like to be what they became as where they began: murderers, kinslayers, exiles cursed and cursed again. But there are other stories that the twins of Imladris know about them.

One is their end, two fallen warriors lying side by side on a funeral pyre of driftwood and seaweed. Their two surviving brothers had washed them in sea-water and cleaned the blood from their armour, and Maglor had laid their swords upon their chests, and Maedhros had braided a strand of Amras’s hair tied with a blue thread; the only way, once, that their other family had been able to tell them apart.

Another is what led to it. Again they went to battle with their brothers, again they rode bold and brave at the head of an army, their red hair as twin blazing torches to follow, but this time the nightmare of what they were doing became too great to bear. They made it halfway down a paved street by the sea with burning houses and screams on either side - and then together as one, they stopped. Together as one, their swords stilled in their hands. Then together as one they turned upon their own armies and their own brothers .

For Elwing! they called.

For the exiles, for the lost!

For the little twins of Sirion! they called; and they died with those words on their lips.

The third is before all of this, before oaths, before deaths, before sorrows. Childhood in the hills and woods of Aman. Two children playing in the silver pools of mountain streams ignoring the laughter and pleas of the brothers sent to call them in from play.

Tagging @stitchingatthecircuitboard @everythingnumbs and @liminal-zone !

[ecthelionofthefountain]

Steelsheen - Epilogue

Based on Tolkien’s writings, not the film trilogy. Gap-filler; Canon-compliant; But I do have complaints about certain Tolkien settings, so I'll just fill in the gaps my way.

Main Character/POV: Éowyn Rating: Teen (PG-13)

Previous: Chapter 10. Estel, Necestel

Epilogue. Steelsheen

Of the great battle of that age, the War that changed the world, many songs were sung, and many tales told. One of them spoke of Éowyn, daughter of Éomund and Théodwyn, who rode in secret guise beneath the name Dernhelm to the field of battle, and there, with the aid of a Halfling out of a far land, struck down a foe no man could withstand. Thereafter she was known as the Lady of the Shield-arm in the Riddermark, and her tale lived long in the mouths of men.

The world, though scarred, endured. And in its quiet turning, there came a season not only of rebuilding, but of remembrance—of wounds that showed, and wounds that lay hidden deep; of names nearly forgotten, and of fires that, once kindled, never wholly die.

In the first spring after the fall of the Shadow, Éowyn departed from her new home in Emyn Arnen and crossed the Great River at Harlond, journeying westward. Her road led to Lossarnach, the vales of flowers. She spoke of her errand to none but Faramir, who knew well the tale of her grandmother, and the legacy she had reclaimed. He offered to ride with her, but she declined, deeming the quest her own.

The road lay open now, green once more, and the orchards of the vales bloomed with promise. The air was rich with the scent of new earth and old memory, and the wind stirred softly through birch and ash.

“One day we shall ride again, to lands your eyes have not yet beheld, and come to know those you may yet hold dear.” She thought then of her cousin’s words, and answered in her heart: I have done so, brother. I only wish you were here, to see what I behold.

She bore with her two letters—the last she had not read ere the war: one, formal and sealed, affirming a claim to a small holding in Imloth Melui, granted in the final year of Thengel, King of Rohan. The other was from Finduilas, wife of the late Steward—indeed, Faramir’s mother—written with grace and marked by sorrow; it spoke of a promise kept, a final wish fulfilled, and the aid she had given Morwen in securing the Steward’s assent.

So she came at last to a hillside where flowers grew wild and free: a modest cottage, half-veiled in vine, with white lilies bowing beside a low stone wall. Far below, the two rivers—Erui and the great Anduin—glimmered in silver threads, winding through the folded land, past groves of olive and ash. It was a place unmarked on any map, unnamed in song—yet in that hour, it seemed not newly found, but remembered.

No one was there; indeed, the cottage seemed long abandoned, as she had expected. She dismounted, and bade her horse wait.

Beyond the garden, where tall grass met the wood’s edge, she found it: a cairn of river-stones, veiled in ivy, set apart in the hush of wild blossoms. No name was carved. No boast, no sigil. Only the stillness that followed when a tale was ended, and the world had no further need of remembrance.

For a long time she stood in silence, the wind stirring her cloak, the scent of earth and rose about her. Then she knelt, and laid her hand upon the stone.

She had not come to mourn—for grief, fierce and scalding, had passed through her long ago. Nor had she come to honour the dead with lofty words. She had come to see that her grandmother had found what she herself had once sought: not renown, nor escape, nor even love—but rest, in the place where her heart had ever dwelt.

Éowyn had seen war—its fire, its terror, its reckoning. She had fought, in the depth of her despair, to defend what she could not bear to forfeit. Her blade had been her voice, when none would heed her words. But war was not her calling—it had been her answer.

And when the dust had settled, and the world turned once more toward peace, she understood at last: her will to fight had been born not of pride, nor of ambition, but of fear—fear of powerlessness, of watching others suffer, and being unable to lift a hand to stay it. She had never longed to slay, but to shield; to preserve; to mend what had been torn.

And in the slow unmaking of her uncle, and in her grandmother’s written words, she had glimpsed what few would name: that healing was no lesser strength, but the rarer. That her people, bold though they were, had yet to learn how to tend wounds that did not bleed. That the hands of a healer might carry as heavy a burden as those that bore the sword.

She brought no garland. But she brought a chisel, and the strength of her hand.

She cleared the stone, brushing away time and ivy. Then, with slow and measured strokes, she carved a name—not in flourish, but in the ancient runes of the Rohirrim, grave and enduring. Not the name sung in mead-halls, nor the name spoken in the courts of kings, but the name that had withstood the years:

Steelsheen

When the carving was done, she set aside the tool and laid her palm upon the stone. The stillness that settled over her was not emptiness, but peace—deep and unwavering, like the hush that follows a storm.

For in that moment she knew, with an inexplicable certainty: her grandmother had chosen the hour and place of her passing—not as retreat, but as resolve, in the manner of the Men of old. As one who had walked a long road, and at last laid down her burden—not in defeat, but in dignity.

And Éowyn, too, had chosen.

She had not turned from war out of weariness, nor taken up the healing arts to be spared the blade. She had faced the shadow and passed through it. She had looked into the abyss—and risen above. And now she turned to the work most needed, and least sung: a labour no less demanding. She had learned swiftly to tend wounds of battle in the Houses of Healing, but herblore and leechcraft, alas, would ask much of her—effort, patience, and long years of toil, like the art of cookery, as Faramir had gently told her.

She rose, and the wind stirred the grass about her. When she turned to go, she did not look back. Yet her hand lingered a moment upon the old gate-post, roughened by weather and worn by time.

Then she mounted, and rode on—back to where she had come.

And in the turning of the world, her name was not lost—nor the name she carved, which weathered time, and outlasted stone.

-The End-

AO3 link to full story

@konartiste no pressure tag :)

[avilionea]

HEADCANON; Re: ARTHURIAN LORE ( In which Darks rewrites a comprehensive timeline) Pt 1/?

Age of Pelles--- the Other World and Avalon are still connected to Albion.. The formation of Corbenic and its curse occur in this time. Avalon is severed from Albion. The Otherworld became only accessible through The Giants Dance.

Elaine is imprisoned in the cliffside cell over a hot spring, stuck in a time loop and boiling/drowning daily. this stagnates her magic solely to visions and now is is harvested for them.

Beginning of Christianity -- Elaine stops living linearly due to living in time paradox( looped to a restricted time, but able to see/exist in the past, present, and future because of visions)

Adhan becomes a nun. She is preyed upon by sleep paralysis demons and mistakes a succubus for an angel, praying to rescue her. She is seduced. Myrddin is born nine months later.

Myrddin's strangeness frightens the other nuns who begin to abuse Adhan and Myrddin in attempts to cleanse them. Myrddin begins to spend his days away from the Abbey up in the hills to make things easier on her.

The Crystal Cave --- while exploring the hills, he experienced a sudden pull and could hear whistling. He happened upon a cave, hidden in a crack on the hillside. Frightened, he ran back to the abbey, but continued to hear the whistle clearly. He sought comfort in his mother, who only said she once had heard a voice in the darkness and that it only could be an angel, for an angel had given her him.

With this comfort in mind, he began to follow the whistling and ventured back to the cave the next day. He then made his descent down through the dark. Dark rocks gave way to bright shining crystals, but the entrance of the cave became lost to Myrddin as he journeyed further down through the cracks into the cave. With no choice but to continue through the cave, Myrddin found the whistling deep within.

It is the Giant Galapas who resided there and had been whistling. Myrddin is seen and easily caught. Galapus reveals that only things that do not belong in the world of man ( magical things) could hear him. He has been trapped in this cave since " the severing of the world". In exchange for help in finding his way out of the cave, Galapas teaches Myrddin magic and how to "see".

There is no time in the cave. It is stagnant, subject to rifts made by old beings beyond comprehension. It was in this stagnation that Merlin was taught and learned. Galapus taught him and emphasized on his critical thinking by changing Merlin into animals. When it came to "seeing" Galapus instructed Myrddin only to see, not to walk or steer the threads of fate. Time and Fate were once lovers, with sequences and moments as their children. Manipulate the children will bring the wrath of the parents. Linearity and existence within that linearity was a privilege. Privileges could be revoked. He was also instructed to never speak with anyone else who could "see", for Time and Fate only let one path be walked at a time.

With this in mind Galapus instructed Myrddin to "see" the future of their time in the cave. Myrddin did and saw failure. Galapus said the best course was inaction, until another path presented itself, but Myrddin, knowing that the future was not set, only wished to see success and in doing so, saw too far.

in the infinite paths, both future and past, Myrddin saw. He began to walk the roads of Time, breaking the rules Galapus gave. In his seeing, he saw a future with himself old and happy with another old woman beside him. The feeling of that future was peace. The perfect ending. Eden on earth. He forgot that the future was never set, and he forgot that he should only see. Myrddin began to run.

In running towards this future, he jumped paths and spoke with all who could hear him. He fell through the Giants Dance , seeing this ideal future and into the cell with Elaine. Time had found him, and Fate intervened on their behalf.

Fate was the spider on Time's web and seers were only flies. but not all flies are caught for the cell existed in Corbenic, where Time was trapped, and Fate could only watch. With hands on Elaine, he could see further down the roads he desired. Myrddin had found a loophole. A way to see beyond limitation and rules. Just as he found his answer he felt a great pull. Galapus has broken the rules and pulled him back to the now.

Myrddin awoke in the Giants hand, and revealed he could see their escape, but the Giant had only looked at him sadly, and lamented the faults of humanity and all the mortality that rested inside him. Galapus revealed that inaction was the answer, for time outside the cave still moved on and man had built atop it. Where man went, so too did magic leave, wither, and die. Sunlight had made its way down, turning the giant to stone.

[shinwritesiguess]

“We’re here.” Anna’s torch moves away from the path, and I blink, disoriented for a second. She swings the beam over the hillside in front of us, warm yellow light illuminating a narrow hole in the rough rock.

“…You can’t be serious.” I stare at her. “We’re going in there?”

“I swear it’ll be fun!” Anna retorts, torch beam sweeping back over us. “Besides, it’s my party. You can go home if you don’t like it.”

I glance back at the path, and suddenly I’m overwhelmingly aware of the darkness, and how many bends it has, and how easy it would be to get lost in miles upon miles of empty forest.

“Okay then.” Anna turns back to the others. “Anyone else going to chicken out?”

Nobody says anything.

“Right! We’re gonna play hide and seek in the cave.”

“Seriously, Anna?” Imogen interjects. “You dragged us the whole way out here to play some dumb kid’s game?”

“It’ll be fun! We’ll be in the pitch black, right? And one person has to find the rest of us. It’ll be, like, super scary. Plus, I’ve got this!”

She unzips her rucksack and pulls out a bottle.

“Is that vodka? How’d you even get that?”

Anna winks, shoving the bottle back into the bag. “A magician never reveals his secrets.”

“She probably just stole it from her parents.” Imogen folds her arms across her chest. “And we should drink that after we’ve gone in the cave. Being drunk in there could be dangerous.”

I look into the cave entrance, brushing overhanging roots away, but it’s too dark to see anything properly. My stomach does a backflip.

“Let’s go!” Anna grins, and my worries subside slightly. “Imogen, you count.”

“Fine.” Imogen sighs and turns to face the path.

Anna grabs my hand and pulls me into the cave, making a noise of disappointment as the torchlight reveals how small it is. There’s a ledge on the wall opposite, and two holes at the base of the other wall that look just tight enough to crawl through on my stomach.

Anna nudges me and points to the ledge. “When the torch is off, it’ll be too dark for her to see us. Probably.”

I nod, glad I don’t have to go into the crawlspace, and climb up, grazing the plams of my hands against the jagged stones. Shuddering, I wipe them off on my jeans. Blood seeps into the blue denim. Anna winces.

“20.” Imogen’s voice echoes through the cave.

Anna scrambles to switch the torch off, and I hear Imogen’s footsteps, echoing in a way that sounds like two people are walking. Spooky.

Anna and I shuffle closer together, trying not to disturb any stones or make any noise which could give away our position. The ceiling presses against the top of my head, and something is sticking into my back.

We listen with bated breath as Imogen walks over to the other side of the cave. She sighs. “Come on. You could have hidden better than that, you know.”

My stomach drops.

Imogen turns her torch on. Then she screams.

Anna grabs my hand and scrambles off the ledge, pulling me down through the crawlspace. Panic rushes through my body. There’s rock pressing down on my back and my sides and my stomach and I can barely even move my arms and-

And then we’re out of it, in another cave, and Anna’s still running, dragging me after her. For a second, my hand slips out of hers, and I’m alone and disoriented in the dark- but her clammy fingers thread back through mine, and we keep running, through tunnel after tunnel, until the noise of footsteps and laboured breathing has completely faded.

She stops, and I collapse against a rock, gasping. Worms are writhing in my stomach, any relief that whatever that was is gone overshadowed by the gnawing realization of how lost we are. I pull my phone out of my pocket, blinking in the sudden light, and gasp in relief as I see the line lit up in the signal bar, and the notifications for unread messages.

Anna’s fingers tighten around mine as I open the messages, and I start to turn to tell her we’ll be fine.

Anna <3: lucy?

I can feel her eyes on me, and I squeeze her hand.

Anna <3: where are you??

Anna <3: we’re back at the cave entrance

[mirchloe]

a short piece for @vwildmonk as a make up present for last year.

Snow blanketed the Quarry, washing over the typical shades of the graying landing pad and earthy browns of the surrounding hillsides. Everywhere Sara looked, fresh, pure snow coated the land. It trickled as if crawling down on threads from spiderwebs. She floated over the jets and helicopters, their wings layered in accumulated snow, the remnants of the evening’s storm, now a gentle, welcoming flurry.

Above, the sky was a single, colorless smear. Dense clouds meshed together, overlapping and entwining. Not a hint of the sun was discoverable, which was expected. With the last vestiges of the storm slowly falling to the ground, Sara believed the sun would come out tomorrow.

For now, she enjoyed the brisk chill. Dressed in a thick, wool sweater and fleece trousers, she came prepared. On her feet were a pair of ice skates, the blades so sharp that she gave everyone fair warning by their glint alone. As she propelled through the air, focusing on where to land as she surveyed the water hidden underneath a solid layer of ice, she spotted her companion.

“Lucy!” she called, diving low, extending a leg as she landed. She spun in place, pirouetting. “How are you holding up? Are Otto’s skates as good as I told you they would be?”

Lucrecia chuckled, wearing her patched shawls and mittens. Hidden underneath her long winter coat was a matching pair of skates. It had been much too long since she ice skated, and Sara wanted to be the one with her experiencing such whimsical joy.

She tapped the sharp toe against a faint line in the ice. “I have to say, I didn’t think Otto could make such an ordinary skate. I thought he would have put something like, eh, a rocket booster. It’s something Pootie keeps asking him for, too, but upper management keeps shooting down his ideas.”

“I could ask Otto if he could make a pair of them for Raz on the side,” Sara promised, “but it would probably just be a ‘mental world only’ device. I can’t imagine Raz taking them out for a sonic spin in the real world.”

“Oh, he’s agile enough to navigate such speed wherever he goes. He’s a little rocket, after all! And my Gussy taught him how to land when he was a baby,” Lucrecia insisted with a little flap of her hand. She eyed the ice, a familiar twinkle illuminating in her eyes. “Anyway, unlike Pootie, I’m a little rusty. I just let myself slide to the center of our rink.”

Sara chuckled, glancing over her shoulder to follow the nearly even, twin lines guiding back to the rocks. Lucrecia must have inched her way onto the ice before letting the wind nudge her along, hardly swaying from side to side. In a way, she might have been like a gliding rock going at a snail’s pace.

And for someone out of practice, it was on Sara’s capable shoulders to help her re-learn the ropes. She offered Lucrecia her hand, noting the worn, slightly sagging skin and veins bulging along Lucrecia’s tender palm. She had endured a tremendous deal of pain, as the last twenty years had been embroiled in struggle and confusion. While she had her family, and an ample amount of love, it was only now that Lucrecia could begin to heal. Sara wanted to ensure every ounce of happiness was hers, reclaiming what was lost to her, and it began with the simple act of ice skating.

Carefully, Sara tugged Lucrecia along the ice. They moved in a gentle rhythm, flowing forward without letting the wind push at their backs. She felt Lucrecia tighten her grip around Sara’s hand, coaxing her to move a little faster. Lucrecia was always up for the extreme in life, beginning with her extraordinary roots as a circus performer, and even though her seniority slowed her, her willingness never wavered.

Sara tested the waters, twirling Lucrecia around and earning a giggle in return. The reward was better than she hoped, as Lucrecia asked her to do it again. A second whirl in place, Sara sinking lower to steady Lucrecia, they skidded across the ice, rotating again and again. The world was a snowy blur, captured only by pauses to breathe, to let their old bones catch up to their youthful eagerness.

“Oh, lift me,” Lucrecia suggested with a giddiness Sara had longed to hear. “It’ll be like an acrobatic feat.”

“Sure thing!” Sara chirped, and with a telekinetic tug, she held Lucrecia above her head. She slightly wobbled, pushing her legs away from the farther edge of the rink. She carefully weaved back to the center of the ice, noticing how many swirls they had created, the icy chips proof of their playtime. And keeping her telekinesis firm, she looked up, watching Lucrecia spreading her limbs, and she asked, “How’s it feel?”

“Feels like I’m the prima donna again,” she cooed, uttering a sigh that sounded like it had been trapped in her chest. A stream of white air escaped her thin lips, which she pulled into a smile directed at Sara. “You have no idea how much I needed this. Thank you, Sara.”

Gratitude was hardly needed. All Sara needed was her smile, as bright as the fresh snow. And with that in mind, she cracked her own grin, pivoting around with the grace of a ballerina.

“Aw, Lucy, you know you don’t have to thank me. I could skate the entire day away with you!”

With hints of sunlight beginning to pierce through the clouds, dazzling across the ice in glittering shades of the rainbow, Lucrecia and Sara laughed and skated as if they were carefree children.

[whistlerpembertonrealestate]

Discover Opulence in the Heart of Nature: Luxury Properties in Whistler and Pemberton

In the breathtaking landscapes of British Columbia, where majestic mountains meet lush forests, two exceptional destinations stand out for those seeking the pinnacle of luxury living – Whistler and Pemberton. Nestled amid the stunning scenery of the Coast Mountain Range, these regions boast a collection of extravagant properties that redefine the meaning of opulence.

Whistler's Extravagance:

Unveiling the Epitome of Alpine Elegance

Whistler, internationally renowned as a premier destination for outdoor enthusiasts and winter sports aficionados, is equally celebrated for its exclusive luxury real estate offerings. Imagine waking up to panoramic views of snow-capped peaks or enjoying après-ski relaxation in your private mountain retreat. From chic slope-side chalets to contemporary mountain estates, Whistler's Luxury property in Whistler seamlessly blend sophistication with the rugged beauty of the surrounding wilderness.

The allure of Whistler extends beyond its world-class skiing and snowboarding. Exclusive neighborhoods like Kadenwood and Stonebridge offer a harmonious blend of privacy and accessibility, ensuring that residents can relish both seclusion and the vibrant atmosphere of the village. State-of-the-art amenities, cutting-edge architecture, and meticulous attention to detail characterize these opulent residences, making them coveted havens for those who demand the very best.

Pemberton's Tranquil Grandeur:

Embrace Serenity in Luxury Residences

Just a short drive north of Whistler lies Pemberton, a hidden gem renowned for its tranquil landscapes and close-knit community. Pemberton's Luxury property in Pemberton present a unique opportunity to experience the epitome of rustic elegance. Surrounded by meandering rivers, fertile farmland, and awe-inspiring mountain vistas, Pemberton's exclusive estates offer a serene escape from the hustle and bustle of city life.

Whether it's a sprawling ranch property with vast expanses of open land or an architecturally distinct mountain home tucked into the forested hillsides, Pemberton's luxury real estate market caters to those seeking a balance between refinement and nature. Residents here enjoy a slower pace of life, complemented by an array of outdoor activities such as hiking, horseback riding, and fishing. Pemberton provides an idyllic backdrop for those who desire a luxurious retreat without compromising on tranquility.

The Common Thread: Unparalleled Luxury Amidst Natural Splendor

Despite their distinct characteristics, both Whistler and Pemberton share a commitment to providing residents with unparalleled luxury amidst the breathtaking natural splendor of British Columbia. Whether you choose the vibrant energy of Whistler or the peaceful seclusion of Pemberton, these communities offer a rare blend of sophistication and wilderness.

In the lap of luxury, surrounded by pristine landscapes, the properties of Whistler and Pemberton stand as testaments to the harmonious coexistence of opulence and nature. Explore the possibilities, embrace the extraordinary, and immerse yourself in the epitome of luxury living in these captivating mountain havens.

[higaneion]

at the tavern... (prelude)

Relieved from the cold a group of three from the shipwreck enter the tavern where ladies and gentlemen are warmed by the fire and a drink in hand. Lilina had expected it to be more busy or lively but she supposed with the loom of mystery and unfortunate events that there wasn't much in the way of business these days. Seated alone at the bar is a man who she could only guess is the one they're looking for from the way he's dressed.

           "Excuse me, you are Lysander, founder of Reval, correct?" She makes quick work to pay her respects by way of a short bow out of habit. "Do you know anything about the missing villagers?"

"Nothing more than you already do, young lady. Save that it's gone on long enough, hasn't it? More than long enough…" He looks…not concerned, but at the least preoccupied ( with getting to the bottom of his drink that is ).

           There's something in the way he regards her, be it her clothes or the drink that holds more weight of his attention than the conversation at hand that puts her on edge. She wouldn't necessarily consider him noble, just wealthy from the looks of it, but regardless, she crinkles her nose at whatever he wasn't telling her.

           "Aren't you worried at all?" she begins, brows furrowing to a frown bordering scowl as she presses further, "As I've heard, this town is one of your investments and if things are not resolved soon, it would reflect poorly on you."

           Never mind those poor people, wherever they were, if they were alive at this point. But she truly wonders if he even cares as much as he says he does. He couldn't be that invested if he doesn't poke around for more information than the common villager.

"Of course I'm worried. Having gotten to know the many bright souls here, seeing them disappear is of great concern. Hence, my proposition: allow me to purchase your services in order to investigate." He shakes his head. "You almost make me out to be some kind of monster, young miss."

           Judging from his character so far, his answer doesn't surprise her. Leave it to the expendable to do your dirty work. A monster, he says. Though she wouldn't go as far as to say that, she does nothing to object the statement. "Alright... I suppose we could accept. Where or how would be the best place to start investigating?"

"Hmmm…" He swirls his drink pensively. "We have searched everywhere… Save the mines. But they're dangerous, you see."

           "Dangerous..? How so?" A pause. "There's no one who knows anything about the mines or dares go in?"

"They've long been condemned. In truth, I haven't been myself -- not much of an adventurer, see. All skin and bones. But, ah, no-- no one's been allowed to approach for decades now. It's long been shut down. One must watch for cave-ins and beasts having made the place their home." … "Perhaps they're not so bad in the end if one is lucky but…"

           Lilina takes a moment to mull over the information. She wouldn't want to volunteer others lives if it were truly as dangerous as he and the town makes it out to be, but if it was their only lead... "Condemned? But…." she furrows her brows. "… would we even be allowed to explore?"

"As the proprietor, I have the final say, and I say yes. You are, of course, under no obligation."

           And thus, now hired by the wealthy town owner and accompanied by his sister they set off to the mines in search of Reval's missing villagers and perhaps something more.

( Next chapter... )

[duskofendflame]

Activity Check (August) - Passed !

Total Skill Points: 5 -> 6 -> 7.

[Monthly Skill Point]: +1 to Authority (Authority Rank D)

Other Points: +1 to Heavy Armor (Dropped Thread, Heavy Armor Rank E+)

Claims:

Classes: Recruit Rank Chart: Accuracy Ring

Housekeeping

Waiting on Partner:

Safe and Sound, Warm and Together (Sakura) Sorry, All Booked (Dwyer) Despair Lays Claim (Harken) Fell Silent (Grima) (Faith +1) Corrin Two: Electric Boogaloo (Jakob) If You’re Not Wearing Shoes, and I’m Not Wearing Shoes, Then Whose Shoes Are Those? (Veyle) I'm Not on a Boat, You're on a Boat (Ivy) (Sabbam Vitaham) Raindrop in the Sea (Edelgard) (Sabbam Vitaham)

Completed:

Mmm Crunchy (1789 words) Hey Who Left This King and Queen on the Beach (1530 words) I'd Simply Return (1604 words) Hidden in the Hillsides (1211 words)

Dropped:

Family is a Contest No One is Winning Mannrobics Tallest Siblings Ever

[shadowriel]

Searching for Starlight

What can I say? The tiny gremlin in my brain that controls what I write decided on Feysand angst—aka a short fic about what would have happened if Rhys and Feyre had fallen in love during the war and were torn apart when the Mortal Lands were separated from the rest of Prythian. You can blame (and thank?) the gremlin for this one.

Summary: Years after the great war, Rhysand crosses into the Mortal Lands and is reunited with his former lover.

Read here on AO3

Read a snippet below:

On the nights he can’t sleep, Rhys winnows away and finds himself atop the sprawling hills of the Spring Court’s southern border. Despite the late hour, starlight paints the world with hints of colour—ones he wouldn't have noticed, if not for her. The muted green of the hillside. The vivid indigos and violets of night-blooming flowers. He can almost picture her slender fingers tapping against each other, itching to get ahold of a brush and outline the scene on canvas.

He wonders if she still paints—even after everything. If she stills finds beauty in the very places no one would ever expect, as she’d done once with him, seeing past the mask he’d worn during the great war and to the glowing embers of his heart beneath. 

Maybe they would have been mates. Rhys thinks this on his worst nights, cursing the Mother and the Cauldron and every unravelling thread in the tapestry of their fates. If not for the war—if not for the creation of the Wall and the fact that she’d be dead the moment she crossed it—Rhys would have made her his wife and, when he became High Lord, his High Lady.

So he trails the Wall from a distance, sensing its presence as he eyes the dense woods that leave it half-hidden among trees. Its magic beckons him closer, a steady hum singing across his skin, growing louder with every step he takes. But lingering hope is what draws him near—the overpowering desire to find any way through to the other side.

He’s spent years searching for a way across, but tonight, he finds it. A soft breath escapes his lips. His lungs seem to deflate. And even as his heart beats faster in his chest, he doesn’t allow himself a moment to reconsider.

He steps into the Mortal Lands.

[averagejoesolomon]

Surprise! This is one heck of a chapter and it was eating away at my brain all week, which has resulted in a quicker-than-usual chapter. Have some Matt and Rachel!! If you're new here, you can read Full Circle from the beginning on Ao3.

Chapter Ten

“What are you doing here?”

It’s well past sunset, but the sky hasn’t yet forgotten the light of day. A low, radiant blue eases up from the horizon and stretches toward the dark and deepening promise of an oncoming night. The grounds of the Cameron estate have faded to a pale, strained gray, which might explain why Matt hears the voice before he spots its source. With less than ten minutes until total nightfall, Rachel is little more than a silhouette as she rounds the crest of a shallow hilltop.

Matt turns away. “You told me to get lost,” he reminds her. “So I’m getting lost.”

He doesn’t add that it’ll be another fifteen minutes before his cab arrives, because the last person he told was a burly, cross-armed bouncer at the mansion entrance who told him to move along. With the party still in progress, Matt was ordered to wait further out of sight, which is how he finds himself at the edge of the property line, tucked alongside a budding willow tree and the pond over which it weeps. That’s just as well. This is a better vantage point anyway, and he can finally give up on this ridiculous, bow-tied cover.

But even when he’s hidden away, Rachel still finds him, and she’s walking with the kind of purposeful, powerful stride she usually saves for rogue agents, right before she takes a swing. “That’s not what I’m asking,” she bites, “and you know it.”

She’s still got that thread of cruel fury strung through her every word. When Matt hears it, he can’t help but snatch it from the air and pull. “I thought you didn’t want to see me again.”

There’s no stopping Rachel when she sets her mind to something, which means there’s no stopping her as she charges straight through the evening with her hands twisted into fists. Matt drops his duffel on instinct, defaulting into a defensive stance, but with every step, he sees more of her—the wrinkles in her dress, the disheveled hair, the way her heels sink into the muddy hillside. She dissolves from strength to sorrow right before his eyes. “Langley says you’re supposed to be in Romania,” she shouts. “Abby says you’re flying in from Texas. And now you’re running around my home, starting arguments with my—”

“I didn’t start that argument—”

“Enough.” She lands right at his feet. “Just enough, already. You’re going to stand there, and I’m going to yell at you, and you’re going to listen—”

“No, you’re going to listen.” His finger lands inches from her face. “I’ve had just about enough of you riding in on your high horse and looking down on me—I’m not that clueless kid you met at Camp Peary anymore, and you’re gonna stop treating me like I am.”

Her teeth grind against the set of her jaw. “You’ve got three seconds to get your hand away from me before I snap it into ten different pieces,” she tells him. “Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?”

Wrath is stealing his patience, and his goodwill, and his logic, but even with all of that heat pumping through him, he knows better than to tempt Rachel into following through on a threat. He lets his finger fall, but raises his voice to make up for it. “Why shouldn’t I talk to you like that?” he says. “God forbid anyone disagree with the almighty Cameron sisters—”

“You leave Abby out of this. This is not about Abby.” 

Matt’s whole life has been about Abby since the day he met her. “Of course it’s about Abby,” he says. “Everything’s about Abby, because she makes everything about her. She twists the whole world around her little finger and then she acts surprised when someone says they’re in love with her, and then she—”

“When someone what?”

“I told her,” Matt barks. “And she totally blew me off, because she’s selfish, and reckless, and she can’t commit to anything—not even herself.”

“Hey, do not talk about her like that,” Rachel snaps. “You do not talk about Abby like that. What has gotten into you lately—and don’t you lie to me. Do not lie to me. I know when you’re lying.”

“On account of how you know everything, huh?”

Rachel takes another step forward, frantic and fast. Just short of a jab. She’s right up to his chest when she says, “You have been looking for a fight since you first got here—so guess what? You finally found one.” Budding tears gleam against the empty sunset, but they ain’t the product of sadness. These are the bitter, burning tears of righteous rage. “If you’re going to be angry with someone, then you better start with me, Matthew—and you better strike me down quick, otherwise I will come back at you blow, after blow, after blow until that bruised jaw is the least of your problems.”

There’s a part of him that can’t stand the sight of a woman like her crying in front of a man like him, but it’s small, and dwindling fast compared to the part of him that wants to twist the hurt deeper into her core. In that slim instant, all he wants is to humble the Hell out of her, the same way the Circle has humbled the Hell out of him, and it’s only after she makes the offer that Matt realizes he does want a fight, actually.

It’s real annoying, that she gets to be right about this, too.

“Why can’t you just admit that there are some things not even the mighty Rachel Cameron knows about?”

“There’s plenty I do know—I know you’ve been doubling up on missions.”

“So what?”

“I know you stopped going to church.”

“What’s that got to do with—?”

“I know you just kicked my dear friend into the ground, and threatened him to the point of tears.”

“Yeah, and that guy’s a real prize, by the way.” His words freeze against the springtime air and mingle with the fog on her breath. “Honestly, Rachel, you deserve better than him, and the fact that you don’t see it—”

“I do see it,” she shouts, and to emphasize her point further, her bare left hand cuts through the mere inches that separate her face from his. “That’s why I’m not married to him, you virtuous asshole. But even if I was, you can’t just throw people around like a rag dolls—”

He grabs her wrist and holds it there, hand shaking at the same furious frequency as his voice. “You’ve got no idea what I can and can’t do,” he says, and it comes out like a warning—low and ragged. A blinding white tension teases every last nerve he has. “Not one damn clue.”

But Rachel’s chin stays high, her voice even as ever. “Get off of me,” she says, and when Matt doesn’t listen, she gives the order again. The second time comes with a shove that sends them both backwards, stumbling through slick clumps of grass. “Get off of me.”

Instinct sends his hand out to catch her elbow, aiming to steady her, because he’s given enough farm tours to know heels and mud don’t mix. Except Rachel sure don’t see it that way. She just pulls further back, because Rachel has never needed anyone else to keep her steady. When she does catch her balance, she pauses. Studies him. Her eyes pass over him from top to bottom, searching, until a great, round tear finally grows too heavy and trails down the curve of her cheek. 

Her voice shakes with his. “What… happened to you?” He wonders how long she’s been dancing around this question, because now that it’s finally out in the open, it feels tender and wilted. “You used to be patient and kind. You used to show mercy to everyone you met.”

Matt has to swallow, hard, to keep back indignant tears of his own. “Yeah, well,” he snaps. “Maybe all that nonsense was making me a godawful spy.”

“Maybe it was,” she agrees, with all of her stubbornness and pride. “But I know plenty of good spies, Matthew. It’s not often I meet good people. And it’s a shame, and a waste, and a categorical disaster that Joe wrung that out of you—”

“Don’t.” He’s lost count of how many times he’s had to fight this particular fight. “Don’t even start—this ain’t about Joe.”

And for the first time all evening, Rachel’s voice drops to something just above a whisper. He’s got no choice but to key in and listen good. “Everything you do is about Joe.” Her face grows long, holding back the quiver in her lip as she keeps each word steady and concise. “And I don’t know how you haven’t figured that out yet.”

It’s real easy to get lost in this line of work. Matt sees it all the time. He’s seen analysts lose hours of their life to encryptions that can’t be cracked. He’s seen field agents get buried under guilt, or grief, or paranoia. Some people get so lost in the world of espionage that despite their greatest and most determined efforts, they never land back home at the end of the day.

Matt ain’t lost, because Matt’s got Joe. And the same goes for Joe, just the other way around. There’s a tether tied straight through their centers, wrapped tight around the parts that keep them grounded. Whenever one strays too far, the other is around to pull him back in. And they do. Pull at one another. Day after day, night after night, minute after endless minute, he feels Joe’s tug against his gut, begging to be drawn back into safety. And when that feeling fades, Matt knows its time to call in reinforcements of his own—sure enough, Joe always knows just how to reel him back in.

But Rachel’s watching him like all she wants to do is reach out, pin him down, hold him right by her side, and he wonders if he’s stumbled into another one of those unnoticeable things. He wonders what Rachel notices, staring up at him through disappearing daylight.

“Matthew.” His name sounds secure on her lips. “What are you doing in Baltimore?”

“Rachel—”

Try again. “Who is trying to attack my father?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Try again, try again. “Who are you running from?”

“No one, I swear—”

Try again, and again, and again. “Then who are you running toward?”

In the silence that follows, the crickets begin to play their song while an icy breeze rolls over the lake. It sends ripples through the water and catches in the long, billowing branches of the nearby tree. It’s hard to tell if Rachel’s shivering is the result of rage or the steadily dropping temperature, but Matt supposes it don’t much matter either way. 

He shrugs the jacket from his shoulders, sliding his arms free one at a time before wrapping it around her. Rachel promptly refuses the offer, wriggling free of his reach as she brings a hand up to wave him away. “I don’t want your jacket,” she grumbles. “I don’t want your help.”

“S’not my jacket,” he reminds her. “You bought it.”

She wipes away the second tear as it falls. “Well I don’t want it.”

“You’re freezing,” he says, trying again. “Can you give up on being stubborn for thirty seconds and just let me help you?”

“Not until you let me help you.” She swats the jacket away once more. “Not until you tell me what he’s got you doing, and how much trouble he’s gotten you into.”

“First of all, he hasn’t gotten me into anything—if Joe had things his way, we’d be sipping Romanian wine on the patio of a three-star hotel right now.” Matt shoves the jacket onto her shoulders and holds it there. “And secondly, when things went sour in there, Joe was the guy who stuck up for you, so maybe you ought to give him a little more credit—”

“He was sticking up for you.”

Matt just shakes his head. “I’ve seen Joe stick his neck out for me plenty of times,” he says, and it’s true. But when Joe fights on Matt’s behalf, it’s different. When Joe fights for Matt, there ain’t nothing holding him back—that is, of course, except for Matt himself. “That one was for you.”

Rachel considers this, absentminded hands grasping at the lapels of the oversized jacket and pulling it shut around her front. Her face twists up in that same way it always does when she’s thinking, calculating, strategizing, and Matt just knows that she’s trying to balance new information with the instinct in her gut. “That doesn’t change the fact—”

“One of these days, you’re gonna have to realize trust go both ways.” He lets his hands fall, and she stands a little taller without the weight. “One of these days, you’re gonna have to realize I know what I’m doing.”

In a business of identifying patterns and understanding assets, there ain’t no one better than Rachel Cameron. That’s the truth, through and through. In an instant, she can piece together mannerisms and character traits that would take most people years to notice, handily storing them away in her head for future use. Matt’s seen her process in action on more than one occasion, and it’s amazing to witness. So when Rachel says, “You’re different, now,” he knows it to be a categorical fact observed by an expert in her field. “You’re different than you used to be.”

And it’s hard not to agree with her. “I’m different than I used to be.”

He’s not sure when it happened. There was no glorious, enlightening moment in which he became a fully capable intelligence agent, with some secrets so secure not even the CIA knows about them. There was no ceremony, celebrating his promotion from shining rookie to rugged professional. When someone has run as many missions as Matt has, maybe it’s inevitable that slowly, without warning, he becomes the kind of guy who chases leads across continents. He becomes the kind of guy who bashes Russians with billiard balls and kicks know-it-all NSA agents to the ground. He becomes the kind of guy who fights with the friends who made him this kind of guy in the first place, and he becomes the kind of guy who doesn’t have enough energy left for mercy.

And when she lays it all out for him, right there in that springtime chill, Matt starts to realize that maybe he doesn’t like the kind of guy he’s become. Rachel certainly doesn’t, and Matt very much wants to be the kind of guy Rachel likes.

Her voice is softer now, but still has an edge that can cut right to his middle. “I don’t know what path you’re on,” she tells him. “But if you keep walking that way, I won’t follow. I swear to god, Matthew, I will not watch you sacrifice yourself to espionage. I won’t do it. You’re too good for that.”

Throughout his career, plenty of people have told Matt that he’s good, but none of them have meant it in the way Rachel does now. They say he’s talented, gifted, skilled. Rachel says it with her soul—good. The way saints are good. The way God is good. The way him, looking at her, is good. “I don’t…” he tries, but the words get lost somewhere along the way. He has to restart. “I don’t know if I can stop. I have to keep doing what I’m doing. It’s important work. It’s good work.”

In the distance, tires crunch across the stone drive and Matt turns to clock the noise. The headlights meet him dead-on, exposing the pair of them in an otherwise dark night, so he throws his hand up to block the glare. Sure enough, a bright yellow taxi sits idle at the mansion doors. He turns back to Rachel with so much left to say and not enough time to say it.

She beats him to it. “Then you better find a good way to do it,” she says, with a subtle sniffle. “Or you better figure out how to do it without me.”

With one, easy motion, she pulls his jacket from her shoulders and shoves it into his chest. It knocks the air from his lungs as he strains for another argument, but Rachel isn’t willing to listen anymore. She pops her heels from her feet and lets them hang by the fingertips as she turns away. Matt picks up his duffel and follows her lead. It’s a miserable trudge for the both of them, cast in two opposite directions—one toward a cab he doesn’t want to take and the other toward a party she doesn’t want to attend.

When he reaches the taxi, Joe’s already waiting inside, ready to reel Matt in. “We’ll get a hotel for the night?” he asks. “Flight’s not until late tomorrow evening.”

Matt slings his muddy bag onto the floor at his feet. “Sure, you get us a room,” he says. “I’ve got a stop I have to make first.”

[skullyfuck]

There's a strange boy on the middle of the street, who lives just on the side of where it splits, the road looping to accommodate the hillside it'd been planted on ungraciously.

His blinds are hardly open, the cans along the sill long empty and faded from sun, the only thing other than the small plant pots that can be seen from the outside.

The boy's house is quainter than most, a small thing, two bedroom is what it looks like, and he hardly leaves. His window opens though, sometimes, and the scent of sandal wood can be smelt two houses down.

When he does leave, he doesn't talk, headphones sat on top of his head and pins sticking through his clothing and holding them together in a way that looks deliberate. His hair is bright and changes colour every week and you would swear something thrums beneath his skin.

You've seen people knock on his door before, it only opening a crack as they speak with the boy inside, who seems to live with no one else. He opens it wider for them, and closes it behind them. They don't leave for hours, but when they do, they're always holding something small to their chest.

It's the middle of the night when you sneak out through your window, cold winter air biting at what skin you've lift exposed. Frost has already settled under the moonlight, glittering as you make your way out onto the street, and then down it.

The asphalt is cold beneath your threadbare socks, you're shoes had been on the other side of the house, and were not something you were willing to risk.

Your knocks upon the boy's door are quiet things, but it opens in just a moment anyways, the boys face barely peeking out. His hair is a pastel blue, now, the colour of the cold skies of recent.

It takes barely a moment before you start stumbling over your woes, of strict eyes and cold floors, of harsh hands and even harsher hunger. The boy's eyes harden, and soften, and he opens his door to welcome you in.

The warmth is instant, flooding over you in a mere moment as you lay foot on the carpet below, door closing behind you.

The boy leads you to a room to the left as you walk in, the roof strung with twine and plants you'd have been sure would have been fake if it weren't for the way they felt against the skin of your finger pads, leaves gently shaking in a breeze you can not feel.

He frowns, reaching for a small corked bottle hung from the roof, sealed with wax and fine black thread. He mutters to himself for a moment, before reaching for another.

They line the vines and across the rest of the window sill that cannot be seen from the street, some empty and some full with salt and sea shell, something about them tells you they serve a purpose, every last one.

After only a minute, the boy turns back to you, something small in hand, woven black thread lain over his fingers as he holds it out.

"Here," He murmurs to you slowly, soft gaze finding yours as he hands it to you, "Place it around your neck. When you get back from where you came, dig a small hole and pore the contents inside, and wait. You will be just fine."

You find it in yourself to nod, gaze falling from the boy who has pointed ears, taking the bottle and looping it around your neck. You find your way out just fine, though the sun is rising when you'd swear you'd only been there mere minutes.

You do as the boy says, breaking the wax and pouring it into a whole, before burying it and the bottle for good measure. And then you wait.

By morning the next day, you find a small ring sitting on the sill of your window, cold from the night outside but warming as easily as you did when you entered the boys house.

Over the next week, you become accustom to trinkets and small things showing out of seemingly no where. A necklace, a bracelet, earrings in a box. You make sure to keep them hidden, until on the eighth day of waiting, you see a sprout from where you had buried the bottle.

Only then, with something deep inside you telling you it's time, do you move.

The trinkets sell for good, all pure and antique, leaving you with enough of a sum of money to skip town and make a good life somewhere else.

You wait for news of yourself missing, of paper or report, and when nothing comes, you find yourself a job and some people to bunk with, who don't mind your sudden appearance.

You hardly find yourself surprised when one winter morning, you find a corked bottle on your windowsill, with the smallest of sprouts inside.