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lola-writes · 1 year ago

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Prince Regent

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Word Count: 8.6k

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

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

Song: Hide and Seek ~ Klergy, Mindy Jones

Latest oneshot: A Dragon's Lullaby

Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Playlist | Ao3

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Enjoy the read!

[gif @aemondstark ]

AEMOND

Smoke. Dragon fire. Blood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Qubemagon, Vhagar.” (Descend)

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

Adrenaline trickled into my bloodstream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aegon has fallen,” I said.

The council erupted in uproar.

Cries of outrage and accusations.

Obscenities.

Scandal.

“How could this be allowed to happen?”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“We are doomed!”

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

“The King is dead!”

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

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

It was palpable.

It was mine for the taking.

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

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

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

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

I cast my gaze on her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

YOU

Mutters. Whispers. Gossip.

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

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

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

Fear, a cold serpent, coiled in my gut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

None of it mattered.

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

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

Unanswered questions swirled in my mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t Alicent.

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

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

Aemond descended the steps.

“Slayer of the queen who never was.”

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

“And Protector of the Realm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scattered heads nodded in agreement.

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

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

It felt like he was about to eat me alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seven Hells.

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

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

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

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

And the crown needed heirs.

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

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

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

“Skoros iksin bēvilagon.” (What was necessary)

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

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

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

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

His reaction was swift and brutal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A hot flush crept up my cheeks at his implication.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Panic clawed at my throat.

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

AEMOND

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

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

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

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

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

I started into the storm-ridden castle.

YOU

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

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

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

None dared defy the one-eyed prince.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hummed deeply. “Say it.”

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

“I haven't.”

“You haven't what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kelītīs,” (Stop) he growled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded desperately. “Yes,” I gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I knew that word.

Beautiful.

AEMOND

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Untamed, fierce, fuckable.

She was molded just for me.

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

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

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

“You have my word,” she said softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seven Hells.

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

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

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

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

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

Thunder rolled overhead.

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

She was panting, fucked into soft compliancy.

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

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

“Say my name.”

“Aemond.”

“And who is your King?”

“Aemond.”

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

“Say it.”

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

It set me on fire.

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

My muscles shook from the aftershock.

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

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

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

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

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florencemtrash · 2 months ago

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The Graveyard Shift: Chapter VII

Simon Riley x f!Reader

Summary: Simon Riley is a lonely grave keeper in Victorian England who puts a marriage proposal ad in the London newspaper. He's ready to make his house a home, but can he convince his new wife that he can be her safe space, or will the secret she carries threaten their newfound happiness?

Warnings: abusive marriages (not Simon), allusions to SA (not explicit)

If you'd like to be added to the taglist, please leave a comment on the masterlist! This just helps me stay organized so I don't miss any requests. Thank you :)

The Graveyard Shift Masterlist

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Y/n had heard once that food could kill a starving animal. That their bodies would reject the very thing they needed to survive the same way that hot water was the worst thing you could give a frozen limb. She had heard, but never understood.

Now she did.

Painfully so.

Every kind action of Simon’s was a knife twisting in her stomach. Something that, if removed, could have her bleed out on the floor. Every extra crust of bread he gave her at dinner. Every meal he beat her at cooking. The mornings when he slipped out of bed and closed the curtains so she could steal an extra hour of sleep. She didn’t know what to do with it. Even worse, she didn’t know when she’d started falling into such deep slumber with him beside her. What had started off as fitful nights of sleep hanging off the bed so they wouldn’t touch had turned into mornings when she would wake with her arm lazily draped over his chest.

But the worst came the day he found her money box.

The week had been heralding rain. Storm clouds had fattened in the sky, thick and grey and swollen. Y/n had made a habit of checking her money box every week for water leakage or theft. But then it became a habit for every day. The moment Simon left the house she’d disappear into the woods with Riley slinking after her heels to check that her money was secure before covering it up with moss again and hiding her tracks.

She should have been more careful about the dog.

There was little to do with gravestones and gravedigging when rain threatened to turn the topsoil to mud, so Simon took to weeding the garden instead, sinking his hands and knees into the dirt and feeling for hard roots beneath his fingers. Riley had been waiting at the gate, eyes locked on the spot in the woods he thought it was time to visit.

The moment Simon stepped outside of the yard, Riley was bounding ahead, looking back to check he was being followed as he traced the familiar path. And so Simon found the moneybox nestled into the tree trunk marked with an overturned stone and Riley’s wide paw prints.

Y/n was still humming when he returned, sitting at the table and churning butter to the rhythm of her song. “You were out for a long time. I thought you weren’t going to—”

The churning stopped.

Simon stood just inside the house, water clinging to the tips of his short, blond hair like diamonds on a necklace. In his large, calloused hands he held the slowly rusting tin box, now bulging from the linens that had been hastily shoved back inside instead of carefully wrapped around her coin.

All the blood left her face and she immediately stood up, eyeing the path to the front door and the silhouette of her coat. She’d stolen nothing from him, spent nothing that hadn’t been given to her as pin money over the last few months. But she was too frightened to explain it to him. There was more in that box than just the pin money he’d given her. There’d also been the money she’d saved from her first marriage. Money she was sure he didn’t want her to have.

When he took another step into the house she took one step back, stumbling over the leg of her chair and slicing her palm open against a knife she’d left out on the table. She closed her fist over the wound, hiding it behind her back and letting it drip onto her apron.

Simon stilled, eyes unreadable as he saw her coiled tight. Ready to bolt, this time penniless.

Something within him broke at the sight of his wife cowering because he’d discovered a sum so small he couldn’t even imagine what she’d accomplish with it. He knew he made a small living, but he’d worked to set aside something for her for trinkets and baubles. He had wondered what it was she did with the money, seeing that her possessions in the house never grew beyond the bare necessities, but he hadn’t thought…

She’d hidden it away out of fear.

In preparation. For what he couldn’t fathom.

He would never divorce her. Never cast her out. At the very least Father Hughes would have mercy for her if something were to ever happen to Simon, so why would she—

Y/n was crying now, shaking as she waited for him to do something. Anything.

His eyes softened then and his voice was thick when he explained, “I’m not… I’m not going to hurt you.” She shook her head, backing away from him. He saw the bloody knife. “Y/n, you’re bleeding.”

She lurched away from him when he entered the kitchen and picked up the knife. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, clasping her bloody hands together, “I meant nothing by it. I swear I’ve not stolen it. I—”

He dropped the knife to the floor, jaw clenching so tightly he thought his teeth might shatter.

What’s been done to you? He wanted to beg her for an answer. Instead he tugged her to the sink, cleaning the gash in her hand with soap and water before tying it tightly with linens to stop the bleeding.

He didn’t like what he did next, he just… he didn’t know what to do. “Go upstairs,” he commanded her. “Clean yourself up and go to bed for the night. I’ll bring up supper.”

She obeyed him too easily.

When Simon brought her her food she didn’t touch it. She might have eaten it if he commanded her to, but all he did was lay the plate on his side of the bed and disappear downstairs.

She waited for him to come back upstairs, hardly dared to breathe in case the sound were to muffle his footsteps, but he never came to bed.

In the morning, she came to find out why.

She padded down the stairs, mimicking her husband’s quiet ways around the house and started making breakfast as she always did. The house was empty and still save for the sizzling of a slab of bacon over the fire.

Simon had left the tin box on the table, open and empty. Her money was gone.

She made him breakfast, and when noon came and went without him, she ate the cold meal.

From the kitchen window she finally saw the shape of Simon and Riley emerge from the woods an hour later. Sweat clung to Simon’s brow as he lowered his mask and wiped his face with his sleeve. The makings of a sunburn were beginning to touch his cheekbones.

Riley beat him to the house, scratching at the door until Y/n let him inside.

Simon waited in the garden. “Darling.” He took off his cap, holding it against his heart.

She only nodded, keeping her head down. “I have lunch waiting.”

“Did you eat breakfast without me?”

She hesitated before letting out a meek, “Yes.”

“Good. Maybe lunch could wait then? I’ve got something to show you.”

She looked behind towards the woods. Shadows lingered in the underbrush, twisting and writhing. She swallowed thickly, but took her scarf and straw hat off the door and followed her husband into the green wilderness.

He walked in front slowly, only glancing back from time to time to make sure she was following. The path they walked was new, only treaded once by Simon and Riley.

“I don’t often walk this way.” Simon said, making small conversation. “Every spring whatever progress I made is swallowed up by vines and brush.” This did nothing to temper the unease growing in Y/n’s stomach. Sunlight dappled ground swayed beneath her feet and she struggled to keep her head from floating away into nothingness.

Surely Simon wouldn’t hurt her? He… he’d promised. But she knew more than to trust blindly in the promises of men.

When they emerged into a small clearing she breathed only a little easier. There were places for her to run. Places for her disappear.

An elm tree, grey and brown and luscious, took up the space, stealing sunlight and chasing away everything but the heartiest of weeds. Riley sniffed the grassy perimeter, patrolling for things seen and unseen.

Simon kneeled at the base of the tree, waving Y/n over and gently guiding her to sit where he’d draped his coat on the ground. Her heart hammered in her chest as Simon pointed out the door he’d carved into the tree, expertly hidden amongst the folding roots. He pulled out a box from his toolkit. It weighed heavily in Y/n’s hands, strong and sturdy with a waterproof seal held closed by a lock.

“There’s only two keys for it. One’s with Father Hughes, the other one’s here.” He pulled a chain off his neck, two keys dangling from the end.

With trembling fingers she accepted the key and opened the box. Inside her money lay safe and well-accounted for, with a few coins thrown in for good measure. Simon waited for her to count the bills, close the box, then slip it into the hideaway in the tree. The second key locked the door.

Simon straightened up when his wife did, rubbing invisible dirt off his hands. “Father Hughes doesn’t know about this place, but I thought the second key could be for emergencies.” He pointed to the keys not clutched in Y/n’s hand. “Hide your copy wherever you want. Keep them in the house or in the woods or around your neck and come here to check however often you need for peace of mind. Riley can always sniff you out if you get lost.”

Y/n stared at the base of the tree where so many of her hopes and dreams lay. But suddenly, now that they were buried in a place built by Simon’s hands, they felt free.

Safe. And free.

She looked at her husband to find his eyes had never left her face.

“Why?” Was all she asked. Her voice wasn’t shaking anymore.

“You’re my wife.” He spoke the words like they were the most obvious thing in the world. “I want you to stay and feel safe. Can’t do that if you don’t have freedom to leave.”

She waited, lingered in the stillness, listening only to the rustle of leaves and the whispering of the wind and her own trembling breath.

“I would like to stay,” she whispered tearfully.

Simon smiled, stretching the scar at his lip. “Then stay.”

So she did.

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Taglist: @marigold-morelli @camcvpidd @slightlypossessed @pistachioslife @imarotternotawriter @enfppuff @squishytap @taxidermypossum @sawendel @nicolebarnes @other-fandoms-reblogs @blush-haze @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @blumenkorba

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley #simon riley ghost x reader #cod ghost #ghost call of duty #arranged marriage #historical au #simon riley cod #cod #call of duty #the graveyard shift

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dragonridersandhighlords · 20 days ago

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Before You Leave Me | P R O L O G U E

masterlist | BYLM Masterlist

Summary: In the aftermath of devastating loss, Renna Sorrengail returns to Basgiath broken but breathing—trying to grieve, to heal, and to hold together what remains of the Sorrengail family. But when another tragedy strikes, Renna must decide whether staying behind is survival… or surrender.

Notes:

Warnings: canon-typical violence, character death, grief/mourning, ptsd, emotional hurt/comfort, found family, widow characters, loss of loved one, healing after loss

Word Count: 4.8k

The sky burned above the jagged cliffs, a turbulent clash of smoke and stormlight that mirrored the chaos of the Tyrrish rebellion. The rocks below Brennan glistened with blood, too much of it.

Naolin knelt beside him, palms slick and desperate against Brennan’s chest, his signet flaring with a wild intensity. Magic crackled between his fingers, drawn from the depths of his own being, from the soul of his dragon, from anything he could touch. “Come on, come on, stay with me,” he gasped, voice strained, teeth gritted as he fought against the tide of death threatening to pull his best friend under. “Don’t you dare quit on me now, you stubborn bastard—”

“I’m not—quitting,” Brennan rasped, his voice a thin whisper marred by blood. “Just.. need to… rest.”

“No,” Naolin barked, his eyes fierce with determination. “No resting. You’re going to make it. You have Renna. You have a future.”

But as Brennan coughed, the sound raw and agonizing, his heart clenched with fear. “She shouldn’t be here. She—” He winced, his breath faltering. “Naol. Promise me—”

A gust of wind heralded Renna’s arrival, and she leaped from her dragon before it even landed, stumbling across the scorched earth. Ash and sweat streaked her skin, riding leathers torn from battle, but her eyes—their fierce determination found Brennan’s instantly, cutting through the chaos like a lifeline.

“No.” Her voice cracked, desperation lacing her words. “No. No, please, Bren—”

Naolin nearly buckled under the weight of his own magic as she reached them, his strength waning. “I’m holding him—barely,” he ground out, pain etched across his face. “But it’s not—it’s not going to last.”

Dropping to her knees beside Brennan, Renna cupped his face in trembling hands, her touch igniting a flicker of warmth in the freezing grip of despair. “Look at me,” she whispered, her voice fierce yet tender. “Don’t you dare look away.”

He blinked up at her, his eyelids heavy as the world around him faded. “You came.”

“You think I wouldn’t?” Renna’s voice trembled, each word steeped in a mix of desperation and fierce resolve. Tears shimmered in her eyes, catching the dying light of the flames around them. “You idiot, I’d follow you to Malek’s side in a heartbeat.”

Brennan's lips curled into a smile, a fragile thing that illuminated his battered face. Her heart cracked open at the sight, raw and vulnerable. “I love you,” she declared, the fierceness in her voice mingling with her tears as they traced paths down her cheeks. “I love you, Brennan Sorrengail. We’re going home. You hear me?”

“You… are home,” he whispered, his voice a mere thread of sound. With great effort, his hand rose, shaking, but he managed to cup her cheek, the warmth of his palm bringing a flicker of solace amidst the chaos. “Everywhere you are, that’s it.”

“Then don’t leave me,” she pleaded, the words catching in her throat.

“I don’t want to,” he choked out, a deep sorrow weighing heavy in his chest. “Renna, listen to me.” His gaze shifted to Naolin, who was visibly trembling, his strength waning like the last light of day. “You have to go.”

“No,” she whispered again, softer this time, her heart imploding with each syllable. “Please. Please.”

“You have to live.” Brennan’s voice, firm and steady now, cut through her despair like a beacon in the storm. “For Violet. For them all. They’ll need you more than ever. Mira will need you. My—my sisters…” As his hand slipped from her cheek, she caught it instinctively, pressing it to her heart, anchoring herself to him. “I can’t do this without you,” she cried, desperation lacing her every word.

“You can. Because you are the strongest person I’ve ever known.” His lips moved in a faint smile, a flicker of light amidst the encroaching darkness. “I believe in you. You remember that. You remember it every single day.”

Suddenly, Naolin groaned, collapsing sideways, and Brennan flinched at the sight, urgency flooding his voice again. “Renna, go.”

With her heart hammering in her chest, Renna bent over him, pressing her lips to his forehead, then to his trembling lips. “I’ll never love anyone like I love you.”

“You will, one day,” he teased weakly, tears shimmering in his own eyes.

“I’ll see you in the stars,” she whispered, sobbing, and then she stood, forcing herself to rise from the ground, away from the most important person in her life.

She didn’t look back. Not even when the bond shattered inside her like breaking glass, a painful echo that would haunt her long after the moment was gone. She flew toward the horizon, half her heart bleeding in her chest and the other half buried in the ruins below.

Captain Auren didn’t look up right away when Renna walked in, eyes remained glued to the report in his hands, the parchment crumpled slightly from the force of his grip. Renna noticed the white knuckles pressing against the edge of the table, a telltale sign of his own struggle to maintain composure.

“You haven’t flown since it happened,” he finally said, his voice clipped and devoid of any pretense of small talk.

Renna stood before him, stiff and uneasy in her wrinkled uniform, the fabric still stained with the remnants of a battle that had taken more than just lives—it had stolen her heart. The blood on her sleeve had long dried, a testament to the past she couldn’t seem to escape.

“I know,” she replied, her voice steady despite the tempest swirling within her. It was the only truth she could offer. Anything more would be a lie woven from the fabric of her pain.

Auren finally lifted his gaze, piercing through the veil of silence that surrounded them. “You haven’t submitted to evaluation. You refused the healer’s clearance to fly.” Renna opened her mouth to protest, but Auren raised a hand, silencing her. “You’re not being reprimanded, Sorrengail,” he said, his tone sharper than she expected. “You’re being given an out.”

Renna blinked, confusion washing over her. “An out?”

“You want to die, lieutenant?” His voice lowered, laden with concern. “Because that’s where this ends. You walk back into active duty in your state, and you’ll be dead before you ever make it back to the skies.”

Silence fell between them, heavy and suffocating, slicing through her resolve.

When she finally spoke, her voice trembled but held fast. “I’m not resigning.”

Auren stepped around the table, closing the distance between them, his expression a mix of determination and empathy. “Renna, your bond is unstable. Your heart is shattered. Brennan—”

“Don’t say his name,” she hissed, eyes flashing with warning, a protective fire igniting within her.

“I’m not dismissing your grief. I’m trying to keep you alive. You’re not just a rider—you were a wife with bonded dragons. That kind of loss breaks most people.”

“I’m not most people,” she whispered fiercely. “And you need me here.”

“I need a Lieutenant who’s in the right state of mind.” Auren’s gaze bore into hers, steady and unyielding, as he reached for a scroll on the desk and handed it to her. “Indefinite leave. Effective immediately. When you’re ready to return—if you’re ready—we’ll talk. Until then, go somewhere you can heal.”

She knows he’s not lying, that she can come back at any time. So, she doesn’t thank him. Instead, she took the scroll, turned, and walked out of his office without another word.

Renna stood outside the Sorrengail quarters at Basgiath longer than she meant to, her heart a tangled mess of anticipation and dread. The door loomed before her, solid and unyielding, crafted from rich black ironwood. Memories flooded her mind—a vivid recollection of the day she and Brennan had approached this very entrance, his hand warm and reassuring in hers, their laughter echoing against the cool wood. Now, as she hesitated, her fingers hovered in uncertainty over the door, as if it might scald her if she touched it.

Just as she mustered the courage to strike the door, it swung open, revealing Asher Sorrengail standing in the threshold. He filled the frame, broader than she remembered, though perhaps it was time playing tricks, warping her recollection into something more fragile. His once-dark hair had silvered at the temples, and grief clung to the corners of his eyes like a shadow that refused to dissipate.

Without uttering a word, Asher stepped forward and enveloped her in a fierce embrace, pulling her so tightly against him that it ached. Renna stiffened at first, the shock of his warmth contrasting sharply with the chill in her heart, but then she melted into him, her hands clutching the soft fabric of his cream cloak as her forehead found refuge against his shoulder. They stood there in silence for a moment until Asher pulled back, his voice was low and laced with unspoken promises. “This is your home. For as long as you want it to be.” She nodded, swallowing hard against the swell of emotion.

Footsteps padded softly down the stone corridor behind him, a gentle reminder of life moving forward. Violet appeared—now sixteen, nearly grown, yet still holding onto that unmistakable softness that spoke of innocence lost. She halted mid-step upon seeing Renna, and it felt like a punch to Renna’s chest to see so much of Brennan in Violet.

“Hi,” Violet said quietly.

Renna exhaled slowly, allowing herself to truly feel for the first time in days. She took a step forward, summoning a gentle smile. “Hi, Vi.”

Violet hesitated, but then closed the distance, wrapping her arms around Renna’s waist. In that moment, Renna folded her into her embrace, closing her eyes and allowing the girl to steady what was left of her fractured heart.

“I miss him,” Violet whispered, the words fragile yet heavy with sorrow.

“Me too,” Renna replied.

General Lilith Sorrengail never offered condolences. Renna had expected that, knowing the stoicism that marked her mother in law as sharply as her commanding presence. What she hadn’t expected was the summons to the strategy room at dawn on her fourth day there, the chill of early morning creeping through the cracks of the grand old house.

“You’re not here to wallow,” Lilith stated, her voice a crisp blade as she remained focused on the maps spread across the table, every inked line and colored section detailing the battlefield like a living organism. “You’re here to be useful.”

Renna felt her spine stiffen at the clipped tone, the old instinct to salute bubbling to the surface. “Ma’am—” she began, but the words faltered under the weight of her memories.

“You were my son’s wife. But you were also a lieutenant with six campaigns and three command rotations. And Basgiath doesn’t waste resources.” Lilith's eyes flicked upward, steely and sharp, piercing through the veil of grief surrounding Renna like an icy wind. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Renna met her gaze evenly, the fire of determination igniting within her. “No, General.”

Lilith’s nod was curt, a small acknowledgment that both acknowledged her grief and demanded her strength. “Good. Sit down.” It wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t comfort. But it was a beginning, a lifeline cast into the turbulent waters of her heart.

And by the one-year mark, she stood with Díom on the flight field, the dragon massive and unflinching beside her, a sweeping silhouette of green against the golden dawn.

"Ready, little storm?" Díom’s voice rumbled in her mind.

“No,” Renna admitted aloud, the wind teasing strands of hair from her braid. “But I think I need this.”

Díom exhaled, steam curling from her nostrils as she bent her head low. "Then we go slow. We go together."

Renna climbed into the seat, her fingers tightening around the pommel. Her heart thundered. Not with fear, not exactly—but with the sheer weight of what this meant. Of what she was finally ready to take back.

She gave a nod, and Díom leapt. Basgiath fell behind them in a blur of stone and shadow. The valleys below shimmered in the dawn light, rivers winding through them like veins of silver, glistening under the gentle caress of the sun.

Renna inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the crisp, pure air that surged with the promise of a new beginning. And with that breath, something broke open inside her—a dam that had held back the tide of her grief for too long. It wasn’t silence anymore; it was sound. The wind howled past her ears, a wild symphony that mingled with the rhythmic whoosh of Díom’s powerful wings slicing through the crisp morning air.

As they soared higher, the world below faded into a distant memory, and she could feel the weight of her sorrow lifting, if only for a moment. For the first time since the cliffs of the rebellion, Renna laughed—an unexpected sound that burst forth, foreign yet freeing. It felt like shards of glass falling away from her heart, the sharp edges of pain softening as joy seeped in.

Díom’s laughter echoed in her mind, a deep rumble that vibrated through her bones. “There you are, little storm,” the dragon’s voice resonated, rich and full of warmth. They climbed higher still, bursting through a bank of clouds that loomed like an unassailable wall. As they broke through, the clouds erupted around them in a flurry of white, shimmering like foam tossed by an unseen tide.

Renna leaned forward into the motion, surrendering herself to the rush of wind and warmth that enveloped her. Her palm pressed against Díom’s neck, a reassuring presence that tethered her to this moment. "You’re not lost," Díom told her softly, the words wrapping around her like a balm. "Just finding your way back."

Renna felt the truth of those words settle into her bones as she chose to focus on the now—the exhilarating rush of freedom, the heart-pounding thrill of flight, the promise of a new chapter unfolding.

Snow clung to the corners of the windows, swirling gently against the glass in slow, rhythmic gusts, like nature's own lullaby. The fire crackled low in the hearth, its flickering amber light dancing across the ancient stone walls of the tower’s common room, illuminating the rich tapestries that told stories of long-forgotten battles and victories. The atmosphere was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the biting cold that enveloped the world outside.

Renna sat curled on the couch, her boots kicked off beside her. A thick-knit blanket, worn from use yet soft against her skin, draped across her lap, cradling her in a cocoon of comfort. Beside her lay a scribe's report spread open on the cushion—its pages filled with intricate notes on border unrest that Lilith had asked her to review before next week’s strategy brief. Yet, her attention was far from the inked words that spoke of conflict; it drifted instead to the soothing crackle of the fire and the way the shadows danced across the room.

Across from her, Violet sat cross-legged in one of the well-worn leather chairs, the material creaking slightly under her movement. A precariously balanced stack of texts rested on the armrest, their spines a riot of colors. Violet’s silver hair was pulled up in a messy bun, strands escaping to frame her face, and a quill tapped distractedly against her chin, echoing her growing frustration with the material before her.

“You know, for being the smartest people at Basgiath,” Violet muttered, a playful frown creasing her brow, “the scribes require an unreasonable amount of reading.”

Renna grinned without lifting her gaze, her heart lightened by the familiar banter. “Says the girl who reads like it’s a competitive sport.”

“I do not—”

“You do. It’s endearing.”

Violet rolled her eyes, exhaling softly as she flipped a page, the sound crisp and precise in the otherwise tranquil room.

A sudden knock came at the tower door—sharp, precise, slicing through the warmth of their camaraderie. Renna frowned, instinctively pushing off the blanket that felt like a second skin.

“It’s late,” Violet said, glancing at the ornate timepiece on the mantel, its hands inching toward the hour of dusk. “No one ever knocks this late unless—”

With a determined resolve, Renna opened the door, her heart skipping at the unexpected visitor. A third-year Scribe Cadet stood in the hallway, his face pale under the glow of the wall sconce, the flickering light casting eerie shadows on his anxious features. He held out a sealed letter, his hand trembling slightly as he offered it to her.

“For Lieutenant Sorrengail,” he said softly, the weight of his words heavy in the air.

Renna stared at the seal—its design familiar, a mark she recognized before even touching it. Her fingers closed around the parchment, yet she hesitated, the gravity of the moment anchoring her in place.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, and the boy nodded, relief flooding his expression as he hurried away down the dim corridor.

Renna's fingers trembled as she peeled back the seal, the crack of parchment breaking the silence like a sharp intake of breath. As the letter opened, a rush of dread clawed at her insides, and her breath caught in her throat like a lifeline slipping away.

“No…” she whispered, the word barely escaping her lips as if to deny the truth she feared to confront.

Violet’s voice trembled, laced with concern. “What is it?” The question hung heavy, charged with a desperation to shield herself from the answer.

Renna turned toward her, her heart pounding like a drumbeat. The words clawed at her throat, struggling to break free against the rising tide of despair. “Vi, sweetheart…” Her voice cracked, the vulnerability spilling forth like a dam breaking, and in that moment, Violet’s eyes widened, understanding dawning painfully clear.

Violet staggered back a step, her expression crumpling like fragile parchment in a storm. “No. No, he was—he was fine.” The disbelief dripped from her voice, a desperate mantra against the harsh reality.

Without hesitation, Renna reached for her, pulling Violet into her arms. As if the world had tilted on its axis, they sank down to the floor together, the gravity of their grief crashing over them like a relentless tide.

They remained there for what felt like an eternity. Violet curled into Renna’s side, the familiar position echoing memories of their shared sorrow, and now, it was her father’s loss that shadowed them both. Renna's hand shook as she cradled the letter, thoughts spiraling into an abyss of anguish. Asher had been the calm in their storm, the final thread of Brennan’s wisdom woven into the fabric of their lives, his quiet voice of hope now silenced forever.

With his absence came an unsettling shift, a cold wind sweeping through Renna’s soul, chilling her to the core. She looked down at Violet—her brilliant, stubborn shadow—and the realization struck with sudden clarity: the time for waiting was over.

The following days blurred together, the tower cloaked in a heavy silence that mirrored their grief, each heartbeat echoing their loss. Violet spent most days in her room, Wrenley Tavis and Dain Aetos sneaking out of the Rider’s Quadrant to be there for their friend.

Mira arrived halfway through the wake, her anger manifesting in a punch into the stone walls, splitting the skin of her knuckles. And Lilith—Lilith remained a stoic figure at the edge of the terrace, the storm raging overhead reflecting the turmoil within.

But Renna saw the way Lilith clutched her late husband’s folded cloak, fingers lingering on the fabric as if seeking comfort from a memory that was both sacred and suffocating. The tension in the air crackled, the remnants of shared grief swirling between them like a storm threatening to break. Renna noted the slight quiver in Lilith’s jaw, a fleeting sign of vulnerability as she turned away from the gathered officers, her stoic facade faltering just for a moment.

That night, Renna stood in the general’s office, the weight of the world pressing down on her shoulders like a leaden shroud. The room felt both foreign and familiar, filled with the scent of polished wood and old parchment, echoes of decisions made in this very space reverberating in her mind. Gathering her resolve, she forced the words out, the truth she had kept buried for three long years clawing its way to the surface. “I’m going back.”

Lilith didn’t look up from her desk, her movements precise and methodical, as if she could carve away the tension lingering in the room. “No,” she replied, her voice steady, almost mechanical.

“I’m not asking for permission.” Renna’s voice rose, fierce and unwavering, an ember igniting into a flame.

Lilith’s gaze finally lifted, sharp and assessing, cutting through the heavy atmosphere like a drawn blade. “You’ve been more valuable here than you ever were in the field.” The words dripped with authority, yet there was an undercurrent of something deeper—fear, perhaps, or a desperate plea to keep her close.

“I’m not alive here,” Renna hissed, the bitterness of her truth tasting like ashes on her tongue. “I’m surviving. There’s a difference, and you know it.”

Lilith leaned forward, the weight of her presence bearing down on Renna, hands braced on the desk like a fortress. “You think throwing yourself into another battlefield is going to heal what happened to Brennan? To Asher?”

“No.” The word slipped out, fragile yet defiant. “But staying here while good people bleed out there makes it worse.” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t waver. “You said I was already leading. Let me do it where it matters.”

“You want the front.” Lilith’s voice dropped, dangerously quiet now, as if the very mention of it held the power to shatter them both. “You want death.”

“I want purpose.” Her breath trembled. “And I want a reason to stop running from what I lost.”

Silence fell between them, heavy and fraught, until Lilith exhaled slowly, the sound echoing with resignation. She pulled a sealed folder from her desk drawer, the motion deliberate, each second stretching into an eternity.

“Samara,” she said, her tone carrying the weight of an irrevocable decision. “You’ll command the third strike unit. They’ll report to you directly.”

Renna stared at the folder, her fingers betraying a moment of hesitation, the gravity of the choice before her sinking in. “I thought you’d fight me harder,” she said softly, the tremor in her voice revealing the raw edges of her vulnerability.

Lilith looked away, her expression clouded with an unspoken pain. “Asher said you were ready a year ago. I just didn’t want to lose the last piece of my son.”

Stepping forward, Renna reached for the file—and without thinking, she fetched for the general’s hand–for her mother-in-law’s hand.

“Thank you,” she whispered, the words carrying the weight of her own grief intertwined with gratitude.

“Good luck, Captain Sorrengail.”

Lilith didn’t reply, but as Renna left, she heard the door lock behind her—a finality that echoed in the stillness of the room. And then, faintly, the sound of a woman finally allowing herself to cry.

Renna stood in the center of her room—Brennan’s room—her pack full and resting at the foot of her bed. The familiar surroundings felt laden with memories, every detail echoing the essence of him. The walls, adorned with the remnants of his laughter, seemed to whisper secrets of their shared past. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting gentle shadows that danced across the wooden floor, mingling with the bittersweet ache in her heart.

A soft knock broke the stillness, and then the door creaked open, revealing Violet, barefoot and delicate, her hair plaited neatly down her back like a ribbon of night. The sight of her stirred something deep within Renna, a protective instinct that surged to the surface.

“You’re really going,” Violet said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it rang clear in the charged atmosphere of the room.

Renna turned slowly, her chest tightening at the sight of her. “I am,” she replied, the weight of those words heavy on her tongue, laden with unspoken fears and lingering regrets.

Violet hesitated, her small frame silhouetted against the doorway, before crossing the room with a determined grace. In one fluid motion, she wrapped her arms around Renna, embracing her tightly, as if she could physically pull her back from the precipice of departure. It was still surprising sometimes how fiercely Violet could hold on for someone so small, but in that moment, she was a force of nature, grounding Renna against the swirling chaos of their emotions.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Renna whispered into her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of lavender and the faint remnants of childhood innocence. “I already know.”

Violet stepped back, her eyes shining with unshed tears, brimming with the weight of their shared grief. “I need to,” she insisted, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve, her vulnerability laid bare. “When Brennan died… I didn’t think we’d have anything left of him. But then you stayed. And you were this… anchor. Not just for me, but for Mom, too, even if she doesn’t say it.”

“I stayed for him,” Renna said softly, her voice tinged with the warmth of cherished memories.

“And we stayed because of you,” Violet replied, a fierce determination lighting her eyes. “You made it bearable. Losing him. Losing Dad.”

A lump swelled in Renna’s throat, the weight of her emotions mingling with the grief that clung to her like a second skin. It felt as though the very air had thickened around her, wrapping her in an embrace both comforting and suffocating. She opened her mouth to speak, but before the words could take flight, a second voice, rich and warm, broke through the heavy silence.

“She’s right, you know.”

Mira stood framed in the doorway, arms crossed, her posture relaxed yet defiant. The usual sternness etched in her features was softened today, her gaze carrying an understanding that seemed to wrap around Renna like a protective shield. “You kept this family from splintering when everything else fell apart,” she continued, her voice steady yet tinged with an emotion that mirrored Renna’s own turmoil.

Renna blinked rapidly, the intensity of Mira’s words igniting a fire in her chest. Her eyes burned, threatening to spill the tears she had held at bay for too long. “I don’t know if I did enough,” she admitted, her voice cracking under the weight of doubt.

Mira stepped closer, the space between them shrinking, as if closing the distance could somehow bridge the chasm of uncertainty that loomed over them. “You did more than anyone asked of you,” she asserted, her tone firm, laced with a conviction that could not be ignored.

Renna turned her gaze between them, the two sisters who had become such an important part of her life. The little sisters she had never had but had gratefully gained when she had married their brother. One, a fierce warrior proving herself within the wing, and the other, the gentle soul Renna knew would always be safe behind the safety of the walls of the Archives.

“You both know I’ll come back, right?” Renna asked, her voice barely above a whisper, a fragile promise hanging in the air like the last rays of daylight before twilight descended.

Violet’s smile was a bittersweet curve, her eyes glistening with unshed tears that sparkled like starlight against the backdrop of their shared grief. “You better,” she replied, her voice a melodic plea laced with hope.

“And I,” Mira interjected with a playful smirk, a flicker of mischief lighting her features, “am tired of everyone calling you the more likable Sorrengail. Piss some people off as Captain, please.”

Renna laughed, the sound bursting forth like a release of pressure, blinking rapidly to stave off the tears threatening to spill over. “I love you both,” she said, her heart swelling with a fierce affection that transcended words.

“I love you too,” they chorused in unison, the warmth of their bond enveloping Renna like a treasured memory.

With a final embrace the three Sorrengail girls shared, Renna felt fortified, the weight of their support wrapping around her like armor as they walked side by side, the faint echoes of their laughter trailing behind them.

The flight field loomed ahead, an expanse of earth and sky where destinies intertwined with the whispering winds. It was here that Díom awaited her, the sleek form of the green dragon outlined against the canvas of the twilight sky, poised and ready. The air crackled with anticipation, and Renna felt her heart race with the thrill of what lay ahead.

Just before she mounted Díom, Renna turned her gaze skyward, her eyes searching the vast tapestry of stars that began to emerge like tiny beacons of hope against the encroaching darkness. She inhaled deeply, the scent of freedom mingling with the fading light, and allowed herself a small smile—a quiet moment of connection. In that fleeting instant, she knew Brennan was looking down on her, beaming with pride for the path she had chosen.

next part

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Everything Taglist: @lxnvmvrzx @bodhidurrans @bookwormysblog @nikfigueiredo @fictionalrelapse

#Before You Leave Me #iron flame #fourth wing #onyx storm #the empyrean #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing fanfic #brennan sorrengail #brennan sorrengail x reader #brennan sorrengail imagine #brennan sorrengail x oc #OC!Renna Sorrengail

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supreme-leader-stoat · 7 months ago

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Absolutely phenomenal that like 90% of the circumstances that ultimately led to Kaladin becoming a Herald were set up, directly or indirectly, by Moash/Vyre.

Moash tries to assassinate Elhokar, giving Kaladin a crisis of conscience that lets him swear the Third Ideal.

Moash assassinates/imprisons Jezrien for Odium, leaving the Oathpact with an empty space and in need of repair.

Vyre successfully pushes Kal over the edge in Hearthstone, forcing Dalinar's hand to take him off of active duty and forcing him to find a new role in becoming a therapist, which directly sets up his role in treating Szeth and the Heralds.

Vyre kills Teft and tries to get Lirin killed, forcing Kal past his breaking point entirely and forcing Dalinar to intervene to save his life, which also gives Kal the realization he needs to swear the fourth ideal.

About the only things that he didn't have any role in the lead up to were Szeth's past and Taravangian's ascension freeing up Wind to choose Kaladin as her champion.

Storming incredible work there, Voideyes. You were willing to kill a friend to get your revenge, then tried to get him to kill himself to prove that you were right to take the path you did, and the whole thing ended with him becoming immortal. Don't think I could've done a worse job if I tried.

#wind and truth #wind and truth spoilers #the stormlight archive #the stormlight archive spoilers

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thetravelingtyper · 6 months ago

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Beasts of the Deep...Pt 2 (Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Researcher! Reader ? Au)

As the storm rages new dreams become reality...

WC: 1.8k

Part 1, Part 3, Masterlist

Warnings: None

From the Destruction of Leviathan by Gustave Doré (1865)

Thanks to @breakawayresin for editing ☺️

Chapter 2 - Behemoth

You flicked on the light of your apartment and set your stuff on your couch with a sigh. You hoped the power wouldn't go out because you had a long weekend of binging shows planned along with some of the documentaries the library had loaned you to watch. You still also needed to work on the research paper you were writing with Saph. When your phone buzzes you reply to Saph that you got home. You look out the bay window of your apartment and watch trails of water splinter on the glass. As you think mindless trains of thought you fiddle with the pendant, finding its weight around your neck a comfort.

There is a flash of lightning and more thunder as you head into the kitchen. You ruffle through our fridge and pull out some leftover pasta from the past group dinner on Wednesday. Remembering the event makes you huff.

“Stupid Matthew.”

While you had been presenting the discovery of the animal chamber he had cut you off to discuss the shell and opal crowns they had found, completely steering the discussion away from you. As you eat, the residual frustration sours your food, so you set the rest aside for later. After you clean up a wave of tiredness hits you and you retreat to your room to change, turning on the lamps in the hall as the storm worsens outside.

After you change and get ready for bed you try again for the pendent but the same feeling jolts through you. As the storm moves overhead you just lie back in thought of the swirling rain outside your window. As you clutch the pendant to your heart you turn into your blankets, pulling one over yourself, and fall into a deep sleep.

You fell through the clouds in ancient time, new stars shine above and an old sea ravages below, but as you reach the tops of the waves threatening to drown you, you feel no fear because before a drop of water can hit you the sea calms in the midst of the storm. You float along the waves for an age, unknown universes shining above until at once you sink.

You awake at the bottom of the primordial sea, before creation and at the end of eternity. As you walk the sandy bottom the reliefs swirl to life. Mollusks swim by, a giant squid with unblinking eyes. Whales sing in the distant squall, as the storm thunders above all.

But as you step you find that you are not alone. As you walk a curious guest joins you. A grey seal swirls out of the dimness and bonks its head into your chest when the amulet sits. You laugh at its friendliness when it nudges your head, swirling around the water like a dancer. You bring a hand to its head, stroking the animal like a dog and it chirps at you. After a few moments there is a rumble in the earth beneath your feet and the seal, after curling around you darts forward, swimming like a dream.

You follow him then, through crushed shells and kicking up currents until you see it.

What could only be described as a palace, some underwater Atlantis lost to the waves, but you frown, there was something wrong with this place as the seal gives a sad sound, stopping at the cusp of the stone path that lies ahead.

“Won’t you come?”

The seal shakes its head, swirling upon itself in a dance in the water before nudging you forward to start along the path.

It is when your bare foot touches the stone you see a pair of ocean eyes in your mind.

“The path once treaded cannot be abandoned, for all that was lost is bound to be found.”

His voice continues as you set upon the path, then at once there is darkness except for the light of bioluminescence in the stone cracks.

“Fallen stars crash upon the sea,

Distant ships kept peace be,

But a new omen has begun to stand,

Why must all the heralds die in this land?”

The verse resonates in your bone, but as some sick fear starts to churn, a light at your sternum starts to burn. The pendant, once dormant begins to shine with a white light, floating into the water around you as a guide. Then, as if welcomed home the light clashes against the darkness, casting the shadow into the furthest reaches of the sea. It is then you see him.

Dark skin and muscle ending in an emerald scaled tail, a warrior of sorts with a tarnished golden trident. He curls in the water, honey eyes on you with a sheepish smile on his face. When you meet his eyes he dips his head in greeting. He approaches you then, offering a hand that you take and then pulling you up off the path into a dance.

“You have come.”

His voice, like the other, is familiar but in the moment you cannot place it.

You begin to reply but a finger meets your lip, you nod and allow him to pull you close as a brush of darkness encircles you. But as the darkness threatens to touch you there is a growl in the water, low and powerful that sends the shadow scampering away .

The merman grins and spinning in the water sets you down. He then gives you a gentle push towards the center of the ruins, a rising setting of columns beaconing.

You nod and he swims off to continue his patrol. You continue on the path for what feels like minutes and what feels like years. You finally make it to the largest of the ruins, stepping up the broken steps and, with the pendant shining as a beacon, heading inside.

Inside the sanctum you find a presession of statutes, running from the back of the large room, a shroud of darkness, hazy and thick, concealing your vision. But you do not fear, and reaching for the pendant it slips off into your hand to be lifted up as a sword against the dark. Cutting the thick of it your steps forward are taken in new sound as the water seems to fizzle away into cold air.

Here you find your voice returning, and the sound of the wind roars.

But as you pass the last of the statues the darkness pushes suddenly, throwing itself against you in a final protest, as you are shoved back violently you gasp and a shape erupts from the dark.

Quick as a whip, a large tail curls around you, preventing your fall into the cold marble floor. You press against it as the darkness pounces away, the light from the pendent eventually illuminates more than just a circle around you, with its warm heat it soon engulfs the room, revealing your savior.

Your mouth drops at the creature before you, a coiled mass of muscle with darkened sapphire scales. Its tail shuffles you forwards and a large dragon head regards you. Obsidian horns curl like a crown and a large sapphire stone inset in the beast's forehead gleams with internal firelight. But it is its golden eyes that entrance you.

Its eyes, his eyes, your mind tells you, looks through the gleaming light and into your eyes. Liquid gold swirls, lighted from within with an ancient magic. The gold trails from his eyes to along the contours of his body, and you realize it then,

“Leviathan.”

The ancient name rolls of your tongue as your rational mind crashes into yourself and you stumble, but he is quick to react as a hand the size of your body, claws sharp as razors but careful to catch you. You find yourself awake then in the dream.

Your eyes widen at the harbinger of destruction before, a demon of the sea, and yet? He dips his head at your level and his head tilts, eyes focused. Your arms come to rest on his encircled fingers, then you notice the cuffs. At his wrist there is a golden shackle, remnants of a massive chain that drags everytime he shifts. You realize then the scent of copper,

“Blood?”

He turns his head to the side and you see his laying form, sprawled and coiled in a space much too small for him. Pity hits your hearts and you pat his palm and he immediately releases you, and you step around to his exposed belly.

You slip the pendant back on and coming to the side you see the source of the smell. Your eyebrows knit in concern when he rumbles in pain, shifting his tail, the massive muscle curling around you, bringing warmth to the cold prison.

Impaled in his chest, right over his heart is a dark shard of shadow, you grasp at it and grit your teeth when a burning chill tears through you, retching your heart and soul. Leviathan does not thrash, but his form rumbles, head dipping and eyes on you as you throw your entire weight back and with a final effort the shard comes out and shattered into dust.

The force that follows blows you back as you shield your eyes from the hiss of shadow, a figure rushes for you, some wretched, crooked simile of humanity but a mighty maw with fangs bared snaps between you and the shadow. The earth rumbles as the foundation crumbles, water rushing in. But more shadows rush in with the rising waves. You begin to panic as Leviathan stands, and then you see sapphire wings unfurl from his back and then in a might swoop he dips under a spear and a great paw curls around you and lifts you to his chest as he leaps over the water and into the confined air of the ruin.

The shadows clash effortlessly against his scales as you are then submerged, as he crashes through the roof of the ruin, shadow meets your light and all is sightless.

You awake in a shock, breathing heavily and sweating where you stood? You come to yourself at your balcony doors as the storm pours on outside. The lights have all gone out, but there is a shine at your chest as the pendant lifts into the air, the resounding sound of waves and the cries of the wind. A flash of lightning illuminates the room and there is a pound of thunder and you jump, but a shape outside your door startles you. Shadows crawl in the room and you feel a spark of danger and throwing caution to the wind you throw the balcony doors open and it all happens too fast.

As a shadow moves to snap at your back a flash of lightning strikes it into ribbons and you are pulled into a bare chest as a man steps forward, his other arm shielding you from the light. He sweeps into the room, the shadows chased out and the power returning with a flickering of lights. Hit with a deep exhaustion you slip into unconsciousness.

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defiblover27 · 1 year ago

Text

Curiosity

In the dimly lit room of the Intensive Care Unit (ICU), monitors beeped rhythmically, casting an eerie glow over the scene. Tubes and wires snaked around the bed, connecting the unconscious patient to various machines, a testament to the intricate dance of modern medicine. Amidst this symphony of medical intervention lay Sarah, a 28-year-old mother of one, her chest rising and falling with the aid of a mechanical ventilator.

Sarah's journey to this sterile environment had been nothing short of harrowing. It began like any other day, with the sun rising gently over the horizon, promising another day of routine and responsibilities. Little did she know that fate had other plans in store.

As Sarah went about her duties at work, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over her, her vision blurring at the edges. Ignoring the warning signs, she soldiered on, determined to fulfill her obligations. But fate is relentless, and as Sarah reached for a file on her desk, her world went dark.

The next thing she knew, Sarah was surrounded by chaos. Voices clamored in the background, urgent and panicked, as hands worked feverishly to save her life. She felt disconnected, as if watching the scene unfold from a great distance.

Sarah had suffered a sudden cardiac arrest, her heart faltering in its rhythmic dance, sending her spiraling into the abyss of unconsciousness. But amidst the chaos, there were heroes. Co-workers sprang into action, initiating CPR with precision and urgency, their hands pounding rhythmically against her chest in a desperate bid to keep her alive.

Minutes stretched into eternity as the battle for Sarah's life waged on. The paramedics arrived, their arrival heralded by the wail of sirens piercing the air. With deft efficiency, they took over, administering life-saving interventions as they raced against time.

Sarah was whisked away in the belly of the ambulance, her body jostling with each turn of the road, a fragile vessel caught in the storm of uncertainty. Yet, through the haze of unconsciousness, there was a flicker of hope, a beacon guiding her through the darkness.

Arriving at the hospital, Sarah was met by a team of skilled medical professionals, their faces etched with determination as they fought to wrest her from the clutches of death. In the trauma room, amidst the flurry of activity, Sarah's heart faltered once more, her life hanging in the balance.

And now, as Sarah lay in the quiet stillness of the ICU, surrounded by the steady hum of machines, she began to stir. Consciousness seeped back into her, like tendrils of light piercing the darkness, illuminating the path to her awakening.

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open, blinking against the harsh glare of the overhead lights. Confusion clouded her mind as fragments of memory pieced themselves together, forming a disjointed narrative of her ordeal. As Sarah gazed around the room, her eyes fell upon the figure of a nurse, her expression a mix of relief and concern.

As the nurse calls for the doctor, the atmosphere in the room shifts slightly, anticipation mingling with apprehension. Moments later, the door swings open, and in strides the doctor, his presence commanding respect and authority. With a gentle smile, he approaches Sarah's bedside, his eyes betraying the gravity of the situation yet brimming with reassurance.

"Good morning, Sarah," the doctor begins, his voice a soothing melody amidst the cacophony of medical equipment. "I'm Dr. Martinez, and I'll be overseeing your care today."

Sarah's gaze meets his, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension flickering in her eyes. She nods weakly, her throat dry and parched from the prolonged intubation.

"I'm going to remove the breathing tube now, Sarah," Dr. Martinez explains gently, his tone measured yet compassionate. "It may feel uncomfortable for a moment, but I'll be right here with you every step of the way."

With practiced hands, Dr. Martinez begins the delicate process of extubation, his movements fluid and precise. Sarah feels a fleeting sense of panic wash over her as the tube is slowly withdrawn from her throat, a sensation akin to being freed from a suffocating embrace.

As the last remnants of the tube are removed, Sarah takes a deep, shuddering breath, reveling in the newfound freedom to breathe on her own once more. Weakly, she raises a trembling hand to her throat, the absence of the tube a tangible reminder of the ordeal she has endured.

Turning her gaze to Dr. Martinez, Sarah's voice is barely above a whisper as she croaks out her question, "What... What happened?"

Dr. Martinez's expression softens, his eyes filled with compassion as he settles himself on the edge of her bed. With patience and empathy, he begins to recount the events that led Sarah to this moment – the sudden cardiac arrest at work, the heroic efforts of her co-workers and the paramedics, and the tireless work of the medical team to bring her back from the brink of death.

As he speaks, Sarah listens intently, the pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place. She feels a surge of gratitude welling up within her, mingled with disbelief at the sheer magnitude of what she has endured.

"I'm... I'm alive," Sarah murmurs, her voice choked with emotion. "Thank you... Thank you for saving me."

Dr. Martinez nods, his smile warm and genuine. "You're welcome, Sarah. We're just glad to have you back with us."

As Dr. Martinez finishes recounting the sequence of events leading to Sarah's resuscitation, he pauses, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. With a solemn nod, he continues, "There's something else you should know, Sarah. A camera crew had been in the trauma room from the moment you arrived until the moment you were wheeled out after being resuscitated. They captured everything on video."

Sarah's eyes widen in disbelief, her mind struggling to comprehend the gravity of Dr. Martinez's words. "A camera crew?" she repeats, her voice tinged with incredulity.

Dr. Martinez nods gravely, his expression mirroring Sarah's disbelief. "Yes, it's part of a documentary series on emergency medicine. They were granted permission to film in the trauma room, and your case was one of the ones they chose to document."

As the reality of the situation sinks in, Sarah feels a mix of emotions swirling within her – shock, confusion, and a touch of apprehension. The thought of her most vulnerable moments being captured on film for all to see fills her with a sense of unease.

"I... I don't know what to say," Sarah murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. "I had no idea..."

Dr. Martinez offers her a reassuring smile, his eyes filled with understanding. "It's understandable, Sarah. This can be a lot to process, especially given everything you've been through. Just know that your privacy and dignity were maintained throughout the filming process, and any footage that is used will be handled with the utmost sensitivity."

Sarah nods slowly, a sense of resignation settling over her. Though the idea of her ordeal being broadcast for the world to see is unsettling, she takes comfort in knowing that her journey may serve to educate and inspire others.

"Thank you for letting me know, Dr. Martinez," Sarah says softly, her voice tinged with gratitude. "I suppose... I suppose it's just another part of my story now."

Dr. Martinez nods in agreement, his gaze steady and reassuring. "Indeed it is, Sarah. And it's a story of resilience, courage, and the incredible strength of the human spirit. You've been through a lot, but you've emerged stronger because of it."

"Sarah, we have the footage," Dr. Martinez replies, his voice gentle. "The hospital kept the undoctored footage, which spans a total of 35 minutes."

Sarah takes a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest as she processes the reality of what Dr. Martinez has just revealed. The idea of reliving her most vulnerable moments on screen is both terrifying and strangely compelling.

After a moment of internal struggle, Sarah meets Dr. Martinez's gaze, her eyes filled with determination. "May I... May I view the footage?" she asks, her voice trembling slightly.

Dr. Martinez's expression softens, his eyes reflecting empathy and understanding. "Of course, Sarah," he replies gently. "But I want to remind you that it may be difficult to watch. It's okay to feel overwhelmed or emotional. You don't have to do this if you're not ready."

Sarah nods, her resolve firm despite the uncertainty swirling within her. "I know," she murmurs. "But I need to see it. I need to understand what happened, and... and maybe it will help me make sense of it all."

With a reassuring smile, Dr. Martinez reaches for the remote control, activating the monitor mounted on the wall across from Sarah's bed. The screen flickers to life, bathing the room in a soft glow as the footage begins to play.

As the footage begins to roll, Dr. Martinez's voice fills the room, his steady narration guiding Sarah through the unfolding events. With a sense of trepidation, Sarah watches as the scene unfolds before her eyes.

"There you are, Sarah," Dr. Martinez's voice cuts through the silence, his tone calm yet informative. "You're on the gurney, and we've just applied oxygen to help support your breathing."

Sarah's breath catches in her throat as she sees herself lying on the stretcher, her chest rising and falling beneath the oxygen mask. The realization of her own vulnerability hits her like a tidal wave, and she clutches the edge of her blanket tightly, her heart racing with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

With each passing moment, Sarah feels a growing sense of admiration for the individuals on screen – the doctors, nurses, and paramedics who have dedicated their lives to the noble pursuit of saving others. Their faces blur together in a symphony of determination and compassion, their actions a testament to the unwavering commitment to their craft.

As the electrodes are applied to her chest, Sarah feels a surge of anxiety gripping her heart, her pulse quickening with each passing second. But as Dr. Martinez's reassuring voice fills the room, a sense of calm washes over her, and she finds solace in the knowledge that she is not alone in this battle.

As the footage progresses, Sarah watches with a mix of curiosity and discomfort as she sees herself laid bare on the hospital bed, illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lights that cast stark shadows across the room. Tubes and wires crisscross her body like a spider's web, their purpose and function a mystery to her.

Dr. Martinez's voice cuts through the silence, his tone gentle yet informative as he begins to explain the array of tubes and wires adorning Sarah's form.

"Here, you can see the various tubes and wires that are helping to support and monitor your condition, Sarah," Dr. Martinez narrates, his voice a soothing presence amidst the sterile environment of the hospital room. "Let me explain what each of them does."

As Sarah watches intently, Dr. Martinez gestures towards the different apparatus attached to her body, each one serving a vital role in her care.

"The tube you see here is an endotracheal tube," Dr. Martinez explains, his finger tracing its path from Sarah's mouth down into her throat. "It's connected to the ambu bag, which is helping to support your breathing by delivering oxygen-rich air directly into your lungs."

Sarah feels a surge of unease at the sight of the tube protruding from her mouth, a stark reminder of her dependence on the medical team keeping her alive. Yet, amidst the discomfort, there is a sense of gratitude for the gift of breath, a simple yet profound reminder of the fragility of life.

"And these wires here," Dr. Martinez continues, indicating the array of electrodes attached to Sarah's chest, "are monitoring your heart rhythm. They allow us to track any changes in your cardiac activity and intervene if necessary."

Sarah's gaze lingers on the electrodes, their presence a constant reminder of the battle raging within her own body. Yet, as Dr. Martinez speaks, she finds reassurance in the knowledge that she is being closely monitored, her heart guarded by the watchful eyes of the medical team.

As the footage unfolds, Dr. Martinez continues to explain the purpose of each tube and wire, his voice a steady guide through the labyrinth of medical technology. And though the sight of herself laid bare under the harsh lights is unsettling, Sarah finds solace in the knowledge that each apparatus serves a vital role in her journey towards recovery.

As the footage progresses, Sarah's heart rate monitor begins to emit a shrill alarm, its urgent tone slicing through the silence of the hospital room like a knife. Sarah's eyes widen in alarm as she watches herself on screen, her heart sinking as she realizes what is happening.

Dr. Martinez's voice fills the room once more, his tone urgent yet composed as he narrates the unfolding events. "Sarah, your heart has gone into ventricular fibrillation," he explains, his words tinged with urgency. "We need to act quickly to restore a normal rhythm."

Sarah's breath catches in her throat as she watches a nurse spring into action, her movements swift and decisive as she begins aggressive CPR. With each compression, Sarah sees her body jolt with the force of the nurse's hands, her chest rising and falling in a rhythmic dance of life and death.

As the nurse continues to administer CPR, Sarah feels a surge of emotion welling up within her – fear, helplessness, and a profound sense of gratitude for the individuals fighting to save her life. She watches in awe as the medical team works tirelessly to bring her back from the brink of death, their hands moving with precision and purpose amidst the chaos of the emergency room.

And amidst the flurry of activity, Sarah's body reacts in ways she never thought possible – her chest bruising under the force of the compressions, her skin growing pale and clammy as oxygen struggles to reach her vital organs. Yet, amidst the pain and discomfort, there is a glimmer of hope – a beacon of light guiding her through the darkness towards the promise of a new day.

As the minutes tick by, Sarah feels a sense of desperation creeping in, her heart pounding in her chest as she watches the scene unfold before her eyes. As the nurse continues to administer CPR, her movements unyielding and relentless.

As the tense scene unfolds on screen, Sarah watches with bated breath as the nurse reaches for the defibrillator paddles, her movements swift and purposeful. The air crackles with anticipation as the paddles are charged and gelled, their metallic surfaces gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights of the emergency room.

Dr. Martinez's voice fills the room once more, his tone grave yet authoritative as he explains the significance of the defibrillator paddles and the gel used to conduct electricity.

"Sarah, what you're seeing are the defibrillator paddles," Dr. Martinez begins, his voice steady despite the urgency of the situation. "They deliver a controlled electric shock to the heart in order to restore a normal rhythm."

Sarah's eyes widen in alarm as she watches the nurse place the paddles on her chest, their cold metal pressing against her skin like a reminder of her own mortality.

"And the gel that you see being applied to your chest is a conductive gel," Dr. Martinez continues, his words a steady reassurance amidst the chaos of the emergency room. "It helps to ensure a good connection between the paddles and your skin, allowing the electric shock to be delivered safely and effectively."

As Sarah watches herself being defibrillated multiple times, each shock sending her body jolting with the force of a thousand volts, she feels a surge of emotion welling up within her – fear, pain.

With each shock, Sarah's body convulses with the force of the electricity coursing through her veins, her muscles tensing and releasing in a symphony of agony and relief.

As the cycle of CPR and defibrillation continues on screen, Sarah's heart clenches with each shock, her body convulsing in response to the jolts of electricity coursing through her veins. The room is filled with a sense of urgency, the air heavy with the weight of each passing second.

Dr. Martinez's voice fills the room once more, his tone grave yet determined as he narrates the unfolding events. "Sarah, they're nearing the 20-minute mark," he explains, his words a stark reminder of the critical nature of the situation. "They'll need to assess your pupils to determine your neurological status."

Sarah watches with bated breath as the charge nurse steps forward, her expression focused and intent as she carefully inspects Sarah's dilated pupils. The room falls silent as the nurse conducts her examination, her movements methodical and precise.

And then, the moment of truth arrives – the nurse's gaze meets Dr. Martinez's across the room, her expression a mix of relief and apprehension. With a nod, she confirms the results of her assessment, her voice steady despite the gravity of the situation.

"The pupils are reactive," the charge nurse announces, her words ringing out like a beacon of hope amidst the darkness of uncertainty.

As the tension in the room mounts and the critical twenty-minute mark approaches, Sarah watches with bated breath, her heart pounding in her chest as she braces for what comes next. The air is thick with anticipation, the weight of each passing second bearing down on her like a heavy burden.

And then, as if on cue, a nurse steps forward, her expression somber yet determined as she addresses the medical team gathered around Sarah's bedside.

"We're nearing the twenty-minute mark," the nurse announces, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "I recommend we consider stopping resuscitation efforts."

Sarah's heart skips a beat at the nurse's words, her mind struggling to comprehend the gravity of what she's just heard. "Stop?" she whispers, her voice barely above a hoarse whisper. "What do you mean?"

Dr. Martinez steps forward, his expression grave yet compassionate as he meets Sarah's gaze. "Sarah, I know this is difficult to hear, but after twenty minutes of continuous resuscitation efforts, the chances of a successful outcome diminish significantly," he explains gently. "We need to consider the possibility that further interventions may not be effective."

Sarah's breath catches in her throat, a wave of fear and disbelief crashing over her like a tidal wave. The thought of giving up, of admitting defeat in the face of insurmountable odds, is almost too much to bear.

"But... but I'm still here," Sarah protests, her voice tinged with desperation. "I'm still fighting. Please, don't give up on me."

Dr. Martinez's gaze softens, his eyes reflecting empathy and understanding. "We're not giving up on you, Sarah," he assures her, his voice a steady anchor amidst the storm of emotions swirling within her. "But we also have to consider what's best for you in this moment."

As the medical team discusses their options, Sarah's mind races with a million thoughts and questions. How did she end up here? Is this how it all ends?

As Sarah watches the final moments of the video unfold, a sense of dread washes over her as she sees herself once again succumbing to ventricular fibrillation. The tension in the room is palpable, the air thick with anticipation as Dr. Martinez prepares to deliver the decisive shock.

With each passing second, Sarah feels the weight of the moment bearing down on her like a heavy burden. The fear and uncertainty grip her heart, threatening to overwhelm her as she braces herself for what comes next.

And then, in a flash of blinding light, Dr. Martinez delivers the final shock, his movements swift and precise. Sarah's body convulses with the force of the electricity coursing through her veins, her muscles tensing and releasing in a symphony of agony and relief.

As the shock reverberates through her body, Sarah feels a surge of emotion welling up within her – fear, pain, and a profound sense of gratitude for the individuals fighting to save her life. With each passing moment, she feels herself teetering on the edge of oblivion, her grip on life slipping away with each heartbeat.

And then, in a moment that seems to stretch on for an eternity, a collective sigh of relief fills the room as the sound of a heartbeat echoes through the monitors. Sarah's eyes widen in disbelief as she realizes what she's just heard – the sweet, steady rhythm of life coursing through her veins once more.

Tears prickle at the corners of Sarah's eyes as she watches herself on screen, her heart overflowing with gratitude for the gift of another chance at life.

As Sarah watches herself being wheeled away to the ICU, a sense of apprehension settles over her like a heavy shroud. The journey ahead feels daunting, filled with uncertainty and the looming specter of what lies beyond.

Dr. Martinez's voice fills the room once more, his tone solemn yet determined as he is interviewed about Sarah's condition. "Sarah is far from out of the woods," he explains, his words echoing in the silence of the hospital room. "Her neurological assessments in the coming days will be crucial in determining her fate."

Sarah's heart sinks at Dr. Martinez's words, the gravity of her situation weighing heavily on her mind. The road to recovery seems long and arduous, fraught with obstacles and unknowns at every turn.

As she watches the interview unfold, Sarah finds herself clinging to the hope that she will emerge from this ordeal stronger than before. She knows that the days ahead will be filled with challenges, but she refuses to let fear and uncertainty dictate her fate.

Sarah, stunned by what she has just seen asks "Can you show me the one of those defibrillators like in the video?".

As Sarah's request catches Dr. Martinez by surprise, he pauses for a moment, his brow furrowing in confusion. The notion of Sarah wanting to see the crash cart with the defibrillator paddles and gel seems unusual given the gravity of her recent experience. However, he quickly realizes the importance of providing her with the opportunity to gain a better understanding of the equipment involved in her resuscitation.

"Of course, Sarah," Dr. Martinez replies, his expression softening with understanding. "I'll bring the crash cart into the room so you can take a look."

Moments later, Dr. Martinez returns with the crash cart, wheeling it carefully into Sarah's ICU room. The gleaming silver paddles and tubes of conductive gel catch the light, casting an otherworldly glow in the sterile hospital environment.

Sarah's eyes widen with curiosity as she surveys the contents of the cart, her gaze lingering on the defibrillator paddles and gel that had caught her attention during the resuscitation. She reaches out tentatively, her fingers brushing against the cool metal of the paddles as she examines them with a mixture of fascination and trepidation.

"These are the defibrillator paddles," Dr. Martinez explains, his voice gentle as he gestures towards the equipment before them. "And this gel here is the conductive gel we use to ensure a good connection between the paddles and the patient's skin during defibrillation."

Sarah nods, her mind swirling with questions and emotions as she absorbs the significance of the equipment before her. "Can you demonstrate on me?".

As Sarah makes her request, Dr. Martinez pauses, considering her words carefully. It's an unusual request, but he understands Sarah's need for understanding and control in this moment of uncertainty. With a nod, he agrees to her request, his expression one of empathy and support.

"Of course, Sarah," Dr. Martinez responds gently, his tone reassuring. "I'll show you how the defibrillator works and position the paddles as they were in the video. Just let me know if you're comfortable proceeding."

Sarah takes a deep breath, her resolve firm as she nods in affirmation. "Yes, please," she says softly, her voice steady despite the lingering sense of trepidation. "I want to understand."

With careful precision, Dr. Martinez begins to demonstrate the operation of the defibrillator, explaining each step in detail as he guides Sarah through the process. He shows her how to charge the paddles, how to apply the conductive gel, and how to position the paddles on the chest in the correct placement.

As Sarah watches intently, her eyes focused on the equipment before her, she feels a sense of empowerment wash over her. Though the sight of the defibrillator paddles is unsettling, there is also a strange sense of comfort in knowing that she has the knowledge and skills to potentially save a life in the future.

And as Dr. Martinez positions the paddles on her chest, mirroring the placement from the video, Sarah feels a surge of emotion welling up within her – fear, uncertainty, and a profound sense of gratitude for the opportunity to learn and grow from her experience.

"Thank you, Dr. Martinez," Sarah says softly, her voice tinged with emotion. "Thank you for helping me understand."

Dr. Martinez offers her a reassuring smile, his eyes reflecting pride and admiration for Sarah's resilience. "You're welcome, Sarah," he replies gently. "Remember, knowledge is power. And with the knowledge you've gained today, you have the power to face whatever challenges lie ahead."

And as Sarah pulls her hospital gown back up, she feels a newfound sense of confidence coursing through her veins.

As Dr. Martinez leaves the room, the crash cart remains behind, its contents gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights of the ICU. Sarah's gaze lingers on the equipment before her, her mind swirling with thoughts and emotions as she reflects on the video she had just watched.

The images of her own resuscitation replay in her mind like a haunting melody, each moment etched into her memory with vivid clarity. The sight of the defibrillator paddles, the sound of the alarms, the feeling of her own body convulsing with each shock.

As Sarah's hand reaches out towards the crash cart, a sense of determination courses through her veins, her heart pounding with a fierce resolve. With steady hands, she grasps the defibrillator paddles, feeling the cool metal against her skin as she pulls her hospital gown down, exposing her chest.

With practiced precision, Sarah applies the conductive gel to the paddles, spreading it evenly across their surface. The familiar sensation of the gel against her skin sends a shiver down her spine, a stark reminder of the events that had unfolded just hours before.

As she positions the paddles on her chest, Sarah feels a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The weight of the moment hangs heavy in the air, the silence of the room broken only by the steady hum of medical machinery.

With a deep breath, Sarah charges the paddles to 100 joules, her fingers trembling slightly as she prepares to deliver the shock. Her heart races in her chest, her pulse pounding in her ears as she braces herself for the impact.

And then, in a flash of blinding light, Sarah presses the paddles against her chest, feeling the electric current surge through her body with a jolt of intensity. The sensation is overwhelming, sending her muscles into a frenzy of convulsions as her body responds to the shock.

As Sarah takes her self-administered defibrillation to the next level she charges the paddles to 200 joules, a sense of determination fuels her actions, her heart pounding with adrenaline as she prepares for what lies ahead. With resolute hands, she adds more conductive gel to the paddles, ensuring an optimal connection for the shock she is about to deliver.

With meticulous care, Sarah spreads the gel across the surface of the paddles, her movements deliberate and focused. She knows the risks involved in what she is about to do, but she feels herself becoming aroused by the power she holds in her hands.

As she positions the paddles on her chest, Sarah's breath catches in her throat, her pulse quickening with anticipation. With a steady hand, she charges the paddles to 200 joules, her fingers trembling slightly as she prepares for the impact. As Sarah's body succumbs to the intense shock she administered to herself, a wave of dizziness washes over her, her vision blurring and her breath growing shallow. With a sense of impending doom, she feels her heart falter, its rhythm becoming erratic and irregular.

As Dr. Martinez enters Sarah's room with a sense of concern weighing heavily on his mind, he is met with a sight that sends a shiver down his spine. Sarah lies sprawled on the bed, her hospital gown down around her waist, and the defibrillator paddles scattered on the floor beside her.

With a sinking feeling in his chest, Dr. Martinez rushes to Sarah's side, his heart pounding with urgency as he assesses her condition. The gravity of the situation is clear – Sarah is in distress, her body limp and unresponsive, her breaths shallow and labored.

With swift, decisive movements, Dr. Martinez retrieves the fallen paddles and places them back on the defibrillator unit, his hands trembling slightly with adrenaline. But even as he does so, he knows that time is of the essence – Sarah's life hangs in the balance, and every second counts.

Without hesitation, Dr. Martinez reaches for the code blue button, his thumb pressing down on the button with a sense of grim determination. The shrill sound of the alarm echoes through the hospital corridors, summoning the medical team to Sarah's bedside with a sense of urgency.

As the sound of footsteps fills the room and voices clamor for attention, Dr. Martinez focuses all his attention on Sarah, his mind racing with the knowledge that her life is in his hands. With practiced precision, he begins to assess her vital signs, his fingers moving with purpose as he searches for any signs of life.

As the medical team continues with the harsh CPR compressions and defibrillator shocks, the gel glistens on Sarah's chest, a stark reminder of the relentless battle being waged to bring her back from the brink of death.

With each compression, Sarah's body jerks with the force of the impact, her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of life being forced back into her lungs. The room is filled with the sound of shouts and commands, the urgency of the situation driving the medical team to push themselves to the limit in their efforts to save her.

Dr. Martinez watches with a mixture of determination and desperation, his hands moving with practiced precision as he directs the resuscitation efforts. Though the odds may seem insurmountable, Dr. Martinez the defibrillator paddles are charged once again, Dr. Martinez braces himself for the next shock, his heart pounding in his chest with anticipation. With a steady hand, he delivers the shock, the electric current coursing through Sarah's body with a force that threatens to break her fragile form.

As Dr. Martinez gazes into Sarah's blank, unseeing eyes, a pang of guilt tugs at his heartstrings. The weight of responsibility bears down on him like a heavy burden, threatening to suffocate him with its enormity. He knows that Sarah's fate now lies in his hands, and the pressure to save her life feels almost unbearable.

With steady hands and a mind clouded with worry, Dr. Martinez reaches for the intubation equipment, his movements automatic yet precise. The familiar routine of inserting the endotracheal tube feels like second nature to him, but this time, the stakes are higher than ever before.

As he positions the tube and guides it into Sarah's airway, he can't help but feel a sense of unease gnawing at the edges of his conscience. The guilt of knowing that he bears the weight of Sarah's life on his shoulders threatens to overwhelm him, but he pushes the feelings aside, focusing all his attention on the task at hand.

With the tube securely in place, Dr. Martinez takes a moment to catch his breath, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts and fears.

With Sarah's intubation completed, the medical team continues their rigorous efforts, their movements synchronized and precise. Each compression drives deep into Sarah's chest, causing her ribs to bend under the relentless pressure. Her belly bounces in response, her feet sway off the side of the bed, and her arms hang limply, bouncing with each forceful thrust.

Dr. Martinez stands at the forefront, his eyes never leaving Sarah's lifeless form. The urgency in the room is palpable, the air thick with tension as the team works tirelessly to bring her back from the brink. The gel glistens on her chest, a stark reminder of the desperate measures being taken to revive her.

Minutes feel like hours as the cycle of CPR and defibrillation continues. The defibrillator paddles deliver shock after shock, the electric current surging through Sarah's body with unrelenting force. Her body convulses with each jolt, a macabre dance of life and death playing out before their eyes.

Despite their efforts, Sarah's heart refuses to find its rhythm. Dr. Martinez checks her pupils once more, finding them still fixed and dilated. The weight of the situation presses down on him, each second that passes without a heartbeat driving home the grim reality of their fight.

As they approach the 20-minute mark, a nurse suggests considering the cessation of their efforts. Dr. Martinez hesitates, his mind racing with the gravity of the decision. Just as he begins to accept the inevitable, Sarah's heart converts to ventricular fibrillation. Seizing this final glimmer of hope, Dr. Martinez orders another round of shocks.

The team responds with renewed intensity, the defibrillator charging to its maximum capacity. The paddles are pressed against Sarah's chest once more, and the room holds its collective breath as the shock is delivered. Sarah's body jolts violently, her muscles contracting with the force of the electric current.

But despite their valiant efforts, Sarah's heart remains stubbornly unresponsive. Another 10 minutes of rigorous CPR and defibrillation pass, the team's energy waning with each passing second. The reality of the situation becomes increasingly undeniable.

Finally, with a heavy heart, Dr. Martinez makes the call. "Time of death: 11:42 AM," he announces, his voice thick with sorrow. The room falls silent, the weight of their failure hanging heavy in the air.

The medical team steps back, their faces etched with exhaustion and grief. Dr. Martinez looks down at Sarah's still form, a sense of profound loss washing over him. Despite their best efforts, they were unable to save her. He removes his gloves, the sound of the latex snapping echoing in the room, a stark reminder of the battle they fought and lost.

As the team begins to clean up, Dr. Martinez lingers for a moment longer, his thoughts heavy with the weight of what has transpired. He knows that they did everything they could, but the sense of guilt and responsibility remains, a burden he will carry with him long after he leaves this room.

#cpr #resus #resuscitation #defib #defibrillator #hospital #female #resus writing #resus community

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ghostfire · 1 month ago

Text

Caught in the Storm

Rating: Explicit Paring: Solas/Inquisitor (Mairah) Lavellan Wordcount: 7165 Tags/CW: Established Relationship, Penis In Vagina Sex, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Cunnilingus, Creampie, Feral Solas, Whimpering Solas

While returning to Skyhold after a long journey, Inquisitor Lavellan gives in to exhaustion. Solas catches her before the situation can spiral out of control, but quickly he's the one in need of catching.

[AO3 Link]

The woman swaying in her saddle had hardly slept eight hours in half as many days, and her exhaustion was writ in the hart's slow, uncertain movements as it struggled to obey the Inquisitor’s commands. They were all tired; the quartet was pushing hard, gaining elevation fast as Skyhold loomed in the distance, but the sun was being swallowed into a pale, dusky twilight just as quickly. Only a few paces behind, the elven mage pulled at the hem of his hood, trying to shut out the fat snowflakes carried down on the rising wind, and grimaced as thin plumes curled away from the nostrils of his mount.

With a snort, the Inquisitor’s hart came to a stop, pawing the frost-crusted earth and craning its neck as if it could get a look at its rider. Mairah's head jerked forward, her hands scrambling to grasp at reins that had fallen from her grip.

"Halt!"

He was already slipping from his saddle even as he called the command. Mairah's cloak had fallen back, the pale fur that lined it starkly contrasting with wayward strands of coal black hair, and the tips of her long ears were reddened from exposure. He was afraid that one more sway would have her tumbling to the ground if she were lucky, bucked directly off a cliff if she were not.

Cassandra's voice echoed from the rear of the line, "Why have we stopped?"

He did not shout back, so near to the beast that he could, and did, reach up to stroke its snout reassuringly.

"Felas’hamin."

One great, tawny eye turned to appraise him as it cocked its head.

"Em ghilanaeth."

Another snort, but the hart settled.

"Solas? Where are we?" Her voice was small and confused as Mairah blinked, forcing herself to return to awareness of her surroundings and finding him at her side.

"Nearly to Skyhold. Nothing to worry about." He unbuckled and hoisted the packs from behind her saddle as she twisted to watch, and saw her expression shift as she realized his intent.

"That's not necessary. I'll-"

He took her hand, feeling the faint, familiar thrum of magic from the anchor through the glove, and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Fall to your demise? What would I be to the Inquisition if I allowed the Herald of Andraste to perish, falling from her hart?" His tone was serious - gallant, even - but the tiny, conspiratorial grin that wrinkled the corners of his eyes and tugged at the corners of his lips betrayed the playfulness that was for her alone. She let her protests die, simply nodding to him with a relieved sigh and sitting up straighter as the last of her bags was untied.

Cole's horse stopped even with Solas's own, the dappled grey mare the spirit sat astride needing hardly any guidance from its inexperienced rider. She whinnied softly and nudged noses with the darker gelding as the boy observed him begin to strap the Inquisitor's things to the empty saddle. Watery blue eyes darted between the two elves, settling to stare at him with a curious expression.

"In the long moment she takes you in, her heart rises and falls, beating notes to a song she does not know her body sings for her. Can you hear it too?"

He fumbled the knot, the bag he was fastening nearly slipping.

"Solas? Has something happened? The Inqui..si..-" Cassandra fell silent as she drew close behind the other horses, her own mount tossing its head, impatient to continue, but prevented from moving forward on the narrow path.

He was grateful for both the interruption and for his certainty that the Seeker was too far away to notice the sheen of sweat that had risen on his brow and frozen just as quickly.

"There is no cause for alarm - a slight shift in arrangement and we will be on our way."

"They ride together," Cole chirped, suddenly cheerful. "Warmer, brighter."

Cassandra eased the narrowed glance that she had leveled against him, looking to Cole and running a hand through her short cropped hair. She was still unsettled by the boy, but since Mairah doted on him like a delighted parent most days, nearly always keeping him at her side, Seeker Pentaghast had begun to warm to him through constant exposure. Long treks criss-crossing the continent offered ample time and opportunity to get to know each other and, despite her discomfort, the Seeker now treated him much as she did the rest of the Inquisitor's close companions.

"I'm tired, that's all," Mairah called back, trying to impart an air of reassurance into her voice. She looked into the western sky and frowned. "We're so close..." She trailed off, leaving a long silence that was only punctuated by the wind swirling down through nearby ravines like eerie whispers.

The steady clop of hoofbeats began again as Solas led his horse forward. They paused a moment as he tied a lead to the hart's tack, then, with a grace born from muscle memory he too often forgot to conceal, he sprang up with barely a twist to the stirrup as he settled into the vacant space behind the saddle. His arms encircled the slender body in front of him as he took the reins, and the warmth and weight of her fit him like a piece of himself that he hadn't known he'd lost. She sighed, a mix of relief and contentment, and let her head rest against his chest. He should pull up her hood. He really should. But then he would lose the sight and scent of her, and suddenly that was an unbearable thought.

He clicked a command to the hart and the beast hesitated just a moment, shaking fine silver powder from its massive antlers, before resuming its pace homeward.

-----

Sunset was half an hour gone when they crossed the threshold of the ancient fortress. Were it not for their mounts' familiarity with this stretch, they might have been forced to seek shelter at the side of the path, hoping for a stand of evergreens to break the wind. As it was, the torchlight that marked the great gates had appeared just as the snowfall began in earnest. The guards had it readied and raised, recognizing the group and hurrying them into the protected courtyard.

Two figures bundled in green and brown coats, their features so obscured by hoods and scarves that it was impossible to discern their race or sex, hurried to take the reins as the exhausted group made to dismount.

"We will bring your packs from the stables messere, Herald." The voice, even muffled, was thickly accented, feminine. Human, he decided, surprised but gratified that she had extended him the honorific. He accepted her proffered hand.

"My thanks. I will see to the Inquisitor."

The woman paused for an instant at this seeming breach of protocol, but nodded, moving to untether the pack horse. That would be one more whisper added to the rumors swirling - the Herald of Andraste and the apostate advisor who followed her like a pale shadow.

"You can't stop them talking." The voice was amused, conspiratorial, as if she had sensed his thoughts. Mairah grasped his hand and allowed herself to be helped down from the hart. The embrace that they found themselves in, his hands about her waist and hers clinging to his shoulders, their bodies pressed together, was more intimate than was strictly necessary. "Especially when we give them so much to wag their tongues about." She held his gaze a moment, then pulled back, a hint of bashful uncertainty coloring her ears and tone. "If that was a concern..."

"They will talk regardless of concern." He twined his fingers with hers - a quiet, comforting gesture hidden in the mingled folds of their cloaks.

A man with the bearing of an experienced soldier, a richly embossed scabbard at his hip, approached Cassandra. Even before she'd swung from the saddle, the two began barking back and forth, each offering updates and observations that continued in the same terse cadence as they broke in the direction of Cullen's tower. Cole remained seated, offering some explanation to the brown-coated figure that was lost to the wind, and in another moment, he joined the small procession to the stables. The guards that kept watch at the gate retreated to their sheltered alcoves.

The elven couple were alone in the silent Skyhold courtyard.

"Solas?"

"Mm?"

Mairah sighed heavily, her eyes darting to the warm pinpricks of light that illuminated many of the hold's deeply set stone windows.

"What if we just... ran away?" She squeezed his hand in hers, a shiver that was not entirely from the cold passing through her. "Somewhere far from here, where no one knows the Herald, or the Inquisitor, or whatever I am now. Ask the spirits for old names that no one has taken for ages and claim them for ourselves. I would love to explore ancient ruins and-" She seemed about to say something else, but instead continued, "And lay next to you as we dreamed them whole again."

A hot coil tightened through his guts. He laughed.

She laughed.

Neither sound held a hint of mirth, but Solas hoped that she took his tone for surprise instead of shame, regret, and longing older than she could possibly fathom.

"You're right." She smiled, lopsided, and held up her gloved hand as if she could see the anchor's green glow through the leather. "Maybe after we save the world?"

"Perhaps." It wasn't quite a lie. It might be painfully stretching the bounds of possibility, but the wistfulness that crept into his voice was genuine and he hurt himself by it. "Let's get inside. We'll take the side entrance - if we're lucky, the hall will be empty and you will be able to rest in a moment."

-----

They were not lucky.

The great hall was alight with music and dancing and all the residents of Skyhold who would normally be scattered through the courtyards and outbuildings seemed to have gathered together in defiance of the storm. Varric, leaning next to the fireplace as if he hadn't moved in the weeks that they'd been gone, spotted them the moment they cracked the door from the frescoed rotunda. His bellowed greeting was echoed by waves of cheers from the crowd.

"The Herald!" "Inquisitor!" "Praise Andraste!" "Thank the Maker!"

Mairah allowed herself to be pulled into the mass of revelers. There were many new faces, all eager for a glimpse of their promised savior, and many familiar, each vying for a moment of her time, each certain that the matter foremost on their mind was most pressing. Vivienne, Fiona, and Josephine approached her in a tense knot, the two mages taking rigid positions to either side of the gold and blue clad diplomat. Mairah accepted a sheaf of papers, looking through them as Vivienne spoke in her calm, perfectly poised manner, although he could not catch her words. The Inquisitor shook her head, handing the papers back, and Fiona broke into a relieved smile. Vivienne had far too much composure to stalk away in a huff, but a hint of a scowl strained her expression as she disappeared in the crowd.

Solas lingered at the periphery, observing. A dwarven serving girl passed by him, tray laden with warm mugs of mulled wine, and he accepted one, grateful for the heat on his hands and in his belly.

-----

At least an hour passed - perhaps nearly two - before the din had noticeably died down. A handful of minor nobles had pressed her to dance as the party wound down and she had accepted, not wanting to give offense to potential allies, but any energy the Inquisitor had left was gone, and she was swaying on her feet, eyes glassy with exhaustion.

"It is time for sleep, ma vhenan."

She felt his presence at her side, breathed in the faint scents of embers and amber, of exotic warm spice and bound books so old and fragile that only the lightest touch could turn their pages, overlaid by the night's sweet red vintage. Her cloak - at some point in the night having been taken from her shoulders - once again enveloped her in comforting warmth. Solas caught her hand, tugging her toward the door that led to her chambers. Mairah was happy to be led.

Finally again alone together, she did her best to blink away the blur to her vision, taking in the sight of him by the dim light that filtered through the scaffolds in this unfinished place between the great hall and her rooms above.

His cheeks and the tips of his ears were rosy, but he was steady, his gaze easy and assured. The fluffy fur trim of his patched together vest grazed his strong jawline. She felt an almost overwhelming urge to leave a wreath of kisses around his bald head, or taste the wine on his darkened lips. Almost as strong, she wanted to say something - apologize for overstepping, maybe? But he'd taken her by the hand, in public, to ma vhenan. Perhaps she'd only imagined that part, and the uncertainty kept her silent.

Reluctantly, she tore her focus away. The flight of stairs that lead to her quarters loomed, insurmountable. She put a hand to the cold stone wall, gathering herself to mount the first step even as she considered curling up in her cloak and sleeping right here.

For a moment, she wondered if she had slipped - the world swam in a dizzying kaleidoscope of colors and textures and Mairah felt her feet lifted from the floor. She flailed, hands catching soft layers that wrapped a slender body. Sliding against her chest and belly there was hardness - taut planes of muscle that seemed to accept her weight without effort. When the world was still again except for her quickened breathing, the Inquisitor looked into a face creased with a weary smile.

"I do not wish to see you hurt, Da’ras. Allow me the succour of seeing you safely to the end of this journey."

She sighed, the slightest of nods her answer as she laid her head against his chest. For all his seeming composure, his heartbeat was a rapid patter in her ear. Her eyes closed, relaxing into his embrace as he ferried her away from the faint sounds of late revelers and the crush of responsibility.

-----

A fire had been laid, low and warm. The sweet scent of fresh pastries hung about a cloth covered silver tray, surrounded by carafes of wine and water and a small assortment of cut crystal vials - tonics to soothe the aches of a long voyage. The packs from their saddles were neatly arranged along the entrance wall. All of them. Whether the servants who had spirited them here had been unable to tell which belonged to him and which belonged to the Inquisitor, or if they'd simply assumed that he'd be joining her, was impossible to tell.

Mairah smiled sleepily in his arms as he crested the last step. He hadn't returned to this room since they'd shared a single kiss on the balcony overlooking the hold. Since he'd torn himself away afterward. If he were wise, he wouldn't have spent countless hours since weaving barely concealed truths into tales for her, or allowed himself to linger in her presence when his chest clenched and throat tightened at her absence, and he certainly would not have returned here, now. If he were wise, he would not test his resolve. He could deposit her gently on the bed, slip back downstairs and retrieve his things in the morning-

"Please stay."

He'd been lost in his thoughts. Her voice, her fingers curing around the fabric of his cloak, pulling it tight across his chest, made him startle.

"Just... sleep." She worried at her lower lip, pausing; her eyes, rimmed darkly, were pleading. "Rest next to me. I... I don't want to be alone."

"I-" His protest was automatic, and died as quickly as it began. "Nor do I."

They were both silent as he set her to her feet. Their cloaks were undone, left to hang side by side across the bannister. As if they both knew it to be a necessary part of this dance, they turned away from each other while layers of clothing fell to the stone floor with hushed sighs. The part of him that screamed this is a terrible idea was drowned in the faint sounds of clasps opened and buckles undone. Solas gazed through the crack in the heavy curtains and into the impenetrable black and white void of night sky and falling snow as he removed his vest and belt, letting them drop unceremoniously. The jawbone necklace he carefully looped over his head and wound the cord loosely around before setting it atop a stack of books on the nearby desk. The rough tunic joined the pile on the floor, leaving him feeling suddenly stripped and vulnerable, down to nothing but leggings and form-fitting shirt.

The sounds of the furs and blankets being pulled back were followed by the gentle creak of the bed as Mairah took her place.

He turned to see her in a pale and lace trimmed undershirt that tightly hugged the swell of her curves. Her hair - always so tightly pulled back, so practical - was unbound, and it now fell like black water, framing her face and slipping enticingly across her chest as she beckoned him to join.

He was tired. The bed was inviting. She was warm, and soft, and real. The comfortable way they fit together for the second time that night was real. They shifted and shimmied until they found themselves, much like astride the hart, spooned together, her back pressed to his chest, one arm curling protectively across her waist, and her ass, distractingly, cupped by his lap.

“Thank you, Solas,” Mairah was half mumbling, her breathing already falling into the long, measured pace of sleep. “For being...”

He didn't respond. The tension in her muscles eased, lightened, her body moulding against his in the liquid way that came to those deeply asleep. He didn't sleep. The light in the room was dim - just playful shadows dancing across the ceiling from the small fire. Muffled howls and the soft, cold patter of snow hitting glass were the only music. These shadows, these sounds - they were familiar. The felt but unheard drumbeat of a pulse close to his - that was not. He'd lain between warm bodies, touched and tasted and striven, shared and explored every part of himself, but that was long ago, and even then, there was some note missing - some note he hadn't known to miss.

Many long minutes passed. The warm quiet of the room and the warm quiet of her warred with the thoughts that swirled through his mind as unquiet as the blizzard outside. He let them swirl without consideration as his eyes grew heavy and the stiffness that knotted his own muscles subsided.

The black curtain of Mariah’s hair shifted slightly against his fingers as she turned her head. He caught it as it went, long and loose enough that there was no danger of her waking from the contact, even as he let it pool against his palm, even as he brought it to his face, drawing in long breaths that filled his lungs with the scent of her. He felt fuzzy, heavy, and then the world was comfortably black and safe as he slipped into the deep well of sleep.

-----

Not every sleep is filled with dreams, and not every dream is a far roaming excursion, even for a Dreamer. As often as not, he allowed the currents of his sleeping mind to carry him where they willed, and as the Fade reflects the waking world, that started close to home. The familiar places of Haven and Skyhold, distorted by degrees and populated mostly by the spirits drawn by their recent, tumultuous activity, appeared frequently, and tonight was no exception.

He gave into it, allowing his tired mind the freedom to do as it would.

The great stone walls of Skyhold loomed high above - sturdy, whole, and unblemished by long years of neglect. Faint impressions of activity spilled over them - the clatter of light arms and armor, the flicker-glow of fire light, and voices speaking in tongues that seemed a jumble of half a dozen languages. The walls shut him out, but that did not trouble him. The mountains that the fortress settlement nestled into were thick with forest - wild, untamed, and home to something that called out for him. From somewhere indistinct and infinitely distant, howls that could be wolves or a raging storm or both pricked at the periphery of his consciousness.

Solas stood perfectly still, scenting air that was redolent with darkness and anticipation as it eddied its way through the labyrinth of trees. Without paying mind to the form he took, he stepped carefully in the direction of some intense, mysterious fascination. Longing. Waited. Another step. The wind whispered against his skin, warm as summer, as understandable as the voices behind him, and he broke into a lope that carried him forward, into the deeper darkness.

His pace was unhurried, but relentless. Sometimes it seemed that there would be no path to continue on, but this was a dream, and dreams were his domain. Always before he would be stopped short, his will found or made one. Constellations in the sky above - a canvas simultaneously black as soot and glowing, leaden grey - shifted even as he looked up in the short paces where the canopy broke. They offered no certainty or direction - only an impression of night that nearly hid the ugly scar of the black city.

As he traveled, the air became colder, the ground covered with frost and finally a dusting of snow.

Some far away part of him nagged at his consciousness. Turn back. He pushed on. You betray yourself. The trees aligned, becoming a trail that became a clear road - a glistening white pathway that cut cleanly through the black, primordial forest. He could have stopped, could have turned away, could even have forced himself awake, but he did not. He was so very tired of resisting. He allowed himself- no, chose not to. You will hurt her. He slowed momentarily, shaking his head as if he could clear that thought physically from his mind.

Then she was there, astride her great hart, stopped fast at the center of a crossroads. Her hair was unbound and wild and her cloak was drawn close around her, but her legs, hugging loosely to the creature’s sides, were bare. There was no saddle, no bridle, no pack. Mairah and her mount looked up in unison as he crossed some imperceptible threshold.

The tiny wisp that fluttered near her, ever present and swirling in shades of ultramarine, sapphire, and silver, shrunk back at his approach.

“Solas?” She cocked her head, brow furrowing as her gaze traveled up and down his form. He wondered how she saw him, but his attempt to answer was met only with a rumbling growl from low in his chest. The hart snorted and pawed at the ground defensively.

Mairah, though - she smiled, slipping to the ground. The cloak rode high as she did, revealing slim, pale thighs and tantalizing glimpses of more - the shadowed planes of belly and soft swell of breasts, hidden again so quickly he could almost believe them more mirage than flesh. Real or merely wishful thinking, his body’s reaction was beyond his control.

It was only then that he knew he was bare as the moment he first drew breath. He did not want to be naked before her. He did. His mouth watered as she approached, even as he felt strangled when he tried to swallow. Every step she took melted the snow beneath her feet with a soft hiss and wisps of steam. Graceful and wild, her hair caught in a sudden chill wind that brought her scent ahead of her. Solas drank it deep, filled his lungs with her as she bridged the gap between them.

She was almost to him.

This was his domain. His world. He'd walked these paths for millennia in calm control - a trait he, with a mite of panic, felt sorely lacking at the moment.

He wanted it to be alright to be naked with her.

She ignored the obvious evidence of his longing as she stepped directly against him, bringing a whimper to his lips when the soft heat of her skin pressed it between them. Her arms lifted, drawing the fur-lined cloak around them both and hiding their naked forms from the world.

For a long moment, they stood together, warming each other. There were no words, but a symphony of sound. The wind had picked up, whistling down nearby ravines. Their breaths steadied, slowed, came together. Their heartbeats steadied, slowed, came together. Those became the song their bodies sang to each other.

“I like you a little wild.” Mairah rose to meet his forehead with hers, and they sank together as he inclined his head. Her hands reached up to cradle him, the warmth of her fingers slipping over his ears. Sensitive. Exquisitely sensitive. He felt the stiff peaks of her nipples drag across his chest with the stretch. “You shouldn't always live in here.” The fingers settled on his temples.

“Ma ras, ma vhenan…” His words were a plea, his voice a groan that became nearly a growl, now that he'd found it again. “You do not know what you ask.”

She paused, peering into his eyes with careful consideration. Hers were the dark blue of a watery abyss, in this place shining with rainbow motes of light reflected from the dreams of thousands who followed her.

“I will wait, if time is what you need - still need…” She quirked an eyebrow, holding his gaze even as she rolled her lower body against his. It was not aggressive - more of an acknowledgement of the hardness between them than anything else, and he could easily have pulled away. He moaned, strained against her in return, but as a wave to a ripple, certain he was leaving a slick trail of precum against her belly. “But I rather think I do know what I’m asking for,” she finished. He throbbed miserably.

He'd filled her mouth with his tongue and parted her legs with his, dipped her to ride it, the first time they'd met in the fade. He did it again, but this time, did not pull away. He relished the taste of her in his mouth, the wanton moan that rose through her and became part of them both. This time, there was no barrier between them at all. The heat of her slid over the taut muscles of his thigh and the evidence of her eagerness coated his skin.

There was a sheltered grotto nearby. He knew it to be so, and there was. In their shared breaths that held Mairah’s focus, he willed them to be there, and they were. Solas broke away reluctantly to assess the cavern, even in his near feral, dream-tipped state needing better for his mate than a bare stone floor. The discarded remnants of travelers past littered the ground and, with an almost dismissive flick of the wrist, he brought the candles and lanterns to light.

She was ahead of him when he turned back, bent to throw the fur lined cloak over a pile of soft hay that formed a makeshift mattress. Days, months, more than a year should be no matter, but in that time those perfect, soft swells had woven their own spell over him as her hips swayed with each step she took, leading. Leading him.

In the flickering firelight, her hair slipped across pale skin like a revealing curtain and a tantalizing hint of more glistened between pert cheeks. The sight was unbearable. He was behind her in an instant, arms wrapped tight as he slotted himself against the cleft of her ass. His nose was buried in the heady scent of her neck as he gave a few haphazard thrusts, knowing for certain this time that he was leaving a slick trail on her lower back to match the one on her belly.

She wriggled in his grasp, at first matching his thrusts with unabashed, needy breaths and pressing back against him, then stronger, twisting. He heard her voice, but did not catch the first words.

“-me, vhenan?”

He let her go, his cock bobbing obscenely between them as she stepped away, even less willing than the rest of him to be parted. What did she need? What did she want? He would do it if he knew. He would-

She read his entreating, confused expression, stole a kiss and a quick caress from root to tip that left him breathless, and then was gone again, dropping to her hands and knees in the soft furs. Surely, she would turn on her back, face him… She twisted her neck to look into his eyes, but it was with slinking her shoulders low, her hips high, her knees set wide apart to offer her sex in lewd display.

“Please… my heart, my mate…” Mairah panted, her irises a thin ring around inky, blown out pupils, “Do as your instinct bids.”

He bent to his own will - the feral, primordial, animal aspect that had manifested with flesh and blood - and felt some part of himself changed. Like a single out of tune string on an instrument, it was stretched, aligned, and made harmonious, the song enhanced. Solas went to his knees behind her, kneading the soft globes of her buttocks as he warmed his face between her slick folds.

She nearly collapsed under his attentions, gasping, her breath wet against the fur as his tongue delved deep, sampling the hidden parts of her. His hands took hold of her hips as he moved lower, taking the swollen little bud in his pursed lips. Fingers squeezed with a satisfying, punishing grip, keeping her steady, as her body jolted against the sensation. When he finally pulled back, gulping desperately for air, his vision swam with stars and slick dripped from his chin.

You will hurt her.

He would hurt her more if he did not. He wished he could share every part of himself with her, but he could share this.

With his thumb, he gently parted her lips, savoring the view when he took himself in hand, blunt head now an indignant shade in stark contrast with his pale skin, and aligned himself with her entrance. Mairah turned her head to look back at him, her weight shifting just enough to tease them both - a degree of pressure that had the tip kiss deep without quite pressing on. Solas braced himself, huffing through the desire to take greedily. Instead, he watched her expression - the fluttering of her eyelids, the minute shaking of her arms, the way her eyes closed and mouth opened by degrees as he slowly disappeared inside her.

He had no illusions as to his size. When he was fully seated, pelvis pressed against hers, he stilled, feeling though every little twitch and squeeze her body accommodate its welcomed guest. Her heat, the tight, all-enveloping embrace, fit him like a homecoming, and he whimpered in the knowledge that he was caught, well and truly.

“You… don't need… to hold back,” Mairah said in between ragged breaths. Her hair had slipped to one side, leaving her neck and one long, blushed ear revealed.

That was what his instinct demanded. Muscles braced beneath him as Solas dropped to all fours in a proper mount. Her back arched against his belly. Her thighs tensed to accept the first slaps of his against them. Her fingers curled into the furs and she whined in needy submission as he licked the sweat from her nape and took that rosy ear tip between his teeth, his gratified rumble drawing a full body shiver from his mate.

Neither of them spoke as they did as their bodies bade. He would have slowed, would have withheld, had he sensed the slightest hesitation, but at the peak of each stroke, buried to the root, she urged him on with soft wails and pushed back into the thrust, keeping him held deeply a moment longer.

The wet slapping echoed in the small cavern, drowning the howls of the risen storm without.

How many ages had passed since he'd last connected this way? How weakened was he that, even here, he was quickly losing himself to it? To her? He struggled, growls in her ear turning to whines and his hips faltering in their motion.

“I- I'm going—”

“Yes.” It was a harshly whispered plea, her body clenching around him in anticipation, desperate to milk every drop.

“I–” He was still trying to hold on, unwilling for this to end for more reasons than he could articulate, and words were not coming.

“Let go, ma vhenan.”

Mairah’s head hung low as she replied, her ears burning, her thighs trembling. Solas came with his breath hot and fast against her neck, his heartbeat thrumming against her back, and with an untethered force that had him lifting her knees from the furs in his last few thrusts, as if he could bury himself within her along with the slick ropes of his release.

-----

Grey light filtered into the room. It must still be snowing, he thought, not turning his head to sate the faint spark of curiosity. He'd come to consciousness with a jolt, his vision fixing on a high ceiling that was both familiar and unfamiliar.

Solas shifted uncomfortably, a sticky mess adhering his pants to his thigh and a hot flush spreading, rosy red, over his ears and cheeks. Beside him, Mairah was beginning to stir. There was only a moment to consider his actions, his situation, and the course ahead, and it would be done in soft furs, the warmth and scent of her present on his skin and in his nostrils. He sighed.

Her eyes opened, squinting at the wan snow-dawn, to focus on the sound. They met his, knowing, a little uncertain.

“Solas… I- I didn't mean for–”

Before she could apologize, his lips were on hers, and the words were lost in a jumble of press and movement - his hands, at her back, hers, tugging at the hem of his shirt. They separated to come back together bare chested and hot, her hands cradling his face as they tasted each other, his palming soft swells and flicking thumbs over the tight nubs at their peaks. He felt her buck against his knee, searching for more, and his hands delved lower, stripping her leggings and underthings halfway before she wriggled in assistance. They joined shirts on the floor.

Warm fingers swept the waistband of his pants. He slipped away from them.

“Wait a moment longer, vhenan.” He rolled and twisted, taking her into the cradle of his arm. Forehead touched forehead and she cuddled against him, pliant and soft in his grip, her answer a simple murmur of assent.

Between kisses and the tender exploration of normally hidden stretches of chest and breast, one hand wandered low. Mairah whimpered into his mouth, her legs parting eagerly when fingers found her sex, found her drenched, found the swollen bud concealed within and began a finely tempoed dance.

“If there are apologies to be made, they must be mine.” His hand continued lower, one digit slipping so easily within that he brought another to join it immediately, thumb taking up the pressure above as he learned to read every shiver of her body as his favorite new language. “It was not my intention to depart so… abruptly.” Fingers that so easily roused creation and destruction in practiced gestures played her deepest strings, her breaths quickly coming fast and ragged.

“Stay, ah- please. Mm- stay… until… the storm… pass- Solas!”

She writhed around him, sweet kisses forgotten as her lips invoked his name in sweeter worship. It called to that feral part of him, an irresistible bait that he no longer had any intention of forgoing, and his body found itself anxious to return to the trap, his ruined leggings now more bondage than modesty.

“Ma da’ras, I will stay. There is an urgent matter that requires the Inquisitor’s assistance.” He took her hand, pressing it to the straining fabric.

Her lust darkened eyes widened in surprise as she felt the solid length.

“Clearly this demands my immediate attention.” She faltered, for the first time a hint of hesitation creeping over her features. “It’s… the same size…?”

He smiled, taking her free hand in his and gently kissing her fingers - gallant as any courtly suitor despite the palm cupping his cock.

“Yes. If you would prefer to sto-” “No!”

Her response was so quick that they both paused, frozen in place. Heedless of the moment and incensed at the interruption, the length of him twitched insistently against her grip. It broke something between them - the brief tension giving way to giggles, giving way to kisses that grew in tempo with the strokes to the front of his trousers.

Her breath was sultry against his neck, silky soft strands of dark hair tickling across his chest, as she had all but crawled into his lap.

”Some things,” she said, beginning to tug the fabric down over his hips, “come more easily in the Fade.” An inadvertent, shuddering sigh of relief interrupted her as he finally sprang free, and she regarded him, naked and awake, for the first time. She licked her lips, reaching to gently swipe across the weeping tip even as a flash of green flew somewhere to hit the floor. Her tongue darted out to taste the clear fluid that coated her fingertips.

“But right now I'd rather the satisfaction of hard,” He steadied her as she rose then sank in front of him, thighs brushing along his sides, the heat of her center dragging a glistening trail across his navel, “and flesh.”

One arm looped around his neck, the other between their legs, positioning him to meet her entrance, Mairah gasped when their bodies joined, but continued to lower herself, taking more of him in, grateful when his arms wrapped around her in a tender embrace. Finally, their hips met, and they paused again, this time to give each a moment to become familiar with this new thing. The stretch of him was intense and the length kissed parts of her that she knew would have tipped from pleasure to pain, were she not so primed to receive. Solas buried his face against her neck, panting, willing himself to be still. The heat of her was intense, welcoming, all-encompassing, and if there were any memories to compare, they were chased away by the trembling body in his arms and the slick clench of her sex around his.

“Slow, vhenan-” His voice and embrace tightened as her hand left where they were joined to complete the circle around his shoulders, taking the support she needed. In slow, tiny movements, she began to rock against him. “For both our sakes.”

-----

Mitarë pushed against the entrance to the Herald’s quarters with her shoulder, carefully shielding the heavily laden tray, steaming with broth and porridge, fresh pastries and spiced tea, all for two, as the door cracked open.

The Kirkwall alienage was not a fortuitous place to have been born, and it had only become worse in the past handful of years. When whispers about the elven leader of the newly formed Inquisition had reached her ears, she’d thought longingly about fleeing the miserable city. When one of her oldest and dearest friends had pulled her aside some weeks later, only to spin an even more fantastical tale - he was now an agent of Fen’Harel, and if she wished to be part of his cause, she would join that Inquisition, reporting back to him - she had scoffed at first.

She did not believe for a second that the bald, soft-spoken scholar, fingers always stained with ink or paint, was the terrible figure of Dalish legend, but could he be the mastermind behind a meticulously laid plan to bring some measure of power and respect to the elven people? She'd noted the shrewd, calculating look to his eyes when no one of consequence was around to see; marked the clever requisitions and strategic alliances he forged. Yes, that she could believe.

The sounds that greeted her took a moment to process - lewd, sharp and echoing in the stone space.

The Inquisitor's voice in a straining phrase of elvhen that Mitarë could not decipher. A man’s voice in response, overlaid with growls of effort.

She was back on the other side of the heavy door and pushing it closed as quickly as the heat rose on her face, but not quickly enough to drown out the call, clear in the absolute silence of the great hall: “Solas!”

The tray rattled in her grasp until she drew a long breath, composing herself.

Dawn, and the drunken revelers had been cleared some hours past. Warriors, mages, and dignitaries would not be expected so long as the storm continued to howl outside. The room, however, was not quite empty. A nervous young man - one of the master stonemason’s apprentices - had been quietly taking measurements at a section due for repair, and an older elven woman had been moving between the tables, sweeping away the careless remnants of last night's debauchery.

The apprentice kept his face buried in his notes, even the scratch of his pencil loud in the pregnant stillness. His ears, though, were burning red.

The woman had no such compunctions. She straightened herself using her broom, face broken by a wide, conspiratorial grin that was missing a few teeth, and hobbled over as if they'd ever interacted before this moment.

“That's it, then,” she half-whispered, half-hissed in delight. “I've won the pot.”

Mitarë pasted on a liar's smile and set the tray on the nearest table. There was no way to contain this now, short of a few murders she wasn't about to commit, so she may as well delay the inevitable so long as she could.

“Sit with me a moment, grandmother.” She tore into a warm, jelly-filled roll, dipping it into a cup of sweet cream then offering half of it to the woman who accepted, cackling. “The Herald is already being stuffed - I don't think she'll miss one breakfast.”

They tucked into the Inquisitor’s meal, neglecting their duties as the pair above neglected theirs, while the quiet hall passed the early hour to the soft sounds of snowfall and two bodies beating notes to a song as new as the morning and old as life itself.

-----

Notes:

I apologize for any butchery of elvhen - I'm playing fairly fast and loose with my translations. In order of appearance: Felas’hamin: Felas - slow; hamin - rest = gentle, be at peace Em ghilanaeth: Em - I; ghilana - leads/leading; eth - safe(ty/ly) = I will lead you safely. Da’ras: Da - diminutive prefix, little; ras - light; Mairah ‘Ma’ra – my light (Ma – me/my/I/you, + Ra(Ras) – light) - nickname, "little light"

#my art #my artwork #my fic #my fanfiction #dragon age #mairah lavellan #solas #solavellan

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