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stylesispunk · 9 months ago

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"Eternal whispers of you"

marcus acacius x f!reader

Summary: In a time of ancient empires, the forbidden love between a powerful general, Marcus Acacius, and the emperor's sister was met with tragedy. Their affair was discovered, and the emperor cursed his sister to live an eternal life, forced to witness Marcus die in every lifetime without the chance to love him fully again. After a thousand lives, would they meet again?

w.c: 13k (this was supposed to be 8k.)

warnings: angst, power imbalance, loss, separation, mentions of curse, some historical mistakes, the story also takes place in the modern day (I'm telling you) not proofreading. paragraphs in cursive indicate flashbacks.

a/n: This idea was better in my head, but the last Gladiator 2 trailer made me feel things and inspired me to write this. You will also notice inspiration from "The Age of Adeline" in this story. I hope you like it cuz it took me three days to write it. You will notice some inaccurate facts but it was for the sake of the story and my imagination, don't judge me, please. Happy reading and PLEASE share your thoughts with me. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated. 💌

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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You were cursed to a life without an ending. Lonely and loveless, every day of your life or any love you could find wouldn't reciprocate and you were going to be condemned to see them grow old and die, and you would continue to live a life in an endless cycle of tragedy.

You were condemned to just tell stories about the man of your life, the one who had been murdered and punished to die without honor for your brother's poisoned mouth.

You became a traitor for the empire. But not cries out of shame or the dirty words of people hurt as much as the day you hold Marcus’s hand for the last time as his eyes closed in a forever eternity that you were going to live without him.

Not even death could put you both together in the same path. You were cursed to remember his love, and you were cursed to never see him again and to live a never-ending life without the love who made your life a field of dreams.

The night after your love affair with Marcus was discovered. The emperor, your brother, furious with your betrayal, condemned both of you. You were summoned to the imperial court, where your brother delivered the punishment. His words sting like venom, cursing Marcus to die dishonorably in front of your eyes.

That night still haunted you.

The imperial court was dimly lit by the flickering flames of torches, casting shadows across the towering marble columns. You stood at the center, your heart pounding like war drums in your chest. Your brother, sat upon his gilded throne, his eyes dark with fury. You could barely hear the words that escaped his lips, but their venom poisoned the air between you.

“Traitor,” he spat, his voice echoing through the chamber. “You have betrayed not only your empire but your blood.”

Your eyes flicked to Marcus, kneeling beside you, bound and bruised. The strong, unyielding general was barely recognizable under the weight of chains and despair. His gaze, however, remained fixed on you, calm, resolute, and filled with love that no curse could shatter.

Your brother’s face twisted with rage as he stood, his robes sweeping the floor like the wings of a vulture. “You,” he snarled, his finger pointing at Marcus, “will die with dishonor, like a common criminal for taking advantage of my sister. And you,” he turned to you, his eyes burning with hatred, “You will be cursed to an eternal life, loveless and alone. You will remember this betrayal every waking moment for the rest of your existence, and you will never know peace again.”

Tears pricked your eyes, but you did not flinch. The emperor’s voice rose like a storm. “You will watch him die, over and over, in your memory. And with every death you witness, you will be reminded that this is your doing. You will live forever, but you will die inside every day.”

With a gesture of his hand, the guards dragged Marcus away. His eyes never left yours, filled with an unspoken promise of love that neither time nor curse could take from you. You reached for him, your fingers grazing his as they pulled him further from you, his touch slipping away like sand between your fingers.

You screamed his name, but your voice was swallowed by the cold, empty hall. The weight of your brother’s words crashed down on you like a wave, and you fell to your knees. The curse had already begun.

The day of Marcus’s execution came far too soon.

They paraded him through the streets like a criminal, his once-glorious armor stripped from him, replaced with the rags of the condemned. The crowd jeered and spat, but you saw none of it. All you saw was Marcus, broken, yet still impossibly strong.

You stood at the front of the crowd, the place of honor reserved for the emperor’s family, forced to witness the final blow. As they prepared to end his life, your heart pounded in your chest, each beat screaming for you to do something, to save him.

But you were powerless.

Marcus turned his head toward you one last time, his eyes soft, filled with a love that had transcended the horror of the moment. His lips moved, forming words meant only for you.

“I will find you again.”

With that, the sword fell.

The world shattered around you. You dropped to your knees as the crowd roared with approval, but the noise was drowned out by the sound of your heart breaking. You clutched your chest, feeling the jagged pieces of your soul tearing at you, but the pain wasn’t enough to free you from the curse. You couldn’t escape. The curse wouldn’t let you.

You watched as Marcus’s body was dragged away, knowing you would never hold him again.

After Marcus’ death, you begin to experience your immortality firsthand. You don’t age, but the world around you does. At first, the pain is too great, and you isolate yourself, haunted by the memory of his final moments. You visit his grave every day, talking to him as if he were still alive.

There’s a sense of numbness, a hollow ache where his presence used to be. You realize the gravity of your curse the first time you notice gray hairs on the friends and people around you, but none on yourself. While others grow old and die, you remain the same, a constant in a world of change.

You slowly started to see the empire fall, and with it the death caught your family, one by one. Geta was the first, the middle of a family you now considered cursed. The, your mother and father met the same fate, and finally, Caracalla met death too, murdered by a soldier. He died without honor and he would be remembered as the cruelest imperator, you would make sure of it.

You were the only left from the fallen family, you could have saved the empire from breaking into pieces, but you weren’t going to sacrifice any second from your eternal life on it, so you erased yourself from Rome and from the history of it.

You left Rome behind, watching the city fall to ruin, its power crumbling with each passing year. The empire you had once known, that had been ruled by your family, was now a memory, a fading echo in the vastness of time. You no longer belonged there, and you had no desire to preserve what had been lost. The weight of your curse consumed you, drowning out any loyalty you might have once felt.

Instead, you wandered, drifting across continents and centuries. At first, you tried to hide, retreating to the furthest corners of the earth, away from people, away from the pain of watching those around you wither and die. Each new connection, each fleeting friendship, was a reminder of the man you could never forget, of Marcus's warm touch and his promise to find you again, unfulfilled.

But the world was relentless, and no matter how much you tried to isolate yourself, it continued to grow, to change. Civilizations rose and fell, each one leaving its mark on history, yet you remained untouched by time. You began to realize the truth of your brother’s curse, not just the eternity of your life, but the eternal loneliness that accompanied it.

The worst part wasn’t just the loss of your family or Marcus’s death; it was the fact that no matter where you went or how much time passed, you could never escape the memory of him. The grief was always there, lingering just beneath the surface, a shadow following you wherever you went. You carried the weight of his death, not just as a memory, but as an unending, crushing reality that haunted your dreams and your waking moments.

In the centuries that followed, you watched as kingdoms rose from the ashes of the Roman Empire. You saw the birth of new religions, new governments, new ways of thinking, but you remained on the outside, forever watching, forever unchanged. While others lived their lives, you were a ghost, slipping through the cracks of history, unnoticed and unseen.

But you could never forget Marcus. No matter how hard you tried to distance yourself from the pain, he was always there in your thoughts. His memory became your only companion, the one thing that time could never take from you. You told stories of him, of his strength, his courage, his love, but never revealed the truth. They were just tales to those who listened, history that no one could verify, but for you, they were the only way to keep his memory alive.

You returned to his grave as often as you could, though as the centuries passed, even that became more difficult. The world changed around you, the landscapes shifted, cities were built and destroyed, and the places you had once known became unfamiliar. His grave, once a sacred place for you, was lost to time. It was one of the last connections you had to him, and when it was gone, it felt as though a piece of you had been taken too.

There were moments when you tried to end your existence, hoping to find Marcus in the afterlife. You throw yourself into battles, attempt poison, even seek out dark magic, but nothing works. The curse prevented any harm from lasting.

The curse ensures that you never forget Marcus, his face, his touch, the sound of his voice. You find yourself returning to places that remind you of him, like the old battlefield where you first met, or the quiet corners of the palace where you shared stolen moments.

You often found yourself returning to places that held memories of Marcus. The battlefield where you first met, where he had caught your eye in the midst of the chaos, remained sacred to you. You would stand there, recalling the way your heart raced when he first spoke to you. The palace too, though long gone, remained vivid in your mind. You could still hear the echo of your laughter as you shared secret moments in the quiet corners, moments stolen from the prying eyes of the court.

But none of these memories could fill the void that had been left behind. You were a shell of who you had once been, and your existence was now defined by the absence of Marcus.

You became a witness, watching people fall in love, create families, grow old, and die. It was a cycle you had been denied, and it filled you with both longing and bitterness. The worst part of your immortality wasn't the endless life itself, it was the endless isolation, the inability to ever truly connect with anyone again.

In the present day, the weight of centuries finally began to take its toll. You had lived through empires, witnessed the birth of new nations, and seen countless lives come and go. Yet, no matter where you went or how much time passed, you remained haunted by Marcus’s memory. He was always there, a specter in your mind, the only constant in your immortal existence.

After wandering aimlessly for decades, you found yourself drawn to history once again, not just as a passive observer, but with a deep desire to preserve the past.

You were in a quiet bookstore, surrounded by shelves of dusty books. Your hands ran over the spines of history texts as you stopped at a volume about Ancient Rome. The familiar symbols, the names, even the dates of battles were etched in your mind like scars. You paused on a chapter dedicated to General Marcus Acacius, your Marcus. He was remembered as a hero, a man of honor, but the truth of his death, the betrayal, has been lost to history. You smiled at the thought that even Caracalla’s venom words, didn’t tinted Marcus’s name on history.

The memories fled back in an instant, the first time you saw Marcus commanding his troops, his fierce yet kind eyes, the way he smiled when no one else was looking. It was a painful nostalgia, one that made your chest tighten. You’ve avoided facing the truth about the Roman Empire for so long, unable to face the weight of those memories. But you realized now that telling Marcus’ story was the only way to keep him alive.

You left the bookstore, a decision already made in your heart. You would become a history teacher, and through your lessons, you would keep Marcus alive in a way that no curse could take from you.

At the first day in the classroom. The desks were arranged neatly, sunlight streaming through the windows, and your students were filing in. You stood at the front of the room; your hands rested on the chalkboard. It was strange, being back on an important role where you were meant to pass on knowledge. But for you, this was more than just education, it was a form of remembrance.

You felt a mixture of nerves. This was a chance to talk about Marcus again, to give him the honor he was stripped of in life. You weren’t sure if you were becoming crazy through this endless circle, and you didn’t know if you still were twisting the knife of endless memories you had of him, but you know that this was the closest you had been to him. As you students settled in, you introduce yourself, with a new of the thousand names you had had during your long life. You dove into your lecture about the Roman Empire. When you mentioned Marcus, your voice faltered just slightly, but you pressed on, determined to honor him in the only way left to you.

As you stood before your students, your mind wandered back to the times when you were with Marcus, the memories flooding in, unbidden but unstoppable. The classroom around you faded, and the vivid images of the Roman Empire took over. You were no longer in the present, but back in the heart of ancient Rome, standing beside him, your love, your general.

It was a warm summer evening in Rome. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky awash in shades of deep orange and purple. You and Marcus were hidden away in a secluded corner of the palace, stealing a moment of peace amid the constant threat of discovery. His armor had been discarded, instead he was wearing his cloak as if it could erase the responsibility off his shoulders. In that moment, he was not a general, he was just Marcus, yours, the man you loved.

His hand brushed against yours, sending a shiver up your spine. You had to be careful, even here. The walls had ears, and the court was always watching. But with him, you found yourself willing to take the risk. The world outside your bubble of stolen moments didn't matter. Not the empire, not your brother, not the looming consequences. Just Marcus.

"You should go," he whispered, his voice low and rough. "It's too dangerous."

But you shook your head, stepping closer, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. "I don't care," you whispered back, your heart racing. "Let them find out. Let the whole world know. I love you, Marcus."

He looked down at you, his dark eyes softening as they always did when he gazed at you. He placed a gentle hand on your cheek, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "I love you too," he said, his voice filled with the same intensity you had come to depend on, but laced with sorrow. "But your family will not be kind to us.”

You knew he was right. You both did. The affair was treason, a betrayal to the honor of your family, to your brother. But the pull between you was too strong, too undeniable. It had started innocently enough, during the long strategy meetings Marcus held with your brother. You had caught glimpses of him, and over time, those stolen glances had become longer, lingering. Before you knew it, you were sneaking away from the palace, meeting him in secret, hiding your love from the watchful eyes of Rome.

In that moment, though, none of it mattered. He leaned down and kissed you, softly at first, as if testing the boundaries of your defiance, then more passionately, as if the whole world could burn for all he cared. You melted into his embrace, letting yourself get lost in the heat of the moment, your mind clouded by desire and the need to be close to him.

You snapped back to the present, your heart still racing as if you had just been pulled from Marcus’s arms. The students stared at you, waiting. You realized you had paused in the middle of your lecture, lost in the memory. Quickly, you cleared your throat, steadying your voice before continuing.

"General Marcus Acacius was one of the finest commanders Rome ever produced. He led with strength and honor, but..." you hesitated, a lump forming in your throat. "But history doesn’t always remember those who deserve it most. He died in dishonor, stripped of his title and his legacy.”

Your students watched you, unaware of the deep, personal meaning those words held for you. They were listening to a lesson, but you were recounting the loss of your greatest love.

And that’s how week after week, your lectures became more detailed. The students were captivated by your knowledge of the Roman Empire, unaware that you were telling them stories of your own life. When you spoke of the campaigns Marcus led, your tone softened, and the students sense the reverence in your words. They asked questions about him, and you answer with more care than you do for any other figure in Roman history.

Speaking about Marcus became a bittersweet ritual. You felt the same pain as you did centuries ago, but there was a strange comfort in saying his name aloud. With every story you tell, you feel like you were giving him a second life, bringing him back into the world if only for a moment. The students didn’t know it, but they were learning about a man who shaped you in ways that any book could never explain.

After class, you often sat alone in your office, a single lamp casting a dim glow. Old books of the Roman Empire were spread out before you, but your mind drifted away. You thought about the moments you shared with Marcus, the way he used to hold you after long days of battle, the whispered promises of a future that was stolen from you both.

The loneliness that had followed you for centuries still lingered, but teaching about him helped ease it, if only slightly. It was as though every time you speak his name, you were defying the curse, keeping his memory alive despite the gods’ punishment. But there were nights when the pain was too much, and you felt the weight of eternity pressing down on you. You wonder if Marcus could hear you, if somewhere, in some distant place, he knows you were still fighting to keep his honor intact.

It was late, the room lit only by the flicker of a single oil lamp. You were lying beside Marcus, the cool night seeping through the cracks of the window shutters. The war outside had raged on for weeks, but in this quiet moment, there was only the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of each other's presence.

His arm was draped across your waist, his fingers tracing delicate patterns over the back of your hand. His touch was gentle, a contrast to the hardened general the world saw. Here, with you, he allowed himself to be vulnerable. You shifted slightly, laying your head on his chest, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath you.

"You know we can't keep this up forever," he whispered, his voice thick with weariness and something more. Fear, perhaps. Or resignation.

You didn’t reply right away. You knew the truth of his words there was always the looming threat of discovery, of punishment. But in this moment, you wanted to pretend, just for a little longer, that the world outside didn’t exist. That this wasn’t forbidden. That you weren’t living on borrowed time.

He caressed your hand, the roughness of his calloused fingers a stark reminder of the battles he fought, the sacrifices he made. "I would give it all up, you know," he continued, his voice soft, barely audible. "The empire, the glory, everything. Just to stay here with you."

Your heart twisted painfully at his words. You knew he meant them, and you wanted to believe in a future where such sacrifices could lead to a peaceful life together. But you both knew better. The weight of duty and the ever-watchful eyes of the emperor, your brother, were never far from your thoughts.

"You don't have to give up anything, Marcus," you whispered, bringing your hand to his cheek, guiding his gaze to yours. "I love you as you are. And for as long as we have, that will be enough for me."

But even as you said the words, a sinking feeling settled in your chest. You had always known that the empire was a ruthless machine, and it would not allow your love to exist without a price. Still, you closed your eyes, pressing your lips to his, letting the kiss linger as though you could keep time at bay, as though you could stop the inevitable.

When you pulled away, Marcus smiled faintly, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "If only we could stay like this forever," he murmured.

You leaned back in your chair, the weight of eternity pressing down once again. Could Marcus hear you now? Could he feel your longing across the vast time? You didn’t know. But you hoped, no, you believed that somehow, somewhere, he still held you in his heart, just as you held him in yours.

One day, a student stayed behind after class, intrigued by the depth of your knowledge about Marcus Acacius. “It’s like you knew him,” she said, half-joking. “How do you know so much about his life? There’s not much written about him in the sources we have.”

For a moment, you’re taken aback. You’ve been careful to keep your personal connection to Marcus hidden, but the student’s words strike a chord. You felt the urge to tell her the truth, that you did know him, that you loved him, that you were cursed to live on without him. But instead, you smile softly and say, “I’ve studied him for a very long time. Some stories just stay with you.”

The student nodded, satisfied with your answer, but as she left, you felt a pang of longing. You wished, just once, you could tell someone the truth. But you know the world wasn’t ready for your story. It’s a secret you’ll carry alone.

As the years passed, teaching became your refuge. You taught more than just facts and dates, you taught the human side of history, the emotions and relationships that shaped the past. Through your stories, Marcus lived on in the minds of your students, and that gave you a small sense of peace.

The curse still lingered, and the pain of losing Marcus never would fade completely. But through your lectures, you’ve found a way to keep his memory alive. You couldn’t bring him back, but you could ensure that he was remembered, not as the man who was unjustly killed, but as the honorable general who loved you. In that way, you fought against the curse, turning your suffering into something meaningful.

One afternoon, as your students filled out of the classroom, you noticed one student lingering behind, gathering his things slowly. You've been watching him for a few weeks now, and it hasn’t escaped your attention that he always sat alone, quiet and withdrawn. His name was David, and though he never caused any disruptions, he seemed distant from the rest of the class, lost in thought, barely engaging with the lessons.

You decide it was time to reach out.

After the classroom emptied, you approached David as he slanged his backpack over one shoulder. His eyes remained downcast, and you sensed a heaviness about him, something familiar in the way he seemed to carry the world on his shoulders.

“David,” you said gently, “can I speak to you for a moment?”

He glanced up, surprised, but nodded. You gestured toward the front of the room, and he hesitantly followed you. The two of you sat across from each other, the quietness of the empty classroom made the moment more intimate.

You saw something familiar on him, soft brown eyes

You looked at David and felt a strange sense of recognition. His soft brown eyes held a weight that was all too familiar, reminding you of someone you had long ago lost. The resemblance was subtle, but it struck a chord deep within you, like an echo from a past you had tried to forget.

"Is everything alright?" you asked gently, hoping to break through the wall he had built around himself.

David shrugged, staring down at the desk in front of him. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, but you could tell from his tone that he wasn’t.

You leaned forward, trying to catch his gaze. “It’s okay if you're not. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

He glanced up briefly, then away again, the silence between you heavy with unspoken thoughts. There was something more than just teenage angst weighing on him. Something deeper.

“Do you live with your parents?” you asked, thinking you could reach out to them, perhaps offer a meeting to better understand what was troubling him.

David shook his head slowly. “No, it’s just me and my dad.”

His words were like a key, unlocking a door that had remained sealed for centuries. The moment he mentioned his father, a strange chill ran down your spine. You couldn’t explain it, but something inside you shifted, as if the ground beneath your feet had suddenly become unstable.

Before you could ask another question, David continued. “He…he works a lot, doesn’t talk much about stuff. But he cares. I know he does.”

You nodded, sensing a familiar loneliness in his words, one that mirrored your own. “I’d like to meet him,” you said, though the idea stirred something unsettling within you. “Maybe we could have a talk, see if we can help you feel more connected here.”

David shrugged again but didn’t resist. “I guess. I’ll let him know.”

A few days later, you arranged for a meeting with David’s father. As the time approached, you couldn’t shake the unease that had settled into your bones since the conversation with David. There was something about him, about his eyes, his manners, that reminded you of Marcus in a way that felt impossible. But centuries had taught you that the impossible often had a way of finding you.

The classroom door creaked open, and you looked up from your desk. David walked in first, looking a bit anxious, followed by his father. The moment you saw him, your breath caught in your throat.

It was Marcus.

He stood there, lingering by the door, his eyes locking with yours. Though time had passed, and he appeared as someone entirely new, the essence of him, his presence, his soul, was unmistakable. He looked at you with a furrowed brow, as if trying to place you, the same soft brown eyes that had haunted your dreams staring back at you in the flesh.

He stepped in slowly, a tall man with broad shoulders, dark eyes, and a calm yet commanding presence. He looked almost exactly the same as he did all those centuries ago, his hair was streaked with gray, and there was a tiredness around his eyes, but the face, the face was unmistakable.

It was Marcus.

Your heart pounded violently in your chest, and for a split second, you felt dizzy, as if the ground had shifted beneath your feet. Memories fled back, so overwhelming it was as if you were living them all over again: his voice, his touch, the way he smiled at you in those quiet moments when no one else was around. Your throat tightened, your hands trembled, and you could barely breathe. You waited for centuries, living in the shadow of his absence, knowing he would never return to you. And yet, here he is.

You’re stared at a man who didn’t remember the life you shared. A man who looked like Marcus but had no idea of the love, the pain, the eternity you’ve endured without him.

He didn’t recognize you, of course. How could he? You’ve lived for centuries, unchanged, while he, he’d been given a new life, one free from the curse that bound you. He cleared his throat, clearly waiting for you to speak, and it was only then that you realize you’d been standing there, staring.

“Uh… I’m David’s father,” he says, extending a hand. His voice was deeper now, worn by time, but the tone. It was Marcus. It was him.

You forced yourself to take his hand, and the moment your fingers touched, the air in the room seemed to thin. The connection was immediate, electric, and your mind spun with the impossibility of what’s happening. You shook his hand, trying to steady yourself, trying to keep from falling apart.

“I’m… I’m David’s teacher,” you managed to say, your voice shaky. You gave him your name, though you were almost certain the sound of it, the familiarity of it, would spark something in him. But nothing. He was just a man, living an ordinary life, unaware of the past you shared.

He sat down across from you, unaware that this is the most surreal moment of your long, cursed life.

“David’s mentioned he’s been struggling,” he began, looking down at his son, and there was concern in his voice. “I’ve been worried about him. I thought maybe it had to do with his schoolwork.”

You forced yourself to focus, trying to push down the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you. How could Marcus be here, sitting in front of you, unchanged yet completely different? He didn’t recognize you, he couldn’t. He had lived and died, while you had remained frozen in time. This man, David’s father, had no knowledge of the centuries of pain you had carried or the love you had lost.

“Yes, David has been a little distant,” you managed to say, your voice barely steady. You glanced at David, who sat quietly next to his father, unaware of the storm brewing inside you. “He’s a bright student, but I’ve noticed he’s been… struggling to engage.”

Marcus—no, not Marcus, David’s father—nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, we’ve had a rough few months,” he admitted, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “I’ve been working a lot, and it’s been just the two of us since his mother left. I think it’s been harder on him than I realized.”

The way he spoke, the cadence of his words, the soft concern in his voice, it was Marcus. Your heart ached with the familiarity of it, but the reality crashed down on you just as quickly. He didn’t know who you were. He didn’t remember anything about the life you had shared, about the love you had lost. To him, you were just another teacher, another stranger.

“I understand,” you replied, trying to keep your voice level. “Maybe we can work together to help him feel more connected. Sometimes, just having a consistent presence can make all the difference.”

As you spoke, your eyes couldn’t help but drift back to him, trying to reconcile the man sitting in front of you with the one who had held you centuries ago. He was so close and yet so impossibly far away. He had no memory of you, no recollection of the love that had once bound you together. It was both a blessing and a curse—he was free from the torment that had plagued you for centuries, but you were left alone in your knowledge of what you had once shared.

“I’ll do whatever I can,” he said, glancing at David with a softness that made your chest tighten. “I want to make sure he’s okay. It’s been tough on both of us.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on you. This was your Marcus, but not your Marcus. He was a father now, concerned about his son, living a life you had never been a part of.

The meeting wrapped up quickly after that. You offered some advice, discussed possible ways to help David, but all the while, your thoughts were consumed by the impossibility of the situation. As they both left the room, Marcus lingered for a moment by the door, his eyes meeting yours once again.

“I appreciate you taking the time,” he said quietly. “I know it’s not easy, but… it means a lot.”

You nodded, unable to trust your voice. “Of course.”

He gave you a small, almost hesitant smile before he turned and left, his footsteps echoing in the hallway. And then you were alone, the weight of your endless existence pressing down on you once more.

As you sat there, staring at the door through which he had just walked, you realized the cruel twist of fate you now faced. Marcus had been given another chance at life—a chance to live without the burden of the past, without the curse that had chained you to eternity. But you, you remained the same, trapped in an endless cycle of love and loss.

As you sat there in the quiet, the memories of Marcus flooded your mind—his voice, his touch, the way he looked at you all those centuries ago. You were lost in the whirlwind of it when you suddenly heard footsteps approaching. Your heart quickened, and before you could even turn, you knew who it was.

David’s father-Marcus- stood in the doorway again, hesitating for a moment. His brow furrowed in thought, as though something was tugging at the edges of his consciousness, something familiar that he couldn’t quite place. He cleared his throat, and when you finally met his eyes, your heart nearly stopped.

“I know this might sound strange,” he begins, his voice softer now, uncertain. “But… have we met before?”

The question hit you like a punch to the gut. For centuries, you had dreamed of hearing those words, of him somehow remembering you, but now that it was happening, you didn’t know how to respond. How could you explain what was beyond comprehension? That you had loved him deeply, that you had lived lifetimes while he had been reborn, oblivious to the pain you still carried?

You forced a smile, trying to hide the turmoil inside you. “I… I don’t think so,” you said, though your voice wavered slightly.

He looked at you closely, his eyes searching your face, as if trying to pull a long-forgotten memory to the surface. For a fleeting moment, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—the curse wasn’t as strong as you thought. Maybe some part of him did remember.

“There’s just something familiar about you,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, a gesture you remembered all too well. “It’s strange… like I’ve seen you before. Or… I don’t know.” He gave a sheepish laugh. “Maybe I’m just overthinking it.”

You felt your breath catch. It would be so easy to tell him the truth, to give in to the temptation of finally revealing who you really were. But what good would that do? He was living a new life, and you had no place in it.

“Maybe we’ve crossed paths somewhere before,” you replied, your voice steadying even as your heart ached. “The world can be small like that.”

He nodded, but you could see the doubt lingering in his eyes. “Yeah, maybe.” He looked down at the ground for a moment, then back up at you. “Thanks again for everything. I really appreciate it.”

You nodded, offering him a smile that felt like a lie. “Of course. Take care.”

With that, he gave you one last look—one that made your chest tighten—and turned to leave. As his footsteps echoed down the hallway, you couldn’t help but wonder if you had made the right choice in keeping the truth hidden.

For the first time in centuries, you weren’t sure what your future held. All you knew was that Marcus was out there again, living a life you could never be a part of. And once again, you were left with the memories, the only thing that time and the curse had not been able to take from you.

Alone in your office, the weight of eternity pressed down on you more heavily than ever before.

A few days passed, but the encounter with David’s father lingered in your mind like a ghost. You went through your routine, teaching classes, grading papers, keeping up the mask you had worn for centuries. But beneath the surface, the storm raged on. You could still feel the weight of his gaze, the unspoken recognition that had passed between you. He didn’t know the truth, but something inside him remembered.

Meanwhile, across the city, Marcus found himself wrestling with a strange, unshakable feeling. It had been there ever since he met you at the school, a persistent pull that gnawed at him in quiet moments. He tried to push it aside, rationalize it as nothing more than stress, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

At first, it was just small flashes—your face as you had looked at him, the way your voice had trembled ever so slightly when you spoke. There was something familiar about you, something that stirred a sense of déjà vu he couldn’t explain. And then, the dreams began.

They started out hazy at first, fragments of images that disappeared as soon as he woke. A battlefield, the clash of swords, and always…you. Standing there in the distance, watching him. He couldn’t make sense of it, and every morning he woke with the same unsettled feeling gnawing at him.

It got worse with each passing day. He found himself driving by the school on his way to work, glancing at the building as if he might see you standing there. He caught himself wondering what you were doing, if you remembered him in some strange way too. It didn’t make sense, but the pull was real, undeniable.

One night, after tossing and turning in bed, Marcus sat up, running a hand through his hair in frustration. The dreams had returned again, this time more vivid than ever. In them, you had been lying beside him, your fingers intertwined with his as he whispered something he couldn’t quite remember. The sensation was so real, so intense, that he had woken with his heart racing, the image of your face burned into his mind.

He couldn’t keep ignoring it.

The next day, after dropping David off at school, Marcus found himself walking back to the classroom where he had first met you. He didn’t have a clear plan, only a need to see you again, to understand why this strange connection existed between the two of you.

When he arrived, he stood outside the door, hesitating for a moment. What would he even say? He didn’t know if he was ready for whatever this was, or if you would even feel the same pull. But the need to know, to see you, overpowered the doubts.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked softly on the door and waited.

Inside the classroom, you had been in the middle of organizing papers when the knock startled you. You weren’t expecting anyone, and your heart leapt in your chest at the possibility that it could be him. You took a deep breath before opening the door, bracing yourself for whatever was to come.

When you saw Marcus standing there, his familiar brown eyes looking at you with that same confusion and intensity, you knew this moment had been coming. His presence was overwhelming, and for a brief moment, it was as if centuries fell away and you were back in that palace with him, before the curse, before the loss.

“I’m sorry for dropping by like this,” he said, his voice softer than you remembered, though the same cadence was there. “I just… I’ve been thinking about our meeting the other day. I can’t shake this feeling that there’s something—”

He trailed off, searching for the right words, clearly struggling to articulate the pull he was feeling.

You stood there, your heart pounding, knowing that this conversation was teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something you couldn’t fully control.

“Something familiar?” you finished for him, your voice almost a whisper.

His eyes widened slightly, and he nodded. “Yeah. Exactly that.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking almost embarrassed. “I know it sounds crazy, but since I met you, it’s like I can’t stop thinking about it. About you. I keep having these…dreams, and it doesn’t make any sense, but it feels like I’ve known you before.”

Your heart pounded at his words, the weight of centuries crashing down on you all at once. His admission felt like a thread connecting the past to the present, something fragile and dangerous. You had never expected this—Marcus remembering, even if only in fragmented dreams. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the confusion he was trying so hard to make sense of.

You tried to steady your breath, knowing you couldn’t tell him the truth, not yet. It would unravel everything. But his presence, the way he looked at you as if he had known you for lifetimes, made it impossible to keep your emotions in check.

“I’m sure it’s just… coincidence,” you said softly, your voice betraying the turmoil inside you. “People get those feelings sometimes, don’t they? Like they’ve met someone before.”

He studied you for a moment, his brow furrowing. “Maybe.” But he didn’t sound convinced. He took a step closer, his gaze never leaving yours. “It’s not just that. It’s something more. And I don’t understand why, but I feel like… I should know you. Like I’m supposed to know you.”

Your pulse quickened. It was dangerous, this line you were walking. If he kept pushing, if he kept searching for answers, the curse could be exposed. Yet, the way his eyes searched yours made your resolve falter. It was Marcus standing before you, but not the Marcus you had known. This was a man who had been granted a new life, free from the past that had chained you both.

“I’m just a teacher,” you said, forcing a small smile. “We only met a few days ago.”

He nodded, but the crease between his brows deepened, as if he was debating with himself, wrestling with whether to leave things be or push further. He took another breath, as though on the verge of saying something else, but then stopped himself, shaking his head slightly.

“I don’t usually do this,” he said, almost to himself, his voice low, hesitant. “But… would you like to get coffee sometime? I mean, not as David’s teacher, but just as… us.”

The question hung in the air between you, and you felt the ground shift beneath your feet. You had lived through countless lives, avoided countless connections, and yet here was Marcus, in this new form, asking you to start something again. It was as if fate was daring you to test the boundaries of the curse.

You hesitated, your heart torn between the longing you had carried for centuries and the knowledge that this was a path filled with danger. If he remembered more, if the past began to bleed into the present, what would that mean for him—for both of you?

“I…” You swallowed, unsure of what to say. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

His face fell slightly, disappointment flickering in his eyes. But then he smiled, trying to mask it. “I get it. I just—there’s something about you…”

Your chest tightened at his words. He was offering you an out, a way to walk away from this, to keep the curse at bay. But deep down, the thought of letting him go again, of walking away from the man you had loved for centuries, felt unbearable.

“I’ll think about it,” you whispered, almost afraid of your own answer.

He nodded, offering you a small, understanding smile. “Take your time.” His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, searching for something he couldn’t quite find. “I’ll see you around.”

And then, he turned to leave, the weight of his unspoken questions hanging in the air like a ghost. You watched him go, your heart aching with the knowledge that fate was once again drawing you both into its web.

The door closed behind him, and you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. This was only the beginning, and you knew it. The past had a way of finding you, no matter how much time had passed.

A few days later, the school hosted a parent-teacher meeting. The hallways buzzed with the low hum of voices, the shuffle of papers, and the occasional sound of children darting between classrooms. You had prepared for a busy evening, but the thought of seeing Marcus again lingered in the back of your mind, an undercurrent to everything else.

You were speaking with another parent when, out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of him. He was standing near the entrance, casually scanning the room. For a moment, he looked lost in thought, his brow furrowed in that familiar way that tugged at your heart. And then, as if sensing your gaze, his eyes met yours.

The world seemed to pause.

The warmth of his smile was immediate, softening his features in a way that was both disarming and comforting. It was as though, in that brief moment, everything else in the room faded away. The connection between you, the pull that had been simmering beneath the surface since that first meeting, was undeniable. His eyes lingered on you, full of recognition that he couldn’t quite place, yet something deep inside of him understood.

As the conversation with the other parent wrapped up, you felt Marcus slowly making his way toward you, weaving through the crowded room. Your heart raced, knowing that whatever happened next, you wouldn’t be able to pretend that the past didn’t exist—not for much longer.

“Hi,” he greeted you, his voice warm and easy as he stopped in front of you.

“Hi,” you replied, your voice barely steady as you met his gaze.

He glanced around briefly before looking back at you. “Busy night?”

You nodded, the weight of the moment making it hard to find words. “Yeah. A lot of parents to talk to.”

Marcus gave a small chuckle. “I guess I’m one of them.” But the tone of his voice suggested he had more in mind than just the usual parent-teacher talk. His eyes searched yours again, that same sense of familiarity clouding his expression.

“You’ve been on my mind,” he admitted softly, leaning in just enough so that his words wouldn’t be overheard by anyone else. “I know it’s probably crazy, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the other day. And… about you.”

Your breath caught in your throat, your chest tightening at his words. He was so close now, and you could feel the intensity radiating off him, the same intensity that had bound you together in another life.

“I…” You hesitated, knowing the danger in getting too close, in letting yourself fall into the old patterns. But something in the way he looked at you, the softness in his expression, made it impossible to resist. “I’ve been thinking about it too.”

His smile grew, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “I’m glad it’s not just me.”

You could see the uncertainty in his eyes, the same battle he was fighting inside himself—the inexplicable connection, the way the past seemed to bleed into the present even though he couldn’t understand why.

“I know we’re at a parent-teacher meeting,” he said, his voice a bit lower now, “but maybe after this, we could grab that coffee? Well, we could make it, a dinner. I’m still trying to make sense of this, of what I’m feeling, and I’d really like to talk to you… if you’re open to it.”

Your heart ached at the question, knowing that whatever happened, this was Marcus reaching out to you again, even if he didn’t remember the lives you had shared. You felt the weight of the curse pressing down on you, but for the first time in centuries, the idea of keeping your distance felt unbearable.

“I’d like that,” you said, surprising yourself with how easily the words came out.

His eyes lit up at your response, and he smiled again, this time a bit more confidently. “Great. I’ll wait for you after the meeting.”

And with that, he gave you a nod before moving off to join the other parents, leaving you standing there, your heart pounding with anticipation, fear, and hope all at once. You knew this meeting would be the beginning of something far more complicated than either of you could imagine.

The rest of the parent-teacher meeting passed in a blur. You were aware of the conversations happening around you, but your mind was somewhere else—focused on what was to come. Marcus had invited you for dinner, a simple gesture that felt monumental in the context of your tangled past. Every minute felt heavier with anticipation, knowing that after so many lifetimes of loss, this was your chance to be near him again, even if he didn’t remember.

When the meeting finally ended, you gathered your things and made your way toward the entrance. You spotted Marcus waiting by the doors, hands in his pockets, eyes searching the crowd. As soon as he saw you, that familiar warmth spread across his face, and for a moment, it was like stepping back in time.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice casual but with an undercurrent of something deeper.

You nodded, offering him a soft smile. “Yeah, ready.”

Together, you made your way out to the parking lot. David was waiting by their car, playing with a small toy in his hands. When he saw you walking with his father, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Dad?” David asked, looking between the two of you. “Why’s my teacher coming with us?”

Marcus glanced down at his son, his smile never wavering as he reached over and tousled David’s hair. “She’s joining us for dinner tonight,” he explained lightly. “I wanted to say thank you for helping out with everything.”

David’s eyes widened, and he looked at you with a mix of curiosity and surprise. “Oh… okay,” he said slowly, clearly trying to process this new development. “So, like, you’re friends with my dad?”

You exchanged a quick glance with Marcus, both of you sharing a silent understanding of how complicated the truth really was.

“Something like that,” you answered with a gentle smile. “We’re just going to have dinner and talk about how to help you in school.”

David seemed to accept this explanation for now, though his gaze lingered on you a little longer before he climbed into the car. As you slid into the passenger seat, your thoughts were swirling. You were entering Marcus’s home, a place that was both familiar and foreign to him—a life he had built without any memory of you.

The drive to their house was quiet, but the tension between you and Marcus was palpable. Every now and then, you caught him glancing at you, as if he were trying to piece something together, to understand why he felt this pull toward you.

When you arrived at their home, Marcus led you inside. It was cozy, filled with the warmth of a lived-in space—family photos, toys scattered across the living room floor, the faint smell of something cooking. It was so different from the life you had known with him centuries ago, yet the sense of care and love was the same.

“Make yourself at home,” Marcus said, gesturing to the living room. “I’ll get dinner started. David, why don’t you help me set the table?”

David nodded and followed his father into the kitchen, but not before giving you one more curious glance. You settled onto the couch, feeling out of place and yet strangely at ease. This was Marcus’s life now, a life you had never been a part of, but somehow it still felt like home.

As they busied themselves in the kitchen, you couldn’t help but think about the enormity of what was happening. You were here, in his home, sharing a moment that felt so normal and yet carried the weight of centuries. It was a bittersweet reminder of everything you had lost and everything you still longed for.

After a few minutes, Marcus emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “Dinner’s almost ready,” he said, his voice soft. “Thanks for… well, for coming. I know it’s kind of last minute.”

You shook your head, offering him a small smile. “It’s fine. I’m happy to be here.”

He sat down across from you, leaning forward slightly, his expression thoughtful. “I meant what I said earlier. There’s something about you… something I can’t explain.” His voice was quieter now, as though he was sharing a secret. “It’s like I’ve known you forever, but I don’t know how or why.”

Your heart ached at his words, the familiar pain of your curse tugging at you. He was so close, yet so far from remembering the life you had shared. But in this moment, it was enough just to be here, to feel his presence again.

Dinner passed in a warm haze, filled with laughter and the comforting sounds of family. You enjoyed every bite, trying to savor the moment as Marcus shared stories about David's antics at school, his love for art, and the curious questions he had been asking lately. You felt a genuine connection growing, like the threads of your past weaving together with the present.

Once dinner was finished, David excused himself, yawning as he dragged his feet toward the living room. "I'm too tired to finish my project," he declared, and Marcus smiled, understanding that he was ready for bed.

“Okay, buddy, let’s get you settled,” Marcus said, ruffling his son’s hair as David headed up the stairs. After a few moments, you heard the soft sound of David’s door closing, followed by the gentle hum of a lullaby drifting down the hall.

With David tucked in, Marcus returned to the living room, a comfortable silence settling between you. He sank into the armchair across from you, and you both took a moment to collect your thoughts.

“Thanks for tonight,” he said, his eyes locking onto yours. “I didn’t expect to enjoy it so much.”

“I’m glad you did,” you replied, feeling your heart race under his gaze. “I had a great time.”

Marcus leaned back in his chair, a contemplative look crossing his face. “David has been talking about your lessons a lot lately. He’s become really obsessed with the Roman Empire.”

You couldn’t help but smile at that. “Really? That’s amazing to hear! What does he say?”

“Well,” Marcus chuckled softly, “he keeps mentioning this General Acacius as his hero. Apparently, he thinks it’s so cool that he’s a general and a fighter at the same time. I think he thinks he’s going to become a gladiator or something,” he said, rolling his eyes playfully.

Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of the name. “Marcus Acacius? He’s a fascinating figure in history. He had a complex life—fighting for honor and trying to navigate the politics of his time.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “You really know your stuff, don’t you? It sounds like you’ve done quite a bit of research for your lessons.”

“I’ve always been passionate about history,” you admitted, feeling a warmth spread in your chest as you talked about your favorite subject. “Especially the stories of strong figures like him. I believe there’s so much we can learn from the past.”

“Do you think David sees himself in Acacius?” Marcus asked, leaning forward slightly, genuinely interested in your opinion.

“Perhaps,” you replied thoughtfully. “Or maybe he sees a bit of him in you” you said.

Marcus raised an eyebrow, surprise etched across his face. “In me?”

“Absolutely,” you continued, feeling the words flow more easily now. “You’re a dedicated father, and you fight for what’s best for your son, just like Acacius fought for his people. The way you support David, always encouraging his interests and nurturing his passions—that's heroic in its own right.”

He chuckled softly, a hint of embarrassment creeping into his features. “I’ve never thought of it that way. I just try to do my best for him.”

“Exactly,” you said, leaning in a little closer. “Being a hero isn’t just about great battles or glory; it’s also about the everyday moments—the sacrifices we make for the ones we love. That’s what really matters.”

Marcus’s gaze softened as he listened, and you could see him processing your words. “I guess I can see that. I want David to grow up feeling strong and capable, like he can achieve anything he sets his mind to.”

“And you’re doing just that,” you replied, your heart swelling with admiration for him. “He looks up to you, Marcus. Your presence in his life is already making a huge difference.”

The weight of his vulnerability hung in the air, and for a moment, it felt as if the world outside faded away. “You know, I never realized how much I needed this conversation until now,” he said, a genuine smile gracing his lips. “It’s refreshing to talk to someone who understands what it means to teach and inspire.”

“I’m glad,” you replied, feeling a warmth bloom in your chest.

Marcus nodded; his expression thoughtful. “Speaking of which, I actually bought a book for David the other day. It’s about Marcus Acacius—the general. I thought he might enjoy reading about a real-life hero.”

Your heart raced at the mention of the name, the connection striking a chord deep within you. “Really? I’d love to see it,” you said, your curiosity piqued.

With a spark of excitement, Marcus stood and walked toward a nearby bookshelf, scanning the titles. He pulled out a well-worn book, its cover faded but the spine intact. As he handed it to you, he said, “I thought it would be a great way to inspire him. The stories of bravery and leadership are so important, especially now.”

You opened the book and began flipping through the pages, the illustrations of ancient battles and heroic deeds instantly drawing you in. “This is wonderful, Marcus,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “David will love this.”

“I hope so,” he replied, his gaze fixed on you, watching your reaction with a mix of anticipation and pride.

As you admired the illustrations, Marcus leaned closer to look at the page you were on, his shoulder brushing against yours. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, and for a brief moment, it felt like you were back in another life, lost in a world where everything was simpler.

“This page really captures the spirit of what it means to be a hero,” you began, your voice soft yet earnest. “You know, once upon a time, a hero like Marcus Acacius fought not just for glory but for the love of those he held dear. It reminds me of the bond they shared—how love can be as powerful as any sword or shield.”

Your words hung in the air, the weight of history resonating in the silence between you. You continued, feeling emboldened by the moment. “In many ways, that love is what drove him, just as it drove someone else in a different time—someone who used to call her, mi dulce Cara’”

You glanced over at Marcus, watching as his expression shifted from curiosity to surprise. His eyes widened slightly, and he turned to face you fully. “What? How do you know that?”

The question echoed in the quiet room, and your heart raced at the realization of what you had just revealed. It was a nickname that only he had used, a term of endearment from a time long past, one that had been buried under centuries of memories and pain.

“I—” you hesitated, your mind racing as you tried to find the right words. “I guess I’ve always felt a connection to that name. It… it just came to me.”

Marcus studied you intensely, searching your eyes for answers. “But that have never been mentioned that to anyone. How could you know?”

Your heart pounded in your chest as you realized how the truth was slipping through your fingers, how deeply you yearned for him to remember. “Sometimes, memories linger in the air, even when we think they’re lost,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “It’s like a whisper from the past.”

He looked at you, a mixture of confusion and intrigue swirling in his gaze. “A whisper?”

“Something like that,” you replied softly, feeling the weight of the moment settle between you. “Maybe it’s just… a feeling, or a part of a dream I once had. I can’t explain it, Marcus.”

The two of you sat there in silence, the air thick with unspoken words and lingering emotions. You could sense the gravity of the moment, the delicate thread that connected your past with the present, and you couldn’t help but hope that perhaps, just perhaps, this was the beginning of something that could bridge the gap between who you had been and who you were now.

Marcus leaned closer, his gaze intense and searching. “Dulce cara mia,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I spent years looking out for you.”

Your heart skipped a beat as the familiar phrase hung in the air, a sweet reminder of the bond you once shared. It felt as if the walls between your past and present were beginning to crumble, allowing the sunlight of long-buried emotions to seep through.

“Wait… you remember that?” you asked, your voice barely a breath.

His words were a balm to your soul, igniting a flame of hope that you had thought long extinguished. “How could I forget about you, my love?” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I've lived a thousand lives trying to find you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as the weight of his confession settled over you like a comforting blanket. “You really mean that?” you asked, unable to hide the tremor in your voice.

“Every word,” he replied, his thumb gently brushing against your knuckles. “Even in this life, it felt as if something was missing. A part of me always knew you were out there, waiting for me.”

You felt a rush of warmth at his admission, the love that had been lost in the ages flooding back to you. “I thought I would never find you again,” you whispered, your heart aching with the bittersweet pain of your shared history. “I thought the curse would keep us apart forever.”

Marcus shook his head, his expression fierce. “No curse can hold us back. It may take a thousand lifetimes, but we always find each other. Always.”

His gaze bore into yours, filled with a fierce intensity that made your heart race. The air around you felt charged with emotion, and you could feel the weight of the moment pressing down like the world had paused just for you two.

“Every word,” he reiterated softly, nodding as he leaned in closer. The distance between you evaporated, and your breath caught in your throat as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering against your skin. “I’ve missed you, cara,” he murmured, using that endearing name that sent shivers down your spine.

As he inched closer, the warmth radiating from him enveloped you like a comforting embrace. “I’ve spent so long searching for you,” he whispered, his lips hovering just inches from yours. “And now that I’ve found you again… I never want to let you go.”

Your heart swelled with emotion, and the tension in the air seemed to pulse with life. It felt as though everything around you faded into the background—the world, the past, the curse—all that mattered was this moment, this connection.

“Marcus,” you breathed, your voice barely audible as you leaned in, craving the touch of his lips against yours.

But then, just before your lips met, he pulled back slightly, searching your eyes with a mixture of longing and caution. “I won’t rush this. I want to savor every moment we have, to make it count.”

You nodded, your heart pounding as you took a deep breath, grounding yourself in the reality of this second chance. “I want that too,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you.

++++++

You were standing in the dimly lit corridors of the palace; the cold stone walls a stark contrast to the warmth you felt whenever Marcus was nearby. The sounds of soldiers and servants echoed faintly in the distance, but here, in this hidden alcove, the world felt small and intimate. Marcus had pulled you into the shadows, his hand firm but gentle on your arm, his eyes filled with the same intensity they held now.

“We must be careful,” you had whispered, your breath catching as he leaned in close, the smell of leather and sandalwood surrounding you. “If anyone sees us…”

But Marcus had silenced your worries with a soft kiss, his lips pressing against yours in a way that made your heart skip. “I would fight the whole empire if it meant being with you.” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous.

His words had sent a thrill through you, but you both knew the risks. You were not just any woman; you were the emperor’s sister, and Marcus was the empire’s fiercest general. Your love, while passionate and real, was forbidden—an act of treason in the eyes of those who held power over you.

Yet, none of that mattered when you were in his arms.

“I can’t stay away from you,” Marcus had whispered against your skin, his lips brushing the curve of your neck as he held you close. “Every moment I’m not with you feels like torture.”

You had smiled then, your hands tangling in his dark curls, pulling him closer, as if you could keep him with you forever. “We will find a way,” you had promised, though neither of you knew how. “We’ll be together, one day.”

For now, stolen kisses and secret embraces were all you had, and in those moments, it felt like enough. The weight of your circumstances melted away, leaving only the raw, unshakable truth of your love.

As Marcus kissed you again, more urgently this time, the world outside your alcove seemed to disappear. His hands traced the familiar lines of your body, and you clung to him, desperate to make the moment last, knowing it would be hours—maybe days—before you could find each other again.

“I love you,” he had breathed into your ear, his voice filled with the kind of vulnerability only you ever saw. “In this life and every life to come, Cara Mia.”

++++++

As the memory faded, you were pulled back into the present, Marcus still inches away, his intense gaze fixed on you. The warmth of that ancient kiss lingered between you, and the weight of the moment felt just as powerful now as it had back then.

His hand, still gently resting on your cheek, was real, solid, warm, and the centuries that had separated you seemed to dissolve in the space between your shared breath. The flicker of recognition deepened in his eyes, and you saw it, the understanding, the knowing.

“Cara,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve been searching for you in every life. And now, here you are, right in front of me.”

You could hardly breathe, the intensity of his presence overwhelming. “Marcus,” you said softly, your voice trembling. “All this time… it’s been you. I knew it, I felt it.”

He nodded, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “I never forgot. Even when the memories were blurry, even when I didn’t understand… something inside me always knew.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I met many women during my life, but it was always you. I was always looking for you.”

the years of searching, of waiting, finally melting away. You could feel his love, not just from this life, but from the countless lifetimes before. He leaned in, his forehead resting gently against yours, his breath mingling with your own.

“I won’t lose you again,” he whispered, his voice filled with the determination of a man who had lived a thousand lives in search of one thing, one person.

You closed your eyes, a rush of emotion flooding through you, knowing that, this time, neither of you would have to live without the other.

the reality of your curse loomed at the back of your mind, like a shadow waiting to resurface. You opened your eyes slowly, pulling back just enough to look into Marcus’s eyes. The intensity was still there, but now, mixed with something else—worry, doubt.

“But what about the curse?” you asked softly, your voice trembling with the weight of the question. “We’ve found each other again, but… what if it’s not enough? What if we’re torn apart, just like all the other times?”

“I Will break it” he said, sealing a promise.

Marcus’s words hung in the air, a declaration so filled with determination that it made your heart ache with both hope and fear. His hand tightened around yours, grounding you in the moment as he repeated, “I will break it.”

You stared at him, searching his eyes for any hint of uncertainty, but all you saw was a fierce resolve—a promise he intended to keep, no matter the cost. The weight of his vow pressed down on you, the enormity of the task, the centuries of separation, all coming to the forefront of your mind. “How?” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “How can you break something that has kept us apart for so long?”

“I don’t know,” Marcus admitted, his voice unwavering. “But I do know that I’m not the same man I was before. None of those lifetimes matter without you by my side, and I will tear down the heavens if I have to, to keep you with me.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, the intensity of his love for you overwhelming. You could feel the fear still lurking beneath the surface, the fear that no matter how much you wanted this, how hard you fought, the curse would come between you once again. But something in the way Marcus looked at you, the absolute certainty in his gaze, made you want to believe him.

“And if we fail?” you asked, your voice barely more than a breath, the question slipping out despite yourself. “What if we can’t break it?”

Marcus shook his head, gently cupping your face in his hands. “We won’t fail,” he said softly, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Because this time, I’m not letting you go. I’m not letting anything stand between us. I’ll break the curse or die trying.”

Tears welled in your eyes as his words sank in, the promise of his love wrapping around you like a shield. For the first time in centuries, you allowed yourself to hope. Maybe, just maybe, this time could be different.

A soft chuckle escaped your lips, breaking the heavy tension that had settled between you. “People will talk again,” you said, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “That hasn’t changed.”

Marcus’s eyes lit up, a playful glint dancing behind the intensity of his gaze. “Let them talk,” he said with a shrug, his voice full of warmth and mischief. “They’ve been talking about us for centuries. Let them have something real to talk about this time.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound breaking through the lingering shadows of fear and doubt. It was a familiar feeling, this lightness that always seemed to come when you were with him, no matter how dire the circumstances. In a world that constantly threatened to tear you apart, these moments of shared joy felt like a rebellion, a testament to the strength of your bond.

“They’re going to say I’ve bewitched you,” you teased, leaning in a little closer, savoring the warmth of his presence. “Or that you’ve gone mad.”

Marcus grinned, his thumb still gently caressing your cheek. “Maybe I have,” he said, his voice low and full of affection. “Mad with love for you.”

You rested your forehead against his once more, your breath mingling with his as you whispered, “Let them talk, then. As long as we have this, as long as we have each other, none of it matters.”

Marcus’s arms tightened around you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. “Forever,” he whispered back, sealing the promise between you with a tender kiss.

You kissed him as though every single one of the lifetimes you had lived without him was pouring into this one moment. The touch of his lips against yours ignited something deep within you—a longing, a love, that had spanned centuries. All the heartache, all the searching, all the endless years of waiting melted away as you gave yourself fully to the kiss.

Marcus held you like he had done a thousand times before, but this time, it was different. This time, the kiss was filled with the knowledge that you had found each other again, that no matter what came next, you were together now. His hands traced the curve of your back, pulling you closer as if he were afraid you might disappear again.

You could feel the weight of all those years, all the love that had been lost and found again, in every movement, in every breath. His kiss was not just a promise but a reminder—a reminder of all the times he had loved you, all the moments you had shared in different lives, and all the moments you had missed. And now, here, you were living them all again.

When you finally pulled back, your breath coming in shallow gasps, you stared into his eyes, searching for the same fire you knew was burning inside you. It was there—strong, unwavering, eternal. “I’ve waited lifetimes for you,” you whispered, your forehead resting against his. “And I’d wait a thousand more if it meant I could be with you like this.”

Marcus’s gaze softened, and his fingers brushed tenderly against your jawline. “You won’t have to wait anymore,” he said, his voice steady and filled with love.

After the kiss, you found yourself in front of a mirror, your fingers lightly brushing over your lips, still tingling from the touch of his. The room was quiet now, the world beyond the two of you seemed distant, as though the very air had stilled to give you space for this moment. As you gazed at your reflection, a glimmer caught your eye.

There, among the strands of your hair, was a single grey hair. You reached up, gently twisting it between your fingers, a realization dawning on you with a surge of emotion. The curse. All those lifetimes, the endless cycle of living and dying, never aging, never truly being free… It was broken.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you had changed. The grey hair was proof—proof that time, real time, had touched you. Proof that you were no longer trapped in the endless loop of waiting, searching, and losing Marcus again and again.

Your heart swelled with emotion as you stared at the grey hair, a smile tugging at your lips. It wasn’t a sign of loss or fear, but of life—of the future you could now build together. The weight of your immortality, the curse that had kept you apart, had lifted.

Marcus’s reflection appeared behind you in the mirror, his eyes soft but filled with a quiet intensity. He gently placed his hands on your shoulders, his warmth grounding you in this new reality. “You see it too, don’t you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, unable to stop the tears from welling up. “It’s broken, Marcus. We’re free.”

His arms slid around you, pulling you close to his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart, the sound of it a reminder that you were no longer bound by the past. “I told you,” he whispered against your hair. “No curse can keep us apart.”

#marcus acacias x reader #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacius x f!reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x reader #general marcus acacius #marcus acacius fic #marcus acacius #gladiator 2 fic #gladiator 2 #gladiator 2 fanfiction #pedro pascal

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azen13 · 9 months ago

Note

Hello

might I request the grass ring for purchase?

A Promise To Keep

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Grass Ring: A small, shoddily-woven ring made from dead grass, containing echoes of childhood promises uttered in a land of frost. Maybe the ring’s maker, after disappearing from the world for three months before returning, acted on those vows.

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CW: Yandere Themes, Kidnapping, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Implied Murder, Blood

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Snezhnayan summers are always brief and fleeting. For only a few weeks a year, gray skies part like curtains to let the smiling sun gaze over every mile of the land of frost. Withered fields of grass sway with new vigor, trees awaken from their winter slumber, and flowers bloom in all sorts of stunning shades and hues. It’s also one of the few respites you have from aiding your father and siblings in tending to the house. With the icy waters bordering Morepesok rapidly thawing, the ship your mother sails has finally docked; with her return comes both the occasional small sack of Mora sneakily smuggled from her pocket to yours, as well as a gentle push to go and enjoy the fair weather while it lasts.

With windmilling limbs, you scramble out the front door into the bustling streets of town, and head off to your favorite place. It’s a little past where the dirt path ends: over a fallen tree, down a ravine, back up the other side, and just to the right of the raspberry bushes. Making your way through the last few trees, you find yourself in a quaint clearing. For a moment, you think the world is frozen in amber–both from the tranquility you feel, and how everything from the tallest tree to the smallest fern is bathed in a gilded glow.

“Hi there!”

A squeaky voice shatters the illusion of permanence and manages to make you stumble backwards until you slam into a sturdy spruce tree trunk. Looking into the tall grass, you manage to spot a single sapphire blue eye, then another. With a rustle, a flame of ginger hair and a grin that could span the whole of Teyvat pops out from the brush, framed by a speckling of freckles. “Who are you? What are you doing here? My name’s Ajax, what’s yours?” The boy practically pelts you with a myriad of questions, eyes sparkling with interest.

You mumble your name in response, eyes falling down in fear and disappointment. You had hoped to enjoy some time soaking in the solitude of this little slice of paradise, but the journey seems to have been all for naught.

You quickly learn the entire life story of Ajax, who follows you home after you tell him you had gotten lost in the woods. He lives in Morepesok with his large family, he likes adventuring, and he likes fishing with his father. Also, he likes you, evidenced by the fact that he won’t leave you alone.

Tailing from behind, still rambling incoherently about all sorts of things, Ajax doesn’t seem to take the obvious hints that you want to be left alone. “...and the fish we caught was THIS big! A-and me and my dad brought it home, and my little sis–I told you about Tonia, right? She’s my younger sister, she’s about this tall and she really likes…” His mouth is a never-ending river of words that only ceases when you slam the door to your home shut.

Hopefully you can go tomorrow and enjoy the warm summer sun before the chill of winter returns once more.

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He’s there when you come tomorrow again. And the next day. And the day after that, until eventually, summer’s brief stint has faded away, only to return in a year. At least, you think, you won’t have to ever see Ajax until.

How wrong you are.

It seems the boy is practically camped outside of your house, watching your every move. If you’re carrying groceries, he’s quick to sidle next to you and take them into his own hands. He must think he’s being chivalrous, but you disagree. You try to fight the constant barrage, but find yourself crumbling under it after a while. You start answering his questions, asking some of your own, even. He’s not horrible, just a little overeager.

Soon, you’re happy to call Ajax a friend.

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The promise is made on a brisk fall evening, snow and leaves blanketing the ground like a patchwork quilt of white and orange. The two of you sit in a small clearing surrounded by tall grass; you’re reading a book while Ajax breaks blades of grass and fiddles with them in his hands.

“We should get married.”

You frown and close your book. “Why?

“Why not?”

“Because we’re thirteen, your dad doesn’t like me, and my parents think you’re a weirdo,” you say.

Ajax huffs and crosses his arms. He’s pouting, but you can tell it’s just to cover his amusement. You’d both gotten good at that–reading each other like books, able to point out your favorite chapters and lines. “Well we could do it in secret. Or even do it when we’re older,” he says. An epiphanic look flashes on his face, and he snatches a few more blades of grass. Tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, you watch as he weaves and contorts the grass until they form a small ring.

With eyes full of starlight, he presents the ring to you. “C’mon, please? Just promise me.”

You sigh and hold your hand out. “Okay, okay, fine. If you’ll stop being so annoying, sure.” Immediately, he slides the ring on your finger, boyish glee dancing in ocean-blue eyes. “Pinky promise?” He demands, holding his pinky finger out expectantly.

Of course Ajax would ask to pinky swear on it. The boy always kept his promises.

“Fine.” You loop your pinky around his for a moment, before letting go. “Now let me get back to reading.”

Ajax only laughs, though his eyes stay glued on you.

You didn’t realize that this was both the last time you would ever see Ajax again, and the moment your fate in life was sealed.

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Days later, you receive the news. Ajax is missing. Supposedly he had gotten lost in the woods. You spent the next few days in a perpetual state of distress, constantly tearing through branches and brambles, desperate to find your friend.

It didn’t take long until he’s found, though not by you. The moment you hear, you race over to his house and knock on the door. Ajax’s dad, however, is the one to greet you. He’s a tall, lanky man with scars that cut through his face and a permanent scowl marring his cracked lips. At the sight of you standing outside his door, his ire only deepens. “Ajax isn’t here. He’s with the Fatui.”

With that, he swings the door shut and lets it slam only inches from your face.

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Time moves on, and you let your life take its course. You take up a job planning shipping routes for merchants, and find yourself falling in half-hearted love with a sailor.

He’s a good man. But he is not the man you love.

Soon enough, encouraged by family and friends, a ring is slid on your finger. It’s a simple band of silver, yet it feels like a chain around your heart.

You accept your life for what it is. That is, until one morning, you wake up to still air beside you instead of a warm body. Unknowing of what has actually happened, you get up quietly and begin getting ready for the day.

After putting on some clothes, you go to the small foyer of your little home, ready to go down to the docks and start working. But when you swing open the door, dull blue eyes as deep as the sea meet yours, a monstrous grin splitting a stranger’s face open. “Aw, it’s been so long! It’s so good to see you.” The man walks past you into your home as though he’s lived there his whole life. As he walks, you notice he’s trailing something in behind you.

Blood. It’s blood. When he turns back to face you, you notice droplets of blood speckled on his cheeks like freckles. He’s still smiling.

“Get out of my house,” you say.

“Or what?”

You hesitate. It’s not like Morepesok has an official police, or even anything close to a militia. “Or I’ll scream.”

The stranger’s smile melts away like snow under the sun, and he steps closer to you. “Don’t you remember who I am?” He asks.

At the sight of you shaking your head, and you taking another step away from him, the stranger tsks and stalks forwards. A hand moves forward, so fast all you can see is a blur of motion before it captures your jaw, claims it. Its fingers force your face forwards, straight into those storming eyes. “What a shame,” the man sighs, his other hand slinking behind your back. “We made a promise, darling.”

His words shoot like icicles into your heart, rendering you speechless for a moment. “A-Ajax?” You murmur, body beginning to fall limp. The only thing holding you upright are his hands, firm against your skin.

Ajax smiles, but it isn’t a sweet smile of summer innocence. His smile is jagged and icy, full of frost. “It’s me,” he confirms. You can vaguely see mirth swimming in his eyes, as though he thinks you’re so shocked to see him, so elated to know he’s still here. But in truth, you’re terrified. After all, it’s not exactly a challenge to make the connection between the blood on Ajax’s cheek and your missing husband.

“Did…did you?”

“Come on, darling,” Ajax responds, sweeping you off your feet into a bridal carry. “We made a promise, didn’t we? And you know how the saying goes.” The man chuckles quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We made a promise. And you broke it.” For a moment, you feel fear unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. “But don’t worry. I know that you didn’t want to marry him. You were waiting all those years for me, weren’t you?” He presses another kiss to your head, holding you closer.

You try to speak, but Ajax shushes you. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you what real love looks like.” With a steady gait, he begins walking outside, looping around your home to where a carriage is waiting. Gently, he brings you inside and deposits you on a bench. His eyes are full of hunger.

“That’s a promise.”

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ladylarynn · 1 month ago

Text

Alleyway Affairs

Part 4 - The Scars We Received

Summary: This is part four to Alleyway Affairs.

The last you heard from Astarion, he told you to "die screaming." Months later, you find each other again. Only this time, deep in the city, in an alley under nightfall. Perhaps, he will bleed you dry. Or perhaps, he has other plans for you.

Rating: Explicit

WC for part 4 - 7.7k, total - 31k+

Pairing: Astarion x you (fem!reader)

cw: 18+ established relationship pre breakup, post ending for BG3, oral sex (female receiving), p in v, creampie, explicit consent, angst, on his knees for you in more ways than one, in love & its a disaster, additional tags posted on ao3

read on ao3

or keep reading below <3

hope it's okay I tagged you again :) @babypeapoddd and @joyful-enchantress

☼

Traversing the Uppercity is like tracing the crevices of your palm. You tread its cobblestone walkways like skimming over callous. The maintained gardens like the nails you must keep trimmed. The domineering domains of the privileged patriars are like clenched fists white with rage, the fortresses impenetrable and fierce.

The sun revels in the city’s grandeur. You follow the dips and valleys as if they are ingrained within you. The pristine manors, the elaborate merchant stalls, the flowered fields that flow from one another like converging seas. The perfumed air of lavender and honeysuckle. There is a serene quiet of the Uppercity. It soothes with its calm lulling breeze, with its demure femininity, with its docile decorum. The marble and limestone statues cast long stretching shadows as you pass underneath, their chiseled gazes demanding reverence, utmost grace. It is a wonder the gods are not responsible for their creation.

You find your way to his residence, trailing down an extensive, spiraling path, shaded by a canopy of trees. Looming gates tuck away a prodigious manor that could rival the elite. When you get to the entrance, a pack of patrollers take one glance at you and wordlessly open the gates with bowed heads and averted gazes.

You walk up the staircase to the front door. It is oak paneled, with iron reinforcements that restrain the intricacy of bronze and copper trimming beneath. It opens without you needing to knock.

You nod at the door man your greeting, and he bows his head politely in response. He then closes the door behind you with a heavy thud, gesturing to the grand staircase.

“He’s in his library, Ms. Dove.”

“I figured,” you murmur, the false name dredging up feelings you rather remain buried. You sigh.

“Thank you, Ambrose.”

He bows again, before glancing at you once more with foreboding clouding his eyes.

You turn away, leisurely ascending the stairs, the pads of your feet echoing about the home, unsettling the stillness of the residence.

Drake Kane.

His initials are stenciled into the blood oath at your wrist, as they have been, countless times over the past decade of your life.

You take in the oil paintings of ethereal landscapes, the gilded furniture. The various tapestries draped over the walls are weaved depictions of dancing deities and singing devils making a mockery of faith.

He whose soul eclipsed with yours for the pursuit of this.

All of this.

When you reach the top of the staircase, you pause for a moment. The hallway to his study looks as though it could go on for an eternity before you.

You gnaw at the inside of your cheek.

The rich red of the floor runner rivals that of Astarion’s irises.

Gods.

The way he looked.

Your fingers clench over the banister. You can’t think of this morning now. Can’t fixate on the uncertainty of his eyes or the crinkle in his brow. Can’t recall the way he caressed you, held you, spoke to you with honeyed words.

The guilt of leaving him in a hurry blisters your insides, festers in the fact that you’ll have to return after this and answer questions you yourself are not ready to answer, not willing to admit.

Did he mean everything he said to me?

Will he regret what he said if I tell him everything?

Will he still want me if he knows what I’ve done?

Could he come to fully forgive me?

If I get that scroll, if I…

You try to free yourself from the thoughts like wolves hounding your mind, however, when you reach Drake’s door, they are encircling, ruthless.

As you enter, the air in your lungs contract. The thick velvet curtains are all pulled closed, evoking the presence of night in the room. Books line the walls from floor to ceiling, organized meticulously by series and author, yet many litter the floor in disarray.

You nearly trip over one when your eyes fall upon him.

A tightness forms in your throat, making it difficult to swallow. The man, although hunched over, still towers high, leaning against the side of his disastrous desk. One gloved hand teeters his glass of liquor, the other idly stroking the scruff of his precisely trimmed beard. The glow of the fireplace spills over the deep crevices of his crows-feet and pass over his wrinkled mouth, his face a contortion of twisting tendrils, of yellows and shadows. He doesn’t turn his attention to you, instead choosing to admire the snapping jaws of flames as they devour the wood with crackling contempt.

When Drake speaks, it is as smooth as the brandy he is drinking.

“My sources say you’ve been very successful as of late,” he swishes the alcohol in his glass, “Efficient. Quick.”

He diverts his attention to you.

He smiles.

You know he is unhappy.

“I’m impressed… Even after all the hogwash in the city and your day in the sun, you still know how to make dealings in the dark,” he commends you, and there, beneath the brewing ire is a lilt of sincerity.

You inwardly cringe.

There was a time when you would bloom with satisfaction at his praise.

Now, you can only wither.

“Get to the point,” you provoke, the façade of his suavity useless when it came to you.

His gray eyes freeze over. His smile unhinges. His expression hardens, all pinched tight, his voice lowering to scold you. “Did you really expect you could hide something like this from me?” He reprimands, then finishes off his liquor with an unflinching gulp. He sets his drink on the desk with a bang. He pops the bottle of brandy open and refills the glass.

“I thought you knew better,” he mutters.

You give a shaky inhale, attempting to maintain your composure. It was always a thing of instinct to lie. But there’s no lying to Drake.

“I’m not hiding anything; he isn’t any of your concern.”

He smiles that half smile that doesn’t fit his face. Behind your back, you rub absentmindedly over your wrist.

“You know,” he starts, “When you first came back here, I was relieved,” He admits, takes a sip from his glass, and then gestures aimlessly, “You running off before the approaching apocalypse really put things in perspective.”

He rests back against his desk, facing you head on, “I mean… I always knew how invaluable you were to me. How necessary you are in keeping things afloat,” he waves his hand, “No one is as clever, as competent, or as cooperative,” he points to you, “you don’t trust in this line of business, but you and I have developed a special bond through the many years…” he scrubs over his beard, voice trailing off.

A special bond.

The remark makes you splinter like the firewood.

“And well, after everything you’ve done, after all we’ve accomplished, I couldn’t fathom you’d leave. Somehow… I had hoped dearly you’d come back in through my door, and you did.” He smiles, but it falters as he swishes his drink. His tone darkens.

“Though, I was hoping it wasn’t for someone else’s sake.” “I’m not doing this for him,” you retort, “and even if I was,” your shoulders straighten, your chin tilting up in defiance, “I don’t see why it matters.”

He laughs unhumorous. You bristle.

His head tilts to the side.

“You came crawling back from saving the world to beg for a bounty you had once profusely refused,” he mocks, and a swash of embarrassment slathers you in red.

He levies you with a tempestuous scowl. There’s an accusation inlaid in his eyes.

“Who do you think you’re trying to fool?”

You glance away.

“And of course it matters,” he contends with another condescending laugh, “you’re acquainted with a thing whose core design is to eat you.”

You sputter, “He doesn’t want to—”

He cuts you off, “We deal in deceit every day. It’s useless to deny it,” he shackles his gaze onto you, “not to mention, I have eyes everywhere,” he gestures about you.

You open your mouth to retort, but the words die on your tongue when he adds on, “But please, tell me you don’t let the thing feed on you.” “I don’t--” you blink, flushing. He notices. He shakes his head. His eyes dip to your throat, fortunately concealed by your high neck top. It doesn’t matter. You feel like he can still see it, the markings Astarion left hours prior, can still see the puncture wounds of fangs from your alleyway affair.

“If you’re not careful,” he delves a knife with his words, “it will bleed you dry, little dove.” “Stop.”

You squeeze your fists tighter. Your stomach drops. Astarion’s confession ripples through you.

“Despite my vitriol, my deceit, my pettiness, my shame, and my… almost killing you.”

But he didn’t.

And he wouldn’t now.

He… couldn’t…

Something shifts. Drake knows he’s hit a nerve.

He knows how to twist the knife.

“Look at yourself,” he motions to you from head to toe, intonation slick with disdain, “To think— you’re doing this for a leech?”

“What,” you bite back, “are you upset I’m not doing this for you?”

He laughs.

From the top drawer of his desk, he takes out a blade. He pulls up one of his sleeves, then yanks the bottom of his glove upward to expose his wrist. He holds the handle of the blade out to you with waning expectation.

“Glide the blade across my arm, Dove. You’ll find the mirrored symbol of our blood oath on my skin, as it is on yours.”

You don’t touch the knife.

He flips it over in one hand and does as he said. Slides it horizontally over the flesh, lets the skin pebble with blood. The blood drips down his forearm and over his wrist. Just as proclaimed, a twin inscription is revealed in a dull glow.

“You are doing this for me,” he contests, “though I admit, this complicates things a bit.”

You step back.

The room is hot.

The metallic scent of blood sickens you.

A familiar sense of hopelessness floods you.

“Don’t,” you warn, “don’t touch him.”

Drake shrugs with a sneer, tossing the blade onto the desk, and swiping the blood away with gloved fingers.

“Give me a reason not to,” he remarks cavalier, “seems to me this can jeopardize our oath, and I don’t like taking on unforeseen risks.”

“Drake,” your voice breaks, “please.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” he quarrels, pinching his brow, “makes me think of when I first met you.”

“You already have my soul at your disposal,” you insist, “it doesn’t matter who I’m doing this for, it will be done. He won’t complicate that.”

Drake becomes eerily quiet for a moment too long. He picks up his glass of brandy, eyeing the licking of flames.

“Then what?” He queries.

Your blood goes cold.

“What do you mean?”

He turns to you.

“What comes after its done?” He drinks. “You planning on running away again?”

You inhale.

“No.”

He beams.

“Good.”

And then he is swooping forward to you like that of a panther on prey.

“But remember this,” he plucks up your hand, his gloved fingers still damp from his blood. He squeezes, purposefully, right over the palm, “Remember who it was who gave you everything you have. Remember who gave you the clothes on your back, the food that you eat, the bed that you sleep in,” he pauses, eyes narrowing, “Who got you a way out of that room. Who made sure that you were no longer only skin and bones, selling yourself off to whoever would bother purchasing,” you teeter backward, wrenching your palm from his, heart lurching at his words.

“When this contract is over, and I’ve gotten what I want, you’re still indebted to me. You made your choices,” he sneers, “and I don’t care about the vampire, as long as he doesn’t interfere with that.”

You try to steady yourself, but you can’t. You’re trembling.

Your silence is not an appropriate confirmation.

“Understand?” He asks, though it comes with the connotation of being a demand.

“Yes,” you answer, diffidently.

He ponders over you with a scrupulous expression, then sighs. You hold your breath as he passes beside you. He opens a cabinet at the wall behind you, pulling out a matching glass, then walks back over to set it on top of his desk, right next to his. He fills it, then holds it to you. You mean to refuse it, but instead, you reluctantly take it.

The corners of his mouth perk up at this, and he takes a sip, watching as you do the same.

“Besides…. I don’t want,” his voice teeters, watching you drink with smug acknowledgement, “you to end up like your mother.”

He downs the last of his brandy, inspecting the now empty glass.

You recoil as if struck, visions of your mother flittering behind your eyes.

It is hard to remember the blur of her face, as she was so young. Much younger than you are now. You don’t even remember the sound of her voice.

He would bring her up.

An outrage so profound bubbles up your stomach like bile. Drake’s insinuation scalds you.

“He’s nothing like my father. He’s not a monster,” you argue through gritted teeth, but Drake doesn’t acquiesce.

“Bit of irony behind those words, isn’t there?” he states.

Vampire.

Monster.

“He wouldn’t…” the words falter, and you set the drink on his desk, not taking another drop, “he wouldn’t hurt me.”

His eyes flick to yours.

“I’m sure she thought the same,” he suggests, then stalks off behind his desk, rifling through drawers.

“For the ones yet to come,” he tosses you a scroll, “to aid in your endeavor.”

You unbound the scroll, and skim over the names, locations, dates. All listed meticulously.

You pause at Theo Cordelian’s name.

A sliver of dread sneaks up your spine. You subconsciously grip the parchment too tight.

As if reading your mind, Drake notes, “Our friend Theo still visits your old place of work,” you glance up at him, easing your grip, “his lovely wife finally caught on.”

He gives a rueful smile.

“The girls know he is a dead man. They will assist you in making the kill.”

Like they have a choice. They work for you.

“Ask for Sage when you decide to visit,” he shrugs, “you remember her, don’t you?”

Her name’s Marcella. And yes, I know her.

You don’t say this, instead choosing to change the subject.

“What of the remaining four?” “You never miss anything, do you…” Drake combs a hand over his beard, “I’m still working on that. It is essential we get you an alias, an invite… the whole thing.”

“An invite?” You ask, perplexed.

“Yes. For a big, ostentatious, masquerade ball. Isn’t that thrilling? I have to give it to these people, they may be predictable, but that doesn’t mean they don’t know how to have fun.”

You’re already shaking your head no.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am always serious,” he waves his hand at you, “it’s not like you can’t handle it. You managed to save the word. Four people in one night is nothing,” he assures with ease.

“Who’s hosting it?”

Abruptly, he draws back. His face becomes blank.

“Who is it?” you reiterate.

“Renald’s the only person who would hold a ball in his own honor,” Drake states simply. You huff out a laugh.

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“He’s not a mark,” he reasons.

“He’s my father,” you retort.

“Not in any of the ways that matter,” He challenges, the line between his brow and the dip of his frown deepening, if only for a moment, before smoothing out.

“You can avoid him the whole night. As long as you make sure the people we need to have killed are killed, then there is no issue.”

Your nostrils flare.

“I should have known you’d pull something like this,” your voice raises an octave, “you knew I would never have agreed if I’d known.”

No.

You can’t.

You’ve tempted death enough times to know better.

“You know I can’t,” you refuse, despite knowing it is too late, that you have no choice, “I can’t get near him. If he even considers the possibility I’m there, all hell breaks loose.”

“If he knew for sure you were still alive, hell would already be upon us,” Drake soothes, all calm and collected, “But he doesn’t. So, no reason to worry. All you need to do is do what you do best. Avoid suspicion.”

“That’s not a guarantee,” you protest, “I— I can’t—.”

His words strike you down like a sword.

“How much do you care for this vampire?”

You stop.

You look at him in disbelief.

“What?”

“How much,” he repeats, slow, methodical, “do you care?”

You know what he is getting at.

You cast your eyes aside, and mutter, “You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?”

He blinks, unperturbed.

“I guess that answers my question,” he nods, “Good. I knew I could depend on you to get things done.”

“When will you give me the rest of the intel?”

“A few months or so.”

“When’s the event?”

“A few months or so,” he remarks. You bite the inside of your cheek.

All this will go to hells. He is either being willfully ignorant or he is desperate.

“I’m leaving,” you murmur, turning to the door.

But then he says your name. Your real name.

You don’t look back, you only pause.

“Please be careful,” he says with an inflection that whispers of curtailed concern. It is not unkind. It is… soft.

But then, it is gravel.

“And don’t be naïve. Keep that thing in line, or I’ll do it myself.”

You cast him a look over your shoulder.

“Oh and,” he tacks on, pointing at his third finger, “did you bring it?”

You have to hold your tongue.

You untie the coin purse at your waist. You extract the severed finger, still swaddled in cloth, from inside. You toss it on his desk.

He unwraps it with care, peeling back the blood-stuck layers of cloth. He plucks off Cedric Lao’s ring. Slipping off one of his gloves, he cleans the ring until the green of the emerald is stark against the pale of his skin.

He slides it on over his ring finger, then casually casts the severed finger into the fire.

He examines the ring with a small smile.

“Thank you, Dove.”

You don’t respond. Instead, you turn on your heel and leave out the door, away from Drake, and away from this.

☼

It isn’t until you are halfway to the inn, and halfway to Astarion, that you stop. You’ve returned to the sound of the Lower City, where the people horde together, not victims of propriety, but rather buoyant, musical spirits, weaving their way of life into their rampant conversation, into their howling laughter, their jocular pettiness and pride.

It isn’t until you have scaled the wall of one of the overarching buildings, that you realize you are… lost.

Not in a manner of direction. You know the way back.

But you don’t know what comes after that. Where to go then.

Drake was right. You shouldn’t be naïve.

There was never a reality where you get to leave this city.

Even if Astarion receives what he hopes for from the wish scroll. Even if he may decide he has forgiven you.

If you must continue down this path… you couldn’t ask him to stay. Shouldn’t.

You open your palms. There, healed over countless times beneath the ravages of nail bites, was the phantom of a cut. Precisely made, over and over with every oath; it haunts the flesh.

You can still feel the glide of the blade. That piercing pain; sudden and fierce, then dull and throbbing. It signified the clasping of hands, it meant the covenant of your soul tethered upon pursuit, or damned by potential failure.

You think of this morning, staring absentmindedly at the ceiling, fingers combing through white curls. The way Astarion’s arm was wrapped around you, the way his cheek pressed to your heart, the way his lashes lay closed. All the sharp angles and rigid lines were smooth like a still pond. That place. That haven of him, unlike anywhere or anyone else.

It was tender, and peaceful, and…

He was safe.

You tilt your head up, peering over at the horizon as it basks in the glory of a brazen sun, the light bursting out from behind clustering clouds.

You think of the scars he received, and and the ones you gave yourself.

He will be free.

Regardless of the cost.

Your fingers curl in.

Not enough to hurt.

Enough to remind you.

Even if I am dragged to the hells.

☾☼

Losing track off time is not your standard forte. However, as the sun anoints the city streets in an outpouring of waning gold, you know you’re late. You slither down slanted roof tiles with ease, and spring across the gap to land on the inn’s balcony ledge, clutching onto the guardrail. You heave yourself over with an exhale. You knock against the balcony window, and although the inside of your shared abode is kept obscured by thick drapes, when leaning in close enough, you can hear a barrage of movement from inside.

A click, then a shuffling of footsteps away.

You make sure to be careful upon entering, eyeing the corner of your room where Astarion is sulking with his arms crossed, peering down at you over his elevated chin.

You hardly get the chance to breathe before he’s spouting off.

“I thought you’d only be a few hours.”

“I know,” you state, attempting to disguise the sheepishness of your voice as you lock the window, then conceal the sun behind the drapes once more, “I’m sorry. It went longer than I initially expected.”

You half expect him to tap his foot in response. He allows your excuse with an exception.

“Well. Don’t be so reticent darling, tell me what the man said,” he demands, stalking forward. When you swivel on your heel to face him, he halts in place.

“He gave me this,” you remark while collecting the bunched up scroll from the pouch attached to your waist belt. You hold it out for him, and he takes it, wasting no time in reviewing the list of assorted names, locations, times…

“It’ll make tracking them down easier and faster,” you tack on, and he hmms in response.

“How thoughtful,” he responds dryly, but then the notch of his brow builds as he skims over it once more.

While he combs over the details, you leave his side to change into new clothes.

Visiting Drake always made you feel smothered. Peeling off each piece of clothing helps alleviate that residual feeling, like a film clung to your skin that won’t wash off…

“There’s only five here.”

You nod with a sigh, before realizing he can’t see you behind the partition. You step out, smoothing your hands over the airy cotton of your blouse.

“Yes. The last four are a bit… complicated. But that won’t be of any concern to you. I’ll be taking care of it,” you assure, and for some trivial reason you think he might agree.

Perhaps it’s purely due to the exhaustion, as the look on his face clearly declares otherwise, all unimpressed and quirked brow.

“Oh?” He tilts his chin at you, one hand waving outward, exuding a vigor you’re far too drained to combat, “please do explain the rationale behind that choice.”

“It’ll be too much of a risk,” you insist, but he scoffs in response.

“Darling, as if our prior propinquity hasn’t been anything but precarious.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other and raise your brow.

“Drake wants me to take them all out in one evening at Lord Lockwell’s annual masquerade ball.”

He blinks, processing your words.

“Ah.”

You give a curt nod, then drag a hand over your face at the omission. He shakes his head, placing a hand on his hip.

“And what ever made you think I’d agree to you going alone?” He inquires, bewildered.

You peek at him behind splayed fingers.

“Because…” your fingers slide off your face.

You say it as though it is common sense, and perhaps to you, it is, “If anything goes awry, you won’t be collateral damage.”

“Typically, it’s me whose more of an optimist,” he quips, sardonic, but then his tone loses any ounce of humor. “There’s something you’re not telling me. What makes this such a risk considering everything else we’ve faced?”

You shrink backward.

How do you say something like this?

“It’s… Lord Lockwell. If he discovers I’m there… well. It would be disastrous,” you explain.

He edges toward you, crossing his arms over his chest once more, the scroll scrunched in his grip.

“Isn’t that a given when you take on assassination work? Nobody tends to think fondly of murderers in their manors.”

“It’s not that,” you prevaricate, before deciding it is no use. You pass by him to sit on the edge of the bed. You cradle your head in your hands, the dread of this impending confession cratering your shoulders.

You stare at the ground.

“Having his illegitimate child show up to his politically pandering ball may ruffle his feathers. That’s all.”

Astarion is dead silent.

You bite the tip of your thumb. Shit.

When he finally speaks, he is incredulous.

“Your… your Lord Lockwell’s daughter?”

You glance up at him. His eyes are akin to red hibiscus unfolding in the sunlight, all bright and big.

He rakes a hand through his hair, and draws in a breath, mauling over his response. However, all that makes it out past his lips is a, “You?”

“Yes,” you respond a touch dismissive.

“Oh no, no, no,” he wags his finger at you, and you roll your eyes, “This is not something you flippantly divulge,” he gestures wildly, “Why did you never mention this?”

“It never felt like the appropriate time to mention,” You halfheartedly rebuttal, and he scowls at you, shaking his head.

“Oh, don’t give me that.”

He tosses aside the scroll and then plops down next to you. He sighs with his head swung back.

“Disregarding the fact that you decidedly didn’t tell me this like so much else,” he complains, then locks eyes with you.

“It’s time to start talking. What else am I not privy to? Do you have any other colossal revelations I should know of?”

“I—” you start.

I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t---

But you need to.

“What else do you want to know?” You give in, shifting back onto one of your elbows.

“Well for one,” he leans in a bit, for added affect, “who is this cryptic employer? Where did you go this morning? Oh, and how in the world did someone as morally virtuous as you get into the business of blood oaths? And—” he halts briefly, his shoulders hunching as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “And... well…” he trails off, “the whole flock of our weirdo companions bestowed upon you their entire life stories, and yet it was never the time to say this? Did you ever even trust me—or rather— us?” He amends, striving to remain indifferent, yet evidently failing.

“His name is Drake Kane. I’ve known him for quite some time. He resides in the Uppercity,” you answer, looking anywhere but him, “I’ve been doing this for the better part of a decade, before the mind flayer invasion.” You pick at the skin around your nails as you continue, “As for why… well. Let’s just say I was desperate for money.” Your gaze falls over the room around you.

The grandiosity of it all flickers to that of your old abode. The derelict doorway, the crackled skin of wood panels with their teething nails. The sharp corners of a locked room, lit by a candle’s flickering, feeble glow. The bed beneath you is not layers of silken blankets, but rather of tattered sheets only made sweet by sweat and the scent of shared skin. The ragged black drapes like clumped lashes, closing with each patron who entered.

You look back at him, suddenly tired, “Like I said before. I was trying to be someone different when we got the parasite’s powers. I wanted to do right by the world. I wanted to be worthy of belonging… to someone. To somewhere…,” your hands fold over your lap, “I never told you, or anyone else, before because—” you stall, the necessity to keep it from him strangled in your throat, “I was ashamed and—,” you glance down and away, “before being abducted by the mind flayers… I was…”

Waist deep in waves, enveloped by the night breeze.

Breathing in the riptide.

Salt in your lungs, the sea collapsing overhead.

“I wasn’t ready to confront it. If anything, I was still running away from my choices. It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you,” you try to assure him, yet there is an undercurrent of something else there you’re not disclosing. He knows it. You know he knows it. But with what you do share seems almost enough for him.

“And what about now?” His hand falls over yours, and you look at him quizzically.

“Do you still trust me?” He questions offhandedly, yet you know he means it sincerely.

Yes.

But the word doesn’t depart your tongue. No. Drake’s words fester up in your mind.

“…don’t be naïve.”

You say nothing in response.

His expression softens a bit, yet his brow furrows, the hurt evident by your lack of response as it tugs at the corners of his lips. He takes one of your hands in his. His thumb strokes over the scars of your palm, and you involuntarily shiver.

“How long have you been doing this?” He murmurs, gentle.

Your mouth goes dry, and your cheeks color. You close your fingers over his thumb.

“I don’t remember,” you profess, a bit dazed. It’s only somewhat true.

His chest rises and falls. You want to reach out and tuck the defiant curl tickling his forehead behind his pointed ear.

But you don’t.

The words that you spewed at Drake resonate in your head.

He wouldn’t hurt me.

“Astarion,” you say, and his gaze swivels from your palm up to your eyes. You don’t say another word, and he cocks his head. You inhale, then brush the few strands of hair falling from your disheveled bun away from your neck, revealing the skin of your throat.

“I…” Your lungs are knotted together, yet you try in vain to get it out.

“I do,” you insist, though subdued, “I do still trust you.”

And as you say it, you know… deep down. It is only somewhat true.

But you want it wholly to be.

You need it to be.

Astarion’s eyes widen in recognition, and he shakes his head a little.

“I… that’s not necessary,” he jolts up, stepping away from you.

“I think it is,” you murmur back, picking at your cuticles.

“Are you wanting to test me?” He queries, becoming defensive. Your frown deepens; you shrink back.

“No,” you assert, then deflate, “I’m not trying to test you.”

“I won’t do it again,” he speaks over you, and it is pained, “I couldn’t.”

“Astarion.” You try to regain his attention, but he’s swiping a hand over his face, wrecked.

“I’m trying to show you that I trust you—” you persist, but he isn’t listening, his voice overlapping yours.

“You shouldn’t,” he remarks, “You shouldn’t l—” Your stomach drops, and you cut him off, “I shouldn’t?”

At the immediacy of your voice, he stops. His attention diverts back to you.

“I didn’t mean—”

“What did you mean then?” Your fears are like plucked feathers, and your voice wavers, “are you… do you… still want to—”

Hurt me.

“Of course not,” he retaliates, as if reading your mind, “If this morning was not a clear enough indication, I don’t know what will be.” He snaps, and the cage around your chest constricts.

“Then…” you trail off, and clueless as to what to say, you look down at your palms. Self-conscious that he knows of your habit, you press them face down on top of your thighs. You feel the pressure of his stare as he contemplates you.

Maybe it is a test.

Maybe I need to prove to myself that I can still trust you.

Maybe I’m afraid of being naïve.

Maybe I’m afraid that Drake will be right.

Again… always…

Maybe I don’t want to end up… even more like my mother.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, and he bristles.

“There’s nothing you should be apologizing for,” he rebuttals, frustrated, “I’m the one that…”

He doesn’t need to say it. It hangs in the air.

There is a lull of silence.

You rest your elbow on your knee, mentally tracing the designs of the area rug.

“I’ll do it,” he says so quiet you have to strain to hear him, “I’ll do it if that’s what it takes… for things to go back to…”

You finish the sentence for him.

How they once were.

However, you’re not sure if there is a way to truly return to the way it was before. Though you ache with this ubiquitous hope, it seems as though there will always be a pull of his resentment scrabbling at his shoulders, and a swift tug of trepidation yanking you by the wrist.

You glance up at him again. He meets your eyes. Perhaps the same thoughts are preying upon his mind.

Regardless.

You want to try.

He must as well, as he cautiously approaches. He sits back down next to you and slips the stray strands from your neck. His fingers splay, reposeful over the skin. His lashes fall over low lidded eyes, and there is a question there, a searching for silent reassurance. A faint etch of worry settles in the lines around his mouth.

You tilt your neck to the side. It is a yes. Your heart thumps fiercely inside your chest.

You don’t realize you’ve begun to clench your fists until his fingers are prying them loose, his thumb sweeping and soothing the skin there.

“You’re trembling,” he susurrates into the shell of your ear, and there’s a lilt of suffering in it.

You try to ease your breathing, to pacify your pulse, but it is of no use.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he presses his lips over the pulse point, and you try to suppress a flinch, and if he were not a creature of the night, he fears you’d be able to hear his heartbeat too.

“I can feel it beneath my lips,” he gives the skin a closed mouth kiss, then an opened mouth one.

“I can feel it beneath my tongue,” he sucks the space bellow your ear, as delicate as can be, not enough to mark, yet you squirm a bit, feeling your breathing become more labored, your pulse heightening. You blush, trying to be more aware of remaining still.

You can’t help the heat flooding down to your core at having him touch you like this— it’s so familiar, so instinctual. Memories of him flutter through your mind, his teeth deep in you all those times before, drinking until the blood was dribbling down his jaw, until you were as weightless as a bird in the sky.

Nevertheless, anxiety nips at your nerves.

You feel the tips of his fangs barely graze the skin. You inhale deep, and he cradles your jaw with his other hand.

You feel him whisper into the skin.

“I won’t hurt you,” he promises, but there’s something in the way he says it, as if he’s trying to convince himself as well, “I’m not a monster.”

You want to say that you know, but it’s too late, as the words become incoherent jumbles from your lips as he sinks in his fangs.

He begins to suck, scarcely enough to taste.

You half gasp, the initial sting easing into the flood of diluted pain, of saturated pleasure. You feel him exhaling over the skin, and then his fangs are delving deeper as he sucks more firm.

For a fleeting moment, you worry you may faint from culmination of fear mingled with desire, of anticipation convolving with apprehension.

His hand fully closes around yours. His thumb rubs lulling circles there, seeking to reign you in, striving to calm you down.

All those times he had done this before like narrow, straight paths and rounding corners, and now, they are merging into a maze of maddening affection.

It feels good. It feels wrong. It feels like you may float from your body and rise to the ceiling if not for him anchoring you down.

A whimper stumbles from your lips, and yet you know you’re not the only one affected, as Astarion hums against your throat, a tangled groan of urgency and restraint.

Little do you know how much he resists. How delectable you taste, how he aches for more, this carnal hunger like that of a starved animal, like that of a beast. It is primal, and all encompassing, all compelling yet— you are close, so close. You are safe. You never take. You are the dawn he yearns to experience again, even if it burns, even if it means his very demise, he endeavors to have you still—

Another pull of blood from your veins, and you begin to feel hazy, like you are drifting off. A languish of your bones, your body melding into his hold, thoughts fuzzy, fleeting, and yet— that is when it descends upon you.

It is a downpour, sudden, and all too cold.

The scramble of your feet through the closing jaw of the city. Buildings bloated behind you, then prowling before you, then compressing into you from all sides.

Focus ebbing in an out. The potion of healing not enough to fully quell the wound still throbbing at your neck. The lantern lights glow simultaneously dilating and constricting, then stretching out, then swishing you in its mouth.

Finding your way into your inn, beads of sweat slick over your forehead and creeping over your skin as you feebly crawl into bed.

Curling into yourself, temple to your knees, knees snug to your chest.

Shuddering with sobs that go on for hours on end.

Part of you grieving over the fact that he hadn’t completely bled you dry.

After all, …

It is what you deserved.

“Stop,” you beg, pushing him away from you with a quaking gasp, the tears building in your eyes threatening to spill. He retracts from you in an instant, immediately noting the wet streak down your cheek. Although he is absolutely flushed, his eyes burning bright scarlet, the red awash with riveting feeling, his expression morphs to one of panic, of concern.

“I—” he attempts, wiping the back of his hand over the blood of his mouth, “I’m sorry— hells — I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he anguishes, then moves in to swipe at your tears, but you wince in response. He backpedals; his porcelain features shattering.

“I’m sorry,” you shield your face with your hands, hot tears descending your cheeks. It is like you are being swallowed up whole, the feelings of embarrassment, of denial. You don’t understand yourself. You don’t know why your body reacted this way. This shouldn’t be so hard—

He wouldn’t hurt me.

But the ugly reminder of that night doesn’t go away. It is like a mirrored image reflected on every wall of the room.

“If you’re not careful…. it will bleed you dry, little dove.”

“I’m sorry,” you curl into yourself, feeling miserable, feeling worthless.

It’s what I deserved.

It’s what I---

But Astarion is there, pulling you into his arms, attempting to mollify. His voice is watery, and it’s too hard to focus on what he says, too hard to listen, too hard to hear over the drown of your own thoughts.

“Please stop apologizing,” he pleads, kisses the top of your hair, rocks you in his arms, “I promise my darling— that night I swear I wouldn’t have—”

But then he stops. You can feel the drops of his own tears hit your temple.

“I don’t know,” he admits in broken syllables, “but what happened before will never happen again. I— I need you… I can’t lose you… I was so afraid that I had… the memory of you wilted in my arms… I can’t—” He chokes on the word, and then takes a breath, steadying himself.

Your breathing slows, and yet you can’t bear to unravel from him, can’t take looking him in the eye like this. You want him to finish, but you can’t say it out loud. It strains against the confine of your teeth, yet you force it out.

“How could you have changed your mind…” you say, and his arms tense around you, “when you despised me that much.”

Is it only for the scroll?

He pulls back but you refuse to meet his eyes, covering your face with your hands. You feel like a coward.

You feel his eyes heavy upon you. It’s as though he’s truly seeing you for what you are… for the first time.

This battered, featherless, little thing… how pitiful compared to that shining hero of the city…

What a fraud you are.

“I was angry with you,” he starts, all earnest and steady, “I loathed you for what I perceived as betrayal… I thought you choose to abandon me when I needed you most. I know now that it was me who didn’t give you a choice.”

You lower your hands from your face, only to examine the floor beneath your feet.

“I wanted to hurt you. I wanted to make you feel as much pain as I had,” the drag of air into his lungs is all wound tight, but he continues, “When I saw you at that tavern, all that resentment and blame I kept came pouring out. I felt possessed by anger at you… and at myself… my dead heart practically lurched out of my chest at the sight of you.”

His voice softens even more so. He wants to reach out and hold you, but he doesn’t.

“And then I… had you again. You were saying my name, professing that you…” you glance back up at him, and you watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly.

“That you love me, and I… I was overwhelmed. I was angry because… it meant everything to me. So, I tried to prove that it didn’t. I wanted to hurt you, I wanted to keep you, I wanted…” he trails off, then partially regains his composure.

“When I realized what I’d done… when I saw you cradled in my arms, barely able to stand… I was so afraid that I…” the syllables wade in the tears of his voice, “I was terrified to find that I had let myself go too far. I lashed out afterwards because I couldn’t come to terms with what I had done, what I am.”

And then he is getting on his knees before you, taking your hands in his, his eyes imploring to meet yours.

“It used to annoy me how despite everything, you always tried to see the good in everyone. The good in me. No matter how diminutive or selfishly intended, you believed in me. You cared for me. Not for what I could offer you, which at the time really wasn’t more than sex… and then I couldn’t even offer you that… No. You cared for me because of who I was. And although I can still find myself steeping in the pure and utter shit of the last two centuries, even though I do still grieve over the ascension…” He gives your palms a squeeze, and your gaze locks onto his.

“I need you to know that what I did that night I will regret for the rest of my eternity.”

It is as though you had forgotten how to breathe before.

The room is silent for a long time.

“I don’t know what to say…” you murmur.

“You don’t need to say anything,” he hastily replies.

Your gaze drops to his hands holding yours. How refined and lovely they seem, despite it all. They feel like satin over your callous, over the ridges of your scars.

Another lull of quiet.

“Do you want me to go?” He asks, and it is aching.

You shake your head.

“No,” you glance up at him, “I think… we both need time to heal…” you mumble and weakly tangle your fingers together with his.

“But I don’t think I can do this alone.”

“You’re not alone,” he refutes, bringing the back of your hand to his lips. He kisses it.

“I’m not going to leave again.”

You want to believe him. Part of you already does.

You don’t know how long you both remained there, settling into the evening, adrift in a river of recompense.

When you think back on this later, the memory is a domicile for the inviolable.

It is the calm before the storm.

☾☼

please let me know if this was okay <3 thank you for reading.

58 notes · View notes

giuseppe-yuki · 9 months ago

Text

when the clock strikes 12'

baker!yuki tsunoda x princess!reader

w.c.: 2.9k

warnings: a sprinkle of fluff, slight allusions to sex, curse words, angst, mentions of death

summary: every night, you flee to the baker's son to receive the love you never got from your own family.

picture credits from pinterest :)

every day was unchanging. wake up at six am, breakfast of exactly one apple and a cup of oatmeal with a sprinkle of cinnamon, then onto history, etiquette, dancing class, horse-riding, brief pause for lunch, embroidery, languages, government, military tactics, dinner, then finally music. as the next brightest queen on the throne, you had to be perfect. you couldn’t be your little brother, running carefree in the woods, playing with wooden bows and arrows, or your younger sister, who spent all her hours gossiping and playing cards with the ladies of the court. trapped in a gilded cage, you had no choice but to endure all the classes your parents put you through and to your credit, you seemed to be the best daughter and heiress they could ever ask for.

however, when the clock hit 12, you would routinely slip on your black cloak, pull the torch lever in the corner of your room, and flee down the steps out of the palace. the second your foot touched the soil on the other side of the towering stone walls, you could shed your disguise of being the powerful, multi talented crown princess of your kingdom. when you flew through the beaten path in the woods, cloak flapping behind you, and past the empty cobblestone courtyard, feet echoing quietly on each brick, and up the leafy vines, hands easily grasping the familiar branches, and into the arms of the boy you loved the most, you finally felt at home.

he would unclasp your black cloak, fold it neatly, and place it softly on the singular wooden chair next to his bed. then, like always, he would flourish a covered plate towards you, pretending he was a fancy chef in the castle, serving you the finest food in the kingdom- dishes that average village people could only dream about. you knew, of course, that underneath the piece of tattered cloth, there sat two slices of warm bread, topped with your favorite golden honey, and a cup of milk from his family cow in the shed behind the bakery. no matter how many times you scarfed down the handmade bread, it tasted way better than any of the food you had at home. perhaps it had tasted so delectable, because he had made it with his love, something that you never felt in the castle. you would whip off the cloth like you always did, gasp shockingly at the worn, hand-carved dish and its contents in front of you, and pepper the boy with kisses until he was a giggling mess. then, you would each share a slice of bread (he would always purposely slide you the bigger piece when he thought you weren’t looking) and talk about your day together, as if you were just another average couple who were most definitely not a princess and a simple baker’s son.

he would then tell you about the day’s customers, about the mean old grandpa named mr. horner who would yell at him for ‘lazing around all day,’ or his best friend pierre who always would buy three baguettes, cut up into fourths, or the kind blacksmith’s wife, susie, who would buy loads of pumpernickel for her husband, and sometimes his classmates, like carlos and charles, who would beg him to give them a sliver of cake. you pretended you understood what he meant when he would describe searching for wild potatoes in the forest with his friends, when the day’s bread was sold out.

in return, you would tell him about your day, like when one of the lord’s sons, ollie, stepped on your white wool socks and ruined them during your dancing lessons, or when your friend dorianne told your french teacher that she ate un mur (a wall) instead of une mûre (a blackberry) for lunch, or how you galloped across the field on your horse faster than max, a duke’s son. he nodded like he knew the feeling of how ridiculous it was when the chef gave you one whole roasted chicken when you had requested a lamb chop and asparagus.

later, when the soft bread was reduced to crumbs on the wooden plate, and you both had nothing left to say, you would kiss the honey off his lips, and he would laugh and shove you into his wood-and-straw bed. he would then lean over to the singular tallow candle on the patchy floor next to his bed and blow the flame out. underneath the glow of the stars, with the wisp of candle smoke wafting in the air, he would tuck you into his sheets, ‘like a princess deserves,’ and shuffle himself in the slot next to you, one arm around your waist.

sometimes, you would both fall asleep immediately, one of your soft hands laced in his rough calloused one, your face nuzzled in the crook of where his shoulder meets his neck, breaths syncing together, and blankets swirled around like the hazy night mist outside the window. other times, you would look up at his face, where he looked down at you with lovestruck eyes. your gaze would drift down to his pretty pink lips that seemed to always be slightly chapped and you would forcefully pull him down into a heated kiss. those nights always seemed to end with your sweaty bodies tangled in his linen sheets, with you falling asleep on his naked chest listening to how his racing heart slowed to a soft pitter-patter and him gently caressing the length of your back.

whichever night it was, you would always be the first one up at exactly five am, smiling at the sight of the baker’s son still sprawled on the bed, a drop of drool running down the corner of his mouth. you would get dressed in your black cloak, leave two gold coins that was worth more than a typical villager’s weekly pay (the baker and his wife never did understand how their son constantly produced such massive sums of money when their business was in a tight spot), and press a chaste kiss to his cheek. he slept soundly, knowing that you would always be back, like you promised, near midnight every night.

quietly, you snuck out of his window, down the leafy vines, past the empty cobblestone courtyard, though the woods, underneath the stone walls of the castle, and up the stairs into your room, half and hour before your maid was to fetch you for breakfast. by the time the birds outside chirped their tunes and the maid knocked on your gold-embossed door, you would be back in your silk pajamas, underneath your thick hand-weaved cotton blankets and sunken into your soft feathery mattress. she would gently nudge you awake, and you would pretend-yawn, as big as you could, to make it seem like you had the best sleep in the world. and you did, but just not in your bed- it was in the arms of the boy you loved all but a half an hour ago in his bedroom on the second floor of his family’s bakery.

very rarely did you ever see that boy not under the glow of his tallow candle that threatened to die out way too often, compared to the smooth beeswax candles you had lined throughout the rooms and hallways of your castle. once a month though, the royal family would pay a visit to all the towns in their region of rule. his village would always be the twenty second that you visited, and he would put on a knowing smile when you walked through the woods, down the cobblestone courtyard, and towards the building with the leafy vines on the side in your regal gold and white skirts and petticoats, procession in tow. the rest of the village would be gathered around the cobblestone courtyard as well, each individual working sector presenting a gift of gratitude to you and your family for blessing their town with your presence. your father accepted from the blacksmith a fine-crafted iron sword (which he threw into a box that contained the twenty one other similar swords from past villages), your mother accepted from the dressmaker and carefully stitched dress (that she immediately made plans to be turned into washcloths- the material of the dress was too rough!), your little brother accepted a little toy music box from the sales merchant (he would probably accidentally ‘break’ it on the way to the next village just to see what it looked like on the inside), and your little sister accepted a pair of sparkly gold shoes from the shoemaker (shoes that she would give to her maid, because a princess would never wear something so atrocious as shoes with fake pieces of gold on it!). and to you, the baker’s son would flourish, like he did the night before under your watchful eyes, a weaved basket with a full loaf of soft wheat bread, a pot of honey, and a big jar of cold milk. you would thank him profusely, hand lingering on his a smidgen too long, and softly place the item in your carriage to enjoy later. before you left the village on your horse-drawn buggy, you would glance out the window to see the boy give you a wink and a wave, because he knew, when the moon came out and the clock struck twelve, you would be back in his arms once more with the basket of food, and you both would feast like kings.

it was like clockwork, through spring, summer, fall and winter, that you journeyed to the village bakery. years passed, and your schedule never changed. you would always be there, a little bit after twelve, with your black cloak and a smile on your face, and he would welcome you with a kiss and honey bread. it was like that until it wasn’t.

your father had gotten suspicious with your actions one winter. his first clue was how you always seemed tired in your lessons- how you dozed off a little bit in history class, how you accidentally pricked your fingers way more than normal in embroidery class, how you would skip dinner more often than not, and then rush through music class as if you were in a hurry to go to bed. his second clue came more by accident, when one of his guards had caught one of the dukes, jos’, son sneaking off from a side exit to meet some random stableboy named charles in a nearby town. your father’s rather aggressive guards had caught them embracing in the shady corner of some cobblestone courtyard. they had nearly beaten charles to death right then and there, but was stopped by max at the last second when he tearfully pleaded to them he would do whatever they wanted him to do, even if that included adhering to his father’s jos’ lifelong wish of turning him into the best equine racer in the kingdom- even if he hated racing. trudging back to the castle with a sobbing max in tow and charles’ broken and feeble body left in the courtyard, they could have sworn they saw a figure in a black cloak that was too high-quality to be a villager’s dart by the leafy vines. his third and final clue was when he ordered the guards to check your room at precisely 1am to make sure you were still snuggled in your bed like you were supposed to be, snoring away.

alas, you weren’t. you were listening cautiously, with wide eyes, as the baker’s son described how a stable boy was found half-beaten to death and frozen in the courtyard a day ago, and all he cried was strings of ‘maxmaxmaxmax’ when the village doctor finally nursed him back into a barely-alive state. that night, when you whimpered the baker’s son’s name into the crook of his neck and he muffled his cries of ecstasy into his pillow, you made sure to hold him just that little bit tighter in the afterglow as if you never wanted to leave. when the sun peeked through the leafy vines at the edge of the window, you gathered your things, and gave the boy a kiss on the lips. this time he awoke, unlike normal, and sat up on the bed. he looked at you with his head cocked to the side and bleary eyes, then laughs when he sees you put not two, but six gold coins on the singular wooden chair next to his bed. he whispers a soft ‘i’ll see you tonight’ and blows you a kiss before collapsing dramatically back on the bed. you can’t help but giggle to yourself and lightly skip all the way back to your room. you fail to notice how the stems of the vines have been hacked slightly, or how the snow on the cobblestone road had one too many sets of footprints, or how the pathway through the forest had deep imprints way bigger than possible to be from your feet in the slushy watery brown sludge, and how the torch-lever-door was slightly ajar when you arrived in your room.

when you are awaken by the maid, you brightly hop out of your soft bed, unaware of the pitying looks she gives you.

you attend your history, etiquette, dancing class, horse-riding, scarf down your lunch, embroidery, languages, and government. you are in your military tactics class, learning how wheels could perhaps be attached to open boxes and go on a circular track to gain speed and agility when the son of a baker is dragged rather unceremoniously into the dungeons below.

he stays mostly silent; he knows that no one will be saving him now. he waits for a bit in the dim holding cell, watching as the beeswax candle smoothly burns on the wick. it’s funny how even the dungeons of the castle was the teeniest bit more fancier than his bedroom in the room above his family’s bakery…oh yeah, the bakery. he just hopes that his family will survive with the gold coins he had piled on the wooden plate that he typically served the princess on. he had shoved the plate under his covers just as the guards came barging up the stairs and dragged him towards the castle, his parents wailing in confusion and despair. his mind can’t help but drift back to your body, laid out so prettily beneath him the late night before. it lingered on his mind when the executioner led him to a dirty, bloodstained, block and forced him to hold his head over it. and when the swoosh of the blade fell down, the last thought in his head was that if you’d miss the bread that he would make, drizzled with honey with a glass of milk on the side.

when you sneakily tiptoe past the castle walls, through the forest, across the cobblestone courtyard, and up the vines, you expect to see your lover waiting on his wood-and-straw bed next to the tallow candle, a teasing smile on his pretty face and rumpled black hair all messy on his head. there should be the usual wooden plate on his bed, and his singular wooden chair ready for your folded cloak. but what meets you is a wailing couple, a woman that seemed to have the boy’s shade of hair, and nose shape, and the man that seemed to have his eyes and his chin. the candle is broken in half, unburning, a wooden plate overturned with gold coins spilt everywhere, and a singular wooden chair that has its back board splintered in two.

ten years later, when your father and mother have passed on, leaving you queen regent, and the military generals look up to you for your orders, and when you are forced to be betrothed to a so-called prince who spends all his time in brothels, fucking women who aren’t you, and your talentless brother and sister have wasted away in the castle, only alive to spread gossip and eat your food, you still wonder what had happened the the baker’s son that wintery night a little past midnight. yuki, you remember his name was. a name that means snow- like the snow that was falling around you when you climbed down his window for the last time, never knowing you would never see him again. you hoped that yuki had a good life. maybe he ran away, and got with a some pretty little commoner that didn’t have the same responsibilities you did, someone who could be with him day and night, someone who didn’t have to arrive at midnight and leave at daylight. or maybe he ran away to become a famous cook or baker- you knew he always had that talent within him. maybe he was in a far-away kingdom, cooking up the most delicious meals that were made with love. you remember those honey bread slices and milk that yuki always made you. but when you requested it from the chef, it never tasted the same. she would always give you three slices instead of two, warm milk instead of cold, or drizzled way too much honey on the slices. wherever he was, you hoped that your paths would meet again. maybe then, he could fold your black cloak nice and neat, make you the honey bread exactly how you liked it with cold milk, and you could talk about your day, and you could kiss the honey off of his lips, and he would tuck you into bed, and lay there with you until your breaths synced up once more.

a/n: ummm so idk what happened it kind of just flowed out of me... it's my first attempt at angst though so lmk if y'all like it :)

#f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 x female reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 rpf fic #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #yuki tsunoda x reader #yuki tsunoda x y/n #yuki tsunoda x you #yt22 x reader #📝

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doodlingfoolishness · 3 months ago

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The gilded wyvern rose one morn Awakening in her homey cave. The sun peeked through a clouded sky, A perfect day to be so brave. The wyvern left her cozy home And stepped beneath the towering trees. She breathed in deep the morning air. She smiled, deeply pleased. “The world is new and fresh again. And I, a joyous wyvern strong Shall make my way through glen and dale To join the hunt. To join the song!” The wyvern ran through forest green. She chased along the lakeside shore. She glided through the swamps and fens And prowled along the foggy moor. The wyvern roared a mighty cry A song to challenge all who sought To catch a beast so fierce and free For well she knew that they could not. The hunters turned and gave her chase Singing of their prowess true, But the wyvern had her ways And on the hidden paths she flew. No man could catch the wyvern proud. No man was worthy of her scales. She glittered in the evening sun, A brilliant beast of ancient tales. The moons swung through the darkening skies, The wyvern bathed in silver light. “It’s time to return to my home. Another day to live! To fight!” And so the joyous wyvern ran, Over field and through the wood, Until she reached her long-missed cave And thought, "yes, this was good.”

#Lucanis dellamorte #dragon age: the Veilguard #datv #dragon age #Veilguard #datv fanart #dragon age fanart #the joyous wyvern #joyous wyvern #it’s over!!! 4+ months of work but we did it! thank you to those who encouraged me #now I wish I had the energy to draw Lucanis with these pages as a kid but I don’t lol

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thebestofoneshots · 1 year ago

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Gilded Constellations | (wolfstar x reader)

Series Masterlist | Previous episode

Pairing: Wolfstar x Reader Word Count: 8.2 K Warnings: None Prompt: It's a snow day! This IS a Wolfstar x reader fic, but it's incredibly slow burn. They won't start all dating each other until we're very deep into the story, but I promise the long wait will be worth it. Proofread by lovely: @aremuslupinsimp

THIS CHAPTER CAN ALSO BE READ AS A ONESHOT

Chapter 35: Chill of Desire

Tuesday, December, 14th, 1976

“It’s snowing!” you heard Mary squeal, her excited tone waking you up instantly, and causing you to smile as you looked through the window. Mary had propped the window open and extended her hand as she stared outside.

It wasn’t only snowing then, in fact, it had been snowing all night, all the towers, the fields and the valley were covered by a thick layer of snow. The trees stood tall, their branches delicately coated, creating a magical-looking scene, more magical than Hogwarts already was, anyway.

You had the view of the forest from your window, and you could see the Whomping Willow shaking off the layers of snow that had fallen over him at night, which made you smile, the memory of the devious night having been replaced by so many cuddles with the boys that the looking at the Willow was not as stressful as it had been at some point, you didn’t think of how Remus had gotten hurt by it, but rather you thought of how you had kissed Sirius under it. And how you might be going to meet Moony later that month, as Vixen this time around.

The courtyards and pathways were like winding paths through a snowy maze, and the usually bustling grounds were hushed under the soft blanket of snow, you could see a few students outside enjoying the white fields –especially the younger ones– you still had hours before you had to get to class, you realised when you eyed the small cuckoo clock your mom had given you at the beginning of the year. It wasn’t even time for you to go on your morning flight yet, but you thought perhaps it would be a good idea to skip flying in favour of playing in the snow, even if it was just for a day, you were sure you’d be able to convince James if you managed to recruit Remus and Sirius first.

The world outside seemed to have taken a pause, wrapped in the serene beauty of winter, with barely a few students playing in the snow and trying to get from one spot of the castle to the other without making much noise. Of course, that wouldn’t last long, not as long as you could help it. You stood up and changed into something warm, putting on Remus’ sweater. You had taken the habit of wearing a lot more often since you wanted to test a theory that had cemented itself in your brain since the day of the Slytherin sweater incident.

Once you were ready you turned to the girls “Come outside in like…” You pondered for a second, 5 minutes to wake up Sirius, another 5 for the two of you to convince Remus to join your shenanigans. Like 10 minutes to convince Prongs and about 4 for them all to get ready. Peter would be coming the minute you convinced Potter, so you didn’t worry much about that, “30 minutes,” you said, adding a few minutes to spare “It’ll be fun.”

“How fun?” Lily asked, a look of worry on her face that made you laugh.

“It’s a snow day Lils, it’ll be brilliant, I promise!” you said with a smile plastered on your face as you put on a pair of boots and disappeared from their sight. Returning just a second later to take the invisibility cloak you had borrowed from James the previous night. You had it on a ball, and neither of the girls asked about it since they had assumed it was just a blanket you borrowed from Sirius or something. The minute you stepped out, you turned over a corner and put it on, walking straight towards the boy’s dormitories.

Once outside their door you took a deep breath and leaned your ear close to the door, just wanting to make sure they were all still asleep. Which, as you predicted, they had been. You smiled and used your wand to open their door with a tweak on the classic “alohomora” that Remus has taught you.

They had charmed their door, obviously, they had, but Remus –who often left his keys since he rushed in the mornings– had found a way around their own charm and taught it to you since you had been sneaking in to cuddle him and Padfoot, as Vixen of course. It hadn’t been every day, but you had all agreed that you’d have to do it a lot more often closer to the moon, to make sure the smell of the pack was well rubbed.

You thought you already smelled like them enough, but neither of them seemed convinced. Or rather, neither of them wanted to stop cuddling each other, and you didn’t either. Padfoot was fluffy and Remus was always warm, which was especially nice on colder nights, the kind that were already much more common because of the time of the year you were in. And, sometimes, rather often, Sirius would turn back into himself and cuddle both you and Remus, only to turn back into Pads in the morning. If either Pete or James knew, they didn’t say a thing. Remus had always been asleep, or at least pretended, so neither you nor Sirius noticed, and you, who would lay half a top of Remus half a top of Sirius who had now learned exactly how to pet you, weren’t about to complain either.

Once inside you looked at the boys and opened one of the windows with a swish of your wand, bringing a small blizzard inside the room and leaning in over Sirius’ bed, letting the snow fall slowly over his delicate features. He had his mouth slightly parted, and his hair sprawled all around him. He was the loveliest thing to look at; he looked like a princess, like Snow White, you thought, especially when a small snowflake got stuck on his thick black lashes. No wonder Prince Charming wanted to kiss the girl awake. You too felt tempted to kiss him.

“Sirius,” you whispered.

He groaned, and you whispered his name again, giving in and giving him the kiss you wanted, a quick peck over one of his eyes, feeling how the snowflake over his lash melted away with the warmth of your mouth. He opened his eyes and looked at you, and then around, there was snow all over, coating you, himself and his bed as you leaned over him with a sneaky little smile on your face. The smile that oh so clearly stated, you were up to something.

You were looking at him in such a way that he forced himself to clear his throat, trying to think of anything other than his morning discomfort. On days like this, he would get a shower and release himself of those thoughts, and something else. But clearly, that wasn’t an option at that particular moment, let alone with you leaning on top of him like that. You licked your lips and he almost cursed.

“Sirius,” you said again “It’s snowing!”

“I can tell Starshine,” he said as he picked a small snowflake that had gotten stuck in your hair, watching it dissolve in his fingers before he turned back to you. Well done, Sirius, she hasn’t noticed, he applauded for himself.

You smiled and leaned in closer to him, his breath hitched in his throat, you had no fucking idea what you were doing to him. You leaned enough to whisper in his ear. “Help me convince Prongs to play in the snow instead of practice.”

He almost frowned, turning to get a better look at you. “You’ve never had a snow day?”

“I’ve had…” you said, “but never with you.”

He sighed at your words but turned to you with a warm smile. “Fine, let’s go,” He said as he sat on the bed, still thinking of ways to get rid of his problem, his covers falling discreetly over it. If only there was a spell for that.

“No, first we must convince Remus.”

“Remus, why?”

“If Remus is in, there’s no way Prongs will say no, even if we’re skipping practice.”

Sirius seemed to be processing what you said but nodded. “Go ahead, I’ll go change,” he said, motioning for you to move as he leaned over to find his shirt “bet he’ll like it if you wake him up with snow too,” he said with a devious smile and you rolled your eyes, giving him a soft peck in the mouth before walking over to Remus, bringing the small blizzard along with you.

Had it been a few weeks ago, you might have been hesitant to do exactly what you were about to do, but you had climbed onto Remus’ bed so often in the past few days, either for cuddling as Vixen or just for chilling, that it was almost more natural than it was to climb onto your own. It was like climbing onto Sirius’ bed even, although, lately the two of you spend a lot more time on Remus’ bed than his own, because of the scent thing.

You leaned over and watched the small snowflakes fall over Remus’ face, he looked just as handsome as Sirius had. Or perhaps, the way to describe Sirius correctly would be ethereal, Remus was handsome.

“Hey Rem,” you said softly, placing his hand over his shoulder. This time around, you decided to be softer, and more careful, not forgetting that one time he had pinned you on his bed. He stirred, brows furrowed lightly and nose almost imperceptibly scrunched up.

“Sirius?” he asked, not opening his eyes, you smelled like Sirius, and you and him. Your scents had been so mixed at this point, he just assumed it was Sirius since it would make more sense for it to be him, especially to be bothering him so early in the morning, not that he minded, not as long as it was him.

“Try again,” you said with a smile.

Remus hummed content, “Little Witch.”

You eyed him cautiously, his eyes were still closed and you leaned a little closer, shaking his shoulder lightly. Then he all but grabbed you by the waist and pushed you to him, Remus was still way too asleep to process what he was doing, and you fell over his torso as he tightened his grip. When Sirius walked out of the bathroom he spotted the two of you and thought it was the most adorable thing he’d seen, even if you had a small frown as you tried to fight your way out of the werewolf’s grip. But Remus was way too fucking strong.

You huffed and turned to Sirius “Mind a little help?” you mouthed, he smirked in response. In seconds he turned into Padfoot and walked over to the two of you, leaning his head into yours for a second before jumping so his paws were on the bed and then, he leaned over and started licking Remus’ face.

You barely managed to see Remus scrunch his face before he opened his eyes, looking rather startled. First, there was snow; second, Sirius had woken him by licking his fucking face; and third, you were laying horizontally across his torso, your head tilting slightly to the side with a rather amused expression, and he was holding you there.

“What the fuck?”

“You’re very grabby in the mornings,” Sirius said, now back in his human form and staring at Remus with his face laid over his crossed arms, which were leaning on the same spot Padfoot’s paws had been on, smile plastered on his lips.

Fucking hell he looks adorable, Remus thought.

And so did you, calmly lying there as you waited for him to loosen his grip. You didn’t mind waiting all that much either, Remus was comfortable. And then Sirius turned to you, placing one of his hands over your hair and letting it gently slide out, causing your head to turn towards the two of them in his action “Look at the poor thing, waiting there patiently for you to let her go Moony.”

You frowned, condescending. You were about to argue, but there was something about the way both boys looked at you that also made you want to shut up, as if you didn’t want to break whatever spell had been cast over the three. And it wasn’t the first time either. You blinked a couple of times. “Poor thing my ass,” you managed to say to Sirius, even if you let him play with your hair still.

Remus almost reached to do the same, his hand twitched, but you didn’t notice, you had closed your eyes as Sirius continued to play with your hair. Looking rather content in the position. A small spark of rage came to Remus and he tightened his grip around you, only for a second until he realised that he was way out of line and let you go. You didn’t move, just enjoyed Sirius’ hand for a few more seconds and Remus wished he could be the one to make you feel like that. Eventually, you took a deep breath and opened your eyes again, biting your lip as you looked at Remus “It’s snowing.”

He looked around and raised his eyebrows at you, his face clearly stating “no shit Sherlock”.

“Starshine here wants to go play out there in the snow with us,” Sirius said.

You were about to swat him for being so haughty with you, but you realised by the way the corner in his mouth lifted forward, he was just doing it to piss you off. You didn’t even realise the way Remus had gulped with how intensely you were glaring at Sirius.

“Or we could just stay and cuddle,” you said with a sneaky little smile, you knew Sirius was already eager to go out there and play with the snow. Two people could play his little game. But both boys liked the idea just as much as the prospect of going out in the snow with you.

“Let’s go,” Remus said as he patted you on the leg casually, a signal for you to get off him. If Sirius noticed his gesture, he didn’t seem to care much that he had done it, and you didn’t seem to notice either. It was almost as if the three of you had special concessions with each other that wouldn’t be allowed to many others. For example, Sirius would surely be pissed if you had been cuddling Tom, or even Peter, but with Remus, he didn’t seem to mind, heck he even encouraged it sometimes. Not that any of the three noticed these little things, but some people did.

“Get changed,” You told Rem with a bit of a smile, “We’ll go wake James.”

Remus nodded and both you and Sirius stood up. You walked over to James’ bed, and Sirius was about to jump over him to wake him up with a thud, but you stopped him, bringing in your small blizzard over his friend. Sirius smiled and took his wand out, making more snow come inside, and having relatively strong –and cold– winds blow over Prongs.

Neither of you was being half as gentle as you had been with Remus, was it because you knew Moony’s short temper or… something else? Perhaps it was part of those special concessions you allowed one another.

James started to shiver, pulling his covers higher up only for Sirius to slide them down again with a swish of your wand. Only then did you realise Prongs had been shirtless under the covers. You gasped silently at the sight, covering your mouth and staring. Prongs was fucking ripped, not as much as Remus but certainly ripped. You did not remember him being so fit back when you had been him.

Sirius nudged you with his shoulder when he noticed you were staring “Stop ogling him, will you?” he said slightly annoyed, he tried to hide it, and it slipped pass you.

You shook your head, still amazed. “Do you have a camera? Lily should know.”

Ah… so that’s why she’s staring at Prongs, fair enough, Sirius thought. He stared too, also thinking that while Prongs was ripped, Remus was much better. The snow became thicker around Prongs as Sirius’ thoughts focused on his other friend, the wind became even stronger, blowing on James’ hair, and making it even messier than usual. You were about to tell Sirius to hold back a little when James woke up, sitting on his bed fast and in panic.

“Wakey-wakey Rudolf!” You said with a smile.

Remus, who was just stepping out of the bedroom, looked at the two of you, wicked smiles on your faces while James stared, almost horrified, and he smiled. His two naughty little crushes. He wondered if you’d reach in to cuddle him and Sirius tonight, he wanted you to do it, he wanted you to do it really bad.

“What in the bIoody–“

You were about to speak, but Sirius stole your line “It’s snowing!”

“It’s freezing, that's what is!” he said as he pulled the covers, but you took them from him and dangled them in the air.

“No-uh Prongs, it’s time to get up!” He gave you a reproachful look, “Come on! It’s a snow day, we must play in the snow a little before it melts away… and class starts.”

The blizzard you and Sirius had caused was already dissipating, leaving the beds of the boys, and their floor, just a little slippery. But James peered to the window. “I highly doubt the snow’s gonna melt away anytime soon, luv… Besides, what about flying?”

“No flying today mate,” Remus intervened from behind the two, gently placing his hands on both yours and Sirius’ shoulders, “It’s snow day, and the first one of the season.”

“But…”

You sighed. “Lily will be there,” you added.

James’ eyes pretty much beamed after you said that and he ran up to his trunk, throwing a pillow towards Peter’s bed who woke up completely confused, “Why am I being attacked?” he asked with a frown.

“It’s a snow day Pete, we’re all coming out to play!” You said excitedly, Peter blinked as if wondering why the hell you were in his room before remembering you had been over more often than not lately, and because of his idea, that is.

“Morning Vix,” he said politely. “Fancy seeing you here,” he added as a joke.

“Oh.. piss off and change before you start teasing us all over again,” Sirius responded.

And he had been teasing you rather often. Since you started cuddling Remus together, he wouldn’t stop with the canine jokes. Either Puppy cuddles, lovable howlers, or whatever the hell came into his mind at that moment. He found it hilarious that the three of you were so close and that the three of you were a variant of the canine family. Something about being meant to be or whatever.

Peter just snickered and walked into the bathroom with clothes in hand, James didn’t even care, he straight up turned around and took off his pants right there in front of you, which had Sirius pull you to look at him and Remus cover your eyes with his hands. You laughed at their silly reactions. “Yo, Rem, when I said I would let you blindfold me, I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it.”

“Sly little fox, promising things without meaning them, are we?” He teased.

You laughed again, letting your head shake. Remus was eyeing Sirius then, and Sirius returned the stare, the two of them stayed like that, almost frozen as they looked at each other, your laughter almost fading into the background as Sirius turned his gaze towards Remus’ diverted smile. Remus has a pretty smile, pretty like Starshine’s, he thought.

“Is he done?” You asked, pulling on Moony’s hand to try and see a little bit better. That broke their trance and the two of them turned back to look at you, Sirius’ eyes flickering to your lips for a second, thinking he might actually be going insane.

“Yeah, I’m done,” James said as he leaned over and placed an arm around your shoulders. “Why are we hogging Vixen?”

“She came to wake us up with a fucking snowfall, now she must suffer,” Remus said as if it were the most natural thing. You nudged him lightly, about to say something when Peter stepped out, several layers of sweaters over him.

You smiled “You get cold easy, Wormy?”

“He’s got no tolerance,” James said, “and he always forgets the warming spell.”

“I could help you with it,” you offered.

“Thanks,” he said with a genuine smile, “but I’ve come prepared,” he added as he pulled a small piece of parchment from the pocket of his coat, showing it off in between his index and ring finger. “Annie gave it to me and charmed it so I wouldn’t lose it,” he explained, “It always reappears in my pockets now.”

“What? That’s brilliant!” you said reaching for the parchment and taking it from Peter’s hand for a second, looking at the symbols in the back. Remus approached you from behind to take a look.

“It’s complicated magic,” he said.

“It looks like an altered version of Homunculus,” Sirius said, he too had approached you and stared at the back of the small paper.

“Mixed with a clinging spell and a respawn one,” you added perplexed, “It’s incredible…” you said breathily, disbelief lacing your tone.

“Indeed.” Peter proudly raised his head. “Annie is insanely clever.”

You smiled and gave the paper back to him, before frowning and turning to the boys. “Do you guys think the Homunculus charm could help with the map?” you asked with a frown.

Remus bit his lip as he thought about it and then turned to you, “Vixen, that’s it! If we take the homunculus cham and somehow connect it to Hogwarts Magic–”

“And then bind it to the core of the map then… we could have absolutely every single student, teacher and visitor to the castle tagged at once!”

Remus nodded, “No more sneaking charms in their robes and backpacks! Fucking hell, we’ve cracked it!”

You and Remus were staring at each other with such sheer excitement over it, so hyped up that the boy almost reached out to kiss you, managing to stop, and clenched his fist by his side.

“Nerds,” Peter teased, dragging out the e slightly.

“But hot ones,” Sirius added inadvertently, giving a small shrug as he did.

Remus turned to Sirius with a frown, but you just placed your hand over one of his shoulders and nodded. “Indeed we are,” you said and sent a wink his way. You then spun on your heel back to the rest of the marauders “Shall we? The girls must be waiting for us by now,” you said, standing on your toes to look over Sirius’ shoulders, at the clock.

A few seconds later, and due to James’ idea, you were all running down the stairs and through the halls, in an attempt to get to the orchards as fast as possible.

“Do not run in the halls!” you heard a couple of scandalised paintings scream, and you just giggled as Sirius threw a silencing spell their way. The portraits looking at him enraged as you all kept running. By the time you reached the doors to the grounds, you were all panting, cheeks burning and grinning like fools.

You were bent down trying to catch your breath when you felt a snowball that came from the outside straight to your face. The boys gasped and started laughing as you dusted off the remnants of snow and looked up and tried to spot where it had come from. You continued to scan the field, only to find Lily Evans, smiling and waving at you with the most guilty expression you had ever seen in a person.

Now it was your turn to gasp. “That’s what you get for waking us all up early,” She shouted from a few metres in the distance.

“Mary woke us up!” You argued, “I only made arrangements.”

“No, no,” James said, a wicked smile on his face. “You did wake us up early,” he added as he pointed at all the marauders. “And with a fucking blizzard,” the boy was already walking towards the redhead, “I say it’s time for payback.”

You were about to say something when you received another snowball in the face, you looked at the boy with an expression of absolute betrayal as the leftover snow fell over your coat. “James Potter you little shit!” you said. He gave you a daring look in return. And you scoffed amused. Then you leaned down and made a small ball, packing the snow gently before throwing it his way. James easily veered out of the way, which you should have expected, since he was so used to dodging bludgers.

“That all you got? You’d make a terrible beater, luv!” he teased, taking the ball Lily gave him and launching it your way, this time around you managed to dodge, but the ball fell right on the side of Sirius’ head.

“Prongs, my hair!” he whined. Both you and Remus snickered, the taller boy was now the one passing you a snowball, allowing his hand to linger just for a second too long, as he did, not that anyone noticed, Sirius was too busy taking snow out of his hair and Peter had run off somewhere earlier. You smiled and brought the ball up to your face.

Using what you learned from charms to perform a small, wandless spell, over the projectile, you smiled wickedly and threw it his way again. James dodged to the side but the snowball turned with him and landed square on his face. You laughed as James looked at you with absolute shock, trying to remember if you had –at any point– taken your wand out. When he realised you hadn’t, he was half impressed, and just as he was pushing his glasses back on his face, he received another ball on the side of his head, his hair getting filled with snow as he gasped.

Sirius –who had thrown the ball– was waving at him with a smile. Until seconds later he too received a snowball on his face, a laugh from Marlene as she nudged Mary echoed in the distance.

Remus was about to pass you another snowball when he too got hit, square on his chest –the lucky bastard– by none other than Beth Doxon. She smiled, her bright red hair being covered by a warm Gryffindor cap. “Come on Professor Lupin! Stop passing balls and start throwing them!” she taunted, Remus took the ball in his hands and threw it her way.

“Kind of fits you,” you said with a smile as you leaned down for another ball and moved it to your mouth to charm it again, “Professor Lupin, it’s got a ring to it.”

“I much prefer the sound of Professor Moony,” Sirius teased from behind, “encapsulates his personality better.”

“Sod off, Pads!” Remus said, also crouching down to get more snowballs, when he stood up, and another ball came your way, you quickly moved behind him. He turned to you in disbelief. “What am I? Your human shield?” he asked, just as a snowball fell on the side of his face.

“And an effective one, isn’t he Kit?”

“Very,” you responded with a light giggle. “It’s about his broad shoulders,” you said as you placed both hands on them, Remus tensed, looking at Sirius, thinking he might be angry, or jealous, or something. But neither of those things happened, instead, he joined your praising.

“And he’s tall too,” Sirius added, walking right behind you, and placing his hands over your shoulders, really close to your neck, in fact, close enough so his cold fingers crashed against your warm skin, which caused you to hiss and step away from him, crashing onto Remus.

“Shit Sirius!” You complained as you attempted to tighten the scarf around your neck “You’re cold as fuck.”

“But you warm my heart baby,” he teased, an overly gooey tone in his voice as he extended his hands towards you again, you knew exactly what he was about to do and you scurried out of his grasp and ran towards the snow, even if you got a few snowballs thrown your way as you tried to cross the field. You found a statue and with a quick confringo, melted the snow at the top to make a dent and take cover.

You quickly made a ball from the snow at your side and threw it on Sirius’ hair, leaning your head just enough time for him to notice it had been you. He eyed you, diverted and then you felt a snowball hit the back of your head, you turned around just enough to find Remus with another snowball in his hand.

“Scoot over, will you?” He said as he leaned down, as if ready to enter your improvised trench.

“No, you threw a snowball in my head,” you responded, feigning annoyance.

Remus chuckled and placed one of his legs inside your trench either way, “And you used me as your shield, we’re even.”

You shook your head in amusement but scooted over either way. Remus swished his wand and suddenly a pile of snowballs appeared behind you. You smiled and took your own wand out, whispering the same locating spell over all of them. Remus raised his eyebrow at you as if he was impressed, and you shot him a wink as you took a ball and leaned over to throw it towards Lily, meanwhile, Remus was throwing some Beth’s way.

“You’ve abandoned me for a sexy werewolf I see,” Sirius whispered in your ear, he had apparated just behind the two of you. He had been practising since your last class when Professor Dumbledore allowed you all to try doing it for the first time by yourselves, and he was insufferably good at it.

“The werewolf doesn’t want to bury his freezing cold hands on my neck,” you said –if only you knew where he wanted to bury them– without even turning to look at your boyfriend, if you had, you’d probably go soft at the sight of his eyes. He often got what he wanted from you with just a look, and he fucking knew it all too well. Not that you didn’t have the same effect on him, hence, you two were absolutely chaotic together.

Your small trench was barely enough for the three of you to fit in together, and it’s not that either of you was a stranger to touching each other, but Remus was feeling the heat rise up to his cheeks as your shoulders brushed against his, but much more worse when his back brushed against Sirius’ smaller chest. It was like the Halloween party all over again, but this time Remus didn’t want to run away.

Well, perhaps a part of him did, but the rest of him, the part that had thoroughly enjoyed cuddling Vixen and Padfoot, wanted to do the exact same to you and Sirius. He wanted the two of you to be his, to slather you with his scent so much that the entire world knew who you belonged to.

Of course, that was ridiculous, Remus knew, but he was hungry, Moony was hungry, the problem is he didn’t want food, he wanted his two best friends.

A nudge in his stomach pulled him out of his thoughts. “Mind teaching me how to make so many balls at once Professor Lupin?”

“It’s Professor Moony,” Sirius insisted, he had to duck as a ball flew towards his head in that instant.

You rolled your eyes “Rem?”

He was still a little shaken by the thought, almost hazy with how thrilled being so close to the two of you made him feel. “Yeah sure, just… whisper pila nix,” he said as he showed you what he did. “It’s a simple swish and curl.”

You did as told and in seconds there was another pile of snowballs ready for you to use. Sirius looked at Remus surprised. “You’re a great teacher mate,” he said, “should try helping her with transfiguration.”

You groaned at that “You know I’m a lost cause,” you said as you ducked, the small ball falling straight on Sirius’ face. He tugged your hair lightly “Oi, what was that for?” you complained, turning to look up at him.

“So you warn me next time.”

You looked at him amused, and grabbed some snow from the side of your trench, “Hey Puppy, there’s a snowball coming your way,” he looked around, as if trying to find the offender, only to receive one right from where you were crouching.

He turned to look back at you shocked and smiled as he shook his head, “Oh you little Minx!” he said as he bit his lip, “I was letting you go scot-free earlier.”

“Not my fault you didn’t see the ball,” you said, unconsciously etching closer to Remus.

“Aww darling…” Sirius said as he crouched next to you, and pulled you into a hug.

“Sirius, what– what are you, fuck…” you said springing up from the spot you were on, his hand –his freezing cold hand– that he had slipped under both your shirt and sweater had landed on your bare back. You stood behind Remus again, using him to shield yourself from Sirius. “Treason!” you said dramatically.

“You don’t want another hug from your boyfriend?” he asked with a playful pout.

You shook your head, still feeling the cold of his hand. If the snow fight was still going, neither of you was paying too much attention to it. Let alone Remus, who was really struggling not to let the feeling of you pressed against his back get the best of him. Only made worse by the way Sirius’ wrapped his arms around him and pressed himself to the boy as he tried to reach you either way.

Do they not fucking know about personal space?, he thought. But of course, you didn’t, not when the two of you had been cuddling him every other night. Needless to say, it was different for him, he was just cuddling two fluffy animals when he fell asleep –except in those rare occasions Sirius would turn back– meanwhile, both you and Sirius were just cuddling good old Remus. This wasn’t any closer to him than you’d been already.

Remus didn’t speak, he was holding his breath. Sirius kept fucking pressing against him and you kept squirming behind his back. The golden specks of his eyes were so golden they looked like a different colour altogether, more like Moony’s than his own. The chocolaty brown shifting into dangerous and shimmering aureate.

“Moony! Moony help!” you called out in between laughs.

“Don’t you dare, Moons!” Sirius warned.

Sirius pressed harder as you tried to squirm away and it was enough for him to feel bIood run south. He had to stop this before either of you noticed what was happening to him, so he turned around and grabbed both of your shoulders, digging his hands in between your necks and the back of your heads, enough force to get your attention, but not enough to hurt either of the two.

Sirius seemed to be shocked at how much warmer Remus’ hands were in comparison to his, to yours. You were not, you knew Remus tended to run on the warmer side. Hence, cuddling him on cold nights was so useful. “Enough,” he said, flashing his golden eyes at the two of you, the colour slowly sinking back into brown as the two of you looked at him as if his eyes had been those of a basilisk instead of his own, frozen.

And then, you eyed Sirius, a small smirk playing on the corner of your lips as you sank your hands back in the snow. He smirked in return, sinking his hands as well. By the time Remus noticed your intentions, your hands –icy and freezing– were on his neck and Sirius had slid his hand under Remus’ shirt.

Merlin knew who had been more startled after that. You, who had tumbled as you pulled on Remus and had him fall on top of you. Remus who had been shocked at the way Sirius had gone straight for his stomach –which in truth, had been a lot more shocking than the cold– and had his breath hitch in his throat. Or Sirius Black, who was only now contemplating his actions, realizing how awkward it must have been for his friend, and having a mini panic attack over the fact that digging his hands under Remus’ sweater felt as fucking thrilling as it did.

Remus was a lot less soft and a lot more firm than you were. And he adored your softness, but fuck, Remus’ harder frame felt impious under his hands. It felt lurid, licentious, beguiling… and it placed some rather salacious thoughts in his head.

Thoughts that… would be worthy of a muggle rock star. Of Freddie and Bowie, and perhaps even Elton. But Sirius was not– he wasn’t because if he had been… he’d know, right?

As you still had Remus pulled by the neck, you received yet another ball on the head, the leftover even splashing onto Remus whose head was so close to you that you could smell his hair, and then, you started laughing. So hard that you weren’t even feeling the cold against your back, the snow slowly sinking in your robes and soaking them.

Sirius was the next one to laugh, taking his hands off of Remus’ stomach and letting himself fall next to the two of you as he continued to cackle. And lastly, Remus joined, you still hadn’t let go of his neck, almost using it as a personal heater at that point, he didn’t seem to mind, and eventually he just sort of relaxed into you, if you felt the shift in weight as he let go, you didn’t seem to mind at all either.

“Well, well, well, would you look at the love puppies all cosied up while we continue the snowball fight.”

Sirius grabbed a snowball from the side and threw it his way without even looking, and since they all had the missile spell it landed straight onto Peter’s face. “Shut it Wormtail,” he said, borderline rudely.

While Sirius had never minded being called “Love Puppy” or whatever other joke Peter came up with, that was before he started doubting himself about whatever the hell was happening to him whenever he spotted Remus. Especially after exactly what he was feeling after he placed his hands under the other boy’s shirt, especially because it had been so fucking similar to the feeling he got when he did it to you.

“We’re off for breakfast. You are not planning to stay all tangled in your little love trench, are you?” Peter asked again, whipping his face off the snow and paying no mind to Sirius and how rude he’d been.

“We might be,” you joked, your hands had unconsciously travelled to Remus’ head after he laid down and you were now toying with his hair. He had silky hair, a little thicker in comparison to Sirius’ curls. Remus hummed in agreement, closing his eyes as he enjoyed the way your hands felt on his scalp. If Sirius thought it was weird, it had been his fault he ended up on top of you anyway. A part of him was telling him how bad of an argument that was, but it was easy enough to ignore it when Sirius didn’t seem to mind, and your hands felt heavenly.

“Suit yourselves, I heard there was going to be an assortment of Christmas pies today,” he said with a shrug.

Your head snapped his way. “Christmas pies, you said?” you asked, eyes shining and mouth watering at the thought. Your soft touch on Remus’ head switched to an unintended pull of his hair as you turned.

“Ouch!” He complained.

You winced, “Sorry Rem,” you said, not even turning to him as you patted him on the shoulder and wriggled your way out of the sandwich he had trapped you in with the snow. He tried not to look disappointed as he stood back on the small trench. By then you were already standing outside of it, and looking at Peter as if you wanted him to elaborate.

“The elves mentioned something,” he said simply. “Apple, pecan, peach, chocolate, some savoury ones too I assume.”

If you were a cartoon, you’d be drooling. “Well boys, pleasure messing with you and all that, but it’s pie time,” you said as you turned to walk behind Peter and the rest.

“Who’s the traitor now?” Sirius shouted with a smile.

“I’ll save you boys a seat,” was your only reply as you started sprinting towards the Great Hall, determined to be among the first to arrive so you could choose from the assortment of pies available.

The boys caught up with you as you were taking a seat, already having walked through the length of the table and picked out the pies that you’d be eating. When they sat down, Remus at one side of you and Sirius purposely taking the other side to keep some distance from himself and the source of his thoughts. You picked two pies from your plate and placed them in front of each of the boys.

“What’s this?” Remus asked as he picked it up.

You were about to give a bite to one of the tarts you’d picked and said “Pie,” with a shrug, taking a bite right after and moaning at how good it was.

Sirius’ whose head had already been messy that day, had to adjust his pants uncomfortably. First, you woke him up and he couldn’t complete his morning routine, then there was the whole confusing thing whatever the hell was going on in his brain when he was close to Moony and lastly, you moaning shamelessly as you ate.

“No shit Sherlock,” Remus said as he pushed you lightly, shoving you against Sirius whose breath hitched as you laid your cheek on his shoulder and pressed a light kiss. “I mean, what’s it made of?” You sat straight and pushed Remus in return.

“Try it, I know you’ll like it!” you said with a smile and gave another bite to yours. He gave you a distrusting look. “Oh come on, Moony! I wouldn’t give you something you don’t like! You’d get all pissy and Pissy Moony is no fun.”

“Pissy Moony?” he asked, almost offended. “You have a term for that?”

You left your pie on the table and raised his up to his mouth. “Sirius told me about it,” you said, “Now eat up, I promise you’ll like it.”

He gave you one last side eye and then gave it a bite, missing your hands the moment you brought them back to your plate to take a bite of yours.

“Cherries and chocolate,” Remus said with a smile as he turned to you. “I love it. How did you know?”

You shrugged, “I’m just that brilliant.”

“Will you also mouth-feed your boyfriend or is that only reserved for dear Moony?” Sirius flirted, trying to regain some sort of control of the dire situation he found himself in.

Sirius didn’t mean anything by it, but the way he’d said “your boyfriend” straight up felt like a jab on Remus’ heart. Sirius was right, the two of you were dating and he seemed to be intruding more and more lately. But then again, the only times Sirius seemed upset about how close you all were, were when he was teasing.

You rolled your eyes, but decided to take his pie in your hands either way “Close your eyes,” you instructed. Sirius gave you a weary look but did as told. “Try and guess what it is, deal?” you asked as you leaned it closer to his mouth. He leaned enough to give it a bite and then turned to you surprised “Is that…? Does it have firewhiskey?”

You smiled and pulled out a small bottle from your pocket, “Thought you’d like something a little different,” you said with a smile “peaches and firewhiskey.” Sirius took the pie from your hands, his discomfort almost fading in the background as he took a look at the pie you’d given him.

“But how?”

You shrugged “Added the firewhiskey and then did a small warming spell so it cooked a bit. I’m sure it would be better if they were cooked together from the start but I thought you’d appreciate a little spice…”

“I do, wanna taste it?” he asked as he passed it over, you gave it a small bite and all but moaned again, even closing your eyes and letting your head fall back just a little, exposing your neck to both boys, who could barely keep their eyes away from it, especially Remus. “Fuck I’m an incredible cook, Moons taste this out too!” you said as you, for the second time that day, shove a pie close to his face. When he gave a bite he couldn’t help but taste both you and Sirius in it. It really was fucking delicious.

He nodded as Sirius leaned over you to take the pie from Moony, their hands brushing against each other and giving both boys an electric-like feel, not because of actual electrical shock, but rather because of what they felt for each other. Sirius reclined back on his seat and placed his hand on your leg, seeking the hem of your skirt before sliding it over your skin.

Same fucking feeling.

You looked at his hand and nudged him lightly, he gave you a flirty wink in return that made you laugh and Remus tried to avert his gaze from both Sirius’ hand and the way your skirt had ridden up a good deal.

You gave another bite of your pie and turned to Remus, as casually as you could muster –even if you were a bit nervous to ask, which you shouldn’t be because he was your friend– “Wanna come to Slughorn’s Christmas Party with me?” No better time than now, right?

Remus wasn’t so sure about that, he almost choked on his own pie, he wiped his mouth with the back of his sweater before turning to yours with a frown “I’m sorry, what?”

Sirius started drawing circles on your leg, the way your skirt moved with each of his strokes didn’t escape Remus’ nervous gaze on you. “The Christmas Party from the Slug Club, I’m supposed to bring someone with me” –you tilted your face with a smile– “Want to come?”

Remus turned to Sirius, giving him a look, the other boy just shrugged with a nod but that wasn’t enough. “What about Sirius? Your boyfriend?” The words almost hurt to say.

“He doesn't want to come,” you said. “Right, Siri?”

“That’s more your kind of nerd stuff,” he said after he nodded, and pointed at the two of you.

“Slughorn has never invited me, he doesn’t want me there,” he said, not sure if he was supposed to feel dejected because you were his second choice or fucking delighted because you’d want to take him and not Sirius, thought he had to remind himself that you probably did want to take Sirius.

Remus didn’t stop to think that you would have, had you actually wanted to, easily convinced Sirius to come along. Let alone, would he have imagined that you had asked Sirius if you could take him instead.

“That’s exactly why I want to take you”– you said as you placed his hands around his arm– “I want to show that old snake how freakin’ clever my best friend is. You deserved an invitation much more than I did anyway.” Remus gave you a reproachful look when he heard the last thing. “You’re coming, yeah? It’s always fun to prove the snakes how wrong they are with you.”

Sirius smiled. “Come on mate, don’t make her beg,” Sirius said, flicking his finger on your thigh and letting them rest closer to the inner side, still at a prudent distance, and while you did feel the shift, you played it cool and tried not to even look. “Girl might end up taking Pete if you reject her,” he teased.

You elbowed him softly, not because you didn’t want to take Peter, but because he was implying it would be such a terrible choice. Of course, you’d much rather take Remus or even some of your other friends, like Tom or Minho (he was already invited) but that was because you were pretty certain Annie Doxon would hex you if you took her boyfriend. James was going with Lily, so he was completely out of the question.

“Okay,” Remus said with a shrug, trying to seem as natural as possible. “I’ll come but… what about the date though, you know near the end of December it’s the…”

“Moon’s on the 22nd, party is on the 21st. I know it’s just a day before and I’ll totally get it if you’re not feeling up for it by then. I wouldn’t want to make you into a Pissy Moony.”

He pushed you with his shoulder again, “Sod off!” he said jokingly and both you and Sirius started to laugh.

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

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A/N: Some people were asking for a snow day chapter, and this felt about the perfect time for it. Love playing in the snow with the boys <3 Upon some requests, we have a DISCORD server now and you can all join in and chat about marauders and/or GC with other lovely people. If you wanna discuss a new oneshot or even the new chapters of GC this is your place to go. The announcement for it is here and I'll leave links to it on a reblog of this post ad in the comments.

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oddsandends-dirt-to-dust · 6 months ago

Text

The World Ender

Masterlist - (chapters, link to ao3 post, moodboard, and spotify playlist.)

I’m The World Ender, baby, and I’m comin’ for them

Ellie x F Reader - no physical descriptions used apart from afab body parts (though, r is referred to with she/her pronouns), and clothing if necessary. Use of y/n as little as possible.

Summary:

Birthed in fire and shaped in shadows, a survivor in a world that can no longer forgive. Haunted and cleansing, you walk the line between savior and monster. In Jackson – a town that dared to hope, a girl who dared to see you. Blood-soaked hands reaching for redemption in a world that offers none, a peace you can’t uphold.

You never meant to let her in. She finds you where you flee, and together you carve a path through the ruins of the earth, bound by loyalty, pain, the hope of something more.

You’ve taken so much from the world. Will you destroy her too?

Reader is inspired by Jinx (arcane), and the song The World Ender - Lord Huron. Reader is not supposed to be Jinx, just heavily inspired by her character.

Word count: 6k

Warnings(for part1): angst, violence, death, gore, swearing, mental illness (hallucinations and ptsd symptoms), weapons.

A/N: Bored and miss my beloved crazy characters (Jinx) and apocalypse media so I decided to start writing for Ellie.

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PART 1 - The Reckoning Begins

Sunlight emptied into the barn through the open hay-door, soaking the brown wood of the loft golden like whiskey. The barn was an old and dusty thing, with missing planks of wood all over its walls, and jagged holes in its high gable roof. It had been retired long ago; forgotten hay bales and rusty farm equipment lay ragged throughout. There was an abundance of ancient, crumbling barns in the fields around Jackson, but this one was your favorite. It lay so close to the walls it was almost an insult, but then again, you had long learned that Jackson had no use for broken, half-empty things like this barn.

It was a refuge to you now, the old beast of timber and rotting oak. You came here often, when you needed the space, away from the bustling town and its all-embracing people. Jackson was nice, it was homely, and steady, and it worked. Jackson was too nice.

When you’d arrived a year ago, the community was welcoming, the parties were jolly, the walls were comforting. Suffocatingly so. After a while, you couldn’t help but long for the city, the giant buildings and endless possibilities. You had never wanted for a home.

You watched the dust curl in the gilded air below, tapping a ringed finger on the gauged and chipped support beam beneath you. You had a nice view from up here, right in the shadowed brain of the barn. You could see the whole loft below, littered with your trinkets and most important belongings, and right into the swarms of green hills and rocky mountains that rested outside the wide hay door. Bigger than most, it almost reached the roof. It was definitely one of the main selling points, when you were searching for your safe house weeks after moving here.

You had never intended to stay, just wanted a break from the things that crept up during the lonely nights in the cities you travelled through. The silence had been driving you crazy, and before long even the loud music you’d blast through your headphones couldn't quell the screaming voices, the roiling fire in your gut, the images that danced behind your eyes. But you’d never intended to stay.

Creaks burst through the barren barn, accompanied by the throbbing thuds of footsteps on wood. Someone was climbing your ladder. Hands reached the lip of the balcony, and the person pulled themself over and onto the weathered wood of your loft. The only person who knew what lay in this useless, unassuming place.

You watched Ellie walk over to the open doors, examine the scenery beyond. You imagined her winding thoughts of scribbled trees and steeps, imagined the beautiful illustration she could render into her battered notebook.

She turned, tucked a stray auburn lock behind her ear. She looked around. She didn’t touch anything.

“You gonna come out? You have a guest, it’s rude to hide.” Her low voice reverberated through the leached, crooked planks around you both.

“I don’t hide.” You replied.

Her eyes found you, lighter in the sun that warmed the right side of her face. She sparkled.

“How do you even climb in those heavy-ass shoes?” She asked, eyebrows knotted as she gazed up at you, head tipped like something holy.

“Practice, experience, inane talent.” You tilted your head.

Her eyes drifted, and before she could articulate whatever smart-ass response lay on her tongue, they latched onto the rope hanging from the beam you perched on, swaying softly in the breeze. She paused; mouth open. Her eyes scrunched and something like concern painted her perfect features.

“Is that a noose?” She asked, voice strained.

Ellie stepped back, found you again, hands fisted on the bottom hem of her plaid shirt, white-knuckled.

You reached down below the beam, grabbed the stray rope and heaved your body from the safety of the wood. You slid down the rope, hooked your foot into the looped noose, hands burning from the tough fibres. You held yourself there, hanging high above the straw-strewn floor, before the loft where she stood. You pulled at the rope, pushed with your foot, until you were pendulating like a branch in a storm.

“It’s a swing.” You grinned at her.

She looked down to the floor way below, back up to your precarious position on the rope.

“Uh...” Her soft voice trailed off as her verdant eyes burned into you.

You rolled yours in return.

“Relax. It’s a metaphor.” You said. “A reminder.”

She blinked. Silence settled for a while, before she sighed loudly.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ellie turned from you, hand rubbing at her face as she sat down against the back wall.

“Want a real answer?” You rocked back and forth through the empty air. You had never been scared of heights. High places were good – safe.

“Yes.” She played with a stray thread that poked from her tattered, stained jeans.

You ignored her. There was something wrong with everyone these days, and you didn’t engage in pointless conversations.

“Why are you in here?” You asked.

Ellie shrugged.

“Why are you in here, tying a noose?” She asked, voice hard with faux animosity.

“Told you why.”

“Okay, a reminder of what?” She jerked her chin at the rope supporting you.

“A reminder of what’s waiting for us all. Nice things don’t last in this world.” You said, legs aching with effort.

She licked her lips like she was tasting the cryptic statement, trying to decipher its meaning.

“Nice things?” She relented.

The wind blew through the barn, soft and cool. It ruffled your hair.

“Jackson’s been here too long.” You said, simply.

You almost felt sorry for entering the town. Witnessing the place, its residents, everyone working so hard to run something so dangerous. Bad things followed you, always had. You normally let communities be, didn’t dare to cross their gates, left them to rot in their ignorance. But you’d needed a rest from yourself and the isolation. You hadn’t intended to stay this long.

“Jackson’s strong. The people who run it, they’ve been living in this world since the beginning. Since before. They know what they’re doing.” She said.

You blinked at her.

“Everything has an ending. The valuable things have the most violent ones.” You said, eyes breezing over her freckled face. Something ached in your chest. You tried not to grimace at the unwelcome feeling.

Frustration barrelled through you. You swung back on the rope, tensing for impact, and let yourself fly as it lurched forward. Your feet landed on the loft with a clunk, sending dust into the air around you. The thick chains weaved through your chunky black boots, fashioned as laces, rattled and tinkled with the force. Ellie just watched; you couldn’t read her face.

You stretched your stiff fingers, stalked forward towards your music collection. You jammed a CD into your player, hit a button, and soon the jumpy melodies whirled gently through the old beast encompassing you. Cobwebs, dust, and old bits of hay pulsated as another breeze ebbed through, stronger this time, strong enough to make the barn creak and sing. The walls breathed and the air was filled with an earthy smell, and the barn seemed more alive than you would ever be.

Shadows danced. Your head buzzed.

No place tranquil as this in the cities. Always groaning, screaming, dried blood and desecrated bodies. Always bones and rot, not gentle rot like the barn’s, just wounds and the omittance of aliveness. Always buildings, full not empty, full of personhood, full of days gone and memories burned, and ownerless belongings, and things that were not yours but just yours to take. Did it count as stealing if everyone was dead?

You’d long left morals behind, left feeling, left thinking. Left humanity behind – but now here you were in the budding, pounding heart of it. Your throat tightened as you paced around the space.

“So why do you stay here?” Ellie asked, breaking through the cloak of rumbling around you.

Your eyes darted to her; you stopped dead in the middle of the loft. Her face held some sort of emotion you still couldn’t make out. Probably worry, or discomfort. Your words were too blunt for most. Crude, dangerous, they whispered around town. The people were sheltered, clueless, had been stagnant too long. That was the real danger.

You couldn’t answer her question, couldn’t find an answer in the swirling jumble of your mind.

“Something must’ve changed for you. You’ve been here a year. You really don’t believe in this place at all?” She pushed, toeing an old rusty bolt with her dirty converse.

You tipped your head, considered for a moment. You’d never had a problem with socializing, despite your reclusive nature, you knew how to talk to people. Probably thanks to the countless books you’d read and discarded over your life, and the small settlement you were raised in, before it had crumbled like most things, and you'd been launched into the slanted world outside its fences alone – too young. You knew you had your issues, but you were normal enough to get by when you wanted to be. On the outside.

Things inside you were certainly not to be described as remotely normal or personable, hardly human in fact. It wasn’t your fault. The world was harsh, cruel, empty. You’d learned that at an early age. You had adapted.

Had you now adapted to communal life? The thought bred something sharp in you. Had you truly let yourself get weak, needing, attached?

Clearly.

Leaving had always been easy. You were the thing that couldn’t stay. You were smart, and had now grown stupid. So stupid. Because, now, leaving felt hard, and empty. And some small part of you lurched for the auburn-haired girl staring at you, lurched for the place she belonged to, full of people and things and life.

“I don’t know.” Your head lowered. Your hands ached for violence, for breaking and undoing. “I guess.” You admitted, tone sounding alien to yourself.

Ellie stood. She edged closer to you. Her body language reminded you of the deer you hunted, dragged into town by their ankles.

“Look, I get it. The city’s... cool. But dangerous.” She spoke. “You can’t have a life out there. You can’t live like that forever.”

Your face twisted as something beat at your gut.

“Jackson can’t live forever, Ellie.”

She looked like she was going to argue, just for a moment. It was one of the things you liked about the girl – her fierce loyalty and the fervency with which she defended it.

But then her face softened, before that familiar mask of playful bravado slotted over her features.

“Wanna bet?” She smirked – but you could see the hesitance lurking beneath. “Seriously, I bet one day we’ll be nasty old ladies with no teeth and diapers and you’ll owe me your whole comic collection.” She looked pleased with herself, as she crooked her head at you.

You let her have that one. She was trying so hard to combat the cynical taste of your voice, and it brought such sickening softness to your gut. You needed the weakening feeling gone – needed it replaced with something hotter, something burning.

“Not a fair bet.” You teased. “If I win, you’ll be dead, and won’t be able to give me what I want from you.”

Her brows flicked up – her smile seeming less put on now, but not any less tentative.

“And what would that be?” She asked, voice thick.

You raked your eyes over her body, slow and deliberate, noting the way her feet shifted against the old wood.

“I’m sure you can figure it out.”

Her lips pressed together, eyes scrunching slightly. She seemed to be winded – or deliberating some silent thought.

You couldn’t control your words. This feeling bubbled up inside you sometimes, alone with Ellie, alone with yourself and the residual thoughts she left in you. It was an easy thing, instinctual, the most natural thing you’d felt in many years. It was hard not to give in to it – to her.

“Of course I can figure it out, I’m not a socially-inept hermit like you. You want me to help you lose your virginity because you probably won’t get another chance out there.” She looked amused, despite her rambling words. “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

You stepped closer to her. Closer. She didn’t falter as you came to a stop inches from her warm body. You looked into her pretty face. She stared back, ghost of a smile on her mouth, eyes glistening in the afternoon sun.

She’d grown braver in the recent weeks, as the intensity of your flirty comments had heightened. The tight-chested breaths, avoidant eyes and blushing cheeks had filtered away, and it seemed she’d somewhat tightened a grip on her flustered nature around you. You sort of missed it, but then again, the hungry look growing in her eyes was just as much fun.

“You want to hear me say all the things I want to do to you?” You asked, heat curling around your insides like a cat purring before a fire.

Her eyelids lowered; plump lips pressed into a line.

Your words grew bold and brazen at her unbridled reaction, the air turning heady and electrified, and you couldn’t fight through it – couldn't find the sense to stop yourself.

“And all the places I want you to feel me... touch me?” You asked, voice low and smooth.

Her breath trembled. Those hungry eyes drifted to your mouth.

“Are your lips one of those places?”

You bit your bottom lip, nodding. Your stomach tightened – burned deliciously with a feeling you didn’t care to name. You just wanted more of it.

Her face inched forward for a moment, before an echoic sound met your ears and she turned painfully far away from you, to the entrance of the barn across the low floor below.

“Can you two get your asses to town? You’re needed.” Jesse hollered up to you, hands on his hips like a disapproving parent.

Ellie’s eyes shuttered.

“You have the worst timing, you know that?” She shouted back. You admired the little spikes of shining hair sticking out of her bun, her sloping neck and the pale chest it led to, disappearing beneath her t-shirt.

“I have the worst timing? The vote is happening – right now, the vote you were supposed to be getting y/n for, and instead you’re getting hot and heavy in a shitty, old barn.” He retorted, turning back towards the entrance.

Ellie scoffed.

“We- we were not getting hot and heavy.” She said, lurching past you, aiming for the ladder. “God, how old are you? You sound like Joel.” Her voice faded as she lowered herself to the floor and marched towards the doors where Jesse was now exiting.

You sighed, turning for the ladder. You slid down it swiftly, not bothering with the rungs. Your legs felt weak as you echoed their departing, walking past the many abandoned stalls of the barn. Once through the doors the sky opened up, bright and vast, nowhere to hide from it.

The field around you was yellowed and dry, but the trees far beyond were green like Ellie’s eyes.

They waited for you in the scratched truck Jesse had claimed his own. Through the open door you could hear Ellie complaining at his dramatics, since town was only a twenty-minute walk away.

“Didn’t want you two getting lost in the woods.” He simpered, as you edged into the truck, filling the only empty seat left beside Ellie.

“Shut up, dude.”

You slammed the door shut and the whole truck rattled with it.

“Are you two ever actually gonna do anything? Or just torture everyone else with your empty flirting and intense stares?” He asked, twisting the keys. The truck rumbled to life harshly. It sounded like it was choking.

“When would we ever have time for that? You’re so needy.” Ellie grumbled. She slouched in her seat, legs spreading. Your thighs pressed together, hers warm and steady against you. Your heart throbbed. Neither of you looked at each other but the tension felt thick and strained between you.

The truck started moving, tumbling over the rocky ground.

You weren’t sure what you were doing with the girl. You had made quick friends, enjoyed each other's company along the boring patrols, and boring nights in town. You weren’t sure exactly when the feelings inside had morphed into something different. Something sickly and aching. Something dangerous. But you wouldn’t let it go too far. You never had, and you never intended to. Because attachments were dangerous, like a bear trap or quicksand, and you had always been careful not to feed them.

The truck was silent aside from the droning of the engine. Trees shot past the dirty windows.

“Was that a noose hanging from the support beam?” Jesse broke out.

You looked to your feet – the footwell where your dark boots rested beside those well-loved converse.

“It’s a metaphor.” Ellie said.

You almost smiled. Almost.

“You should borrow it.” You said to Jesse.

Ellie looked to you then, gaze drifting over your face. She didn’t say anything.

“Such a kind offer, y/n, but I have one at home already.” He shrugged. “I tighten it a little every time I have to come and save one of your sorry-asses before you invoke Maria’s wrath again.” He drummed his fingers on the worn-out steering wheel.

“Seriously, Jesse. You should take my advice, before you invoke my wrath.” You spoke, with no trace of the sarcasm that he'd held in his tone.

He sighed lowly.

“The vote is the fair thing to do. You can save your advice for the ballot box.”

“Fair?” Anger prickled in you, sharp and brittle – dangerous.

You thought back to Ellie’s words and scoffed. They were going to get the whole town killed.

“See why I didn't want to be the one to get her?” Ellie mumbled.

“You know you agree with me; they should hang him.” You told her, bitingly.

Ellie sighed a little, but didn’t deny your claim. Her quiet allegiance only strengthened your resolve.

“We don't execute people.” Jesse said.

Maria's words. She'd looked at you like you were crazy when you'd suggested it. And maybe you were. So, you'd tried to see things her way, but all you had were your eyes, and the things they'd seen – of the greedy people you'd encountered, the things that greed drove them to do.

Punishment or banishment. Those were the options for the vote, she’d reiterated. Let the criminal stay in the town, revoke privileges and keep a careful eye. Or cast him out.

Idiocy.

“What did the guy even do again?” Ellie asked, staring through the windshield. Her leg bounced.

“You would know, if you were at the hearing like you were supposed to be.” Jesse scolded.

She threw him a look you couldn’t see.

“He stole. Food, ammunition, whatever he could get his hands on. He’s been warned before. Too many times before. Maria says he’s done.”

The world outside the windows opened up into dirt roads, meaning you were nearing the town. Your insides soured.

“What did you vote?” Ellie asked.

Jesse rested his elbow on the window edge. He rubbed at his face.

“The option I think is best.” He said.

Ellie pursed her lips.

“They won’t seriously let him go, will they?”

“If that’s what the people decide.” He muttered.

You deigned to stay silent, writhing with fire and frustration.

“Maria doesn’t want to play dictator. Or God.” Jesse added.

The gates rose up ahead of you.

—

The vote had been cast and the verdict reached.

Banishment.

As you stood before the gate with the other residents, your vision writhed blurrily. Your head swam with a whirlpool of vile thoughts. The floor beneath you felt like marshmallow.

The community gathered around you buzzed with whispers. The morons had signed their own death warrants and now watched idly, murmuring like school children, as that asshole got ready to walk from their gates and into the poisonous world beyond. Humans were hopeful things. Hopeful, and trusting, and ignorant. That was why so many now lay dead, and the world crumbled around their corpses.

The man, who Tommy was now handing a bag filled with basic necessities and weapons, was a sickness. Those who stole out of greed and not desperation, those who were filled with selfishness and corruption, could not be trusted with life. You had seen him around town often, his fake smile, pretty words, helpful gestures. A mask.

Your bleary eyes were stuck on him, in-between the decorated storefronts, pubs, and eateries around, the sickness they were letting go free, instead of stomping out before his disease could spread. His face showed a mask of trepidation, shame, sorrow. But you could see the real man in the dark pits of his eyes. Sparks flickered in your gut.

Someone came up beside you, stood there wordlessly. She smelled of musky pine and something homely.

Jesse stood with Maria and her husband, before the man with death in his eyes. Memories lurched forward.

Men with the eyes and the grins and the foul smell. Knives and bullets and blood. Blood, blood, blood. Eyes that always searched, always found, always took. Hands that ended, mouths that laughed. Your head swayed.

Snaps and cracks echoed through you. Bones that shattered and heads that popped and lifeless eyes of corpses and the men that made them.

His eyes.

you’re going to let him walk? are you insane? they're going to come here and rip this place to shreds

DEAD DEAD DEAD

Your body was numb and your gun was heavy in your waistband. Your gaze was stuck on him. Even as Ellie attempted to rouse you, even as she pulled at your arm softly and spoke into your ear.

You blinked.

“Y/n?” Her voice echoed.

You turned to her, finally, offered a small, ghostly smile.

“Don’t worry.” You spoke. “It’ll be fine.”

Her face held confusion. Her auburn hair glowed in the fading sun. And her eyes glowed too, emerald like a summer tree and just as alive.

You turned back to the sickness. He began his march to the tall, logged gate, and your feet followed. Down the dirty path, past the residents, past the little stores and markets and lights hung around. People stared, unassuming, but curious nonetheless. Everyone stared here, everyone watched you. You ignored it.

The man was close now, your feet latched into his footsteps, your legs carried you forward.

You passed Maria and the men, heard her whispered commands but didn’t stop. Tommy reached for you gently, trying not to cause a scene. His warm hand encircled your forearm, his body trailed beside you as you strode for the man. The wind blew right through you

“What are you doin’, kid?” He asked. His voice droned like thunder, too far away.

Your hand reached behind your back. The man ahead of you, no more than five feet, began to turn.

Your right arm snapped up, metal comfortable in your palm, your finger tensed and the trigger clicked before a shot rang out, causing birds to flee from their branches and voices to shout.

The sickness before you turned to red rivers and splattered thoughts. His empty body thudded to the floor, half-turned and mouth agape.

Then you were on the floor like him, your gun skidding away into the dirt and your arms held into the path below. A face stared into yours – Tommy, a moment too late. His eyebrows high and eyelids wide. Something warm soaked into your scalp, your shoulder, as the carnal rivers made their own paths through the dirt and rocks and found their maker.

He pulled you up then, your body felt too heavy for your legs but they didn’t falter.

“Get her inside, now.” Maria ground out; her aging face filled with something fiery.

The people around stared still, some at the empty thing on the floor, some at you, their faces filled with horror, shock – such juvenile expressions. They had become accustomed to the soft flow of life inside the walls. For too long, they had only known the gentle deaths of the seasons, of the days and nights. They had forgotten what real death looked like. What the world really held beyond their humble town, its forests and hills.

You found refuge in the patrol-men, the handful of people in this place who were still subjected to the cruel earth and its greedy things. You knew they, at least, would understand.

You knew Ellie would understand, as you caught her gaze in the crowd, and her face held no horror. No terror. Her face was just her own, just watching. And you just watched back until Tommy stepped into your vision, arm around your shoulder as he guided you towards his shared home.

—

Maria sat behind her desk, hands clasped tightly on the surface, her posture as rigid as her expression. Her blue eyes bore into you like winter. You slouched in the stiff chair beneath you, arms draped over its own, fingers dangling limp. The air between you stretched taut and silent, holding the weight of your actions like a brand.

It was a while of that before she spoke.

“I don’t even know what to say to you.”

You let out a sharp huff, rolling your eyes.

“What? All the kids were inside.”

Maria’s face twisted, the muscles in her jaw flexing as her lips flattened. She leaned back in her chair, exhaling through her nose in a way that screamed exasperation.

“The people in this town came here to escape the kind of violence you exhibited today.” She said, her tone clipped.

“You mean they came to hide from it.” You shot back. “It'll find them eventually. They need to be ready.”

Shadows danced in the corners of the room. Your gaze flicked to the window to your right, where dusk spilled into the room, soft and hazy like a faded bruise. The last golden light of the dying sun clung to the edges of Maria’s face, deepening the lines of her weariness.

“We're still people. Humanity is what we're trying to uphold here.” She said, voice low and steady. “They took a vote and you disregarded their decision, that isn't fair.”

Her words pricked at you, but you didn’t let them land on your features. Instead, you shrugged, a smug smile curling your lips.

“You’re supposed to be leading these people. You know he couldn’t be let back out there with the knowledge of this place, what you have and how you work.” You said – smooth, calculated. “You should be thanking me, I know you wanted rid of him too.”

The words spilled slick as oil, satisfaction followed. You glanced at her face, searching for some crack of acknowledgement, some proof that she knew you were right. But her expression remained drawn, her mouth pressed into a hard line.

It didn’t matter. The tension in your gut had disappeared, the blood drying tight onto your shoulders felt like a hug. The town was safe again, for a while at least. Until some other monster found it.

“You aren’t allowed guns inside the town, y/n. That was the deal.” She reminded you, voice twinged with a sharp edge.

You laughed, dry and humorless.

“Oh man, are you gonna banish me too? Bummer.”

Maria stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the wooden floor. She braced her hands on the desk, leaning forward as her shadow stretched long across the room.

“You think I want to send a young girl back out there alone? I’m trying to help you but you’re making it impossible.” Her voice rose, tight with frustration. “You just killed someone in front of the whole town – with a gun you weren’t supposed to have.”

Her words struck like hammer blows. You wet your lips, head quirking.

“I only raise my gun to danger. You might think I’m crazy, but I can assure you – I have morals.”

Maria let out a breath, heavy and worn. She turned away, pacing behind her desk with her arms crossed.

More shadows gathered in the corners of the room, curling and swaying. Your head dizzied in the silence. You tried to focus on the stiff chair beneath you instead of the way your chest hollowed out and your throat tightened up. You let out a breath.

You flicked your eyes to the corner behind Maria’s contemplating form. There was nothing there.

this town is dead, why are you here? the people are gone; they’re bags of bones and blood and memory

You sat up straight. Blinked through the blur.

She stopped pacing and turned to face you; her expression softer now but no less firm.

“I need to take a few days to think about your next steps here.”

“Come on.” You drawled, feigning disbelief. “You know he needed to go. You know you’re grateful.” You carved a grin across your cheeks.

Her face was so fake. Her words were such bullshit. There was no way in hell she was intending to let him get through the east woods alive.

You were glad to give the residents a real show. A real reminder.

Maria’s face was unreadable now. Her blue eyes narrowed, sharp, like she was seeing something you couldn’t.

“Careful.” She warned.

The satisfaction in your chest fizzled to ash. Your throat felt dry; your pulse uneven. There was no use in arguing. These people were blinded with blissful fantasies, feeble dreams.

“Can I go?” You blurted. “I don’t like walking in the dark.”

Maria stared at you for a moment – these people were always staring. Then, something softened her face. Something like pity. It made your skin crawl.

You stood swiftly, turning on your heel. You pushed through the door before she could say anything else, letting it slam shut behind you.

The hall beyond was dim, the air thick and cold. Your steps echoed as you moved toward the front door, your chest tight with something unbearable. The buzz in your body had shifted to something sharper, something angrier. Air couldn’t quell your lungs and annoyance breached in you. Why were you here?

Shadows swirled at the edges of your vision. You passed a strung-up mirror, glanced into it as you passed, feet freezing mid-step. The reflection staring back was jarring. Bloody. Deathly.

Blood streaked your shoulders, dark and dried in your charred and fizzled hair, staining your skin. Your skin... your skin worn away in great, blistered patches. Red and angry, weeping and sizzling. Burned down to the bone – wan white planes peeking out from your cheeks, your nose, your chin. Your eyes black pits of death – not like the sickness – just gone. Empty. Missing.

Musky smoke cloistered your nostrils, tears dribbled down your face. The smell turned to taste in the back of your throat, thick and acrid, bitterly sweet on your tongue.

DEAD DEAD DEAD

You rubbed at your face, your hands trembling against the heated, raised wrecks of your skin. You stumbled back, a shudder running through you. You didn’t belong here – with the people. Your heart battered your ribs as you flew through the front door, gasping for air.

Outside, the streets glowed faintly under lamplight and strung bulbs, but they were quiet as you made your way past houses and into the town center.

It was barren, despite the early hour. The sun hadn’t long left and normally there would be people shuffling around, in and out of the pubs and eateries. Your battered body carried you through the buildings, feet moving on instinct.

You skirted the edge of the cemetery, kept your gaze forward on the path, refusing to look at the rows of weathered headstones.

where you belong. you're just as dead as the town. deader. ashes and bone, and nothingness. nothing in you to leave behind. nothing left to rot. nothing

You quickened your pace down the dirt path, around the corner, down the next empty street, teeth clenched. Finally, the outline of your little house came into view. Its white wooden panels gleamed faintly under the glow of the string lights you’d hung haphazardly across its outer walls. The garden lamps scattered across the grass of the lawn lit up the dark like tiny beacons.

Some neighbors had complained about the brightness, you had helpfully enlightened them to the concept of curtains. You needed the light. The shadows that hunted you grew hungry in the deep of night. Sometimes night was useful - the cover of darkness a helpful tool. Other times… it was a cage.

You scaled the porch with stiff fingers and unsteady feet, heaving yourself onto its roof. You found the window of your room, dragged it open and slipped inside. The cold air followed you in, curling against your cheeks as you latched the window shut behind you.

You turned to your room.

It was a strange sight, even after months in Jackson. A room of your own, a place you could truly claim, most of your belongings all together – a space untouched by ash, blood, desperation. The air was cold but clean, the faint smell of paint and paper lingering beneath the chill. Unclaimed by the mayhem outside the walls of the town, a fragile thing in a fragile place.

You’d even decorated. Carefully, deliberately - not like the hastily strung string-lights you would set up in your abandoned buildings as you trekked through cities. And more of your things littered the desk to your right, claiming it. Your bed rested to your left, covered in plushy pillows and linen blankets.

In Jackson, you’d had time to craft little paper stars to hang along with your lights. And you’d even painted designs on the walls, swirls and spirals and doodles. Not like the graffiti you left in wrecked malls and broken-down hospitals. Real art, a claim that said – I am here. This is mine.

The feeling the strange sight left in you was conflicting. It was nice to have a place, with a comfortable bed, in a cosy town.

But it made some other part of you sick. You felt as much a fraud as that man you’d ended today. Like you were pretending, ignorantly bliss.

You were a warring person.

Sighing out, you pulled your heavy boots off, letting them clatter to the floor.

A startling chirping sound echoed through the home below you, jarring you from your thoughts. You knew only one person would be ringing your door at this time.

You slung the window open again, stuck your head through, the chilled air swarming your face as you peered down.

Ellie stood on the path below, hands shoved into her zipped hoodie, head quirked as she watched you.

She was bathed in warm amber from the lights; the complete opposite of the dark silhouettes you’d usually catch roaming beyond your window.

“Do you want me to climb up again?” She called, a smirk tugging at her lips. Her voice was low, teasing, but there was something soft in the way she looked at you.

She held no judgment in her tone. But you supposed it was strange to keep making her enter your home through the upstairs window, when you had a perfectly working front door.

“The key’s under the pot.” You called back.

Ellie arched a brow, her smirk widening.

“Seriously? I thought a paranoid, street-smart person like you would have a less generic hiding spot for her keys.” Ellie shouted.

You sent her a crude gesture before slamming the window.

You listened as the front door opened and shut, listened as her gentle footsteps travelled up the stairs. Something spun in your stomach as she approached. Something that tingled, stole your breath.

You crossed the room to the heavy bookshelf wedged against your bedroom door. Its edges scuffed from years of use, by someone other than you. Your fingers curled around the wood. With a low grunt, you dragged it aside, your muscles straining under the effort, the sound of scraping wood cutting through the silence.

You reached for the handle, the door creaking as you pulled it open. Ellie’s face came into view, her eyes searching yours, cautious but familiar. She hesitated on the threshold, her feet scuffing softly on the worn floorboards. The corners of her mouth curled into a small smile.

#ellie williams #ellie the last of us #ellie willams x reader #ellie x fem reader #ellie x you #ellie williams smut #ellie williams fic #ellie williams fanfic #wlw #ellie williams x reader smut #tlou2 #the last of us fandom #the last of us fanfiction

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rd0265667 · 5 months ago

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Magenta x Reader: Of Seasons and Symphonies

A/N: This is a fic that might not catch as many of your eyes, given that Qwer and Magenta aren't as big as the usual groups I write for, but I do hope you guys read this and hope this helps to kickstart the QWER fanfic community

Spring

This isn’t a fairytale. Not even close. Fairytales don’t begin in places like this, where hope feels like a ghost, faint and fleeting, like it’s forgotten why it came in the first place. Once upon a time, the world was flawed but breathtaking—messy and wild in a way that almost felt intentional, like it was daring us to do better. We had room to grow, to screw up, to try again. Choices, too—ones we didn’t always get right, but at least they were ours.

But now? Now, you look out the window and see what’s left. A fractured mosaic of humanity, held together by threads so fragile they shimmer, ready to snap under their own weight. Down there, in the shadows of something that used to matter, people don’t live so much as survive, clawing their way through each day because the alternative isn’t any better. And up here, in a palace of glass and gleaming steel, you just watch. Helpless. Or worse—complicit. You wished you could do something about it. But everything had changed too quickly, and now, there is nothing to do but watch.

The world didn’t fall apart slowly. It didn’t even give us time to grieve what we were losing. One moment, there was a path forward; the next, the ground had disappeared under our feet. But even then, we had a chance to fix it. We could’ve fought for what was left, planted our feet, and rebuilt. Instead, we ran.

We turned our backs on the flames and pointed to the stars. Mars. It started like all big ideas do—idealistic, hopeful, wildly expensive. A handful of the world’s wealthiest pooled their fortunes to terraform a planet and call it paradise. And in a way, it worked. Mars became everything Earth could no longer be—pristine, abundant, perfect. A utopia, if you could afford the price of entry.

At first, it was just the billionaires who boarded the ships, their wealth carving out seats for their families and a few carefully chosen friends. Then it was the upper class, the “almost rich,” their one-way tickets bought with every penny they had. The rest of us stayed behind, watching the rockets vanish into the atmosphere, one by one, taking the future with them.

Governments tried to step in, to level the playing field, but the math never added up. The cost of salvation was always just out of reach. What remained of Earth became a pyramid scheme of survival. At the top, the upper-middle class lived comfortably enough to forget how bad things really were, literally living upon mountains, as if to emphasise their self supposed superiority. Below them, the rest of humanity scraped by, scavenging scraps of a once-golden age, living more like cave dwellers than citizens of the 21st century.

“Focus,” your mother snapped, her sharp tone slicing through the room like the crack of a whip. You dragged your gaze away from the window, back to the banquet table, its surface an explosion of opulence. Gilded plates, sparkling crystal, an array of dishes so rich and vibrant they almost looked alive. Lifeless. It was suffocating. Just like everything else here.

“Apologies, Mother,” you murmured, though the words felt as hollow as the polished silver centerpiece. You should be used to this by now. The rigidness, the rehearsed movements, the unspoken rules that turned every family meal into a performance. And yet, it still felt foreign.

“As I was saying,” your mother continued, turning to the butler who stood stiffly in the corner, “the trespassing problem. What’s the latest update, Beakley?”

Beakley cleared his throat, his voice as measured and flat as always. “There has been an uptick in attempts to breach the mountain barriers. The enforcement units have dealt with the intruders.”

Dealt with. Such a tidy little phrase for what he really meant.

“And those trying to leave?” your mother pressed.

Beakley didn’t miss a beat. “A few individuals have been caught attempting to descend into the slums. They were… managed.”

“Sneaking into the slums?” your father scoffed, his voice thick with amusement. “How utterly moronic.” He chuckled, low and earthy, and your siblings joined in, their laughter ringing out like the clink of champagne flutes.

You didn’t laugh. You couldn’t. You just sat there, hands clenched in your lap, forcing your face into an expression that wouldn’t betray the disgust curling in your stomach.

They laughed. Laughed as the world burned.

The dinner continued with that lifeless conversation, you and your siblings finally being excused. As you gazed out from your balcony, you sighed, looking out at the open lands below you. It smelt of Spring. You used to love Spring.

You leaned against the railing, letting your gaze drift across the dark landscape. That’s when you noticed it—a break in the fence. Small, almost unnoticeable, but there. A jagged edge where the metal had bent or rusted away. No guards patrolled nearby.

And then, you heard it.

A voice, soft and low, carried on the breeze, accompanied by the twang of a bass guitar. A song, lilting and sweet, threaded with melancholy so raw it made your chest tighten. The melody danced just beyond reach, but the voice—hers—was unmistakable. It wasn’t just singing; it was an invitation. A tether to something real, something alive, somewhere down there in the darkness.

You pressed a hand to the cold railing, your pulse quickening. For the first time in ages, you felt something stir in you—something reckless, something alive.

The song lingered in the air, tugging at you like a thread unraveling a tightly wound spool. You gripped the railing, your knuckles white against the polished metal, and stared at the jagged tear in the fence below. The world up here, pristine and glittering, suddenly felt suffocating—an artificial cage that smelled of rosewater and desperation. Down there, in the shadows beyond the break in the fence, was something raw and untamed. Real.

Your heart hammered in your chest, each beat urging you forward. You stepped back into your room, quickly pulling on a dark coat over your dinner clothes, its hood heavy enough to mask your face. There was no time to think, no time to second-guess what you were about to do.

The halls were silent, their marble floors gleaming under soft, calculated lighting. You moved quickly, your steps light, your breath shallow. The guards wouldn’t expect anyone to leave the compound. Why would they? No one in their right mind would trade gilded cages for the chaos below.

But the chaos was calling you.

You slipped through a side door near the kitchens, your pulse quickening as the cold night air wrapped around you. The fence wasn’t far, the jagged edge glinting faintly in the moonlight. You crouched low, keeping to the shadows as you moved closer, every rustle of the wind making you freeze in place.

When you reached the fence, your fingers brushed the rough metal, and you hissed as a sharp edge nicked your palm. You ignored the sting and pressed on, tugging at the damaged section. The metal groaned, loud enough to send a spike of panic through your chest.

“Come on,” you whispered, the words barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat.

Finally, the gap was wide enough. You slipped through, the jagged edges catching on your coat as you emerged on the other side. The ground here was different—uneven and raw, dirt kicking up beneath your shoes. You were outside the perimeter for the first time in your life.

For a moment, you just stood there, your breath clouding in the night air, the fence a silent sentinel behind you. And then you heard it again—the song.

It was closer now, the voice clearer, rich and haunting. The melody wound through the darkness like a ribbon, pulling you forward. You followed it, your steps cautious at first, then quicker as the song grew louder. The air smelled different here, earthier, filled with the sharp tang of something alive.

She was sitting under a cherry tree, the blossoms stark and ghostly in the moonlight, her bass guitar resting across her lap. Her fingers moved over the strings with a practiced ease that made the song feel effortless, though you could hear the ache in every note. Her head tilted slightly, the movement revealing sharp cheekbones and the soft curve of her mouth, a contrast that stole the air from your lungs.

You hadn’t realized you’d stopped until the music did.

Her head snapped up, and her eyes—dark and unflinching—landed on you. For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then she stood, the guitar hanging loosely from its strap over her shoulder, and planted her boots firmly on the ground.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the stillness.

The warmth of her song was gone, replaced by a razor-sharp edge that made you hesitate. She crossed her arms, her stance radiating defiance, as if daring you to take one more step.

“I…” You faltered, suddenly feeling foolish. What could you say that wouldn’t make this worse? “I heard your song.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You heard my song?” she repeated, her voice dripping with disbelief. “And you thought that was an invitation to waltz on over like this is your backyard?”

“No,” you said quickly, your heart pounding. “It’s not like that. I just… I couldn’t stay up there anymore.”

Her eyes narrowed, her gaze dropping to your coat, your shoes—both of which were far too clean, far too well-made for anyone who belonged here. “Up there,” she echoed, her voice thick with disdain. “Of course.”

She stepped closer, and you could feel the tension radiating off her in waves. “Let me guess,” she said. “You got bored of your glass palace? Thought you’d come slumming it with the rest of us for a little excitement?”

Her words hit like a slap, but you held your ground. “It’s not like that,” you said, your voice firmer now. “I left because… because I needed to. I can’t explain it, but when I heard you—”

“Oh, I see,” she interrupted, her tone mocking. “You heard a pretty song and decided to go on a little adventure. Must be nice to have that kind of freedom.”

“It’s not freedom,” you said, your chest tightening. “There’s nothing free about it. You think I don’t know what this means? That I don’t know what’ll happen if they catch me down here?”

For the first time, her expression faltered. Her eyes flicked to the fence in the distance, then back to you, as if weighing your words against her instincts. “Then why risk it?” she asked quietly, the sharpness in her voice giving way to something softer. “Why come down here at all?”

You hesitated, struggling to put it into words. “Your song was the first real thing I’ve experienced in, ages.” You took a step closer, your voice dropping. “It felt real. Like I could finally breathe.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away, her fingers fidgeting with the strap of her guitar. “Well, that’s poetic,” she muttered, but her voice lacked its earlier bite.

“It’s true,” you said, taking another step. “And I think you know it too.”

She glanced back at you, her eyes searching yours as if trying to decide whether to trust you. “You’re really not like the rest of them, are you?” she asked, her voice softer now, tinged with curiosity.

You shook your head. “No. I’m not.”

For a moment, the only sound was the wind rustling through the trees. Then she sighed, running a hand through her messy hair. “Magenta,” she said abruptly.

You blinked. “What?”

“My name,” she said, her lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Figured I should tell you, since you’re apparently risking life and limb to hear my music.”

“Your real name is Magenta? What’s the meaning behind it?” You ask.

“My parents weren’t poets, neither am I, my name’s Magenta, that’s that.”

“Magenta,” you repeated, the name settling on your tongue like a secret. “It suits you.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” she said, though her smirk lingered. “You’re still a rich kid trespassing in my world.”

“And you’re still just a singer with a bass guitar,” you said, unable to hide your grin.

Her laugh was quiet but genuine, and it sent warmth blooming in your chest. “You’re trouble,” she said, shaking her head. “I can already tell.”

“Maybe,” you admitted, your gaze locked on hers. “But so are you.”

She didn’t deny it. Instead, she looked at you with a mixture of exasperation and intrigue, her walls cracking just enough to let you see the person beneath. The distance between you felt smaller now, the night pressing in around you, making the world seem impossibly close.

“What song was that? An original creation?” you asked, sliding down to sit beside her. You leaned back against the cherry tree, your eyes drifting toward the fields stretching before you—worn paths of dirt and grass where people like Magenta’s family likely lived, their lives tethered to the earth in a way you hadn’t known in years.

“It is. I call it Rough,” she replied, tossing you an apple from her bag with a casual flick of her wrist. “You like it?”

You caught it, weighing the fruit in your hand before biting into it. The sweet juice dripped down your chin as you spoke, your voice laced with the faintest amusement. “You do realize I’m risking my life to hear it, right?”

Magenta raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eye. “Guess I’m just that good.”

You chuckled but didn’t let go of the question lingering in your mind. “I have to ask, though… is that song for anybody? It sounds… kind of romantic.”

She hesitated, her fingers absently picking at the strings of her guitar. The night felt suddenly heavier, as if the air itself were waiting for her answer. “I don’t know,” she said after a moment, her voice softer, almost unsure. “The lyrics just came to me one spring day, you know? Like they were already there, waiting to be sung.” She turned her gaze away from you for a moment, staring out over the fields. “Guess sometimes the songs write themselves. Maybe I’ll know why the song chose me one day.”

“And you say you’re not a poet.” You say, your eyes with a teasing glint.

“Oh shut it rich kid, or I’ll stop singing.” Magenta teases back, nudging you with her shoulder, her velvet smile more beautiful than anything you had seen in years. Perhaps the most beautiful thing you’d ever see

Summer

The summer sun hung heavy in the sky, draping the orchard in a golden haze. Everything smelled like ripe fruit and freshly turned earth, the kind of heady sweetness that clung to your skin long after you left. You wound your way through rows of cherry trees, the bag over your shoulder growing heavier with each step, though you couldn’t quite summon the energy to care. You already knew where she’d be.

And you were right. Magenta sat perched on the low branch of that same old cherry tree, her guitar resting on her lap, its worn wood catching the sunlight like it belonged there. Her hair shimmered as though she were something out of a dream—or maybe something sharper, something too smart and too fleeting to pin down. She glanced up when she heard your steps crunching over the dry grass and gave you that grin—the one that always landed somewhere between playful and cutting, like a dare and an invitation rolled into one.

“Took you long enough,” she said, her voice lilting in that teasing way that made it impossible to tell if she was actually annoyed or just liked keeping you on edge. Probably the latter.

“I had to smuggle this past a fence, you know,” you said, jerking your chin toward the overstuffed bag weighing down your shoulder. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to climb while also keeping contraband intact?”

Her gaze flickered to the bag, and for the briefest moment, her expression wavered. Her walls went up so fast it felt like watching shutters slam closed. “I told you not to do that anymore,” she said, strumming a soft, dissonant chord. “It’s not like I asked for this. I don’t want—” She stopped, exhaling hard like she was trying to push the words out. “I don’t want this relationship to feel transactionary.”

“Good thing it’s not,” you replied easily, setting the bag down between you and dusting your hands off like it had been some monumental task. “It’s not even for you. It’s for everyone. You just happen to be the only one sitting under this particular tree…the tree I always come to.”

Her lips twitched, but she stubbornly fought the smile threatening to break free. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Funny. That’s not what you said last time,” you quipped, brushing a hand across your brow for dramatic effect. “If I remember correctly, you called me a saint. Or was it an idiot?”

Magenta snorted, finally setting her guitar aside. “Definitely an idiot.”

“Yeah, that tracks.”

For a moment, the air between you held its usual electric charge—the one that always felt just shy of sparking, like a storm that hadn’t quite gathered itself. Then she hopped down from her perch, landing with a soft thud beside you. Up close, she was all sharp edges softened by the sunlight, her quick smile disarming even as her eyes stayed guarded.

“So, what’s the grand prize today?” she asked, nodding at the bag but keeping her hands conspicuously to herself.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” you teased, unzipping the bag slowly, savoring her impatience. Her eyes darted toward the contents like she couldn’t help herself. “Honeycombs,” you said, pulling a jar out.

“This is your big smuggling job? A honeycomb?” she asked, though she didn’t put the peach down.

“That’s not what I brought for everyone. For everyone, I brought just a variety of foods, whatever was free at the kitchen and pantry. I got you the honeycombs because you were complaining about your throat that one time, besides, it’s sweet, kinda messy, and a pain in the ass to deal with, just like you.”

“Wow, thanks for the compliment.” she said dryly, plucking the jar from your hand.

“You’re welcome,” you said, leaning against the tree and watching as she twisted the lid open with her bare hands. She dipped a finger into the jar and took a bite without hesitation, her expression carefully neutral as she licked the honey off her finger. “Good?”

“It’s fine,” she said, shrugging, though the way she reached for another taste betrayed her.

“That’s the highest praise I’ve ever gotten from you,” you said, grinning. “I think I might cry.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible,” she muttered around a mouthful.

“And yet, you keep inviting me back,” you said, leaning back against the trunk of the tree and crossing your arms like you’d won some kind of battle. “Why is that, Magenta?”

“I don’t,” she replied quickly, almost too quickly. Then, softer: “You just keep showing up.”

“Same thing.”

She groaned, throwing her head back, but there was a smile pulling at her mouth now, something genuine breaking through her carefully constructed defenses. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet, here we are,” you said, plucking a peach for yourself and taking a deliberate bite. “Speaking of exhausting,” you added, gesturing to the guitar she’d left lying in the grass. “What’s the latest masterpiece?” You asked, settling back against the tree trunk, your voice light but with just enough weight to make her feel cornered. You knew she hated being put on the spot almost as much as she loved proving people wrong.

Magenta stiffened, her fingers twitching toward the guitar before stopping, like it wasn’t worth the effort. “It’s nothing,” she said after a beat, her voice quieter now, the bravado she always wore peeling away like old paint.

“Oh, come on.” You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, the teasing edge in your tone softening. “I know it’s going to be good, like all the other songs. What’s it called?”

Her jaw tightened like she was chewing on the answer, debating whether or not to spit it out. Finally, with a sigh so dramatic it should’ve come with its own sound effects, she muttered, “Summer Rain.”

“Wow,” you said, letting out a low whistle as you bit into the honeycomb you’d been holding. “Summer Rain for the season of summer. Truly groundbreaking stuff, Magenta.”

She shot you a glare, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “Do you want me to play it, or do you want me to murder you?”

You grinned, sticky honey smearing the edge of your mouth. “I mean, ideally neither. But if I had to pick…” You dragged the words out just to get under her skin. “I’d say play it. We can revisit the murder option later.”

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, but the way she lazily slung the guitar strap over her neck betrayed her. She was going to play it, and you both knew it.

She adjusted the guitar on her lap, her fingers brushing over the strings like she was coaxing them into cooperating. The first few notes came softly, tentatively, like they weren’t sure they belonged. Then her voice slipped into the gaps, low and unpolished but so achingly real it made your chest tighten.

She didn’t look at you while she sang—not at first. Her gaze stayed locked on the space just above her hands, like the music might fall apart if she acknowledged you were there. But as the song stretched on, her eyes started flickering in your direction, fleeting and sharp, like she was daring you to say something, to ruin it, to tell her it wasn’t enough.

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

When she finished, the orchard seemed to hold its breath, the buzzing of insects and the rustle of leaves suddenly muted, like the entire world had paused to listen.

“That,” you said softly, the word feeling too small for the moment, “was incredible.”

Magenta scoffed, her fingers still resting on the strings. “It’s nothing,” she said, her tone casual, but the way her hands fidgeted betrayed her. “Just something I’ve been messing with.”

“It’s not nothing,” you insisted, leaning forward like you could physically close the distance she was trying to create. “It’s you. And it’s beautiful.”

She froze, her fingers tightening around the neck of the guitar. For a moment, she didn’t say anything, her expression unreadable, and then she turned her head sharply, her gaze flicking to the horizon like she couldn’t handle the weight of yours.

“Shut up,” she muttered, but the words came out softer than usual, and her lips were already curling into that faint, shy smile she always tried to hide.

“Make me,” you teased, leaning back against the tree with a grin. “Although, fair warning, you’ll have to use some pretty impressive insults to top that song.”

Her eyes snapped back to you, her smile gone but the light in her gaze unmistakable. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you keep me around,” you shot back, letting the words hang in the air like a challenge.

She exhaled, shaking her head as she set the guitar aside, her hands finally free to pluck the jar of honeycomb from your lap. “That’s because I haven’t figured out how to get rid of you yet.”

“Don’t bother,” you said, your voice dipping lower as she unscrewed the jar’s lid with a deliberate twist. “I’m like this orchard. Sticky, sweet, and entirely too much in the summer.”

Her laugh burst out before she could stop it, a real, unguarded sound that made the corners of her eyes crinkle. “God, you’re so full of yourself.”

“Maybe,” you said, watching as she dipped her fingers into the jar and pulled out a small chunk of honeycomb. “But I’m also right about the song.”

She popped the honeycomb into her mouth, the faintest smile tugging at her lips as she chewed. “You’re exhausting,” she said, but her voice had softened, the edges worn down by whatever it was you managed to get past her walls.

“And yet, you wrote a whole song about me,” you said, crossing your arms like you’d just won the argument.

“Summer Rain is not about you,” she shot back, rolling her eyes so hard it looked like it might hurt.

“Oh, sure,” you said, raising a brow. “Tell me you weren’t thinking about me every time you sang about love.”

She groaned, leaning her head back against the tree, but this time she didn’t fight the smile. “Shut up, or I swear to god, the murder option is back on the table.”

“Make me,” you said again, your grin wide and shameless.

Autumn

Summer came and went, and soon, Autumn dawned, and all you could think of was, what new symphony had Magenta cooked up

"Your father has requested your presence. You will head to the main hall immediately," Beakley’s voice came through the door, as crisp as ever, a reminder of everything you couldn't escape. His uniform, perfectly pressed and stiff as always, made your stomach tighten, like you were already expected to be something you weren’t.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair and quickly straightening your shirt. You hoped your nerves weren’t showing as you hurried downstairs. Your father sat at the large mahogany table, his expression a perfect mask of authority. Across from him was Mr. Suputhipong, a businessman whose smile didn’t reach his eyes, and beside him—Natty.

"Where are your manners?" Your father’s voice snapped, making you wince. "Come, greet Mr. Suputhipong’s daughter."

You gave a stiff bow, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. "Good morning, Mr. Suputhipong."

He gave a sharp nod, his voice booming but empty. "Ah, lovely. Now, if you would, take my daughter for a walk in your garden." It wasn’t a request. It never was.

You nodded and motioned for Natty to follow you, and the two of you stepped outside, the heavy door closing behind you like a lock clicking into place.

The garden, with its manicured hedges and perfectly laid paths, felt like yet another gilded cage. You didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to walk with Natty like this—playacting under the watchful eyes of parents whose plans were already made for you both.

"So…" Natty’s voice cut through your thoughts, light and easy, as though it were nothing at all. "Guess we're stuck with each other for a bit."

You glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. "Looks like it."

She shrugged, her hands slipping into her pockets, her posture relaxed in a way that seemed effortless. "At least we’re outside," she added with a small grin. "Could be worse."

You chuckled at that. It was true—things could always be worse—but Natty’s casual ease made you feel like she didn’t take any of this seriously. You had to admire that, even if you didn’t feel the same way.

“So... this is what we're doing now, huh?” she said, her tone more dry than curious, but there was an amused look in her eyes. “Walking around pretending like we care about all this nonsense?”

You couldn’t help but let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Yeah, pretty much." It was like living in a play where you were always the understudy, never the lead. “I can’t say I’m a fan of these… arranged encounters.”

"Arranged, huh?" Natty’s voice was playful, but there was an edge of weariness to it. “Guess we both know why we’re out here. Both are just tokens in their little plan.”

Her bluntness surprised you, but it also made something inside you snap into place. "Yeah," you said, trying to keep your voice light. "Pretty much. Just pieces in a game."

Natty snorted softly, her lips curling into a dry smile. "Funny how they pretend it's all about alliances and family pride when it’s really about keeping us where they want us. Like we're anything but chess pieces."

You didn’t have to think hard to agree. It wasn’t something you’d ever quite put into words before, but Natty had said it exactly right. You both knew the truth, even if neither of you wanted to say it aloud.

"You’re right," you said, your voice quieter now, the weight of it all pressing down on you. "They want us to fall in line. To just... follow the script."

Natty leaned against the garden wall, her gaze drifting across the horizon as if searching for something beyond the perfectly neat rows of flowers and trees. "Yeah, well. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of the script," she said, her grin playful but with a hint of rebellion. "I’d rather be anywhere else right now."

You chuckled, though it felt more strained than you wanted to admit. "I’m getting there too."

The conversation fell into a comfortable silence. You both stood there for a moment, side by side, the shared understanding hanging between you, unspoken but undeniable. The arrangements, the alliances, the families using you as pawns—it all felt suffocating. But as much as Natty was easy to talk to, to be around, the truth was clear: she wasn’t her

There was someone else. Someone who wasn’t part of this world.

Magenta.

You thought of her, and your chest tightened. It wasn’t just a passing thought, either. She made you feel like you could breathe, like you didn’t have to conform to the rigid mold that had been set for you. When you were with her, you could be yourself. Unpretentious. Untethered to expectations.

She was real.

And you couldn’t get her out of your mind. The way her laugh seemed to make the flowers sing back in a harmonious melody, the way her eyes sparkled when she talked about something she loved. The way she never tried to make herself something she wasn’t. You thought about her when you woke, when you closed your eyes at night.

You thought about her now.

But Natty, standing next to you, was just... easy. She wasn’t Magenta, and it wasn’t fair to either of you to pretend that she could be.

"So, what about you?" Natty’s voice pulled you back into the present, her eyes suddenly sharper, as if she had read the shift in your expression. "Anyone in your life?"

You hesitated, the weight of her question lingering longer than you would’ve liked. Magenta’s face flashed in your mind, her smile, her energy, and your chest tightened all over again.

"Yeah," you said finally, keeping your tone neutral. "But it's... complicated." You didn’t need to say more. Natty didn’t press.

She looked at you for a moment, her gaze softening, as if understanding the layers behind your words. "Yeah, me too," she said with a small, knowing smile. "We all have someone, don’t we? It’s just… in this world, it’s never really about what we want. It’s about what fits. Like we’re jigsaw puzzles first and humans second."

You nodded, the unspoken truth between you both like a weight that refused to lift. "Exactly. It’s never been about us."

The silence that followed was comfortable in a way, but it was also heavy. You both knew what was coming, even if neither of you wanted it. The arrangements. The alliances. The marriages.

And the truth you couldn’t ignore: you were both stuck with futures that weren’t yours to choose.

"I guess we just have to play along for a little while longer," you said softly, breaking the silence.

Natty gave a small, resigned nod. "Yeah. For now."

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, a resigned look as you lean on the railing.

“I’m sorry too.” Natty responds in earnest, the both you stuck in this sick game

“You’re late,” Magenta said, her voice teasing but warm as her fingers strummed effortlessly across her guitar, the sound carrying lightly in the cool evening air. She didn’t look at you as she played, but you could hear the smile in her voice.

You chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “I swear, you always know when I’m running late. Are you watching me from the window?”

She smirked, still not looking at you. “I’ve got my ways.”

“Uh-huh. Sure, sure,” you teased, walking closer to her, boots crunching on the wet grass. “And what’s your excuse? You were probably waiting here for ages already.”

Magenta finally looked up at you, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “I don’t need an excuse. Time doesn’t pressure me the way it does you.” She grinned, letting the last note of her guitar linger in the air before she added, “Though, you’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”

“Yeah, well, I’m glad I made it before you started your solo concert,” you said, raising an eyebrow as you took a step back, mock bowing as if she were the star of the show. “Should I be impressed?”

Her lips curled into a playful smile. “Oh, absolutely. But if you’re so impressed, you better be ready to hear my new song.”

“New song?” you asked, leaning against the nearby tree, intrigued. “Well, I’m all ears. What’s it about this time?”

Magenta’s fingers moved with ease over the guitar, the chords shifting into a new pattern. “This one’s called All About You.” She said it matter-of-factly, but there was a hint of something behind her words, something she wasn’t quite sharing.

You raised an eyebrow. “All About You? Seriously? Sounds a bit... on the nose, don’t you think?”

She shot you a playful glare but didn’t respond, letting the song speak for itself. The melody was soft at first, a gentle flow that pulled you in, but it quickly became clear that the song was filled with emotion—warmth, longing, and something far more intimate than you were expecting.

By the time the chorus hit, the words were unmistakably romantic, and the way Magenta sang them made it feel like she was pouring every bit of herself into the song. You couldn’t help but grin, listening closely as the lyrics unfolded, each one wrapping around you like a thread tying you to something she couldn’t hide.

When the song finished, you couldn’t help but give her a knowing smile. “Wow, that’s definitely... all about someone.”

Magenta set the guitar down with a light laugh, but there was a faint blush on her cheeks. “What? You think I wrote it for you or something?” she asked, her tone defensive, though it only made the blush on her face more obvious.

You smirked, crossing your arms as you raised an eyebrow. “Hey, I didn’t say anything. But if I’m the first one that came to mind…I mean, it sounds like it’s about someone. You really think you can write a song that sappy and not have it be about... well, someone?”

She rolled her eyes, clearly flustered, but she wasn’t backing down. “It’s not about you. I didn’t even mention your name.”

You held up your hands in mock surrender, trying to suppress your grin. “I didn’t say it was. But it’s obvious, right? All those lyrics about being captivated, about waiting for someone—come on, Magenta. That’s practically an open declaration.”

She huffed, looking away, but her lips betrayed her with a tiny smile. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” you said, stepping a little closer, not wanting to push too much. “But that song is definitely about someone. I mean, I could see how someone might get the wrong idea with all that heartache in it.”

Magenta’s eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place—perhaps annoyance, perhaps embarrassment. “It’s not about anyone specific,” she muttered, but even as she said it, you could tell she didn’t quite believe it herself. “Just... inspiration.”

You chuckled, knowing full well that she was trying to brush it off, but it was clear from the way her fingers tapped nervously on the guitar that she was a little more rattled than she was letting on.

“Well, whatever it’s about, it’s a beautiful song,” you said, smiling genuinely this time. “But come on, it sounds like you’re secretly in love with someone. Or... at least have a crush.” You teased, nudging her shoulder lightly.

Her cheeks reddened again, and she shot you a glare. “I don’t have a crush on anyone, okay?” She said, voice slightly tight, though the amusement was still there in her eyes. “It’s just... a song. Not everything has to have a backstory.”

“Sure,” you said, holding her gaze, though you couldn’t help but push a little. “But it’s pretty obvious that you’ve got feelings for someone. It’s a lot of emotion packed into one song.”

Magenta shifted uncomfortably, clearly trying to laugh it off, but you could see it. That flicker of something. She liked someone. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want you to know about it.

You decided to drop the teasing for a moment, though the thought of her love life still hung there, unexplored. Instead, you let the moment sit in the air, both of you feeling the weight of it in silence. Magenta, with all her bravado, wasn’t as immune to vulnerability as she liked to act.

“Well,” you finally said, breaking the tension, “whether it’s about me or not, I still think it’s a great song. Really.”

She sighed, exhaling through her nose with a soft laugh. “You’re impossible,” she muttered again, but there was no malice in it this time. She was just... flustered.

And honestly, you found it endearing.

“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re definitely hiding something,” you said, raising an eyebrow.

Magenta turned her head, pretending to ignore you as she picked her guitar back up. “Not everything needs to be about me, alright?”

You laughed, but there was something else there now, something more... serious, between the two of you. Magenta had a way of hiding her emotions behind that tough exterior, but you weren’t fooled. You weren’t sure what it was—maybe it was the song, maybe it was just being here together—but it felt like something had shifted.

Then, without warning, you decided to bring up something else entirely, something that had been weighing on your mind since you’d gotten here.

“So, there’s this girl,” you started, and even though you hadn’t meant for it to come out like that, it felt important to say. “Natty. My father wants me to... well, to marry her. It’s all part of some arrangement with Mr. Suputhipong.”

Magenta’s fingers stilled on the guitar strings, the air around you suddenly feeling heavier. She looked at you, disbelief flickering across her face before it quickly morphed into something more guarded. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, her gaze piercing through you like she was trying to make sense of your words.

“Marry? As in, marry, marry?” she finally asked, her voice flat, though there was a quiet tension in her tone that you couldn’t ignore.

You sighed, leaning back against the tree as the weight of the situation settled back on you. “Yeah, that’s what I said. I mean, it’s not definite yet, but with how my father operates... it’s probably gonna happen. My siblings are already being set up with other kids from Mr. Suputhipong’s family too. It’s all this whole arranged marriage thing. Mass marriage bullshit, really.”

Magenta’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought she might say something sharp or dismissive. Instead, she just let out a breath, looking at the ground as if she were weighing her words carefully. There was a flicker of something in her eyes, though—a mix of frustration, confusion, maybe even jealousy. It was there, whether she wanted to admit it or not.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she muttered under her breath. “So just like that, you’re supposed to be... what, married off to some stranger? All because your father says so?”

“Pretty much,” you said, trying to keep the tone light, but inside, it was anything but. “I don’t know. I don’t want it, but... it’s just the way things are going right now. It’s all about business and alliances and all that. My feelings don’t even come into play.”

Magenta shook her head, her expression a mix of disbelief and something deeper, something that looked almost... hurt? “And what about you? What about what you want?”

You hesitated, not really knowing how to answer that. How could you explain that you felt trapped, like your life was being decided for you? You wanted to fight it, but at the same time, what could you do against your family’s expectations?

“It doesn’t matter,” you said, trying to brush it off. “It’s just something I have to deal with. You know, family stuff.”

But Magenta was still staring at you, her eyes searching yours, as if she were trying to find some clue in the way you were talking, some hint of how you really felt. She bit her lip, frustration clearly simmering under the surface. And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, that defensiveness slipped away, replaced with something that almost looked like vulnerability.

“You’re... not serious about this, right?” she asked, voice quieter now, almost uncertain. “I mean, you don’t actually want to marry her, do you?”

You felt your stomach churn at the question. There was something in Magenta’s voice—something fragile—that made you pause. For a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk down to just the two of you standing in the clearing, everything else fading away.

“No,” you said quickly, trying to reassure her. “I don’t want to marry Natty. I don’t want any of this, Magenta. It’s just... expected. You know how it is with my family. But I’d never just go along with it. I don’t want a life like that.”

Magenta’s eyes softened, but there was still a shadow of uncertainty there. She crossed her arms, her gaze flickering away from you as if she were trying to collect herself. “So... you’re saying, if you could choose—” She hesitated, as if the question was harder than it should’ve been to ask. “You wouldn’t marry her? Not if you had the choice?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Of course not. I don’t even know her, Magenta. I don’t want to marry someone just because my father says it’s a good idea. I’ve got... other things I want. And if it were up to me, I wouldn’t go through with any of it.”

Magenta took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as if trying to process everything. Then, after a long pause, she looked at you again, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then what do you want?”

‘You.’ You opened your mouth to speak, but for a moment, the words didn’t come. There was something in the air between you, something unspoken that made the moment feel bigger than it was. You didn’t know what you wanted, not entirely—but in this moment, with Magenta standing so close, you had a pretty good idea.

“I want...” you started, then paused, considering how to put it into words. “I want to be in control of my own life, Magenta. I want to make my own choices, not just follow what other people think is best for me. And right now, that means I don’t want to marry Natty. I don’t want to marry anyone unless I really choose to.”

Magenta’s lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. Instead, she just nodded, her arms still crossed as she looked down at the ground. Her expression was harder to read now, a mix of relief and something else—something more subtle that you couldn’t place.

“Well,” she said quietly, “I’m glad to hear that. I just... I don’t like the idea of you being stuck with someone you don’t care about.” She shifted, avoiding your gaze for a moment. “And I definitely don’t like the idea of you marrying some stranger.”

You took a small step closer, your voice soft. “I promise that I’ll do what I can.”

Magenta finally met your gaze, the tension in her expression easing just a little. “Good,” she said, a small but genuine smile tugging at her lips. “I mean... if anyone’s going to marry you, it better be someone who actually matters, right? Someone good with the guitar at least.”

You couldn’t help but grin at the way she said it, the mix of playfulness and something deeper that made your heart flutter just a little.

“Right,” you said, your voice light, but underneath it, you both knew there was more to it than just words.

Winter

The winter wind cut sharp, carrying whispers from the upper levels down to where the air always seemed a little heavier, a little colder. Magenta had heard the news—everyone had. Mr. Suputhipong, the head of S2, had announced a new round of transport capsules bound for Mars, seats reserved for his family and their extended network.

Magenta hadn’t cared at first. Space travel was a rich person’s game, nothing to do with her. But then someone had mentioned the list, rattling off names like they were celebrities. One name had stopped her cold.

Natty.

Magenta’s fingers froze over the guitar strings, the name ringing in her ears. You’d mentioned her not too long ago, but it made sense now, all the talk about marriage alliances, the quiet weight in your voice when you’d brought it up. This wasn’t just a rumor. It was real. You were leaving.

You were going to Mars.

You were leaving her.

Magenta let out a low grunt as she slumped back against the gnarled tree. The bark pressed into her spine, grounding her even as her thoughts spun out of control. Her fingers moved again, plucking lazy, dissonant notes from her guitar, but her mind stayed stuck, clouded, frantic.

She couldn’t let you go. That much was clear. But how could she stop you? How could she even begin to ask you to stay? Her mind raced, sifting through excuses, schemes, anything to keep you here, on this Earth, in this moment with her.

But for all her sharp wit, for all the teasing comebacks she always had ready, Magenta couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

She shouldn’t ask. It was selfish. Even by the standards of the upper levels, Mars was the closest thing to heaven. To deny it was stupid, and as much as she’d tease you and prod you for the slight bursts of stupidity that she often found more endearing than anything, you had to jump at any chance to go to Mars. Even if it meant leaving important things here back on Earth, it only made sense to leave. What would you most mind leaving on earth? Magenta wondered if she made the list.

You hadn’t mentioned it to her, this move to Mars, not once. All winter, she’d been waiting for some small hint, some casual drop of your plans. But it never came. A tiny, bitter part of her wondered if you’d ever planned to tell her. Maybe you were just going to disappear, leaving her sitting here under the wish tree, strumming her guitar and waiting for someone who was never coming back.

She glanced down at the scratched notebook in her lap. Her new song, Wish Tree, stared back at her, the ink still fresh, the lyrics mocking her now. It had come to her on the same wind that had carried the news, and she’d written it in a rare moment of hopefulness, her fingers moving faster than her doubts.

Her songs had always leaned melancholy, romantic with an edge of longing, but this one was different. Wish Tree was a hopeful ode, a soft prayer for staying together, for finding a way through the chaos. And now, just as it had started to sprout, the news had come, ready to uproot everything.

Magenta closed the notebook and leaned her head back against the tree, exhaling a shaky breath. The irony wasn’t lost on her. She’d written about wishes, but she hadn’t made one. Not yet.

She wondered if she’d waited too long.

She was pulled from her thoughts by the familiar crunch of your boots on the soft mud.

“I’m early! Right?” You asked with an almost joking tone.

Magenta smirked, a quick, automatic reflex, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Depends what you mean by ‘early,’” she said, her fingers idly strumming a chord. “You missed the winter solstice, but I guess you’re on time for… Tuesday.”

You grinned, hands shoved deep into your jacket pockets, the wind making a mess of your hair. “Guess I’ll take that as a win.”

Magenta’s gaze drifted back to the guitar strings. She didn’t know why her hands were still moving, picking out a quiet, aimless melody, but it felt safer to look at the guitar than at you. “I wrote something,” she said, almost too casually, like she wasn’t sure the words should leave her mouth.

You tilted your head, curiosity lighting up your face. “Yeah?”

She nodded, brushing her thumb over the strings, the sound soft and tentative. “It’s not finished,” she added quickly. “Probably needs, like… a bridge. Or a chorus that doesn’t sound like a bad diary entry. But I—” She hesitated, her usual teasing confidence faltering just enough to make you take a step closer. “I could play it for you. If you want.”

Your smile softened. “Of course I want to hear it.”

As Magenta began to strum, the light breeze carrying her harmonies, your mind began to whir. The song was hopeful, uncharacteristically hopeful for Magenta’s music. Did she really not know? Not heard about the new capsules? You had been pondering for weeks on how to properly tell her, but now, sat in front of her, mesmerised by her symphonies as you gazed into her eyes, you wondered if it would be better to give it all up. Attempt to run from your family, gargantuan task as it is, risky too, but if there was anyone you’d do it for…

“Did you like it?” Magenta’s voice pulled you out of your reverie.

“Of course I liked it, Magenta. It was exquisite, just like you.” You almost whispered the last words, catching Magenta’s gaze.

You shook your head, stepping closer until you were standing just a few feet away. “It’s perfect,” you said, your voice quiet, almost reverent.

Magenta’s cheeks flushed, and she looked away, brushing her hair back from her face like she could shrug off the compliment. “You always say that. You’re biased.”

“Maybe,” you admitted, grinning slightly. “But I mean it.”

The silence stretched, the winter wind tugging at the edges of it, neither of you quite ready to fill it.

And then, so softly it was almost lost to the breeze, she asked, “When were you going to tell me?”

Her voice was quiet, almost steady, but she wouldn’t look at you.

“Tell you about what?” Magenta was right, you really were stupid.

“The Capsules. News travels down here too, you know.” Magenta replied, scoffing, her mood clearly having taken a turn for the worse.

“I…I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure how to tell you, I was-” You tried to explain, but Magenta quickly turned toward you, glaring at you.

“You were what? Going to Mars? Leaving without a word or even a goodbye?” Magenta challenged as she stepped closer to you, almost cornering you into the cherry tree.

“I wasn’t sure if I was going to go.”

Magenta didn’t move at first. Her eyes were locked on yours, disbelief rippling through her like a wave about to crash. Then she laughed, sharp and humorless, the sound cutting through the cold air like broken glass.

“You’re not sure if you’re going to go,” she said, her voice dripping with incredulity. “Do you hear how ridiculous you sound?”

“Magenta—”

“No, don’t ‘Magenta’ me,” she snapped, stepping closer, her words coming fast and fiery now. “Do you have any idea what you’re saying? You’re telling me you’d give up Mars—Heaven, for God’s sake—for me?”

“Yes!” you said, the word bursting out of you like it had been trapped inside too long. “Yes, Magenta, for you. I—”

“No,” she interrupted, her voice rising. “You don’t get to say that! You don’t get to stand here, under this stupid tree, and act like I’m worth that. I’m not.”

“Stop,” you said, trying to close the gap between you, but she stepped back, shaking her head.

“No, you stop,” she said, her tone sharp and cutting. “Do you even hear yourself? Mars isn’t a vacation. It’s a whole new life. A better life. And you’re telling me you’d throw that away for what? For me? For some girl who spends her days sitting under a tree and writing songs no one even hears?”

“I hear them,” you said quietly.

Her mouth opened, then closed, her breath hitching for just a moment before she threw up her hands. “Well, great. One audience member. Guess that makes me worth uprooting your entire future.”

“Magenta,” you said again, your voice softer now, pleading. “I don’t care about Mars. I care about you. You’re worth it. Can’t you see that?”

Her eyes burned as she stared at you, her jaw tightening. “No. No, I can’t, because it’s not true.”

“It is—”

“Stop!” she yelled, and the force of it made you freeze. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her voice trembling now, even as she tried to keep it steady. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re just—you’re just trying to make this easier for me, and it’s not. It’s not easier.”

“I’m not—”

“You are!” she cut you off, her voice cracking at the edges. She sucked in a shaky breath, her anger slipping for just a moment, just long enough for you to catch a glimpse of the hurt underneath. “You think this is what I want? You staying here, wasting your chance, looking at me like I’m worth more than heaven?”

“You are,” you said firmly.

She laughed again, bitter and cold, and it broke something in you to hear it. “God, you’re so stupid,” she muttered, shaking her head. Her voice dropped, quieter now but no less sharp. “You’re going to regret this. Maybe not right away, but someday. You’ll look at me, and you’ll see all the things I can’t be, all the things Mars could’ve given you, and you’ll hate me for it. And I can’t—I won’t let that happen.”

“Magenta—”

“Just go,” she said, cutting you off one last time, her voice tight, her eyes refusing to meet yours. “Go to Mars. Forget about me. It’s better that way.”

You stared at her, your chest tightening, words piling up in your throat that you couldn’t force out. She stood there, arms crossed over her chest like she was holding herself together, her jaw clenched so hard it looked like it hurt.

You turned and walked away, your footsteps crunching against the frozen ground, the distance between you growing with each step.

You didn’t see her crumble the second you were out of sight. Didn’t see her drop to her knees under the gnarled branches of the tree, her hands clutching the cold earth like it could anchor her to something, anything.

She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking, her breath coming in broken gasps. She did the right thing. It had to be the right thing. Or else, that would mean…mean that she ruined the only thing she ever really loved.

She pulled herself up from the ground, dragging herself onto the tree that had been your meetup point for so long. Your cherry tree, your Wish Tree.

Spring

(Imagine the pre chorus but slowed down and sang through sobs)

It had been a year—a whole, impossibly short, impossibly long year—since you appeared out of nowhere, stumbling into her life like some cosmic accident. A stranger, in a place where strangers didn’t just happen. A year since she’d looked up from her guitar, startled by the sound of boots squelching through the muddy ground, and seen you standing there, impossibly wrong and yet somehow exactly right. Like you’d been meant to find the cracks she hadn’t even realized were there.

She’d told herself she wasn’t counting. Not really. But she knew. Knew it had been exactly one year since you wandered into her orbit and tilted everything, just enough to let the light in.

Now, lying beneath the gnarled branches of the cherry tree that had become yours—not hers, not yours, but yours, together—Magenta couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you. About the capsules.

The capsules.

Her eyes squeezed shut, trying to keep the image out. It didn’t work. Her fingers dug into the damp grass beneath her as though holding on tight could somehow stop the inevitable. She didn’t want to see it—the sleek, gleaming capsules with their yawning doors, ready to whisk you away. To lift you up, out, beyond. Somewhere she couldn’t follow. Somewhere she wasn’t sure she could even imagine.

She should be happy for you. That was what she told herself, again and again, the words looping endlessly through her head like a melody she couldn’t escape. This was what you’d been waiting for. The chance to leave, to start over, to escape the heaviness of this place. To find something better.

It was what she deserved, wasn’t it? She’d told you to go. Pushed you to go, her voice steady even when it felt like the weight of it might break her in half. She’d told you she couldn’t be the reason you stayed, couldn’t let you throw away a shot at something brighter, something easier, just because she wasn’t brave enough to let you go.

But lying there, staring up at the branches shifting against the pale winter sky, Magenta felt the truth settle deep in her chest, heavy and sharp-edged. She wasn’t noble. She wasn’t selfless. All she wanted, in the quietest, most desperate part of her heart, was for you to stay.

And then it came. That low, growing hum, the sound that swallowed everything else. The capsules, rising in the distance, their engines roaring as they tore away from the earth and into the sky. Magenta’s breath hitched as she watched them climb, higher and higher, until they were nothing but a distant speck. Until they were gone.

Her hands found the guitar beside her, her fingers brushing against the strings like muscle memory. It felt wrong to play it now, cruel, even. The song she’d been playing the day you first appeared. What had once been the beginning of everything now felt like a cruel epilogue to what she’d lost.

Still, the melody spilled out of her, her voice soft and trembling: We are revolving because we can’t meet

We are like parallel lines

If I could run through time and become an adult

I will hold your hand in this cruel world

We aren’t closing in, that one tiny bit

We are like parallel lines.

When the last note faded, Magenta folded forward, her body curling into itself as the tears came, hot and unrelenting. She pressed her forehead against the guitar, her shoulders shaking, her breath coming in broken gasps.

And then, softly, the words she’d never expected to hear again, carried on the breeze like an impossible dream:

“Would it be too much to ask for an encore?”

Her head jerked up, her breath catching. And there you were, standing beneath the cherry tree, the same tree where it had all begun. Your face was sheepish, almost apologetic, as you took a slow step toward her, then another.

Magenta blinked, her tears blurring the edges of you, but there was no mistaking it. You were here.

Before she could stop herself, she was on her feet, her fists against your chest, her sobs spilling over as the words tore out of her.

“Why didn’t you go?” she shouted, her voice trembling with anger and heartbreak. “You could’ve had it all! You could’ve gone to the closest thing to heaven, and you stayed—for what? For me?”

Your hands found her shoulders, steady and warm, and when she didn’t pull away, you pulled her closer, wrapping her into the kind of hug that felt like it could hold her together, even as she fell apart.

You pressed a kiss to her forehead, soft and lingering, and when you spoke, your voice was quiet, like a secret meant only for her.

“Oh, my love,” you murmured. “What’s heaven got that beats a picnic in spring, just you and me?”

#qwer #rd0265667 #fluff #qwer x reader #qwer magenta #magenta x reader #qwer magenta x reader #kpop #kpop fanfic #Spotify #kpop imagines #kpop fluff #kpop idol x reader #kpop writing #kpop fic

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zeciex · 22 days ago

Text

A Vow of Blood S2 - Ch. 6

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

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

Chapter 6: The Winds of the North

AO3 - S1 Masterlist - S2 Masterlist

19k words

The sun bled into the sea, staining in hues of deep crimson, as though the sea itself were made of wine. The last light of day slipped beneath the horizon by the time Jace took flight from Dragonstone. His younger brother, Luke, veered southward towards Storm’s End, while Rhaenys remained behind to patrol the waters of the Gullet.

Jace turned north.

Night had fallen swiftly, swallowing the world beneath his dragon’s wing. The wind howled around him, tugging at his cloak, seeping into the seams of his leathers with a cold that bit deep. Vermax cut through the sky with powerful strokes, the sound of his beating wings steady–a constant against the silence of the vast night. Below, the world stretched out in endless shadows, a patchwork of unseen land and rivers, glimmering here and there with faint specks of firelight from distant villages.

He watched them pass like dying embers in the dark, nameless homes of nameless men–men who might soon march under the banners of black, whether they willed it or not.

Jace tightened his grip on the reins, his fingers stiff from the cold, knuckles aching where they curled around the worn leather. And as the first light of dawn pierced the remnants of night, the world beneath him emerged from shadow. The darkness that had swallowed the land gave way to rugged peaks and sprawling valleys, their forms etched in shades of gold and deep green. The Mountains of the Moon rose proud and jagged, their summits crowned with snow that shimmered beneath the morning son.

His eyes trached the winding rivers that cut through the land like silver veins, feeding into the emerald expanse of woodlands and fields that clung stubbornly to the lower slopes. The air here was colder, sharper, laden with the crisp scent of pine and frost.

The first sign of the Vale’s strongholds appeared in the distance–stone towers nestled within the cliffs, their battlements clinging to the rock as if hewn from the mountain itself. Bannters fluttered weakly against the wind, their sigil blurred by distance, but Jace knew them by heart. The Arryn falcon, white against a field of sky blue, was one of many he had been made to memorize during his maester’s lessons. He had studied their histories, traced their bloodlines, recited their allegiances. House Arryn, Wardens of the East. An ancient name, as old as Andalos. Their seat, the Eyrie, was said to be as unassailable as the mountains themselves.

But Jace was not bound by roads or passes. He came not as a knight riding through the high valleys of the Vale, or as an army to be broken against the Gates. He was a prince of House Targaryen, and his path was the sky.

Vermax soared over the Bloody Gate first, the fortress straddling the entrance to the Vale like a sentinel frozen in time. A hundred men could hold it against ten thousand, or so the stories claimed. Beyond it, the Gate of the Moon stood in quiet vigil, another threshold through which no invader could hope to pass. And yet Jace passed them both with ease, higher than the arrows of any garrison could ever reach.

And beyond those wings, the Eyrie awaited.

Perches high upon the shoulder of the Giant’s Lance, the seat of House Arryn stood like something out of a song–an impossible fortress of pale stone and open sky. Its seven towers cut through the dawn, slim and proud, their peaks gilded by the rising sun.

As Vermax carried him towards the castle, the wind grew sharper, howling in his ears, seeping into the seams of his clothing, stiffening his fingers where they gripped the reins. He shifted in the saddle, adjusting against the ache that had settled in his back after hours of flight.

“Embrot, Vermaks!” He called over the wind, his voice firm despite the numbness creeping into his jaw. Down, Vermax!

The dragon obeyed at once, his great wings unfurling wide to slow their descent, the membrane stretched taut as he adjusted his glide. Below, movement stirred along the battlements. Guards turned their heads skyward, shouts of alarm echoing through the courtyard as steel glinted in the early slight. Some scrambled for their bows–though none fired a shot–while others stood frozen in place, wide-eyed as the shadow of the dragon swept over them.

Vermax’s wings flared wide as he descended, powerful beats of muscle and sinew sending ripped through the air, stirring the courtyard into chaos. Banners whipped violently, snapping against their poles, and the assembled guards took an instinctive step back, gripping their spears with white-knuckled hands. Dust and loose gravel scattered, kicked up by the force of his landing. The dragon’s claw met stone with a deep, resounding thud, his massive form settling into place, his tail curling slightly as he steadied himself.

The dragon exhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling with a deep, rumbling growl before he loosened a warning roar–loud enough to alert the whole castle to their presence.

The guards at the great hall’s entrance recoiled, hands tightening on the hilts of their weapons. Their expressions wavered between awe and unease, wide eyes fixed upon the beast that had descended upon their stronghold.

Jace paid them no mind. His hands moved to his belt, unfastening the clasp, loosening the leather strappings that secured him to the saddle. With a final tug, he freed himself, shifting his weight forward. The dragon lowered its body, settling his great wings against his sides, allowing Jace to dismount with ease. He slid from the saddle, boots meeting stone with a solid thud. The impact sent a shudder through his stiffened limbs, a brief but jarring ache that made him grit his teeth. He rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers, shaking off the stiffness that had settled during the long flight.

Ignoring the discomfort, he stepped forward, placing a steadying hand along Vermax’s warm scales, fingers trailing up along the ridges of his neck, offering a reassuring pat as he murmured, “lykirī, demās, jorilagon.”

Stay calm. Sit. Rest.

Vermax huffed in response, a deep exhale that sent another gust of warm breath rolling into the frigid air. With a reluctant rumble, the dragon folded his wings against his back, lowering himself onto his haunches, though his sharp eyes never left the guards before them.

Jace turned his gaze towards the entrance of the keep, where the great doors loomed tall and heavy. He straightened his posture, steeling himself as he took his first steps forward.

“I am Prince Jacaerys Velaryon,” he declared, his voice steady. “I bring a message from the Queen to the Lady of the Vale.

For a moment, there was only silence. The guards exchanged wary glances, their hands still gripping their spears tightly. Though they didn't move to bar his way, their hesitation was palpable, their eyes darting to the dragon and back again.

At last, one of them gave a curt nod. Without a word, they gestured for him to follow.

The stone walls of the Eyrie were colder than he expected, the air laced with the crisp bite of the mountain winds that seeped through the narrow windows. They led him through winding passages where the stone had been worn smooth from generations of lords and knights treading the same path. The higher they ascended, the warmer the air became, the cold of the courtyard slowly giving way to the comforts of the castle's inner chambers.

They passed through an arched arcade where great tapestries adorned the walls, rich with the history of the Vale. Jace barely spared them a glance, his focus on the small scroll in the pocket of his doublet. He had expected to be led into the High Hall, to stand beneath its soaring arches and be received amidst its grandeur–to see the Lady of the Vale seated upon the high seat of House Arryn, surrounded by her bannermen, her court assembled in quiet judgment.

Instead, he was brought to the solar, a far more intimate setting. The room was warm, softened by the flickering firelight and the golden glow streaming through the narrow windows. There was no great hall of lords, no towering seat of power, only the quiet luxury of a space meant for counsel rather than spectacle.

That could either be a blessing or a curse.

The formality of a grand audience might have suited him better–there was armor to be worn in ceremony, a shield to be found in the weight of tradition. In the High Hall he would have been a prince first, a messenger second, and a boy not at all.

Here, in the quiet warmth of the solar, there was no such barrier.

Here, he was simply a Jace, a prince of a house at war, standing before a woman whose loyalty could shape the battles to come.

Warmth enveloped him as soon as he entered. A great hearth dominated the chamber, flames crackling and casting pale light upon the walls. The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine lingered in the air. Myrish carpets, woven in deep blues and silvers, were spread across the floor, their intricate patterns softening the austerity of the castle.

At the tall, narrow windows overlooking the courtyard below, bathed in the light pouring in, stood the Lady of the Vale.

One of the guards stepped forward, clearing his throat before announcing, “Prince Jacaerys Velaryon.”

Jace stepped inside, his boots making little sound against the floor. His gaze flickered briefly to the table, where an assortment of food stood untouched–roasted meats, fresh bread, honey cakes and spiced wine. Hunger gnawed faintly at his stomach, but he ignored it, forcing his attention toward the woman standing by the tall windows. He had not come here to eat.

The sunlight streaming through the glass framed her in gold, catching in the deep auburn of her hair, which shone like spun copper against the rich blue of her gown. It stood out against the deep blue of her gown, the color of a sky untouched by storm. She stood with her hands folded, gazing down at the courtyard below.

Jace stepped forward, drawing breath to announce himself, only to be cut off before he could speak.

“Strange creature, is it not?” Lady Jeyne’s voice was smooth, contemplative, yet edged with curiosity. “Terrible and magnificent all at once.” Her eyes remained on Vermax, the dragon sprawled in the courtyard below, his green scales glinting faintly in the morning sun. “I imagine my guards are still debating whether to flee or remain at their posts.” She drew in a breath, musing. “Men tell stories of their power. And yet, they are still beasts, bound to the will of their riders…”

She finally turned then, meeting his gaze with a measured smile, neither welcoming nor hostile–merely assessing.

“The last time the Vale played host to a dragon, it was King Jaehaerys himself who graced us with a visit. He came upon a great, bronze beast, a true wonder to behold–or so I’ve been told.”

Her expression did not change, but there was a flicker of something unreadable as she cast another glance down toward Vermax. “I must admit, I expected something… bigger.”

Jace studied her for a moment, uncertain whether her words carried jest or disappointment. He moved forward, his steps measured, the warmth of the solar pressing against his back as he stepped fully into the golden stream of sunlight. He came to stand beside her, his gaze following hers down into the courtyard below.

Vermax had settled himself comfortably in the heart of the courtyard, his massive body sprawled across the pale stone. He had not stirred since landing, nor had he taken much notice of the uneasy figures skirting around him. His wings were half-furled, the leathery membranes catching faint light as they twitched idly. With each slow exhale, slow puffs of dust rose and swirled before dissipating, his breath steady, undisturbed.

The people of the Vale were far less at ease.

Jace could see them from there–guards, servants, lords and ladies–all moving with stiff, cautious steps as they traversed the space around the dragon, their gazes darting towards him every few moments. They kept a wide berth, as though fearful that even a single misstep might provoke the creature into rearing up and rip them in two.

“He’s young,” Jace said at last, his voice steady, hands clasped before him. “Still growing. He has yet to reach full maturity.” He smirked at her. “But don’t mistake youth for weakness–he’s every bit as fierce as the rest.”

Lady Jeyne tilted her head slightly, considering his words. “Hmm,” she murmured, neither agreement nor disagreement, only quiet observation. Her fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the windowsill, her expression unreadable.

“I suppose he must be,” she said at last, her voice carrying a note of quiet certainty. “For what is to come.”

Then, with a quiet breath, she turned from the window, the trailing hem of her gown whispering against the stone floor as she folded her hands neatly before her. The morning light illuminated the sharp angles of her face, the keen intelligence in her eyes.

“Forgive me for not receiving you with greater formality,” she continued. “I was in the midst of breaking my fast when you arrived.” A measured pause. “Would you care to join me?”

Jace hesitated for only a heartbeat before inclining his head. “I would be honored, my lady.”

He had eaten little since departing Dragonstone, and though hunger was not his primary concern, he knew better than to refuse an invitation meant to put him at ease.

Shifting his weight, he fell into step beside her as she led him towards the table. As they approached, the scent of warm bread and spiced honey filled the air, mingling with the remnants of roasted meats and the faintest traces of citrus. The fire crackled in the hearth behind them, casting flickering light over the silver goblets and polished plates laid across the table.

As Jace settled into his seat, he reached for his goblet of wine, his fingers wrapping around the cool silver stem. He did not drink–not yet. Instead he turned the goblet slowly in his hands, letting the firelight catch in the deep red liquid as it sloshed gently against the rim. The warmth of the hearth was slow to chase away the lingering cold that had settled into his bones. Even here, within the safety of the solar, the mountain air still clung to him, a ghost of the frigid winds that had battered him during his flight. His leathers, stiff from the chill, seemed to hold the cold within them, refusing to yield fully to the heat of the fire.

He resisted the urge to shiver, instead flexing his fingers subtly where they rested against the goblet in his grasp. Even as the chamber’s warmth began to settle around him, he knew it was not enough to ease the deeper chill that came not from the cold, but from the weight of duty pressing against him.

Jace lifted his gaze, meeting Lady Jeyne’s eyes once more. The warmth of the room did not extend to her expression–it was cool, expectant, and sharp with measured scrutiny. There was no need for hesitation–this was not a courtly feast, nor a casual exchange.

As the servants moved gracefully around the table, setting down a plate before him laden with sliced meats, fresh bread, and wedges of pale cheese, Jace shifted slightly in his seat. The scent of the food drifted upward, rich and savory, mingling with the faint traces of spiced wine and the ever-present warmth of the hearth.

His stomach tightened with faint hunger, yet he made no immediate move to eat. Instead, he watched as a boiled egg was placed at the edge of the plate, its smooth shell still lightly steaming from the heat. The meal was simple yet carefully prepared, a courtesy rather than a feast, meant to acknowledge his presence without turning the meeting into an indulgence.

Jace adjusted his posture, his hands resting lightly on the table’s polished surface as he cast a glance toward Lady Jeyne. She had not yet spoken, but there was no need for words–not yet. This was a test, he realized. A moment to observe, to weigh, to measure.

“Your hospitality is most generous, my lady,” he said at last, inclining his head slightly in gratitude. “And after such a journey, the warmth of your halls is well appreciated.”

The words were polite, but there was a quiet deliberation in his tone, an acknowledgement that pleasantries had their place but would only stretch so far. He allowed a measured pause, his gaze drifting towards the window where the peats of the Giant’s Lance loomed beyond the glass, a silent sentinel over the Vale.

Then, with a steady breath he turned back, his expression sharpening with purpose.

“But I have not come for pleasantries alone.” His voice was even, calm but firm. “You know why I am here.”

A flicker of something passed across Lady Jeyne’s face–amusement, perhaps, or mere acknowledgement of the inevitable. Her brow lifted slightly, and when she spoke, her tone carried no surprise, only understanding.

“I do.”

She did not elaborate, nor did she need to.

“My lady, I have long admired the strength of House Arryn.” He let the words settle, his tone measured, deliberate. “Even as a boy, I knew the stories–the Battle in the Waters off Gulltown. How your house stood against Aegon’s Conquest with such resolve it would sooner see its own fleet reduced to splinters than allow an invasion of the Vale.”

Lady Jeyne did not look immediately. Instead, she continued spreading honey over a fresh piece of bread, the amber glaze catching the firelight as she smoothed it with the back of her knife. “And yet, what are timber and flesh to a dragon’s fire?”

Her tone was contemplative rather than dismissive. “The battle ruined both sides–two fleets left in ashes, the sea littered with the wreckage of proud ships and drowned men.” She took a measured bite of the bread, chewing thoughtfully before speaking again. “And in the end, the Arryns bent the knee, just as all others did.”

She lifted her gaze to him at last, her blue eyes calm but keen, assessing him as one might study the pieces on a cyvasse board.

“The Arryns bent the knee, yes. But they did not break. When the war ended, the Vale remained strong. You became one of the pillars of the realm–respected, unshaken, your legacy remaining.” His gaze did not waver as he continued. “Your house chose when to fight and when to yield. That was wisdom, not weakness. And now, with the realm at a crossroads once more, that wisdom is needed again.”

Jace shifted in his seat, straightening his posture. He met Lady Jeyne’s gaze unflinchingly, his voice smooth yet firm. “You know what is coming, my lady. A war unlike any since Aegon’s Conquest.”

He let the words settle, watching for the smallest shift in her expression. There was none–only the same cool, measured composure. Undeterred, he pressed on. “The Arryns once stood against dragons. Now, you must decide where you will stand among them.”

Jace reached for his goblet, lifting it from the table. He took a sip of the spiced wine, letting the warmth spread down his throat before setting the cup back onto the table with a quiet clink. His heart hammered in his chest, but he refused to let it show. His face remained composed, his tone even, purposeful–betraying no trace of uncertainty or hesitation.

“The realm is poised on the edge of war. My mother, your queen, calls upon the Vale–not as mere subjects, but as allies.” His words carried weight, not demand, only truth. “House Arryn has ever been a bulwark against the storm, steadfast in its oaths and unshaken in its honor. Your father swore his fealty to my mother.” He held her gaze. “My Lady, the hour has come for those vows to be answered.”

His voice was steady, carefully measured–neither pleading nor forceful, but heavy with the weight of what he asked. He understood the gravity of war, understood that duty and honor alone did not make men, or women, rush to it blindly. Oaths had power, but it so often came at cost.

And yet, for all the weight of the moment, Lady Jeyne remained unreadable. She did not shift, did not flinch, did not allow her expression to betray whatever thoughts brewed behind her sharp blue eyes. There was no haste in her consideration, no immediate pledge nor denial.

Instead, she watched him–watching, weighing, as though his words were less an argument and more a performance she found herself entertained by.

Jace leaned forwards slightly. “War looms, whether we will it or not.” His words did not tremble, nor did they carry the desperation of a boy sent north to beg. They were firm and deliberate. “I do not come bearing threats, nor empty promises. I come only to remind you of what was sworn–the blood between our houses, the blood ties that should not be so easily set aside.”

His gaze flickered towards the window, where beyond the cold stone walls of the Eyrie, the Vale stretched wide and untamed, its mountains rising high as though they alone could keep the world’s chaos at bay. But even the tallest peaks could not stop what was coming.

Jace turned back to her, his fingers resting lightly against the polished wood of the table. “The usurpers sits the throne in defiance of law and honor,” he continued, his voice calm but edged with purpose. “While my mother, the rightful queen, calls upon those who once swore to uphold her claim. House Arryn has ever been a house of duty, of principle. Its words are As High as Honor–and that honor was one pledged to my mother.”

He allowed a measured pause, the fire’s warmth pressing at his back, though it did little to ease the tension coiling in his chest.

“Banners will be called, one way or another.” His voice dipped lower, quieter, yet no less commanding. “The question is–will the Vale stand with it’s Queen? Or will you stand aside?”

The chamber seemed to be still in the silence that followed. The flames crackled in the hearth, the scent of spiced wine and warm bread lingering in the air, but the weight of his words had turned the room colder.

Lady Jeyne pursed her lips, releasing a quiet, contemplative hum. The flames in the hearth crackled softly, the only sound filling the space as she seemed to weigh her next words. Then, at last, her lashes fluttered as she lifted her gaze to meet his.

“Do you know why your mother was usurped?”

The question caught him off guard. His brow furrowed slightly, a frown creasing his features as he studied her, uncertain where this was leading. It was not the answer he had expected–not yet, at least. But she made no move to offer her thoughts further, no inclination that she would clarify her own question. She was waiting, watching, testing.

And so, Jace played along.

“Ambition–” he began, only to be cut off before he could finish.

“I thought you’d be more clever than that, my prince.” She said coolly. “It’s because she’s a woman.”

Lady Jeyne’s voice remained smooth, her words crisp, as though they required no further clarification. She shifted slightly in her seat, the rich fabric of her gown whispering against the wood as she reached for her goblet. Lifting it to her lips, she took a slow sip, the deep red wine staining her mouth before she set the goblet down with deliberate ease. Her fingers lingered against the polished metal, tracing its rim in idle thought, though her gaze never wavered from him.

She did not soften her words to spare him the bitter truth. She did not dress them in courtesy or caution. Instead, she let them settle between them, sharp as steel and twice as cutting, waiting to see if he would flinch beneath their weight.

Jace held her gaze, his fingers tightening around the stem of his own goblet. The air between them was heavy and strained. The crackled fire in the heart, sending warm light flickering across the stone walls, but the warmth did little to temper the cold edge of their conversation.

“If your mother had been born a man, there would be no question of her right to rule,” she continued at last, her voice smooth, without the slightest tremor. “Had she been born with a cock between her legs, the Hightowers would have found no cause to mount their ambition upon. There would be no debate, no crisis, no war.”

Lady Jeyne did not look away. She sat poised, the firelight catching in the auburn strands of her hair, her blue eyes sharp with scrutiny. There was a steel to her, a quiet, unyielding strength that was not ostentatious, but undeniable. “The lords of Westeros swore fealty to her–your grandfather saw to that himself.” Her fingers drummed slightly against the stem of her goblet, her expression unmoved. “And yet, the moment he was gone, those same lords who once bent the knee turned their backs. Not because her claim was weak, but because she is a woman.”

Her words hung between them like a blade poised to fall.

“You speak of oaths. Of duty. Of the fealty sworn to your mother,” she continued, her voice smooth as her lips curled into something that was not quite a smile. “But tell me, Prince Jacaerys, what are oaths worth when they are sworn to a woman?”

Jace gritted his teeth, his frown deepening.

“Men swear all manners of things when it suits them. They kneel, they pledge loyalty, they speak pretty words of honor and duty. And yet, when the time comes to uphold those words, when it is a woman seated upon the throne, suddenly their tongues twist, and their spines falter.”

Jace felt something hot coil in his chest–not quite anger, but something dangerously close. His jaw tightened as he swallowed against the heat rising within him, though he kept his expression carefully schooled. He did not believe all men to be so spineless, so easily swayed by the weight of their own cowardice. There were those who had chosen to stand by his mother, who had upheld their vows, not out of convenience but out of loyalty and principle.

House Celtigar, House Massey, House Staunton, House Emmon, and House Darklyn–they had all answered her call. More would come. The realm was not made up of oathbreakers alone.

But Lady Jeyne’s words cut deep, not because he believed them untrue, but because there was truth in them.

“The realm will always find an excuse to deny power to a woman, even if it must twist law and honor to do so,” she continued, her tone as even as it was unrelenting. “Your mother was not usurped because she lacked strength, nor because she was unfit to rule. She was usurped because the lords of Westeros could not stomach the idea of a woman ruling them.”

She lifted her chin slightly, her gaze as sharp as the mountain winds that howled beyond the walls of the Eyrie.

“They usurped her because men fear the rule of a woman more than they fear war itself.”

A wry smile ghosted across her lips, touched with something colder than amusement. There was no mirth in it, only a knowing acceptance–an understanding of the way the world was, and perhaps, a test to see if he understood it too.

She breathed in through her nose, folding her hands in her lap. “So, tell me prince–do you think your mother would be fighting for her birthright had she been born your father’s son?”

Jace swallowed the sharp retort that threatened to rise. He would not let emotion cloud his purpose here. Instead, he forced himself to meet her gaze, his voice measured. “No,” he admitted. “She wouldn’t.”

Jeyne watched him for a long moment, as if weighing his answer, before she inclined her head ever so slightly. “Then you understand the battle she fights is not only against those who usurped her, but against the very nature of this realm.”

He nodded once, his jaw set, his grip on the goblet loosening. “That does not change the fact she is the rightful Queen,” he said firmly. “Nor does it change the fact that the oaths sworn to her were not made lightly. A king’s word must mean something, or all law, all order, crumbles.”

Lady Jeyne studied him for a moment longer, then let out a quiet hum, as if considering. “The realm does not listen to ghosts, Prince Jacaerys. It listens to power. And at this moment, power sits in King’s Landing, wearing a crown, with the weight of the Iron Throne beneath him.”

“Aegon may wear a crown, but that does not make him king,” Jace answered, his temper flaring. “Oaths sworn to my mother do not wither with my grandfather’s passing, nor are they so easily rewritten by the whims of usurpers.”

Jace did not waver. His grip on his goblet remained steady, his posture straight despite the weight of the moment pressing down upon him. “If we yield to this, he said, calm yet resolute, “if we accept that the word of a dead king means nothing, then what is the measure of an oath.”

He did not waver as he continued, his eyes locked on Lady Jeyne’s with an intensity that belied his years. His voice was steady, not raised in anger but firm with conviction, each word weighed as if he were placing stones upon a scale, testing their worth. “If oaths are so easily cast aside with the dead, then what value does any oath truly hold?”

The fire crackled and popped in the hearth, its long, orange tongues licking at the dry logs, casting flickering shadows across the stone floor. The light danced against the polished wood of the table, illuminating the gleam of silver goblets and the deep red of the wine within them. Yet, for all its warmth, the flames did little to temper the chill in the air–a cold that was more than the mountain winds whispering through the tall, narrow windows. It was the cold of doubt, of quiet calculation, of power being measured like gold upon a merchant’s scale. Lady Jeyne Arryn was no fool, and Jace knew he stood before a woman who had spent her life navigating the treacherous currents of politics and power, even as the Lords of Westeros sought to dismiss her.

“If a king’s decree can be undone the moment he is laid to rest,” he continued, “then what faith can be placed in any promise made in Westeros? What value does a vow hold if it can be discarded when it no longer suits those who swore it? He let the question hang between them, the silence that followed as sharp as the mountain air beyond the keep.

Lady Jeyne’s expression remained composed, but her fingers drummed lightly against the polished wood of the table, a quiet rhythm betraying the thoughts running beneath the surface. She seemed to take measure of him–of his words, lips pursing slightly.

“My grandfather’s death did not undo the oaths sworn to my mother, nor did it erase the truth of her claim,” he said a moment after, his voice lowering, carrying a softer intensity. “The lords of Westeros may tell themselves otherwise, may whisper words of convenience to ease their own betrayals, but a lie does not become truth simply because it is spoken often enough.”

He exhaled softly, shifting slightly in his seat, his hands folding before him. “And House Arryn, a house ruled by a woman, will find itself more vulnerable than most should this precedent stand.”

Jace did not say it to wound her, nor to challenge her strength. It was a simple fact, one she must have already considered. Still, he saw the flicker of something in her gaze–whether it was understanding, calculation, or the glint of steel drawn from its sheath, he could not be certain. He pressed on.

“The men who cast aside their vows to my mother have already made it clear what they think of women who hold power,” he continued, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “If they were willing to steal a throne from the named heir of the realm, what will they do when it is your rule that is challenged? When the lords of the Vale decide they have grown tired of a woman’s voice speaking in their hall? When they see an opportunity to replace you with a husband they can control, or a son they can mold?” His head tilted. “If a woman’s claim is so easily denied, then what stops them from denying your own, my lady?”

Lady Jeyne’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her fingers stilled against the table’s surface. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, but there was no softness in it. “Do you think I do not understand what it means to have a birthright challenged? To have my rule questioned at every turn?”

She tilted her head slightly, watching him with the same quiet calculation as a falcon eyeing prey from above. “You forget, Prince, that I was named Lady of the Vale when I was but three years old.”

Jace shifted slightly in his seat, his fingers pressing absently into the bread on his plate, tearing it apart piece by piece. Hunger twisted in his stomach, a dull ache reminding him that he had barely eaten since his arrival, yet now, the thought of food felt almost burdensome.

He brought a small piece to his lips, chewing slowly, but the bread was dry, heavy on his tongue. It clung to the roof of his mouth, each bite turning to dust as he forced himself to swallow. The motion felt thick, uncomfortable, as though it lodged itself in his throat alongside the tension coiling beneath his skin.

“My father. My brothers.” The words came slowly, each one dropping like stones into a well. “All of them were cut down by the Stone Crows.”

She lifted her goblet but did not drip, merely rolling the stem between her fingers. “Their blood ran hot across the snow and stone of the Mountains of the Moon. Murdered.”

Jace swallowed against the dryness in his throat. He had heard of her family’s deaths, of the ambush in the high passes, of the clansmen who had spilled noble Arryn blood. But to hear it from her own lips, spoken without embellishment or pity, was something else entirely.

“And when my father and brothers fell, there was no one left,” she spoke, her voice devoid of self-pity, carrying only the cold weight of truth. There was no lament in her tone, no lingering sorrow–only the simple, unvarnished recounting of what had been. A past carved into stone, immutable, unyielding. “A girl of three summers, heir not by decree, but because there was no other choice.”

She let out a slow breath, her lips pressing together for a moment before she lifted her gaze to his once more. A knowing look flickered across her features–cool, bitter, yet laced with something deeper, something unreadable.

“Tell me, Prince Jacaerys,” she said, her voice measured. “Do you believe the lords of the Vale were eager to swear fealty to a child?”

No, he imagined not. He had no doubt it had been a battle–not of swords and shields, but of words and whispers, of knives in the dark and alliances forged in secret chambers. She had fought for her birthright long before she was old enough to understand the meaning of power.

“My own kin,” she continued, each syllable cutting the words into the air itself, “my cousin, Arnold Arryn, thought the same so many of the realm do now–that a girl had no place ruling in her own right, that my father’s title should have passed to a man rather than to me.”

A flicker of something ghosted across her face–wry amusement, or perhaps an old bitterness that had long since lost its heat, tempered by time into something far colder. She inhaled deeply, exhaling through her nose, as if drawing in the crisp mountain air to cool some ember that still smoldered beneath her words.

“And the lords of the Vale debated it, just as the lords of the realm now debate your mother’s right to rule. My sex, my age, my supposed weakness–all were named as reasons why I should be set aside. Even now, as I sit here, Lady of the Vale, there are those who wish to see me replaced by someone more ‘suitable.’” She tilted her head slightly. “A man.”

The word hung there, simple, heavy with the weight of centuries.

For a heartbeat, she said nothing more. Only the crackling of the fire filled the space between them, the scent of spiced wine curling through the chamber like a specter. Outside the tall windows, the snow-capped peaks of the Vale loomed over the world below, untouched by the wars of men, eternal in their silence.

Then, at last, she spoke again, her voice quieter now, but no less firm. “Were it not for those who stood by me–my regent, Lord Yorbert Royce, the lords who kept their honor–I would not be sitting here before you today.” Her lips curved. “Do you know what lies below this hall, Prince?” Her voice was quiet, almost idle. “The sky cells.”

He had heard of them in his lessons–how the Eyrie’s dungeons were no ordinary cells, but open-faced chambers carved into the very cliffs of the Giant’s Lance, where prisoners huddled against the cold stone, knowing that one wrong step, one moment of disorientation, would see them plummet to their deaths.

Lady Jeyne’s smile did not widen, nor did her tone grow boastful, but there was no mistaking the steel behind her words–no mistaking the flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. “My dear cousin has had plenty of time to reflect upon his ambitions.”

Jace lifted his goblet, taking a slow sip of his wine before setting it back upon the table. “Then you know better than most, my lady. You speak of those who sought to deny you your birthright, men who would rather see the Vale ruled by their own than honor the blood of House Arryn. My mother faces the same. Lords who swore their fealty when it was easy, when the oaths cost them nothing.”

He leaned forward slightly, the weary muscles in his spike aching as he held himself upright. “You prevailed because you had the strength to do so. You had those who stood beside you–lords who saw honor in their vows, who upheld the oaths they swore.” He inclined his head slightly. “That is why I am here. I do not come to beg for your banners–I come because my mother will not yield either. She will fight, as you did, for what is hers.” His expression hardened, his words carrying the weight of his conviction. “And if she must, she will see her enemies in chains, just as your cousin now lies in the sky cells beneath our feet.”

A flicker of amusement swirled within Lady Jeyne’s eyes, subtle yet unmistakable, like a shadow moving beneath still water. She leaned back in her seat, setting her goblet of wine upon the table with a quiet clink, fingers brushing the rim before finally withdrawing. She let out a slow, measured breath, exhaling as if weighing her next words with care.

“You make a compelling case, my prince,” she admitted, her tone smooth, edged with something knowing. “Far more compelling than the one I received from the usurpers.”

Her gaze flickered toward the fire for the briefest of moments, watching the flames twist and coil before she turned her attention back to him.

“It seems they, too, would call upon the strength of the Vale, just as you do.” Her voice was calm, almost indifferent, but beneath it, there was something else–something sharp. “They would have me believe it is my duty to rally to their cause. That it is my duty to uphold the so-called rightful king.”

The words dripped with quiet derision, but her expression did not change. Only the way she held herself, poised yet deliberate, betrayed the underlying weight of her meaning.

“How curious,” she mused, tilting her head slightly, as though considering some great irony. “They strip a woman of her rightful crown, yet they appeal to a woman to help them keep it.”

A pause. The corner of her lips twitched–just barely.

“Tell me, Jacaerys, is that not the height of hypocrisy?”

Jace would have been astounded by their audacity–if it did not fall so neatly within their nature. The usurpers had already twisted law and honor to suit their ambitions, so what was one more contradiction? To steal his mother’s throne while appealing to another woman for support–it was almost laughable in its hypocrisy.

Yet, despite the absurdity of it, there was something else–something that stirred a flicker of hope within him. It lay in the amusement in Lady Jeyne’s voice, in the wry glint in her eyes, in the way she spoke of Aegon and his cause with such quiet, effortless derision. It was not the mockery of a woman weighing her options–it was the knowing disdain of one who had already taken the measure of her would-be allies and found them wanting.

That realization steadied him, strengthened his resolve. She was closer to his side than theirs. Perhaps she had already made her choice and was merely waiting to see if he was worthy of it.

“It is,” he admitted, his voice calm, deliberate. “But hypocrisy is the language of usurpers.”

He let that linger for a moment before continuing, his tone edged with quiet conviction.

“They will twist honor to suit them when it is convenient, then discard it when it no longer serves their needs. They expect loyalty where they have shown none, demand oaths be upheld even as they break their own.”

His fingers curled around the stem of his goblet, though he did not lift it.

“But you know this already, my lady.” He studied her, his expression unwavering. “You see the truth of them as plainly as I do. They do not ask for your strength out of respect, nor out of trust. They ask because they need you. Because even they know the Vale cannot be ignored.”

Jace held her gaze unflinchingly. “The question is, will the Vale honor their vows and stand with their rightful queen, or will you stand aside and let the men of the realm decide that women are not fit to rule?”

He watched her closely, reading the flicker of firelight in her sharp blue eyes as she weighed his words. Lady Jeyne Arryn was not a woman to be rushed, nor one to be easily swayed by grand speeches or empty promises. She measured twice before cutting once, a ruler who held power not because men had simply granted it to her, but because she had seized it and never loosened her grip.

And yet, she had not given him an answer.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken considerations, before she pushed back from the table and rose to her feet. The skirts of her deep blue gown whispered against the stone as she crossed the chamber, moving toward the tall, arched window that overlooked the snowy peaks.

Jace’s eyes followed her as she came to a halt before the window, standing in quiet contemplation. A beat passed, the flickering firelight casting long shadows across the chamber, before he pushed back his chair and rose as well, abandoning his empty plate.

His movements were smooth but deliberate, a silent acknowledgment that this moment required more than mere words exchanged across a table. He stepped toward the window, not too close, but near enough to see what she saw–the courtyard below, where Vermax lay, sprawled across the pale stone, his olive-green scales gleaming in the morning sun. The dragon’s tail flickered lazily, his great wings tucked close to his body, exuding the ease of the creature that knew itself to be unmatched in this high stronghold of men.

The men of the Eyrie had not drawn too close. Even now, they lingered at the edges of the courtyard, keeping their distance. Yet their terror–the wide-eyed fear that had gripped them upon his landing–had settled into something quieter. A kind of reluctant understanding. Wary respect.

“The usurper’s council writes to me,” she said at last, musing. “They entreat the Vale to raise our banners and stand with them, to pledge fealty to a stolen throne.” She breathed out, almost in amusement, shaking her head slightly. “An interesting request, wouldn’t you say?”

She smiled then, a sharp, knowing thing, and let out something close to a chuckle. “They ask me to raise my banners in support of a cause built upon treachery, one that tramples oaths and casts honor aside as if it were dust on the wind.” Her head tilted, the auburn of her hair catching the light as she gazed down upon the courtyard, where Vermax remain unmoving, his breath a cloud of mist in the chilled mountain air. “And they make this request of me–a woman who fought to hold her own birthright, who has stood against those who would see me cast aside in favor of a more ‘suitable’ ruler.”

Lady Jeyne’s gaze did not waver, did not soften. “I wonder if the Hightowers thought of that when they sent their letter.” Her lips pressed together briefly, before a knowing smile ghosted across her features. “Or perhaps they simply do not care for such things. Perhaps they believe, as men often do, that a woman’s convictions are as easily swayed as the winds.”

Jace’s gaze lifted to the mountain peaks, where snow-capped summits gleamed white against the pale blue expanse of the sky. They jutted into the heavens like the fangs of some sleeping giant, cold and unyielding. Below them, the valleys stretched in a patchwork of green, where forest thickets gave way to scattered fields, the land carved by the relentless hands of farmers who toiled against the rugged terrain.

Lady Jeyne’s voice softened, yet it lost none of its weight. She traced the cool stone of the window’s edge with the tips of her fingers, her gaze still lingering on the world beyond. “You speak of honor. Of duty. Of oaths sworn and oaths broken.” A breath, quiet but deliberate. “And you are right–what is a vow worth, if it can be cast aside the moment it becomes inconvenient?”

The sunlight shifted, catching the auburn woven through her dark hair, making it gleam like spun copper. Jace watched her carefully. There was no doubt that Lady Jeyne Arryn was a woman who understood oaths–not just the words spoken in great halls, but the weight they carried, the blood they often demanded.

She let out a slow breath, shaking her head slightly. “I have no illusions about the men who rule this realm,” she murmured. “I have spent my life standing before them, forcing them to look me in the eye as they question my right to sit where my ancestors sat before me.” A wry smirk ghosted across her lips, but it was devoid of warmth, edged instead with something far colder–humorless, deeply knowing. “I know what it means to be doubted for no greater crime than being born a woman.”

She turned then, finally facing him fully, and in her eyes, Jace saw something steely, something that had been honed over years of battle–not one fought with swords and shields, but with words and will.

Jace remained still, did not dare speak. The weight of Lady Jeyne’s words pressed against him, heavy as stone, settling deep within his chest. His heart pounded within his chest, heavy and expectant as anticipation coiled in his stomach like a serpent waiting to strike. He could feel the moment shifting, the air thick with promise.

Then she turned to him fully, the firelight catching in her eyes–blue as the sky above the Eyrie, yet sharp as the winds that howled through the peaks. There was no hesitation in her gaze, no softness, only the unyielding certainty of a woman who had spent a lifetime proving she had the right to rule.

“Your mother was robbed of what was hers,” Lady Jeyne said, her voice steady, cool as a blade drawn in the dawn. “Not because she was unworthy. Not because her claim was weak. She was robbed because she is a woman.”

Jace’s throat tightened, but he did not look away. To do so would be an admission of weakness, of uncertainty, and he could not afford either.

Below, a sudden roar split the morning air. Vermax stirred, lifting his great head, his orange eyes flashing as a ripple of excitement ran through him. The force of his breath stirred the banners along the courtyard walls, and those who had dared to venture closer leapt back, their fear still evident even after long moments of cautious observation. The dragon huffed, his tail flicking once before settling again, as if the tension of the moment above had somehow reached him.

Lady Jeyne exhaled slowly, a quiet breath that was neither sigh nor surrender. Her head tilted slightly as she studied him, her expression as unreadable as the mountain faces around them, save for the keen intelligence that never left her gaze.

“So tell me, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon,” she murmured, her voice dipping lower, softer, yet no less commanding. “If we do not stand for each other, if we do not uphold what is rightfully ours… then who will?”

She let the question linger, but there was no real need for an answer. He already knew it.

After a long pause, Lady Jeyne gave a small nod, as though settling something within herself, a decision crystallizing into certainty.

“Your mother is my kin,” she said at last, her voice steady, unwavering. “My blood. We do not abandon our own. And more than that–she is a woman fighting the same battle I have fought all my life.”

There was no hesitation, no doubt in her words, as though the choice had already been made before Jace had even set foot in her hall. As though all of this—their conversation, the measured weighing of his words–had not been for her benefit, but for his. A test, a means to take his measure, to see if he was worthy of the cause he championed.

Then, with quiet finality, she said the words that would set the course of the Vale.

“The Vale stands with its Queen.”

Jace felt something within him loosen, an invisible weight lifting from his chest. He did not let relief show too plainly on his face, did not exhale too sharply or let his shoulders sag–but it was there, thrumming beneath his skin like a tether pulled tight and then suddenly released.

He inclined his head, measured and respectful. “Thank you, my lady.”

Lady Jeyne’s fingers fluttered dismissively through the air, though the sharp glint in her eyes told Jace the gesture was far from casual. Her voice was steady, edged with the gentleness of stone that he had come to expect. “Save your gratitudes. The Vale does not trade its sons for pretty speeches. Give me more than words, my prince.”

Tension coiled in his chest as he studied her–taking measure of the quiet intensity in her eyes, the line of her jaw, and the way the morning sunlight cut sharply across the high angles of her cheekbones. Lady Jeyne Arryn stood as a woman carved from the same stone as the Eyrie itself, tempered by years of defiance against those who questioned her rule.

He had won her consideration, perhaps even her conviction, yet he knew well enough that conviction alone did not raise banners nor send knights charging into battle. Words could sway minds, but it took far more than reason to summon steel. For all their talk of oaths, honor, and duty, he understood that the final decision hinged upon something deeper–upon trust, upon strength, upon promises he must now ensure were fulfilled.

She would give no allegiance cheaply, nor would she risk her people on hollow assurances. She was waiting, weighing him, watching closely to see if the young prince before her had the strength to match the fire of his words. The Vale’s swords were still safely sheathed, and until he gave her what she sought–certainty–they would remain so.

“Then what will you have of me?”

She turned back towards the window, her gaze sweeping over the courtyard below where Vermax lay coiled at the heart of it all, his great wings half-furled, his scales rippling with each slow breath.It curled into the cold air before him, hanging there for a lingering moment before it began to dissipating into the stillness.

“Assurances,” Jeyne answered him. “The Vale is strong. We do not fear armies marching through our passes. Let them try. Let them hurl themselves against the Bloody Gate, as so many have before, they shall meet the same ruin…” She turned slowly back to face him. “It is from the sky alone we are vulnerable.”

Jace said nothing, but the meaning of her words struck him immediately. The Greens had dragons–Vhagar, Sunfyre, Dreamfyre. The Vale could stand against a thousand men, against ten thousand, but against fire and wings? Against a beast that could fly over the Bloody Gate, past the mountain strongholds, and reduce castles to cinders?

“Send me a dragon,” she declared simply, her tone cool yet firm. “Grant the Vale protection from the air, and I will raise my banners beside yours.”

Jace’s lips pressed together thoughtfully, tension tightening at the corners of his mouth as he considered Lady Jeyne’s words. His gaze drifted back toward the window and down into the courtyard, where Vermax remained sprawled across the pale stone. The dragon lay at ease, basking lazily in the sunlight, seemingly unaware–or perhaps merely uncaring–of the gravity of the negotiations happening above him.

Dragons were their greatest advantage, their numbers the one unshakable strength they held over the Greens–and Lady Jeyne Arryn was fully aware of it. She was no fool. A single dragon, even one smaller than Vermax, could unleash devastation upon a stronghold, transforming towers of stone into charred rubble and ashes with frightening ease. And more importantly, Lady Jeyne had not named an impossible price. Steep, yes–but not beyond reason.

In the silence, Jace weighed the cost carefully. Meleys, with Rhaenys upon her back, was needed desperately to patrol the Gullet, her strength ensuring the blockade held firm against the Green’s own dragons. Caraxes, fierce and battle-tested beneath Daemon Targaryen, would inevitably spearhead any direct assaults upon their enemies from the sky. Syrax remained bound to Dragonstone, inseparable from his mother; her absence would not be tolerated, and would weaken their hold upon the island itself.

Yet perhaps Moondancer would suffice, ridden by Baela–young but spirited, strong enough to defend the Vale if needed. Baela would rise to the task without hesitation, he knew, and Moondancer’s fierce loyalty would match the sharp winds of the Mountains of the Moon. And if Baela could not be spared, he thought briefly–reluctantly–of himself. His place was at his mother’s side, beside the queen and the heart of their cause, yet honor and necessity might require otherwise. He would do what was needed, if it came to that.

A dragon was indeed a heavy price, but one their cause could afford. To secure the might of the Vale–its fleet, its banners, its swords–such a price was not only acceptable but necessary.

Decision made, Jace straightened slightly, meeting Lady Jeyne’s gaze with newfound resolve.

“Then it is agreed. A dragon will watch over the Vale, and House Arryn will stand with its rightful queen.”

Lady Jeyne inclined her head slightly, a subtle gesture of approval that softened the stern lines of her features. The morning sunlight spilled around her, catching in her auburn hair, lending a coppery glow that contrasted sharply with the cool resolve in her eyes. Her lips curved faintly into an expression that hinted at satisfaction, though it held no warmth–only the measured confidence of a ruler whose terms had been met.

“Then consider the Vale’s banners pledged,” she affirmed evenly. “We will honor our oaths, Prince Jacaerys. Pray that your house does the same.”

Jace held her gaze steadily, understanding well the weight of her words, the caution woven beneath them. Trust was a fragile currency, easily spent and rarely regained. Yet he had no hesitation now, no shadow of doubt clouding his response. He knew the worth of allies like the Lady of the Vale–pragmatic, resolute, unbending.

“House Targaryen remembers those who stand with us,” he said quietly, conviction clear in his tone. “You have my word, Lady Arryn. We will honor this alliance.”

A hush settled between them, heavy with the weight of oaths exchanged, the air still thrumming with the finality of their agreement. The tension that had gripped the solar slowly unwound, dissipating like the last wisps of a storm retreating beyond the mountains. Yet, in the quiet, something remained–not quite unease, but a recognition of the path now set before them. The Vale had declared its allegiance. And war loomed ever closer.

Lady Jeyne exhaled, casting a last glance down at the courtyard, before she turned from the window’s edge. She did not move with haste, nor hesitation. Her steps were silent against the stone, the fabric of her deep blue gown whispering in her wake. The steel that had marked her voice in negotiation seemed to soften as she approached the table once more, her fingers trailing along the polished wood.

“You must be exhausted, Prince Jacaerys,” she remarked. As she reached her chair, she rested a hand against its back, tracing the wings of the falcon carve into the dark wood. “It is no small thing, flying across half the realm. I do not imagine dragonflight offers the same comforts as a ship’s cabin or a horse’s saddle.”

Jace followed her, his own shoulders easing now that the moment of decision had passed. And yet, the weariness that had lurked at the edges of his mind now pressed more insistently upon him, making itself known in the dull ache spreading through his body. His muscles protested the long flight, the hours spent braced against the fierce winds, his fingers stiff from gripping Vermax’s reins. He rolled his neck, feeling the tension pull at his spine, and absently rotated one shoulder. The stiffness lingered, a dull throb settled between his shoulder blades.

“I’d take a saddle over a cabin any day,” he admitted, the corner of his mouth quirking into a tired smirk. “There’s nothing quite like having nothing between you and the sky but your own strength. And a dragon is faster than ship and horse combined.”

“Faster, perhaps. But not without its costs.”

He did not argue. The cold had seeped deep into his bones, lingering even now, despite the warmth of the solar. Dragonflight was exhilarating, unmatched in freedom, but it was also grueling–merciless to the body, a test of endurance as much as it was of skill. The winds of the upper sky were not kind; they bit through leather and fur, clawing at exposed skin, howling past the ears in an unrelenting assault. Even now, his limbs bore the stiffness of long hours braced against those relentless gales.

“I imagine you’ll appreciate the comfort of a real bed tonight,” Lady Jeyne remarked, a hint of amusement threading through her otherwise measured tone. “I’ll have you shown to your chambers so you may rest before supper. Tonight, we shall announce our alliance before the gathered lords of the Vale.”

Jace exhaled, the thought of a proper bed a welcome one after the long flight. “A bed does sound nice,” he admitted with a smirk, though fatigue was beginning to weigh at the edges of his voice. “And I imagine I’ll need to be well-rested if I am to stand before your bannermen.” He arched a brow. “I expect they’ll have questions.”

“They always do,” Lady Jeyne said, the corners of her lips curving ever so slightly. “But you’ve held your own well enough thus far. I daresay you’ll survive a room full of lords.”

There was a quiet confidence in her words, an acknowledgment not just of his presence here but of how he had handled himself. It was not outright praise, nor did it need to be. The very fact that she had agreed to stand with his mother spoke volumes.

Jace gave a short chuckle, though he knew well enough that lords of any realm were rarely as simple to contend with as steel or sky. He had won Lady Jeyne’s support, but the night was not yet over. There would still be more eyes to convince, more words to wield.

But for now, he would take what rest he could.

“The lords of the Vale will hear from you tonight,” Lady Jeyne said, her smile unwavering, though her gaze was already distant, as if seeing beyond the walls of the Eyrie. “But I imagine this is not the only hall where you must plead your case.”

Jace straightened slightly, his mind already turning toward what lay ahead. “No,” he admitted. “It is not.” He let out a slow breath, the weight of duty settling over his shoulders once more. “At first light, I will depart for Winterfell. My mother seeks the support of Lord Cregan Stark and the North as a whole. We cannot afford hesitation–not when so much rests upon their answer.”

Lady Jeyne nodded slowly, her lips pressing together in quiet thought. “The Starks,” she mused. “Lord Cregan Stark is young, proud, and by all accounts has little patience for the intrigues of southern politics. Still…” she paused, choosing her words carefully. “If the Starks yet hold true to the honor their house is famed for, then perhaps their banners already belong to your mother.”

Jace hoped she spoke true, though he knew better than to rely upon hope alone. The North was a land of stark truths, of harsh winters and harsher lessons. Lord Cregan would not be swayed easily.

Lady Jeyne regarded him with a hint of sympathy behind her careful expression. “Winterfell is a long flight, Prince Jacaerys–longer and colder even than your journey here. If you found the Vale's winds biting, you will soon discover the North is a far harsher test.”

A faint, wry smile touched Jace’s lips. He straightened slightly, his confidence returning as he met her gaze. “Then it is fortunate I have a dragon, my lady,” he replied evenly. “I've little doubt Vermax is eager to test his strength against the cold.”

Lady Jeyne raised an eyebrow, a spark of genuine amusement dancing briefly across her features. “I've no doubt,” she remarked dryly, before her gaze drifted appraisingly down to Jace’s attire–to the thick cloak of heavy wool draped across his shoulders, finely embellished yet clearly inadequate for the harsh Northern winds, and the thick doublet and sturdy trousers beneath it. “Though I must say, I do hope you've packed warmer garments for your journey ahead.”

Jace followed her gaze downward, his lips pursing slightly as he considered his clothing. He’d chosen carefully for this journey, selecting the thickest garments he owned. “I have another cloak and doublet in my pack, secured to the saddle,” he replied, though even to his own ears, the answer now seemed somehow lacking.

Lady Jeyne laughed aloud then, a rare and surprisingly pleasant sound that filled the solar, her blue eyes crinkling softly at the corners as she shook her head. “I’m afraid, Prince Jacaerys, that will hardly suffice against the bitter winds you’ll face beyond the Neck.” Still smiling, she turned slightly toward the doorway, raising her voice with practiced authority. “Ser Myles!”

The doors opened at once, revealing a sturdy man whose broad shoulders seemed carved of granite. His thick black beard and gruff visage made him look more mountain bear than knight. He stepped inside, inclining his head respectfully toward Lady Jeyne. “M’lady?”

“Escort the prince to his chambers,” she instructed calmly. “See that he is comfortable, and ensure he is properly provisioned for his journey north. Have the stewards bring fresh clothing from our stores–wool, fur-lined cloaks, and whatever else he’ll require to withstand the cold of Winterfell.”

Ser Myles gave a brisk nod, his dark gaze flickering to Jace for only a brief moment before he bowed again. “As you command, my lady.”

Jace let out a slow breath, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. He had known the North would be colder, but how much worse could it truly be? Still, he held his tongue. There was little point in arguing when he suspected he had already lost.

“Rest now, Prince Jacaerys. You'll need your strength for what comes next–and your wits sharp enough to match swords with the Starks.”

Jace offered a small smile of gratitude, fatigue settling heavier across his shoulders now that rest was finally within reach. “My thanks, Lady Jeyne,” he said with quiet sincerity.

She inclined her head slightly, her smile fading but the warmth lingering still in her gaze. “Until tonight, Prince.”

Turning toward Ser Myles, Jace straightened, summoning what remained of his strength to follow the knight from the solar, his mind already drifting northward, toward Winterfell and the stern northern lord whose banners he must next win.

Dawn had only begun to stretch pale fingers across the horizon when Jace took flight from the Eyrie. The towering peaks of the Vale, crowned in frost and kissed by the lingering darkness of night, fell away beneath Vermax’s wings. They soared higher, higher, until the castle and its banners were little more than distant specks against the vastness of sky and stone.

The night before had been a night of revelry. The lords of the Vale had feasted in the great hall, their banners hanging heavy from the vaulted ceilings as the fires roared in the hearths, filling the air with scent of roasted boar, spiced wine, and charred meat dripping with fat. They had toasted their new alliance–cups raised in honor of House Targaryen, for Queen Rhaenyra, for Jace himself, who had won them words of honor.

Now, the echoes of that fast were left behind, the warmth of the hearths and heavy voices of the mountain lords swallowed by the icy winds of the North. Jace had taken Lady Jeyne’s advice to heart, donning heavier garments before his departure–his doublet now lined with thick able fur, a cloak with the pelt of a shadowcat draped over his shoulders, fastened with silver clasps in the shape of a dragon in flight. His woolen trousers were thicker than those he had worn to the vale, and a pair of thick leather gloves to shield his fingers from the numbing cold. Even so, the wind was cruel, biting through the seams of his clothing, seeping into his bones.

They soared over the Bite, the waters below dark and bottomless, their surface ripping like the hide of some great, sleeping beast. The coastline stretched northward, the jagged cliffs of the Vale giving way to flatter, harsher lands where the first hints of winter’s grasp could be seen in the skeletal branches of trees, the dusting of frost upon the moors.

By the time White Harbor came into view, evening had draped the city in hues of fading gold and deepening blue. The last light of day shimmered upon the White Knife, casting the river’s surface in a rippling sheen of silver as it wound its way through the North’s greatest port. The city was alive with movement–ships rocking gently in the harbor, their masts swaying like reeds as dockhands called to one another over the creak of wood and the crash of waves. Smoke curled from a thousand chimneys, rising in twisting columns into the crisp autumn air, carrying with it the scent of salt, fish, and roasting meats.

From above, Jace watched as the banners of House Manderly rippled in the cold wind–emerald green and silver, the great white merman upon them illuminated by the dying light of the sun. The city’s walls stood strong, their stone weathered but formidable, the turrets manned by guards whose heads turned skyward as the shadow of a dragon swept over them.

Vermax descended in a slow, measured glide, his wings sending ripples through the drifting smoke as he came to land within the castle walls. The impact sent dust swirling in the torchlight, and a nervous shuffling ran through the ranks of guards stationed near the courtyard. Though White Harbor was one of the few places in the North with lingering Valyrian influence, a dragon’s arrival was no common sight.

Lord Desmond Manderly was waiting for him. He was a broad man, thick about the middle but standing tall, his white beard curling past his collar like seafoam on the tide. His welcoming smile was wide, but his keen blue eyes carried the weight of years spent balancing loyalty and survival. He stepped forward, arms outstretched in greeting.

“Prince Jacaerys Velaryon,” he declared warmly. “You bring fire to the North, but I pray you bring no war with it.”

Jace dismounted smoothly, landing lightly upon the stone with a practiced ease. He offered a respectful nod before removing his gloves, tucking them into his belt. “That is in the hands of those who swore oaths to my mother, my lord,” he answered evenly. “Oaths sworn before my grandsire, King Viserys.”

Lord Desmond’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before he nodded. “Then come inside. The winds of the harbor do not make for pleasant talk.”

Jace followed the lord into the warmth of the castle, where the scent of roasted venison and spiced cider hung heavy in the air. The great hall of White Harbor was vast, its vaulted ceiling upheld by sturdy wooden beams carved with sigils of the sea–krakens, fish, and the great white merman of Manderly. Tapestries woven in silver and blue lined the walls, depicting scenes of old Valyria, the Doom, and the coming of the Andals.

Over supper, they spoke of many things. The state of the realm. The movements of the usurper’s forces. The strength of the Vale’s commitment. And finally, of terms.

Lord Desmond was shrewd, his years lending him the patience of a man who had learned to weigh the tide before setting sail. “I do not doubt the Queen’s claim, nor do I question the oaths sworn to her,” He said, setting aside his goblet. “But war is a cruel beast, and in these times, alliances must be bound by more than mere words.” He glanced toward his eldest son, who sat silent at his side, and then back to Jace. “You are your mother’s heir. Your duty is to secure the throne, as my duty is to secure the future of my house.”

Jace had expected this. A demand of loyalty rarely came without price. “Speak your terms, my lord.”

“A marriage,” Lord Desmond stated plainly, his gaze steady. “My youngest daughter, Maris, will wed your brother Joffrey once this war is won and peace returns to the realm.”

A hush fell over the table, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire in the great hearth. Jace considered the offer, weighing it against the necessity of Manderly banners, ships, and swords. The North’s loyalty was not to be taken lightly, and White Harbor, the richest port in the region, held sway over many lesser houses.

Joffrey was still a child, barely old enough to understand the weight of his own name, but such were the burdens of princes. Maris Manderly was a girl of eight, if Jace remembered correctly. A match made for duty, not for love, but that was the way of things.

At last, he inclined his head. “It shall be done,” Jace agreed. There was no hesitation in his voice, only the weight of duty, the knowledge that wars were not won by dragons alone but by alliances sealed in steel and marriage pacts. “When the fighting is ended, your daughter and my brother shall be wed.”

A slow smile spread across Lord Desmond’s face. He lifted his goblet once more, and with a motion of his hand, the room followed suit. “Then let us drink to Queen Rhaenyra, and to the future of our houses!”

The great hall echoed with the sound of cups clashing, the voices of Manderly knights and bannermen rising in a chorus of approval. Jace drank deep, though he felt little satisfaction in the agreement. It was another piece moved upon the board, another step taken toward victory.

At first light, Jace stood in the courtyard once more, the cold biting at his skin as he fastened his riding cloak. Vermax stirred as he approached, stretching his wings, the early morning air filled with the sound of shifting scales and the deep rumble of the dragon’s breath.

Lord Desmond stood at the castle steps, watching as Jace climbed into the saddle. “May the gods see you safely to Winterfell,” the older man said, his tone measured, but not unkind.

Jace nodded once. “And may they see our cause victorious.”

With that, he gave the command. Vermax let out a powerful roar, his wings unfurling as he launched into the sky, carrying Jace northward, toward Winterfell and the next alliance he must win.

As White Harbor dwindled behind him, its white stone walls and bustling port fading into the distance, Jace guided Vermax northward, following the winding path of the White Knife. The river wound like a silver ribbon through the land, broad and winding, cutting through the meadows and rolling hills before splitting in two. One branch led west, deeper into the heart of the North; the other, stretching further to the north, leading towards the Long Lake and the Lonely Hills. He veered westward, towards Winterfell and the Wolfswood.

Now and then, Jace caught glimpses of movement far below–small boats drifting upon the current, fishermen casting their nets, distant figures pausing in their work to stare skyward as the shadow of the dragon passed overhead.

The cold sharpened as they pressed onward, the winds carrying with them the scent of pine, of frozen earth, of snow yet to fall. The North stretched vast and endless before him, untamed and ancient. This was not the soft, temperate land of the Reach, nor the sunlit shores of Dragonstone. It seemed a place that had withstood the march of time itself, its people as hard and unforgiving as the land they ruled.

By the time Winterfell emerged upon the horizon, dusk had begun its slow descent, stretching long, violet shadows across the snowbound land. They sky bled with the last light, smearing the heavens in streaks of crimson and bruised purple. Below, the North lay vast and unforgiving–rolling hills blanked in white, rivers locked beneath sheets of unbroken ice, and the distant peaks of the Frostfangs jagged against the horizon like broken teeth of a great big beast.

Jace had never known cold like this.

It was an enemy unlike steel or fire, seeping into the very marrow of his bones. Even layered in furs and thick wool, he felt its bite. He had long since ceased to shiver. His fingers had grown stiff upon the reins, the tips numb beneath his gloves, while his legs felt as though they no longer belonged to him. His breath curled into mist the instant it left his lips, quickly dissipating in the frigid wind.

Only the heat of Vermax beneath him kept him from succumbing entirely to the cold’s merciless embrace. The dragon’s body radiated warmth like a living furnace, his scales hot to the touch where Jace could press his gloved hands against them. Now and then, a rush of heat rose from the beast’s nostrils, billowing into the air in great plumes of mist, twisting and dispersing into the night. Jace pressed himself closer against the saddle, trying to absorb whatever warmth he could, though it did little to thaw the ice that had settled into his limbs.

Ahead, Winterfell loomed ever closer, growing from a dark blot on the horizon to a formidable silhouette against the fading light. The castle was massive, more a fortress than a noble seat, its ancient walls rising high and thick, built to withstand not just war, but winter itself. The towers stood like watchful giants, their stone darkened by age, the banners of House Stark fluttering sluggishly in the frigid wind. From this distance, Jace could already see the faint orange glow of torchlight flickering along the ramparts, the fires of the great keep burning against the night.

He exhaled sharply, the breath escaping his lips in a ghostly cloud. The Starks were waiting. The North had yet to declare its allegiance. And he had come to secure it, no matter what the cold, or the long flight, had taken from him.

Jace tightened his grip on the reins, his stiff fingers barely responding as he flexed them against the cold. His leathers and furs offered little protection against the North’s cruel embrace. No matter how tightly he clutched his cloak around his shoulders, no matter how he pressed himself against Vermax’s heated scales, the cold found him, leeching into his very bones with a merciless persistence.

The cold here was different from the sharp sea winds of Dragonstone or even the biting gusts that howled through the Vale. This was a cold that devoured, that seeped through the layers of wool and leather as though they were nothing, that stole the breath from his lungs before he could even exhale.

The dragon sensed his discomfort. Vermax rumbled beneath him, the vibrations traveling up through the saddle, a silent reassurance from beast to rider. Jace exhaled through clattering teeth, his breath curling into mist. They were close now. Winterfell loomed ahead, its high walls and towering keeps set against the deeping sky. The castle’s presence was as formidable as the land itself–dark stone rising from the frozen earth, a bastion that had withstood the march of time, war, and winter alike.

The wind sharpened as they descended, cutting through him like a thousand unseen blades. His voice, hoarse from the cold, was barely more than a rasp as he spoke the command. Down, Vermax. The words were swallowed by the howling winds, but the dragon heard him all the same. With a great tilt of his wings, Vermax shifted course, gliding lower towards the walls of Winterfell.

As they passed over the battlements, Jace caught movement below–figures stirring, heads tilting skyward, torchlight flickering against steel as sentries turned to face the shadow that now swept over them.

Then, Vermax roared.

The sound tore through the night like a rolling storm, deep and resounding, shaking the very stones of the castle beneath them. It was not a cry of aggression, but one of announcement–an undeniable herald of his arrival. Jace watched as men below shifted uneasily, gripping their spears tighter, some taking instinctive steps back, though none dared flee outright.

They circled the castle once, the frozen wind rushing past Jace’s face like the breath of some ancient beast lurking in the darkness. Below, in the open courtyard, more figures emerged, summoned by the dragon’s call–guards, stable hands, and castle folk, their gazes wide and wary.

Jace felt the ache settle into his limbs, the exhaustion creeping into his bones, but he did not allow himself to falter. He straightened in the saddle, shoulders squared, jaw clenched against the cold as Vermax began his descent.

The stones of Winterfell loomed beneath him. The North was watching.

And now, it was time to meet its wolves.

Jace remained seated atop Vermax for a long moment after landing, his breath a ghostly mist in the frigid evening air. The dragon’s great wings settled against his sides, the leathery membranes rustling before folding neatly into place. Beneath him, Vermax let out a low rumble, the sound reverberating through the courtyard like distant thunder–a warning, a reminder.

The cold clung to him, biting through his leathers even now, but he ignored it, his gaze sweeping the courtyard.

Night had fully descended upon Winterfell, the sky a vast, star-pierced abyss of deep blue and black. The only light came from the torches lining the walls, flickering in the iron sconces and great braziers that burned defiantly against the cold. Their flames cast long, shifting shadows across the courtyard, illuminating the uneven, half-frozen ground where patches of slush and mid mixed with hardened snow.

The men of the North stood like the walls themselves–silent, unyielding. They lined the battlements, their figures dark against the torchlight, their breaths rising in slow plumes of white. In the courtyard, others stood in rigid groups around the braziers, hands now resting upon the pommel of swords or the hafts of axes, their expressions unreadable beneath thick beards and the deep lines of hard-lived years.

They watched him, scrutinising him with the quiet weariness of men accustomed to hardship. These were not soft southern lords draped in silk and gold, nor green boys playing at knighthood in the tourney field of the Reach. These were men who knew battle, who had bled and fought and endured, their faces carved by wind and frost, by years of toil and the merciless grip of winter.

Jace felt their gazes upon him like the weight of a thousand stones. They studied him not with open hostility, but with the judgment of wolves sizing up an unfamiliar presence in their den. A dragonrider had come to winterfell, and though they did not cower, neither did they welcome him.

He knew what they saw when they looked upon him. A southerner. A prince. A boy.

Not one of their own.

The cold bit deep into his skin, even through the layers of his furs, yet he forced himself to sit tall in the saddle. He could not appear weak, not here. Not before these men, before this castle, before the North itself.

Jace gritted his teeth, willing his body to still–if only to keep his chattering teeth and the rattling in his bones from betraying him. The cold had burrowed deep beneath his skin, embedding itself in his very marrow, but he would not allow it to show. Not here.he would not–could not–let these Northmen see him falter.

It took every ounce of effort to pry his fingers from the reins, his stiff, frozen limbs resisting him at every movement. His muscles ached from the long flight, locked into place by hours braced against the wind and the merciless grip of the northern cold. Still, he forced himself to move, to unfasten the leather straps securing him to the saddle, to straighten his back, and to push through the numbness clawing at his limbs.

When he swung his leg over the saddle, he did so with the same practiced grace he had always carried in flight–or at least, he tried to. His body fought him, stiff and uncooperative, the lingering numbness making every motion feel like moving through thick ice. His descent lacked the fluidity he was accustomed to, but he refused to falter.

The instant his boots met the frozen ground, the cold struck him anew–sharper, crueler, as though it had been waiting for him to let go of Vermax’s warmth. It carved through his layers of wool and fur, slipping past leather and cloth like an assassin’s dagger, sinking deep into his bones with a vengeance.

The impact of his landing sent a jarring shock through his legs, the force traveling up to his knees, sharp and unforgiving. His limbs had gone numb hours ago, deadened by the relentless wind of flight, but now they ached with a dull, throbbing protest. He barely felt his own feet beneath him, as if he were standing on stone rather than flesh and bone.

But he would not stumble.

He set his jaw, gritting his teeth against the pain, and forced his spine straight, rolling his shoulders back in quiet defiance of the cold and the long flight that had sought to break him. His breath came in slow, steady plumes of mist, curling into the frigid air as he exhaled.

A low, rumbling sound vibrated through the air, deep and resonant, emanating from within Vermax’s broad chest. The dragon exhaled sharply, sending a rolling wave of heat curling into the cold night air, his breath thick as smoke as it billowed past Jace’s shoulder. His massive, golden eyes narrowed, surveying the gathered Northerners with open suspicion, as though their silence and measured stares were an offense in themselves.

House Stark had long sworn fealty to the Targaryen crown, but fealty and welcome were not the same thing. Jace could feel the weight of their eyes upon him–assessing, scrutinizing, measuring his worth before a single word had been spoken. These were men who did not offer trust freely, nor bend at the sight of a dragon’s wings. They had given their oaths to his ancestors, but oaths were words, and words were as brittle as thin ice when war loomed on the horizon.

He swallowed, his throat tight against the cold as his gaze swept across the gathered men. They were weathered, their faces lined with years of hardship, their beards thick and flecked with frost. Their silence was not unkind, nor was it welcoming–it was the quiet of the North, a patience that did not rush to judge but waited, observed, endured.

Among them, he searched for someone familiar, someone close to his own age, but the few he found–young men standing among their elders–stared at him with the same unreadable expression. There were no murmurs, no hushed whispers between them. The men of the North did not flinch, did not bow, did not kneel.

The courtyard remained deathly still, the only sound the distant crackle of torchlight and the restless shifting of Vermax, who exhaled a great plume of mist into the night air.

Jace inhaled deeply, the cold air burning in his lungs before he squared his shoulders and spoke, his voice steady despite the frost that bit at his lips.

“I am Jacaerys Velaryon,” he declared, his breath curling into the air as he met their gazes, unyielding. “I come as an envoy of my mother, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, to speak with Lord Cregan Stark.”

Jace’s announcement hung heavy in the frigid air, met by nothing more than stark silence. The men of Winterfell stood motionless, their faces pale in the flickering torchlight, eyes sharp with wary assessment. No murmur of greeting or hostility arose from their ranks–only silence, thick as frost, broken by the snapping of flames in the iron braziers along the battlements.

He kept his head high, refusing to allow the discomfort to show, refusing to let his resolve falter beneath their unrelenting scrutiny. When still no answer came, he took a half-step forward, his voice firm yet carefully measured. “Who among you will bring me to your lord?”

“There’s no need,” came a voice, calm and steady from the gathering darkness.

Jace turned sharply, eyes searching among the shadowed ranks for the speaker. Torchlight shifted, illuminating a figure stepping forward from among the assembled men, his heavy cloak swirling about him like the night itself parting to reveal the lord beneath.

Tall and broad-shouldered, the man moved with a quiet certainty, the weight of command resting easily upon him. A heavy cloak lined with thick wolf fur hung from his shoulders, its edges dusted with frost. His long, dark hair was unbound, shifting as the wind stirred through it, framing a face carved from the same unyielding stone as the keep behind him. Beneath the flickering torchlight, his grey eyes gleamed–sharp, assessing, and unreadable.

He was a man grown, yet as Jace studied him, he could not shake the dissonance between what he had been told and what stood before him. He had expected someone older, someone hardened in ways that time alone could shape–a warrior carved from ice and stone, worn by years of command. Instead, Cregan Stark stood before him, tall and broad-shouldered, yet not so much older than Jace himself. There was a strange youthfulness to his face, a lingering trace of the boy he had once been, tempered only by the quiet gravity in his grey eyes.

He was not what Jace had imagined. Not a boy, nor like the seasoned men behind him, their faces lined with age and beards thick with frost. There was no softness to him, no trace of uncertainty–only the weight of duty, worn as comfortably as the direwolf-clasped cloak upon his shoulders.

And though Jace had come prepared to plead his mother’s cause before a hardened lord of the North, he now realized he stood before something else entirely.

A wolf, young yet fully grown, whose fangs had already tasted blood.

“I am Cregan Stark,” the northern lord stated simply, stepping further into the torchlight. His voice carried effortlessly across the courtyard, low and clear. “Welcome to Winterfell, Prince Jacaerys.”

Jace extended the letter toward Lord Stark, the wax seal of Queen Rhaenyra’s dragon glinting in the torchlight. The cold bit into his fingers even through his gloves, but he kept his movements steady, his posture firm.

“Lord Cregan, I come to you as an envoy on behalf of your rightful queen. House Stark has long stood for honor and oaths–oaths sworn to my mother. I am here to see if the North still keeps its word.”

His words hung in the frozen air, sharp as the wind curling through the courtyard. He did not waver beneath the weight of the northern lord’s gaze.

Cregan Stark made no immediate move to take the letter. Instead, he regarded Jace in silence, his expression carved from stone, unreadable beneath the shifting torchlight. His brow remained level, his grey eyes dark and steady as if measuring the boy before him against the man he would become.

Then, at last, he spoke.

Cregan Stark studied him for a moment longer before inclining his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “The journey north must have been long and cold,” he said, his voice as even as the winter winds that swept through the courtyard. “But Winterfell does not leave its guests to freeze in the yard. We have prepared a feast in your honor. Come inside, my prince. Warm yourself by our hearths, and let us speak over meat and mead.”

The words were not unkind, but there was no excess courtesy in them either–no grand declarations of welcome, no fawning over dragons or royal envoys. This was the North. Their hospitality was as sturdy and unembellished as their walls, a thing given out of duty rather than indulgence.

Jace nodded, forcing himself to step forward, though his legs still felt half-numb from the flight. “Your generosity is most appreciated, Lord Stark.” He meant it, truly, but the words came through lips he barely felt, half-choked by the lingering cold still clinging to him. He clenched his jaw, but not before another gust of wind sliced through the courtyard, sharp as a blade. His body betrayed him.

Before he could stop himself, he muttered under his breath, “Gods, I swear the cold is harsher than I ever imagined. It’s a wonder you weren’t alerted to my arrival by the sound of my clattering teeth alone.”

The words left his mouth before he realized he had spoken them aloud. A heartbeat of silence followed.

Then, from somewhere among the gathered men, a chuckle escaped–low and rough, as if the speaker had tried to stifle it but failed. Another snort of amusement followed, and before long, a few of the Northmen exchanged glances, some smiling behind thick beards, others smirking into their cloaks.

If there had been any warmth left in him, he was certain it would have fled straight to his cheeks–to the very tips of his frozen ears. As if the cold had not already stripped him bare, he had now surrendered himself further, his own tongue betraying him before the gathered men of Winterfell.

And yet, having admitted it, the words seemed to spill forth unbidden, his breath curling into the night like mist. “I’m sure had I continued through the night, I would have frozen over and slipped from the saddle, shattering like ice upon the ground.”

A beat of silence followed.

Then, another chuckle, deeper this time, rippling through the gathered Northmen like the first crack in a frozen lake. Someone muttered something to his companion–a jest, no doubt–while another man exhaled through his nose in quiet amusement.

Cregan Stark’s expression barely shifted, but Jace caught the flicker of something in his eyes–amusement, perhaps, or just the barest hint of knowing. The young lord exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. “Then it is good fortune that you arrived when you did, my prince. I would rather not have to explain to your mother why the heir to the Iron Throne lies shattered in my courtyard like a broken icicle.”

The laughter this time was louder, though still tempered, rolling low and warm among the men.

Jace sighed through his nose, barely resisting the urge to press his gloved hand to his forehead. “Nor would I wish that upon you, Lord Stark.”

Cregan gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, before gesturing toward the great doors of Winterfell. “Come. Before the night claims what little remains of you.”

Jace took a step forward, moving to follow Lord Cregan towards the warmth of Winterfell’s hall, before stopping. He turned back towards Vermax, who watched him from above with smoldering orange eyes, their glow catching the torchlight. The dragon let out a low, huttural rumble, his breath steaming into the cold night air as he shifted his weight, claws scraping against mud covered stones.

“Lykirī, Vermaks,” he exhaled in a soft murmur, breath curling in the frigid air as he stepped closer, resting a gloved hand against the warm scales of Vermax’s flank. The dragon huffed in response, heat radiating from his body.

With stiff fingers, he reached for the leather straps securing his pack to the saddle. The buckles were frozen stiff, ice-crusting along the edges of metal. He flexed his numb hands before gripping the small levers designed for mounting, busting them to hoist himself up just enough to wrestle with the bindings. His arms ached, muscles weary, but he gritted his teeth and pulled until the straps finally loosened, freeing the bag from its hold.

As he descended, his boots struck heavily upon the courtyard stone. He straightened, lifting his gaze toward Lord Cregan, who now stood upon the raised landing before Winterfell’s great hall. Behind the Stark lord, the heavy oak doors of the keep stood partially open, warm light spilling forth, casting a golden glow upon the frost-covered stones. From within the hum of voices raised in laughter and the clinking of cups sounded.

Cregan Stark regarded him steadily from above, framed by the doorway and torchlight, his expression unreadable as he watched him. “I’ll not pretend to know a dragon’s mind,” he said as Jace approached, slowly rising up the steps. “But I’d prefer to know he won’t take issue with the men moving about the yard tonight. I would not see any of them burned over a misplaced step.”

Vermax remained where he was, his massive form coiled within the courtyard, breath rising in slow, misting plumes. His wings rustled slightly, shifting against his back, the faintest twitch of his tail sending small stones skittering across the frozen ground. He watched the men with mild disinterest.

Jace met Cregan’s gaze evenly, shaking his head. “Vermax won’t cause trouble unless provoked,” he assured him. “He knows me, and he knows when to fight and when to rest. But I will see that he’s moved come morning–I’ll find a cave or sheltered place beyond the walls.”

Cregan seemed to consider it for a moment, then gave a small nod. “There’s a cave just outside the Hunter’s Gate,” he said. “Our hounds sometimes use it in the warmer months, but it should be large enough for him to shelter while you’re here. It’s close enough that you can reach him quickly if need be, but far enough that he won’t set the gates alight if startled.

Jace inclined his head in gratitude. “That will do, thank you.”

Lord Cregan glanced once more at Vermax, humming. “Then let us hope your beast enjoys the hospitality of the North as well as his rider.”

With that, he turned toward the keep once more, leading the way inside, while Jace cast one last glance at his dragon before stepping into the warmth of Winterfell’s halls.

The moment Jace stepped into Winterfell’s great hall, the warmth enveloped him like a wave breaking over stone. The shift was almost jarring–after so many hours in the unforgiving air, the heat of the roaring hearths felt near suffocating. His fingers, still half-numb from frost, tingled painfully as blood began to rush back into them.

A servant moved towards him, taking the weight of his bag from his grasp before he could protest. The motion was brisk, efficient, as if such things were expected, and before Jace could spare a second though, his belongings were already being carried off, likely to the chambers prepared for him.

He barely had time to collect himself before Cregan Stark strode further inside, leading the way towards the feasting tables. The scent of roasted meat, spiced wine, and fresh bread filled the air, rich and heavy, mingling with the low murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of tankards against wood.

The feast had already begun.

Long trestle tables stretched down the hall, lined with men of the North, their heavy cloaks draped across the backs of their chairs, their voices carrying in deep, steady tones. The flickering glow of torchlight played across their faces, casting shadows in the hollows of their cheeks, glinting off flagons and steel. Platters of venison, roasted boar, and thick loaves of dark bread were passed between them, the scent enough to remind Jace just how long it had been since he’d eaten anything more than dried provisions.

Despite the gathering, there was nothing excessive about the display–this was no frivolous southern court dripping in golden candelabras and silken banners. The hall was grand, yes, but there was an unshaken practicality in it. The walls were stone, the banners of House Stark hanging solemnly between the great wooden beams overhead. The fire in the hearth blazed strong, yet there was no sense of indulgence here, no wasted excess. Everything had a purpose, as did the men who sat at the tables, eating, drinking, waiting.

Jace felt their eyes on him as he followed Lord Cregan through the hall–some merely curious, others watchful, weighing, as if still determining whether his presence among them was a boon or a burden.

Lord Cregan took his seat at the high table, his posture relaxed but commanding, his gaze sweeping over the hall with quiet authority. From here, he had a clear view of the revelry–the long trestle tables where his bannermen and household drank deep and ate well, the great hearth where flames roared and crackled, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls. The hall was alive with the murmur of voices, the clatter of tankards, and the low rumble of laughter–less the rowdy mirth of southern feasts and more the measured camaraderie of men who had fought and endured many winters together.

Jace followed, stepping up to the lord’s table and lowering himself into the seat at Cregan’s side. The chair was heavy, its wood worn smooth by generations of Starks who had ruled before. He could still feel the cold clinging to his skin, despite the warmth of the hall, but the weight of watchful eyes pressed more heavily upon him than the lingering chill.

As he settled, a servant placed a cup before him, filled near to the brim with steaming mead. The scent of honey and spice curled up into the air, thick and rich. He wrapped his fingers around it, letting the warmth seep into his stiff joints before lifting it to his lips. The first sip burned down his throat, but he welcomed it, feeling the heat spread through his chest.

Beside him, Cregan reached for his own cup, but his attention remained on the hall below. His gray eyes flickered over his men, watching them as they watched the dragon prince in their midst.

“Your hospitality is most welcome, Lord Stark,” Jace said, setting his cup of mead aside. The warmth of the drink still curled in his chest, a welcome contrast to the lingering chill clinging to his skin.

He reached for a serving knife, slicing into the roasted boar before him, the meat glistening with its own juices, its crisped skin cracking beneath the blade. The scent of charred fat and winter spices rose into the air–pepper, sage, a hint of cloves–all mingling with the smoky aroma of the great hearth behind them. He spooned a generous portion of potatoes onto his plate, their golden edges crisped from the fire, then tore off a piece of dark bread, its crust dusted with coarse salt.

Lifting his gaze, Jace allowed himself a small, wry smile as he glanced toward Cregan. “I must admit, I’ve never known a land so eager to test a man’s endurance.”

The northern lord, who had been tearing apart a piece of venison with his hands, let out a short breath–just shy of a chuckle. He met Jace’s gaze with cool, unwavering grey eyes. “The cold sorts the weak from the strong, my prince,”he answered, his voice even, deliberate. There was no mockery in his words, no arrogance–only the simple truth of a man who had spent his life ruled by winter. “The North does not coddle.”

Jace took a bite of the boar, chewing thoughtfully. The meat was rich, smoky, laced with salt and fat. He swallowed, nodding slightly. “So I’m starting to understand,” he admitted, his voice carrying only the barest edge of humor. He flexed his fingers absently, still half-numb despite the fire’s heat.

He tore a piece off from the dense loaf of dark bread before him, his fingers pressing into its crusty surface, before dipping it into the thick, spiced gravy pooling on his plate. It soaked greedily into the coarse crumbs, before he brought the morsel to his lips.

“If so, then I suspect your men must be the strongest in the realm,” Jace said, glancing towards Lord Cregan, his tone measured. “Those who endure–who whether the cold without breaking–those are the men a queen needs at her side.”

He met Cregan’s gaze directly, refusing to waver beneath the northern lord’s scrutiny. There was no immediate response, only silence–a silence that stretched, thick and expectant, as Cregan regarded him like a smith assessing raw steel, testing its worth before it met the forge.

The feast rumbled around them–tankards clashed in toasts, men laughed in their deep northern timber, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, charred fat, and mulled wine from White Harbor. Minstrels played a lively tune, the strains of lute and drum weaving through the clamor of voices. Men and women clapped along to the music, some rising to take the floor, their steps more of merriment than grace.

Jace ignored the revelry.

For a moment, the northern lord remained silent, his expression unreadable, his storm-grey eyes hooded in thought. Then, slowly, he tore a strip of venison from the slab before him, chewing deliberately before washing it down with a long drink of dark ale. Only then did he speak.

“The cold tests more than strength,” Cregan said, his voice low and even. “It tests loyalty. It tests resolve. It shows a man who he truly is, when the wind howls and the food runs short and the snows bury the world in silence.” His fingers idly traced the rim of his cup before he lifted his gaze, fixing Jace with a look as steady as the foundations of Winterfell itself. “Not all men withstand it.”

Jace held his gaze. “And yet, the North remains–fierce as ever.”

Cregan’s mouth twitched–perhaps not quite a smile, but the closest thing to it. “Aye. We do.”

Jace leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms upon the heavy wooden table. “A wrong has been done, my lord,” he continued, his voice quieting slightly, though the words did not lose their strength. “The rightful heir to the Iron Throne has been usurped. Her crown and throne stolen by those who would put ambition above honor.”

The words settled heavily between them, and though Cregan Stark did not immediately reply, Jace did not miss the subtle shift in his posture–the slow way his fingers curled around the handle of his cup, the flicker of something in his steely eyes.

His own fingers curl against the worn wood of the table, his knuckles pressing hard into the grain as he recalled Lady Jeyne Arryn’s words–blunt truths dragged unflinchingly into the daylight, spoken by a woman who understood better than most what his mother now faced. He still felt the sharpness of those words, as though the Lady of the Vale had carved them into his bones with ice and steel.

Yet, this was not the Vale. He was no longer seated before a woman who had grown up defending her own birthright, whose life had been a constant battle to keep the power that others wished to take simply because she was born without the strength of men. This was Winterfell, a fortress of stone and ice, and the man beside him was not Lady Jeyne Arryn. Lord Cregan Stark was a northern lord, and Jace was uncertain how Cregan might receive such uncomfortable truths.

Would he understand? Would he care?

The northern lord’s eyes gave nothing away–cool, guarded, and unreadable beneath the shifting torchlight. Jace studied him carefully, searching for a hint of shared understanding or silent agreement, but he found only the measured reserve of a man accustomed to revealing nothing before he was ready.

Jace leaned forward slightly, his hands resting against the rough grain of the table, fingers pressing into the wood as he spoke. “My mother’s claim is true and rightful. It was confirmed by my grandsire, King Viserys, upheld by his decree, witnessed by the realm. Oaths were sworn, knees bent, and vows made before the Iron Throne–your father among them.” He let the words linger for a moment before continuing. “Now those very same vows have been cast aside. Oaths broken the moment my grandsire drew his final breath. And the realm stands to tear itself apart for it.”

The great hearth crackled and popped, its flames twisting in the draft of the hall, but Lord Stark remained still, unmoving as the stone walls of his keep. His gray eyes, keen as a hunting wolf’s, did not waver, did not betray even a flicker of sentiment. The firelight danced against the sharp angles of his face, casting his expression in shifting shadows, but there was no sign of his thoughts, no hint of where his judgment might lean. He simply watched, listening, weighing every word.

“And now, Lord Stark,” Jace pressed on, his tone sharpening like drawn steel, “the time has come to test the strength of those oaths.”

His voice did not rise, but there was a force behind it, an urgency restrained only by careful control. “My mother does not wish for war,” he said, his fingers relaxing around his goblet. “Yet war coms all the same–brought to her doorstep by usurpers and traitors and ambitious men. She calls upon those who still remember what it means to stand by their word. Upon those who do not twist their words to suit ambition, but who hold duty and honor higher than convenience. She calls upon the North.”

The hall, though still filled with the murmur of feasting men, seemed quieter somehow. The air between them felt thick with expectation, with something unspoken, as if the very stones of Winterfell listened.

Cregan Stark remained silent, his fingers resting lightly on the rim of his cup, unmoving. But Jace did not mistake stillness for inaction. The Lord of Winterfell was weighing his words, turning them over like a blade in the forge, testing their strength before he deemed them worthy.

Jace did not look away. He had come too far, endured too much, to let hesitation take root now. He leaned forward slightly. The warmth of Winterfell’s great hall was slowly easing the stiffness from his bones, seeping into his weary muscles, loosening them.

“It is said there has never been a Stark who has forgotten their oaths.” His eyes held firm on Cregan’s, seeking some flicker of acknowledgement beneath that unwavering, winter-cold gaze. “That is why I have come to Winterfell–not merely to ask for swords and banners, but to seek honor.”

Cregan Stark regarded him for a long moment, thoughtful and unreadable, before slowly leaning back in his seat. His dark hair fell loose around his broad shoulders, a few strands curling forward, catching the shifting firelight from the hearth. When he finally spoke, his words came in that northern drawl, measured and firm, carrying the weight of someone who knew what his duty was.

“Aye, my prince, the Starks remember their vows. We do not forget.” His head tilted slightly, gray eyes keen. “But banners do not rise lightly. Not when war rages in the South and winter looms in the North.”

The flames from the great hearth leapt and flickered, their light reflecting in his storm-gray eyes, turning them to quicksilver as he studied Jace. His voice did not harden, but there was steel beneath his words.

“The Starks honor their vows,” he said, his voice as steady as the stone walls around them, “but we also honor our duty–to our people, to the land we have kept safe through centuries of cold and hardship. When the South wages war, it is the North that bleeds for it.

His gaze did not waver as he spoke, nor did his tone carry anger–only a firm, quiet resolve. “Not only on the battlefields, he went on, “but in our villages, in our homes. Our fields go untilled. Our hearths grow cold. The price of war is not only measured in swords and dead men–it is measured in hunger, in suffering, in the voices that fall silent in a war fought far from home.

The northern lord shifted forward in his seat, the aged oak of his chair creaking softly beneath his weight. His elbow settled upon the table, his face set in that solemn severity of the North. “I do not deny your mother’s right, nor do I forget the oaths my house has sworn to yours. But as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, my gaze remains forever torn between the north and the south. And in times of winter, my first duty lies here, with my people.”

His fingers curled around his goblet, but he did not drink. “What you ask of me–” he paused for a moment. “It is no small thing. You would have me send northern sons, fathers, and husbands to bleed and die for a queen they do not know, a queen who is little more to them than a distant figure from songs brought by wandering minstrels.”

Jace listened intently, his dark eyes fixed firmly upon Lord Stark as the man spoke. He made no move to interrupt, nor did he allow any hint of impatience to cross his features. These were truths spoken plainly–hard truths, unsoftened by courtesy, unclouded by the delicate dance of southern politics. It was rare, and Jace found himself respecting the northern lord more deeply for it.

He understood exactly what he was asking of Cregan Stark. He was no fool, nor so sheltered that he could not grasp the weight of the decision he urged upon him. This was no small boon or favor to grant, nor was it something the North could lightly afford. Yet, despite the heaviness that accompanied his request, Jace knew he could not relent–not until he had a clear answer, not until he had certainty, not until he knew whether the North stood with them or against them.

Winning the North to their cause was no simple task. He had known that before he set foot in Winterfell. Northerners did not give their loyalty easily–least of all to a prince of the South. They were a people tempered by the cold, forged in hardship, raised to be wary of silver tongues and golden promises. Oaths were sacred in the North, but trust was not given freely. It was earned.

And Jace intended to earn it.

“I understand your caution, my lord,” he said, his voice steady but not pleading. He was not here to beg; he was here to prove himself. “And yet, here I sit–not safely behind castle walls in the South, not sending ravens and pleading from afar–but here, in your hall, in your lands.”

He let the words settle for a moment before pressing on. “I have traveled far to stand before you, not merely to ask for your banners, but to earn your trust. Your respect. Words alone will not rally the North, I understand that. You are not a people to be swayed by promises untested. You need to know the queen you would follow–and if you cannot know her yet, then know her son.”

Jace straightened slightly, squaring his shoulders with quiet resolve, allowing the weight of his purpose to settle visibly upon him. He was not just a messenger here. He was not merely a prince carrying a plea. He was his mother’s heir. The future his family fought for.

“Give me that chance, Lord Stark.” His voice did not rise, but it carried through the space between them like a blade being drawn from its sheath. “Allow your men that chance. Let them know me, judge my character, and see for themselves the kind of king my mother would raise to follow her.”

Cregan Stark regarded Jace in silence, his gaze sharp as the bite of northern wind, and for a moment, his face remained unreadable. Yet something subtle shifted behind those cool grey eyes–a faint thawing, as though he'd glimpsed something in the young prince that had sparked cautious curiosity, perhaps even respect.

“Very well, Prince Jacaerys,” the Lord of Winterfell said finally, his tone measured but warmer than before, the guarded edge softening ever so slightly. “My halls and hearths are open to you for as long as you choose to remain. We shall speak more of oaths, banners, and battles in the days to come. But for tonight, let us simply enjoy the feast.”

His voice carried clearly over the din, quiet yet commanding, a gentle dismissal of further negotiation for the evening. The words held no promise of alliance–not yet–but nor did they carry rejection. Instead, Cregan offered the prince a chance: time and space to prove himself, to show the North exactly what manner of prince he was.

At this, the tight knot in Jace’s chest loosened ever so slightly–not with the flush of victory, but with careful, measured relief. He had not won the North, nor its Lord–not yet–but neither had he lost them. The door remained open, and Jace knew he would remain here at Winterfell as long as necessary, even as winter’s grip deepened over these lands. He would work to prove himself worthy, to convince Lord Stark to raise his banners for his mother’s cause–not with promises alone, but through deeds and character.

He inclined his head respectfully toward Cregan, his fingers tightening around the stem of his goblet. “You have my gratitude, Lord Stark,” Jace said steadily, sincerity threading through his voice. “Your hospitality–and your wisdom–are deeply appreciated.”

Around them, the great hall of Winterfell pulsed with life. The roaring flames of the hearth chased away the chill of the night, casting shadows across the stone walls and banners, turning the carved direwolves overhead into flickering beasts in the firelight. Tankards clashed, laughter rose, and the deep, rhythmic melodies of northern minstrels wrapped around them like a heavy winter cloak.

Jace allowed himself to lean back slightly, shoulders easing for the first time since his arrival, even as his mind turned steadily to what lay ahead. His gaze lingered briefly on Lord Cregan Stark, whose attention had now turned to his bannermen–strong, proud northern lords laughing and speaking in low voices about the hall. Jace knew then that tonight had been but the first step upon a long, hard road.

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