#bedecked in flowers out of my head

[riverxsong-ao3]

44. Flower crown

pretty please :D

- @arcturus-night-star

"Hold still, will you?"

Tom sighed. "Remind me why I must put up with this again, darling?" he asked, ripping a blade of grass from the ground rather violently and twisting it between his fingers as Harry picked over the monstrosity upon his head. "I can think of at least five different things I would rather be doing right now."

"Because," Harry said simply, "you look lovely. And I'm almost finished. Besides, you're always dressing me up to your liking, so now it's my turn."

"Surely I never spend this much time fretting over that mop of a head of hair of yours," Tom complained, long-suffering even in his patience.

"Of course not," Harry said, tucking another blossom in place. "Much longer, in fact. Either way, I'm done. You can take a look, now."

Tom conjured a mirror from thin air and glanced at his reflection, sucking in a breath. it had been worth the wait; wreathing his head, resting gently on his dark locks, sat an elegant flower crown comprised entirely of calla lilies, white at the edges fading out from a rich burgundy where the spathes, the singular petal-like leaves grown by each flower, met the spiked florets emerging from their basins. Wine-red and ivory complementing his eyes and skin, this funerary flower complementing the cloak of death in which he enshrouded himself -- perfect.

As ever, his Harry did not fail to satisfy.

For this Ask Game!

[chucklingmaniacally]

POV: You're playing Hades 2 and spot an unfamiliar god boon symbol.

I'm so happy I got this done in time for Janmashtami lmao. My friend's (*cough* @randomfandomtraveller)headcanon is that Krishna would have a sweet spot for Melinoe because she almost has the same mission as teen Krishna.

I'm putting my hat in the ring to fight all the people that post AI generated images of the gods lmao. I'm not even religious but I think there's something so depressing that you want a plagiarism machine's version of your gods' iconography instead of an artist's version???

Bonus: Alt Version and WIP screenshot for all the freaks out there.

[Image Description:

Image 1: "The image is the artist's rendition of the Hindu God Krishna in the style of the videogame Hades 2. He is a dark skinned god with a slight build, and is wearing a red upper body cloth and a golden yellow _dhoti_. He is bedecked in gold ornaments on his shoulder, his upper arm, his hands and his feet.

He has long black curly hair, which leads into a cosmic gradient of dark blue and purple, dotted with stars. He is sitting casually, with his left hand on his knee and his right holding him up. In his hair, he wears a gold circlet which is dotted with a magical looking peacock feather. He's wearing a garland of red, white, and yellow flowers, and the garland seems to be flying in a breeze.

Encircling his head is a golden aura, which is lit up by divine looking light coming from the right side of the image.

The background of the image is that of the Hades 2 game, at the Erebus level. It is filled with greenery and leafless tree framinge the shot. Krishna's symbol is at the center of the image, which is a peacock feather that looks like an eye.

To the right of Krishna, there is a text box which states his name and his title, and a dialogue. The text box title says "KRISHNA, THE PROTECTOR INCARNATE"

The dialogue he says to the main character of Hades 2, Melinoë is "Something troubling you there on this fine night, Daughter of Persephone? Ah, perhaps a spot of trouble while fighting the Old Man? Well, the advice I have would take too long and I have little time, so here! Have a blessing, instead."

Image 2: The same picture as image 1 but this background is plain white with the artist signature.

Image 3: A desktop screenshot of the lineart of the artwork in Clip Studio Paint.

End Description]

[bookshelf-in-progress]

A Jules and Vern Christmas

A time travel story for the Christmas Challenge at @inklings-challenge. This is a follow-up to "Jules and Vern"--a very short piece that explains how the time travel works, so you may want to read that one first.

*

Vernon looked up from his writing in a daze. The papers spread across his kitchen table, the books piled on shelves and chairs across his sparsely-furnished apartment, seemed suddenly unfamiliar. Outside, it was nearly dark, and a light snow shower was falling.

He'd lost track of time--gotten too deep into his writing. This draft of his article was due by the first of the year, and there was so much worth writing about now that he had practical experience--not just theoretical knowledge--of time travel.

He had his new patroness to thank for that. His one and only time travel cruise--paid for with his life savings--had brought him in contact with one of the wealthiest heiresses on the planet, who'd adopted him like a stray cat. She'd guided him through the cruise and even paid to extend his trip. A man in his position couldn't refuse gifts like that--but neither could he repay them.

He looked at the silver-wrapped package sitting on the edge of the table. It seemed silly, giving presents to a woman who could buy him a thousand times over without blinking an eye. He could mail the package next month. Send a nice little note keeping things purely professional.

But it was Christmas. After roaming through history with Juliette, he'd come to consider her a sort of friend. This deserved a personal touch.

He put away his manuscript, seized the package, and left on his errand before he could talk himself out of it.

*

The high-rise hotel, sleek and silver, towered over the squat brown-brick historic buildings of the rest of the street. Bedecked in golden lights, the building looked like a Christmas candle, like a queen among peasants.

Vernon felt like a peasant as he stood in the golden light coming through the glass of the revolving door. A doorman in crisp livery—blue with gold trimmings, a finer suit than anything Vernon had ever worn—took one look at the threadbare elbows of Vernon’s jacket and the holes in his woolen gloves and growled, “Move it along.”

The doorman’s square head reminded Vernon of some of the meaner-looking idols he’d seen on ancient temples. This face would have been a guardian of the underworld, ready to smite the unworthy with the wrath of the gods.

No, he scolded himself. It was the face of a doorman. Of a hotel. Vernon hadn’t walked through ancient battlefields to turn tail because a hotel employee scowled at him.

Vernon held up his package—a silver rectangle. “I’ve a delivery for Miss Juliette—“

The doorman's voice was like something that would have come from one of those stone idols. “She doesn’t take unmarked deliveries.”

Vernon felt like he’d run face-first into a wall. He stepped back and tried to gather his wits. Snowflakes fell down his collar. "If you'll just--"

From behind, a languid female voice drawled, "Vern? Is that you?"

Juliette stood behind him, wrapped in black fur. Her black hat—bedecked with white feathers and an enormous red flower—was wide enough to cover both of them, and her heels were so high that Vernon wondered how she’d managed more than two steps on the icy streets.

Juliette took Vernon's arm and told the doorman, "Relax, Pete, he's with me."

The doorman gave a skeptical stare.

Juliette's laugh sparkled. “Oh, very well.” She tugged Vernon by the arm. “We’ll roam the streets.”

Juliette took Vernon down the sidewalk, past the stores of this wealthy shopping district. These shops were nothing compared to the astonishing height of the modern hotel, but their wares were so rich Vernon half-feared he'd be charged a fee just for looking.

Juliette strode through the snowy streets with perfect confidence, never looking at a shop, never stumbling in her heels. “What brings you here, my darling little scholar?”

Compared to the wares being sold just outside her door, Vernon's offering seemed pathetic, but there was no help for it now.

He held out the package. "I brought a gift.”

Juliette stopped and tipped back her hat so she could look him in the face. “Gift?”

Could he call this a gift when her world meant so much more by the name? Jewels, cars, vacations—those were gifts. This was—

“A...small token,” he amended. “In honor of the holiday."

"Holiday?" Juliette seemed truly perplexed. At last, she laughed, low and languid. "Oh, Christmas. How quaint!"

Her laugh made Vernon bristle. Not for the first time, he wondered if she'd ever had a heart.

"I ought to have known you celebrated," she said. “It's so earnest and wholesome--like you."

“You don’t celebrate?”

“I haven’t paid attention in years.”

“Why?”

“When you’ve experienced every single Christmas in history, it gets rather dull.”

“Every—”

“Christmas cruises. Some time travelers try to hit every Christmas Day in history. They get so insufferable about it.”

Not for the first time, Vernon’s mind swam at the unimaginable wealth this implied.

Juliette said, “I decided against the full set. It’s just not worth it. The first one’s off-limits, of course, and then there's nothing really interesting until the Arians show up. But even in the most exciting years, it's all variations of the same thing, isn't it? Food and fires and presents and songs and various states of inebriation. There's only so much of that kind of thing one can take."

Vernon's chest burned--a bit of shame, a lot more anger. He tucked the silver-wrapped package beneath his arm. "I'm sorry I wasted your time," he said, turning away.

Juliette grabbed his arm. "Wait!” The languid tone had been replaced by genuine alarm. “Don't listen to my nonsense. It was kind of you to think of me."

Her eyes, amber in the streetlight, held some deep spark that Vernon had never seen before. A hint of genuine feeling. She was truly afraid of being alone. Vernon felt a pang of pity.

He handed her the gift.

She tore off the wrapping and uncovered a hardback book. The crimson cover glowed like an ember against the black of her furs.

"The first copy of my latest work," Vernon said. It didn’t sound so pathetic when he put it that way. "A treatise upon the interactions of parallel time streams, supplemented by observations from our travels."

She turned the book in her gloved hands, looking at it from all angles. “It looks disgustingly academic.”

"Exceedingly so."

She grinned. “I’m delighted, and I’ll never read it.

Vernon relaxed into a smile. "I didn't think you would. But I thought you deserved a copy all the same."

She put the book into a massive handbag. "I feel I ought to have a gift for you."

Vernon laughed. "A time cruise is a gift I could never repay.”

"Would you like another one?" Juliette asked.

Vernon stepped back, his hands held before him. "I couldn't accept such--"

"Just a short one. A cheap Christmas trip. Horribly touristy. Everyone and their mother heads to the Victorian era for a proper Dickens Christmas. The place is crawling with time travelers."

Vernon thought about the book in Juliette's bag, and his mind lit up with a new theory. "That would explain the ghost stories--"

She pointed at him, her eyes bright. "See? That's the mind that could make even that kind of Christmas interesting again."

It was flattering, and tempting, and yet--

"I think you're missing the point," Vernon said.

“Am I?” Juliette drawled, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes,” Vernon said firmly. “You don't need to run off and watch a Christmas that's already happened. You need to experience this one."

She waved a dismissive hand. "I've seen a thousand like it."

Vernon wondered how literal that was. How many Christmases had she traveled to--?

He pulled his mind back to the point. "I'm not sure you've seen any Christmas. You've seen parties, feasting, carols, but you haven't seen Christmas. The reason for the celebration. I'm not sure you can see it."

“I know," she said. "That’s why I need you.”

Snow fell onto her expensive furs, white against the black. A cold breeze ruffled the flower on her hat. She was a fashion plate, the model of luxury--and she looked so alone. All the money in the world, able to buy anything she wanted, go to any place or time she desired on a moment's notice--and she had no one to spend Christmas with.

He took her hand in his, tattered wool against sleek leather. "Then I'll come with you. But not to Victorian Christmas. To this one."

She raised an eyebrow “The time travel expert is turning down a chance to time travel?”

“Gladly."

"You'll never get anywhere in your career if you keep turning down opportunities like this."

"I'll take the risk."

She looked at their joined hands, then shifted her grip to turn it into a handshake. “You have a deal.”

Snow fell faster, thick white flakes. The shops along the street began turning off the lights in their windows. In the distance, church bells sounded.

Vernon inclined his head toward it. “We can start there.”

As the snow fell and the bells rang, Vernon tightened his grip on Juliette’s hand and pulled her down the street. In the lamplight, her eyes held a spark of something that looked a little bit like joy.

[ikeromantic]

Tinsel

Ikemen Advent prompt featuring Yukimura (and Sasuke)! approx. 600 words.

“You want to do what?” Yukimura frowned at Mai and Sasuke. 

“We’re going to put a Christmas tree up,” Sasuke said again, completely unhelpfully. 

Mai nodded. “It’s a western tradition from the modern day but I think it will be fun! We can decorate a tree and get each other gifts . . . you’ll like it, I promise.”

Yukimura rubbed a hand over his face. “Sure. Fine. Let’s get it over with. What do you need?”

A little while later, with a list in hand, Yukimura, Sasuke, and Mai headed to the Kasugayama market to pick up dried berries, flowers, glass beads, and ribbons. He was trying to imagine how all that would look on a tree in the castle garden. An evergreen, they’d said. “Are you guys sure about this,” he asked again. “I mean, it sounds pretty dumb.”

Mai grinned and bumped him with her hip. “You’ll just have to see it, I guess.”

“Hey, watch what you’re doing, boar woman,” Yukimura said, without any real heat.

“It might help if we describe it.” Sasuke pushed his glasses back on his nose. “We’ll wrap the tree in strings with the beads and berries and flowers. It will be very colorful and festive.”

Mai nodded. “The more colors the better. It’s just too bad we don’t have any lights. Or tinsel! I loved that stuff when I was a kid.”

“I liked it too. The way it glimmered in the light. Like little streaks of starlight caught in the branches.” Sasuke’s lips quirked up in one of his barely-there smiles.

Yukimura rolled his eyes. “Tin sell?”

The ninja shrugged. “It’s not made of tin, despite the name. It was thin strips of reflective plastic, more like a fabric than a metal. It was supposed to imitate snow or ice, though I never thought it looked like that.”

“Some things just don’t exist in this time.” Mai gestured to a market stall. “Oh look! Those will be perfect.” She tugged Sasuke over to peruse the dried flowers.

Yukimura still didn’t really understand, but his friends look so excited. He liked seeing them happy. It made him wish sometimes that they hadn’t had to give up everything in the world they knew to be here with him. Despite the fact that this kris-mast tree was a pain, it was well worth it to see them so full of excitement.

When they got home, Mai picked out the best tree in the castle garden and they set about decorating it. Despite Yukimura’s skepticism, it actually looked pretty good. Not that he would admit it. The bright flowers and berries looked nice against the dark green foliage, and the glass bits caught the evening light. 

“Wow,” Mai sighed. “It really reminds me of home.”

“Same.” Sasuke put his arm around Mai and settled the other across Yuki’s shoulders. “Thanks for making this happen. I don’t know what I would do without my BFF and the love of my life.”

“Yeah, yeah. Knock it off already,” Yukimura pulled away, though he regretted it. 

Mai gave him a knowing smile. “Now all that’s left is to get each other a gift. I hope you have some ideas.” She winked.

Yukimura had no ideas. Zero ideas, even. Gifts were not his strong suit. He supposed he could get them candy. That always worked for Shingen. Or sake? The kind Kenshin liked. Maybe a book? Kanetsugu liked books. None of it quite fit though. He wanted to get them something special.

And then it hit him. The tin-sell. Shiny. Like fabric. Thin enough to hang on the branches. Yuki sped to Yoshimoto’s quarters. It didn’t take long to get the art-lover on board. 

The next morning, Mai and Sasuke went out to the tree to put their gifts beneath the boughs. The evergreen glistened in the early morning light, bedecked in thin strips of silvered silk. It caught the sun, glimmering like starlight. Like icicles. Like the smiles lighting his best friends’ eyes.

@candied-boys @queengiuliettafirstlady

[lizardsquisher]

So before I was writing a Veilguard fanfic reflecting my utter adoration for Emmrich, I wrote an Origins/Inquisition-inspired fic about Warden Amell dealing with her breakup with King Alistair and reconnecting with Cullen. If that sounds like it might appeal, check out this sample.

🌹⚔️🌹⚔️🌹⚔️🌹⚔️🌹⚔️🌹⚔️🌹⚔️🌹⚔️🌹⚔️🌹

A Rose for Lady Amell

Chapter One: Sympathy for the Bedeviled

Midsummer looked good on Denerim. Three years after the Blight had rolled through, spewing fire and chaos, tearing the nice parts of town to rubble and reducing the shady bits to ash, she was almost completely rebuilt. Her weathered face renewed, her stones freshly mined, her daub and wattle houses freshly daubed and wattled, she beamed under the cloudless blue sky like a stately lady instead of the half-maiden, half-crone she’d been before. 

           She would seldom look as fair as she did on a parade day. Garlands of red and yellow flowers bedecked every shop and dwelling, no matter how humble. Gold and silver streamers twinkled from the fences. And the parade route was marked by banners bearing the king’s crest—a pair of mabari rearing towards one another. The hounds were supposed to look fierce. But King Alistair fancied that they were playing with each other, about to pounce and roll through the grass, yipping happily. That would certainly represent him better than snarling beasts. He was not much of a snarler. Although, it had been ages since he’d last yipped.

            He stood on the ramparts of the royal palace. The stretch of road that unfurled ahead of him teemed with people, a rippling, colorful mass waving flags and throwing flowers. And down the center of that sea of adulation, his true love bobbed towards him on the back of her shining black horse. She was a fine sight in her ceremonial armor—the polished silver contrasted nicely with the rich gold of her hair, which had been twisted up on her head to spill back down her shoulders like the plume on a knight’s helmet. Those locks swept here and there as she gazed around in amusement. She always looked surprised by the reception she received in Denerim. As if she hadn’t killed an archdemon three years ago and saved the world. Not to mention spending the years that followed rebuilding the Grey Wardens and driving the remaining Darkspawn back into the shadowy recesses of the earth. But then, she was a mage. People seldom cheered for mages. There was usually more whispering about abominations and waving holy symbols at them when they weren’t looking. Oh, and locking them up in stone towers to be chopped down by Templars at the slightest provocation. So perhaps her surprise was understandable.

           This little display was to celebrate her latest campaign. His advisors told him that it was good to keep her in the public eye. To remind the people of his own heroics by association: the king who once fought side-by-side with the Hero of Ferelden. People devoured the story of their adventures. And they sighed and swooned over their romance. Nothing moved the masses quite like forbidden love.

            Himself, he thought forbidden love was overrated. But no one ever asked him. Probably because he got grumpy when people talked about those stories in front of him. As if he and Renara were characters in a ballad, and not people who’d been rewarded for saving the world by losing the one thing they’d wanted the most. He didn’t feel bad about his resulting snarkiness. That kind of thing would make anyone grumpy.

            Renara drew nearer to the shadow cast by the palace. She was close enough now that he could make out the sweet curve of her cheek and the blue of her eyes. Someone threw her a rose. She caught it deftly. A smile played across her lips as she sniffed it. Then, as if she could feel the weight of his eyes on her, she looked up at him. Smiling, she tucked the rose in her hair and gave him a wave. He waved back. The red rose looked lovely in her hair. And it broke his heart a little to look at it. He wished she hadn’t done that. 

            He went downstairs to meet her. 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/46538692/chapters/117189202

[cricketnationrise]

For the ficlet fest: 12:00 a.m. the V & A, Alex Claremont-Diaz

Wrote this on my phone at work so please forgive any mistakes! Yes we are working on a Saturday. yes I hate it thanks. but at least I can disappear into ficlet prompts for a bit over lunch :) hope you like it, I went so sappy I might as well have been a forest for this one

❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙

12:00am, v&a

“Thanks so much for your help, Gavin.”

“Of course, Mr. Claremont Diaz. Anything for you or His Highness, you know that.”

“I thought I said you could call me Alex,” he teases. “And I’m very sure he’s told you to call him Henry.”

“Force of habit I’m afraid,” Gavin says ruefully. “I’ll let you do the finishing touches and send him right along when Her Royal Highness drops him off.”

Alex sends Gavin off with a decidedly sloppy salute before turning back to the space with a proud grin, overwhelmed with what they accomplished over the last few hours.

Renaissance City is always beautiful, always takes his breath away each time Henry brings him here. There’s something special about the statues and the history represented in this room. But mostly, Alex loves that Henry loves it. Admittedly, Alex usually gets distracted by Henry’s beauty, so it’s nice to stand here alone for a moment and soak in both the exhibit and his additions.

The little battery candles he and Gavin scattered around make the whole place glow, the automated flickering lending a sense of magic to the scene. The flowers Pez had convinced the museum to allow are spilling over every surface, their light fragrance perfuming the air. And woven through the petals, illuminated by the candles, hanging from the ceiling, some decoratively framed, are strips of paper, in a rainbow of colors and a variety of weights — each with a quote that Alex painstakingly copied by hand. Quotes from their now-famous emails, from his and Henry’s speeches over the years. Quotes solicited from family members — and friends so close they might as well be blood. Quotes from Henry himself, whispered and crooned and sometimes yelled at Alex, etched into Alex’s memory. Quotes pulled from history and movies and books — Henry’s favorites.

The only words not displayed, in fact, are the ones Alex has been painstakingly crafting, agonizing over, starting and restarting, practicing every spare minute he’s alone, hoarding them for the perfect moment — for tonight.

Historically, Henry’s been the wordier half of their relationship, even his scattered post it notes are more eloquent than Alex without even trying. Alex can write with feeling and sincerity, but it doesn’t come naturally — he’s always been better out loud, or with actions. Henry’s never complained, never even intimated that he wants more written words from Alex, but—

Alex wants to give him all the words in his head, in his heart, in his very soul. He wants Henry to be able to have that written record. He wants future students and historians and random people on the internet to be able to look back after he’s gone and say holy shit Alex Claremont Diaz loved Henry Fox Mountchristen Windsor with awe — wants to carve out a piece of history with his love for Henry as the chisel.

And then Alex can hear footsteps — slow, deliberate heels against the shiny marble floors — echoing softly as they approach the entrance. Alex recites the opening of his speech in his head, feels for the ring in his pocket, and faces the entrance.

His heart, which had been racing with each step, suddenly slows with sure contentment at the sight of blonde hair and sky blue eyes that go wide when they see Alex inside the bedecked splendor of Renaissance City.

“Alex…”

Alex beams as Henry looks around in awe, takes a deep breath, and gives Henry his words.

[cloudbattrolls]

Flutter

This is the second part of the Strangling Vine plot, and is preceded by Breathe. It is followed by Coward Heart.

Crista Condyl | Albion | Present Night

Crista hummed happily, despite being back in Albion of all places. 

They stood near the entrance to a large market, an arch bedecked with early light season flowers. 

The place was old-fashioned enough to have stalls sometimes watched by the hawkers’ lusii when they stepped away, but modern enough to be stocked with card readers and some security cameras. 

How could they not be joyful? They’d joined forces with Catill for their shop, and it was wonderful!

Now they needed to not mess it up.

They hardly wanted to burden their matesprit with failure. 

And as much as they hated this ruddy region, it produced some very fine jewelry. They wanted to look into making some durable charms that would support good health, especially for lowbloods. 

Besides, they were (on purpose) a good ways away from Silverpool. No one left the damn place anyway; trolls rarely had before, and after they’d run away…

Well. They wouldn’t be surprised if Auresh had gotten even stricter.

They shuddered, then shook their head, trying to chase away memories. No need to think of such things now, not when they had products to peruse.

Hmmm…what to buy? Should they try to find a consistent supplier, or just browse the market? 

They might get looks, going as a maroon, even if it was technically supposed to be open to all castes…you didn’t see a lot of rusts purchasing jewels for themselves, after all. More if their employer sent them to pick something up.

Maybe they should use a caste illusion, but then…what if they wanted to come back, and then had to do it every time? Ugh, no, that was no good. They had to do this honestly! Everyone expected them to lie and cheat to get ahead, and blowed if they’d become a stereotype!

They walked in, humming to themself. Fortunately, while there weren’t many lowbloods present, there were enough that they didn’t stand out too much (though the others seemed to be predominantly bronze and yellow).

Well, it wasn’t like they hadn’t lied and cheated before for survival’s sake. They’d rather not…even if it could be very funny sometimes, robbing oblivious midbloods or cruel highbloods. 

They had to be legitimate now, a good example of their caste and a fine businesstroll.

“Cris?”

They whirled around. What on…

“Vera?” They uttered, disbelieving.

Yet there he was - taller, of course, taller than them now, his horns a little longer (now with strange green markings at their bases) - but he’d barely changed otherwise, dressed in the same plain gray clothes as always.

The only other maroon in the place, aside from them.

Once upon a time, their best friend.

Veraci Culale. 

“Wh - what on Alternia are you doing here?” They sputtered.

He laughed - yes, his laugh sounded exactly the same, almost like a warble, his lusus had been a warbler - and stepped a bit closer.

“What are you doing here? Haven’t seen you since, well…”

He winced. 

So did they.

“Right, right.” He said in a quieter tone, idly picking at his sleeve with a claw - still did that too. 

“How about we go back out, eh? Fewer ears.”

Crista nodded, mind still spinning. The market could wait; had to wait.

They walked back out, their castemate by their side, taking silent steps until they hit a bench near a small pond. Flowers were in bloom nearby, crocuses and bluebells filling the air with pollen that made them sneeze a bit.

Crista watched a pair of ducks swim about, dabbling for food, and finally spoke.

“Really though, Vera. How are you here? Auresh…”

Their voice trailed off. They didn’t need to finish that sentence.

His expression became a grimace.

“Yeah, no one goes in or out much still, that hasn’t changed. Gotten worse, if anything. And we’ve got some…nature problems. But! My psi lets me pass safely, I can do whatever errands need done. So I’m his favorite boy. ” 

Veraci said the last few words with a slightly twisted smile.

Crista could easily imagine why.

Then he looked at them, red eyes to red, and part of Crista shivered. He was so still - now that was different. He’d always been more fidgety, like when he’d plucked at his sleeve…

“Not like you, though.” He said, tone more lighthearted. “I’d say he pines for you.”

They almost stopped breathing.

“I don’t want him to.” They mumbled. “Wish he’d just forget.”

“Oh, he’ll never forget you, Cris. When you left -”

“Can we -” Their voice almost broke. “Can we not talk about that?”

They hated how weak their voice was, how pleading.

They’d tried not to think of it for so long. That terrible night. Its aftermath.

The question Veraci must have, dogging both of them like a hound waiting for its prey to falter.

He hadn’t blinked once. Odd, that. 

But he cracked a smile, a little apologetic one - slightly crooked, but that was his way. He’d always been a bit odd.

He raised his hands in surrender.

“Right, right, don’t mean to be digging up old history. So! What brings you here, bruv?”

“Oh!” They said in relief, which became genuine enthusiasm as they managed to smile again. 

“Shopping. I’m setting up a store with my matesprit.”

“A matesprit?” Veraci said, hugely amused. “Aw, Cris, who got drunk enough to -”

They pushed him, pouting.

Much to their disappointment, he barely moved an inch across the bench, even though he was as lanky as ever. He only laughed at them and poked their chest.

“Have to do better than that! You might have meat on your arms, but we’re not kids no more. Speaking of, what’ve you been eating, I want some.” 

They snorted. “If that’s a crack about my weight you can go boil your head! I prefer this, actually.”

They folded their arms, haughty.

He pretended to look innocent.

Crista looked extremely unimpressed.

Both redbloods burst out laughing at almost exactly the same moment, and Crista felt the sweeps fall away, erasing the fear they’d felt earlier.

So they leaned in slightly.

“Vera.” They said in a low tone. “If you want away from Silverpool - for good, I mean - I could help you. I’m not rich or nothing - anything - but I have a little money. I have…friends. Resources.”

He looked at them, expression unreadable, then sighed.

“I can’t. For a lot of reasons. In fact, I was gonna ask you if you’d come back with me, Cris. Things are bad. Even worse than before. If you can help me, can’t you help the others too?”

They froze up.

“I can’t.” They whispered. “I can’t…not ever…I don’t…”

He looked at them.

Silent.

Expectant.

For Crista was the only one who’d gotten away. The only one to ever escape Hennri Auresh without being cut to pieces or hung.

It hadn’t been because they were brave, or clever, or talented.

Crista Condyl had escaped because they were, fundamentally, a dirty coward.

And others had paid the price.

Their hands trembled.

“One last time?” They whispered, voice weak.

“One last time.” He assured them, getting up and walking away from the market.

Crista followed him.

[waywardangel-wilds]

anyway, based on the choice of the like, 2 people who voted, here's the first part of my BOTW Legend of Zelda fic. Did I originally write this thinking it would be a 3000 word max fic? Yes. Is it now a 12000 word monstrosity spanning months of their lives? Yes. Here's the opening scene [UPDATE: Here's the ao3 link]:

“May I ask… Do you really remember me?”

The princess gazed upon her knight hopefully. After one hundred years of pain, could one friendship remain? A touch of honey, after a mouthful of bitterness? The wind blew across the fields, scattering leaves and scents past them, a singular flower, a silent princess, billowed by. The knight’s gaze followed it for a moment, before returning to her own.

“Yes,” the sound of Link’s voice, still so unfamiliar, even to her, barely broached the silence. She felt herself smile, a small feeling of release settling in her chest. She turned away from him to gaze longingly back at the castle, now nothing more than an imposing ruin. What was left of Hyrule now? And what did it need a princess for, a hundred years too late?

“Princess?” Links’ voice surprised her again, as it haltingly cut through her doomed line of thought. “It will be nightfall soon.”

“Of course,” With one hand she gathered up her skirts. She turned towards him, walking down the slight hill she’d stood on. Her feet, now bare after a century of battle had eaten away at her leather sandals, were kissed by soft grass with each step. Once at his side she looked at him expectantly. “I trust that you, sir knight, have an idea of where we shall go?”

He made a startled sound but nodded. Bringing his hands to his mouth he whistled, long and loud. In the distance a horse answered his call and Zelda looked out onto the horizon expectantly. The thundering music of hooves preceded the arrival of a beautiful brown mare, bedecked in a traveler’s riding cloth which, upon closer inspection, had been hand embroidered with the seal of the royal family.

“Oh!” Zelda exclaimed as Link vaulted onto the horse in a flash, settling on its back easily. The horse snorted, marching in place once or twice to accommodate his weight. The knight looked down at her curiously, head cocked to side.

“My apologies,” Zelda answered his silent enquiry. “I did not expect you to move so suddenly.” She shook her head, embarrassed.

The knight offered her his hand, seemingly letting the awkwardness slide. Zelda glanced at it nervously, considering the height of the horse, the time since she’d last used her legs, and the heavy weight of her dress.

“I—” Zelda cut herself off. “Forgive me, it has been much too long since I’ve mounted a horse. I— oof!” Link grasped her hand himself and easily pulled her up and off her feet, swiftly grasping her by the hip and settling her on the horse before him. “Why, I never—!” the words died in her mouth as Link kicked the horse into a gallop, sending her scrambling to hold onto something lest she topple right off.

“Monsters roam the land, Princess.” Link’s quiet voice placated her. “We cannot remain here for long.”

“Right,” Zelda gasped, a wave of nausea overtaking her. It’d been so long since she’d last walked, let alone ridden, that all movement appeared to be most shocking. She screwed her eyes tightly shut, her fingers grasping the lip of the saddle. It would not do to vomit now, she told herself, breathing slow soothing breaths. No, it would not do at all.

The horses gallop settled into a steady rhythm, allowing Zelda to breathe out a sigh of relief. She opened her eyes and gasped, as the setting sun captured the world in a beautiful twilight painting.

“How lovely,” Zelda whispered, entranced. The knight did not respond, but she was keenly aware of his steadying presence as their bodies knocked against each other’s with every stride. Link’s arms pulled the reins to the side around her, guiding the horse onto the road. “Will we make camp somewhere nearby?”

Link made a sound in the affirmative but did not elaborate further. She settled against his chest, as there wasn’t anywhere else for her to go, a wave of exhaustion finally slamming into her. How many days would she have to sleep for, to catch up on a century of restlessness? The hours of unconsciousness stretched out before her in an endless line and her eyelids had no other choice but to slide shut.

Link guided his horse in the direction of Dueling Peaks. He didn’t want to be caught on the road once the moon fully rose, not with the princess in tow. He glanced up at the setting sun and cursed. There wouldn’t be enough time to reach a stable. He would have preferred the safety in numbers that a stable had, at least there he wouldn’t have to worry about something or someone snatching up the Princess while he slept. But that wouldn’t be an option now, regardless of how many times he kicked the horse into a gallop.

He slowed the horse down into a trot, pulling off the road and into a small patch of trees. He didn’t want their camp to be too visible, for fear of whom they might attract. If he were on his own, he’d probably ride the horse all the way home and face whatever foes might follow him into the night, but he wouldn’t risk the princess’s life, it was his sworn duty to protect her.

He settled for a nice patch of flat grass, flanked by tall trees, and hidden by a small outcropping of rock on one side. It would do for the night. Carefully, he slid off Epona’s back, the sleeping princess in his arms. Slowly, to not wake her, he lay her on the grass. It felt wrong to place her on the ground like that, but he’d need to put her somewhere, so he could build her a tent.

He doubled back to the horse and made quick work of unloading the necessary supplies. He had a tent he’d hardly ever used, but he was glad he had it. He built it against the rocky wall, thinking that such a placement would protect the princess from one side while he physically guarded the other. Carefully, he collected her from where he’d laid her previously, awkwardly sliding her into the safety of the tent.

Digging through Epona’s pack he considered the merits of starting a fire but ultimately decided against it. They didn’t need the unnecessary attention a fire might attract in the dead of night. He found some old roasted mushrooms and a hard hunk of bread at the bottom of the pack. He’d have to cook some other time, to replenish his stores. He could do that tomorrow, once the princess was awake.

He shook himself, trying to remain conscious as he sat before the mouth of the tent. He chewed his food without tasting it, thinking of all that had occurred up until that point. He watched Epona wander off somewhat into the tree line, nosing around for a patch of grass to her liking. He rarely tied his horses, even when he was camping. They typically trusted him enough to remain in his care, and rarely wandered too far from their master. He trusted the horse to settle down nearby once it was ready.

His vision slipped as he stared at Epona’s long neck, the horse mindlessly chewing on grass. He wouldn’t be able to resist the need to sleep, not after the long journey he’d just finished. He unsheathed the master sword, keeping it in his grip as his eyes slipped closed once more. If he heard something unusual, he’d be ready.

[snugglywuggums]

Chapter 2 — Lilidh O’Ceilidh — A Wayward Princess, A Wretched Rival, A Bond Wrought in Battle

Perspective 2, electric boogooloo, this time a flighty fairy flying through the forest to find her fancy.

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If you've landed here and want to go to the start, this is the link to the beginning

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“The toad prince, bedecked with baubles aplenty, approaches with a courtly bow. ‘Ribbit’, he says to the fair lady all alone at the boisterous ball…” I pause in my declaration, contemplating. I watch the toad before me as it stares blankly at a particularly well bloomed lily pad. After a moment of thinking to myself, “Wait, do toads “ribbit”? Or is that just frogs? What even is the difference anyways? Agh! I’ve lost the script now.” A sonorous croak bleats from the toad in my general direction, clearly voicing his displeasure with my faux pas, “Fine, Mister Toad, if you’re going to be a prima donna about this, I’ll come back later with a revised script. But you’d better be ready!”

I hop off the toadstool I’ve been balancing on(A bright red affair, stark white spots coating its cap, quite pretty!) and begin to hum a tune aloud; one of my favorites, The Trials of the Theatrical Traveler. It's a delightful little tale of one of my fathers earliest endeavors where he would travel with a close friend, ridding the world of evils big and small.

Progressing onwards, I peer back over my shoulder to check if I’m being followed. I spy in the distance the shimmer indicating the border of fae lands but no other signs of life, and smile to myself mischievously.

“Gave ya the slip, old man! You’ll never think to look for me out here!” I stick out my tongue indignantly before turning back around and smiling to myself. Us Fairfolk aren’t supposed to leave the homeland—the elders and high court say it’s too dangerous out here for most of us, but I’ve never taken that seriously. Who would attack such a little thing as me? The animals out there were bland and mundane—not like the interesting essentia-fueled beasts of the homeland, so even should one decide to be aggressive, I could handle it! The elders are worried over nothing…

I light upon the stem of a wildflower, pretty, purple, and fragrant, and draw in a deep breath, reveling in its smell. The plants out here are also quite different from those at home. That one smells of earthen soil, a subtle pollen, and…maybe berries? Definitely berries. A similar flower at home would smell of sugared sweets, sumptuous and savory. It would give you a burst of energy on scent, and might even fool you into staying a while if you’re not paying attention! Flowers like conversation no different than anyone else and always have the most interesting stories to tell - even if they may be a bit flowery at times. Eager storytellers seldom notice quite how purple their prose is!

I shake my head then, breaking my momentary reverie as a small blue bird with wings flapping faster than I can track arrives and buries its face into one of the flowers I’m hanging off. I watch with interest until it pulls its head back, now entirely covered in pollen. It turns to face me, still hovering on its impossibly rapid wingbeats, considering me for a moment. I reach out a hand, and attempt to gently pat its head, but it abruptly flies away, leaving me feeling somewhat miffed! “Spurn me, will you, blue bird? Don’t you know who I am? I am Lilidh O’Ceilidh! The one destined to be the greatest playwright in the whole world, and I’m going to write such mean things about you!” I shake my fist at the departing bird with a performative scowl. “Ah well. Nothing to be done about it, some people just have no manners. Maybe that’s why the Fairfolk never leave home. These beasts out here are both mundane and terribly rude.”

With a mild huff, I spread my wings with a spray of dust that shimmers into a pattern reminiscent of a musical stanza in my wake, each dust mote chiming pleasantly as they collide with one another or a nearby surface. With several wingbeats I propel myself to just below the lowest branches of this stand of trees and begin to glide along, drifting, diving, and dancing around branches and leaves as I move farther from home and toward my destination—The River Song. It’s about ten minutes of concentrated flight, but concentrating was never my strong suit, and it isn’t long before I come to a sudden halt in my flight in another puff of dust.

I see it then, my nemesis! My rival! My Arch Rivalsis! Nemeval? I need to workshop it.

The long, lanky, beast of beasts. It has a lithe body that extends to be easily eight times my height in length, vicious claws and fangs, and a propensity for changing its coloration to blend in with its environment. Right now taking on earthy brown hues(though with the season changing the first spackles of white are beginning to shine through) as it lies in wait for me to fly over its carefully lain trap, none the wiser. But I’ve known this was a possibility, it was one of its favored tactics. This creature is the one thing out here with the audacity to attack me outright. Our rivalry goes back years and while those years haven’t visibly aged me even a day, this monster had grown ever smarter, larger, and stronger.

Once I had felt we might make amends—I’d even tried to offer it a gift of ambrosia once, but it had leapt at me instead - making me drop the leaf containing the priceless fluid! Unbelievable!

Ever since that day, we’ve been circling one another, laying traps and ambushes, dueling in the glades. Neither of us ever quite managing the upper hand, though. Perfectly matched, as all rivals must be. I often wondered if it would come to my aid in my time of direst need, not allowing me to fall to anything besides its own terrifying, vicious, claws.

“Time will tell, you devious creature, but today, the ambusher will become the ambushee! … Ambushed?” Frustrated at the words, I toss a handful of dust into the air, saying a brief incantation.

Silent shadows shroud my shape, see me slip from sight and sense.

A glamour falls over me to render me nigh invisible. The dust clings to my wings and dress, and with each mote, I grow more and more transparent, until something would need to make a concerted effort to be able to spot me if I stood still.

But I won’t be standing still. I lower myself to the ground and call my weapons to hand, conjured from my magicks and called from home. They appear, hovering and very gently spinning and bobbing in place until I reach for the rapier and buckler. The rapier is an enchanted needle from the bobbin of the best seamstress in the land, granted to me as a gift when I had my twentieth nameday. The entire rapier had been meticulously carved from the bone of a great and terrible dragon from tip to hilt and gleamed like metal in this midday sun. The shield, on the other hand, was a symbol of office, a golden plate upon which the tales of the royal family were embossed in exacting detail in text so small as to be illegible to the naked eye. At least, that’s what I’ve been told all the squiggles are, I’d never committed myself to studying them like I was told I should. I am and always will be far, far, more concerned with telling new tales, singing fresh songs, and adventuring abroad!

The weapons jump readily to my hands, the rapier diving into my open left palm with a spinning flourish, and the buckler spinning over and sitting just above the skin of my arm, like it was trained to do. Each disappears the moment they enter the field of my spell, and I begin to creep along to blindside the creature.

From down here, it looks ever bigger than it had when I was flying. It’s maybe ten, nay! Twenty times my size and I can see its ravening maw, dripping saliva anticipating its next meal. As I sneak to its left side, the side I’ve long since learned it struggles to fight from due to an injury, I see its poisonous claws, dripping with ichor that is simultaneously poison, venom, toxin and a bunch of other terrible things! Many a near-death experience had been had at their tender ministrations.

But not today! With a flourish, I come to my ready stance, with my elbow bent at a steep angle, and my wrist pointed outwards to hold the blade out directly away from my body, and my shield arm behind my back. I open my mouth to speak my challenge (It would be crass to attack out of the blue, after all), but realize there’s no way the monster would have seen my oh-so impressive twirl and been suitably awed and intimidated since I was invisible! That just wouldn’t do. With an uttered phrase, I dispel my glamour with a shimmer and spray of golden dust and a gentle chiming ring on the air.

It instantly snakes around, its long, long, body moving like a serpent at the roots of an eldtree to look at me as I re-do my flourish before its now attentive eyes. It seems thoroughly impressed and rears back in surprise as I speak. “Hear me now! Today is your last day on the Lady’s green earth! And I will be the one to put yo- Hey! I wasn’t done!” I abruptly spin to the side as it dives at me, seeing easy prey and clearly having no appreciation for theatrics. That is why he’s my rivalsis. He’s a dangerous nihilist with no appreciation for tale and song!

I feel its bulky, muscular, body scrape past me as I spin away. It quickly reorients itself, but not fast enough as I dive for the opening, driving my rapier clear through its side in what would surely be a telling blow. At the last moment, it wiggles (Really! Wiggles!) out of the way and then dances back a few strides to create some space, making use of its entirely unfair reach advantage on me to swipe at me a few times. I deftly knock aside the blows from its savage claws with shield and sword, and it snarls a frustrated cry and dives at me, aiming to engulf me whole in its cavernous maw.

Where I’m positioned against a pair of trees, I realize I’ve been outmaneuvered and there’s nowhere to go. My counter ambush has failed and he knows it. He saw this opportunity coming and will capitalize on it. As he dives, I see a single chance. Fleeting, but a chance, so I have to take it. I call my shield forward and into its jaws as it goes to clamp down around me, only to hear a sickening crack, but not from my own bones, nor from the shield buckling.

With a plaintive cry, my rival falls backwards, making a mewling noise of pain and distress. As he writhes on the ground, I see what happened. In my attempt to prevent it from closing its maw around me, I had broken its tooth!

My stomach drops and my face pales, “Oh, n-no no, no, that wasn’t supposed to happen! It was just supposed to hold your mouth open, so I could reposition!” I run forward to the agonized stoat, dismissing my weapon and raising my hands to cast a handful of dust forward with a flutter of my wings and begin to speak another incantation,

Soothe, sweet stoat, sleep sound and still, slumber soft, 'til sun does spill!

The dust settles around the pained creature, and it swiftly drifts off to sleep. Having no natural resistances to Elysian essence, fae essentia, the effect takes hold quickly and renders it calm and pain free. A simple spell for pain relief and sleep.

“I’m so sorry, dear friend. I’ll fix this, no rivalry should end in such an inglorious way,” I say, internally scolding myself for harming the weasel while I was merely playing. “Immature! Stupid! I’m so dumb! This wasn’t even a fair fight.” I chastise myself glumly as I walk over and kneel next to the lightly bloodied tooth with a deep frown. Hefting the thing in both hands, I stand and walk back over to the now soundly sleeping creature, setting the tooth down next to its head.

I gently caress its soft fur, speckled with gray, and a spike of disgust rises in me as I remember that I've heard that the mortal kyn hunt creatures like him for their pelts. I run my fingers through its fur soothingly and it seems to wiggle appreciatively. Reaching for its lips, I try to open its mouth, but its head is too heavy for me to lift. My shield manifests once more at my call and I bid it help me. It carefully pries open the stoat's mouth and lifts its head, the floating motions looking almost as forlorn as I feel. But there’s a duty to be done, and a debt to be paid. I reach inside its mouth and conjure a small orb of light, seeing that the tooth has cracked cleanly in half down to the root. With a grimace, and remembering a toothache I once was given as part of a scene, I inspect the rest of its mouth and see the other teeth aren’t looking great either, as though decayed by age.

“Oh, you sweet thing, you were getting old, weren’t you? I’m sorry that I never realized…” I trail off but shake my head to regain focus. “I always considered you a dear friend despite our many battles, and I was never aware enough to realize you were slowing down. I’ll do what I can to help.” I hold the heavy tooth in place and begin a healing incantation.

Spirits of soil, sky, and stream, save this one's smile!

A warmth radiates from my wings to my heart and out to my hands holding the tooth. Channeling Elysian essence through my hands, I watch as light flashes at the points of contact, where new material rapidly grows to fill small gaps. The light spreads through its mouth, turning the aged, worn teeth into sharp, pristine white fangs, as they had been in their prime so few years ago.

I slump backward into the dirt afterward, feeling dizzy from the effort. I barely even register that falling there will surely dirty my dress. With my head swimming, I can’t bring myself to care. Despondent after hurting a helpless creature, I wrestle with what to do. After a few moments, my head clears, and I’m struck with an idea. An idea I know the elders, my guardian, and my father would surely take issue with… but they aren’t here, and I will write my own story!

I climb forward onto my knees, dismissing my shield servant, which is still propping open the mouth, and place my hands on either side of the stoat’s head. I begin speaking a ritual I’ve known since birth,

For you, Sir Stoat, I extend my bond, that you might live among the Fairfolk and feel our hospitality in the verdant lands of the Court of Tale and Song. I name you…

I hesitate, for despite my storytelling skills, names have never been my forte. Pausing, I feel the energy of home reaching out to me at my behest.

I name you… Henry Slinks, Sir Henry Slinks

I finish, placing a kiss on the stoat’s forehead. All the energy that had been building within me, suffusing me like the first warm sunrise after a long winter, releases on contact, transferring into the stoat and granting it a small mote of fae whimsy within its soul, supplanting some of its natural essence. The amount replaced will grow over time, but how it will affect the creature is unpredictable. Such is the nature of the essence of whimsy and creativity.

I rock back on my knees and watch the energy pulse through the creature as it slumbers. Patches of its gray fur return to a more lustrous brown before my eyes. It brings me a smile for a few moments as I witness the process.

This binding is something special, something no fae should do more than a few times in their life, and only with those, they’ve formed lasting stories with. Stories told over a long time, with anticipation of many more to come. Entering the Court of Tale and Song is no mean feat, but I’m happy to use my power to help this creature who gladly dueled me over the years. With this blessing, he might come to understand what it meant to me.

I stand, knowing the sleep spell will last awhile and that he’ll be reasonably safe here under the brush where we fought. So I leave, heading toward the river full of mixed emotions, already dreading the talking-to I’ll surely receive when I return home.

Chapter 3 Now featuring a dragon who is doing quite well, she would assure you.

[somethingclevermahogony]

Find the Word Tag Game

@inkovert tagged me here- thanks! Go to their page and check out some of their stuff, its great stuff!

my words were melody, leaf, smooth, and ache. As of right now I only have two WIPs, books 1 and 2 of The Testaments of the Green Sea (both of which are currently unnamed, oops) and so I will be drawing from there.

I am tagging @apolline-lucy, @illarian-rambling, @that-chibi-writer, @hallowedfury, and whoever else wants to answer, if you want to play! Your words are violet, crunch, flower, and teeth.

Melody

Istek, Dati, and Sihunu danced with a feverish intensity. It was as if, just for that moment, Istek's age and his sickness had melted away. He danced with the smooth movements of a younger man, held close both of his loves, the brave captain of the poems given new life by the melody. Dati and Sihunu leapt and spun with the grace of bounding gazelles.  Lat watched his parents from his table, a slight smile on his usually sour face. Though he would never admit it, he was quite fond of weddings. After a moment of hesitation and more than a few bowls of wine he leapt up to join his elders in their frenzied dancing. Penetinos sat near the newcomer Fasti and her son Zures, his face was pale, but the smile on his face was wide. Fasti poured the old man a bowl of wine, though in secret she added just a touch more water than may have been typical. If the old man noticed he did not say. Zures stared in wonder at the tip of Penetinos’ wizened finger as he used his sagecraft to produce a tiny blue flame, only for a moment.

Leaf (Leaves, that counts right?)

"Narul! Look! A forest!" Ninma said as she wiped the tears and snot from her face. Narul was shocked from his stupor by a wet little palm that drummed on the top of his head.  At the foot of the crested hill upon which they stood stretched a lush forest. The transition from the arid field and rock to thick greenery was almost unnatural in its suddenness.  " Did we go the wrong way?" Narul said. " Nope, northwest just like Burun said! Maybe he forgot to tell us about the forest?" Narul frowned. "I don't even understand how trees like this could be here, the ground is so dry." "Maybe the trees are like you. We should go in!" Ninma said and unconsciously dug her nails into his scalp. Her heart was pounding, and her skin was laced with goosebumps.  "Like me?" " Yeah! Like forestfolk with magic but um forest trees? Forest forest?" She said with a giggle. Narul gazed up at the massive trunks. Was she right? The whisper of the leaves beckoned him into the shadows.

Smooth

Narul ran his fingers along the smooth linen which started at his midsection and ended shortly below his knees. It had taken quite some time to assemble the outfit, and in the end after finding no actual garments which could appropriately fit him, the attendants and seamstresses had resorted to wrapping his waist with an ornate table cloth, snatched from some store room and trimmed and shaped to more closely resemble the long pleated skirts favored by Chibalan nobility. A cloak made from snowy white sheepskin, the largest they could find, was draped over his shoulders, held in place by an ornate bronze pin in shape of a snarling bear. His hair was combed and braided, bedecked with rings of Korithian silver and beads of  Shamabalan agate and Makoran Amber. The attendants had even tried to shove a signet ring onto one of his fingers, an endevor which would ultimately prove to be in vain. Failing at this, and the application of other more common jewelry, they took to him with bowls of a strong smelling paste, dying his skin with shades of rich red and earthy brown, covering his arms, hands, and chest with wave-like patterns.

Ache

"...I curse you Narul. May you live amongst those vile creatures for a thousand years. May you bear witness to countless atrocities, to every abomination to slither forth from the minds of humans. May you see cities crumble and families wither! May your fleeting happiness be drowned in the filth of the ages! And when time finally catches you, when the names of all who you loved have been wiped clean from your decayed mind by the hands of time, when your petty morals have been smashed by the depravity of man, may you remember my offer. May you remember the kindness I extended. May you mourn your choice. You will die alone, unloved, forgotten, a relic, a lonesome fool who bet his harvest on a diseased field! Enjoy your fleeting time with these humans, but know that when that girl is an old woman, when her body rages against her, when her bones ache, you will not understand her plight, and she will hate you for it. Every love you will ever feel, will end with sorrow and hatred. And when I return to enact my justice for the depravity of your mothers kin, you will receive no kind words from me! This was your choice, Narul. Enjoy it.”

[esta-elavaris]

Flufftober Day 21: Swoon ~ James Norrington/OC [1,414 words]

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here, and my behemoth of a main fic about these two is here 💜✨

Notes: So the storyline I’m building here is kind of referenced in the “Playing With Hair” Christmas fill, in which Theo expresses a bit of insecurity over not being the typical wife a man would seek in this time period. The "problem" (as she sees it) is shown from James’ POV here, and then we get the conclusion of it on the fill for day 30. It’s not exactly a high-stakes action-packed plotline or anything, but it’s just a continuing theme that’ll work best when you have all parts – so if things feel a bit vague or like there should be more here, it’s because there should, and there will be, on day thirty.

Governor Swann insisted on granting them the use of his London home for the duration of their time in the south of England, and while James had been reluctant to agree – a reservation Theodora shared – for a grand townhouse brimming with servants hardly seemed to lend itself to the kind of privacy and solace they sought on this honeymoon of theirs, he could not pretend he was not happy for it when they arrived. Mostly because it meant large hot baths and lavish meals with delightfully little effort.

Of course, it also lended itself rather nicely to their goal. To schmooze London’s high society, acquire further backing and connections for Norne Maritime Protection, and – perhaps most importantly – to show those here that, whatever the rumours drifting out of the Caribbean, he and his wife were of the good sort, and simply could not have acted wrongly in what occurred, nor brought it down upon themselves in any way. The latter goal was rather the trickier one. And Theodora was anxious.

She hid it, of course, even from him. When he asked if she’d been in London before (or, well, after – technically), she murmured the affirmative, along with expressing doubts that she would be able to snag Lion King tickets this time round. James, by that point, confessed himself an expert on discerning when she joked from true levity, and when it came from discomfort, and he knew that to be the product of the latter. And who could blame her? Those gathered in Port Royal had not been particularly kind to her – writing her off as a feral creature, perhaps somewhat soft in the head, who possessed just enough beauty and feminine wiles both to somehow ensnare him along the way. They did not see that he was the lucky one in the equation because they simply did not want to see it.

But her arrival in London was somewhat smoother than the way she’d been catapulted into their lives in Port Royal, she was used to this time now…and they were a team. This would be different. He had faith in that, and in her. Always in her.  Not just because she was charming, but because she was clever. Before there was full transparency between the two of them, he’d sometimes been half-tempted to regret that cleverness. Usually for fear of her safety. But now? Now he was free to be thrilled by it at all times.

For she did know how to play a good game.

On the first night they were set to host, she came downstairs bedecked in a gown of soft light floral fabric, contrasting the darker, bolder colours she usually favoured. Her hair was bound up with only a few soft curls left about her neck, white porcelain flowers set amidst the deep red of her hair and a string of pearls about her throat. Beautiful, she looked – beautiful she always was – but not like herself. None here would look at her and guess she was playing role. None here could look at her and possibly think that any of the rumours surrounding her were true. He allowed that fact to ease his sadness at how she clearly thought she had to hide herself to make a good impression.

Save, perhaps, for when it came to the white glove on her right hand, hiding nails that had not yet properly grown back. She hid it where she could – betwixt her skirts, behind her back, beneath anything she held – and when she was asked about it, she grumbled something about looking like Michael Jackson. Given that James had never heard of such a fellow, he could neither support nor reject her conclusion. But he wished he could ease her nerves.

James himself did not consider him adept at people-ing, as Theodora had once referred to it with great distaste. Oftentimes he was perceived as too serious, too dour, too unable to loosen up and give into revelry. He’d just been rather lucky in that all of those things were fine for a man and a soldier to be. But a hysterical once-tortured woman who was either a witch, mad, or both? Those were heavier burdens to bear for his wife. Judging by the pale cast of her face as they waited to make their first impressions on potential backers, she was keenly aware of that.

So James said the only thing he could think to – lowering his head as he heard the butler let the first of the guests in and murmuring to her.

“Ireland, after this.”

And it gladdened him to see that it cheered her.

When all had arrived, James was certain none would be able to guess at the doubt and trepidation that had shown on his wife’s face just before they’d walked in – at which time she’d straightened, offered one of those brilliantly warm grins of hers, and greeted them as though they were old friends.

She was not quite herself – more subdued even down to her accent – but none were at social events such as these, James himself included. And she was candid, warm, and lovely. That was all Theodora. He soon found that whenever he looked to her to see how she was faring, he had difficulty looking away. Even those who had arrived with a blatant nose to find gossip would share looks with one another as though surprised to find her qualities so abundant.

It had been difficult not to smile his pride at that. To know that not only did others finally see his wife as he did – others who were not pirates, at least – and to see that he had somehow managed to win the hand of such a woman. He couldn’t help but think of all the many times his wife had set those piercing eyes of hers upon him before proclaiming herself very lucky, laughing at the thought that she truly had no idea that he was the lucky one.

The door closed behind the last of the guests, Theodora’s shoulders dropped and she sighed her relief. James’ hand found the small of her back, entirely sharing in the sentiment she’d so silently expressed.

“Nightcap?” she turned a tired smile in his direction, leading him back to the drawing room.

James was not content to allow her to brush off her victory so readily.

“You’re a force of nature, do you know that?” he asked as she poured them a drink each.

“Oh, har-har,” she snorted fondly.

“Lady Montague made no less than three further appointments to see you while we remain in London,” he pointed out, pulling her to sit with him once their glasses were in hand.

“She was kind. And her husband liked you.”

“They liked you. They liked us. They’re backing us, Lord Montague as good as said so tonight - already. In part because of my very charming wife.”

Her eyes lit up at the first part, but at the second she rolled her eyes – albeit kindly – steadfastly refusing to believe that she might be greeted with anything other than scorn in “polite” society. It was a defence strategy, he knew that, so she mightn’t care when people – when fools – did dislike her. But it grieved him to see it warping her perception so.

“We found the one crowd in London who find the Irish foundling thing to be a cute novelty rather than an omen of doom, then?”

“Do not discount your victory here, Theodora.”

“Is that an order, husband?”

“On this occasion, I’m afraid it is,” he teased. “I will not hear it. You were magnificent tonight. I very nearly swooned to witness it.”

Another eye roll – but accompanied by a blush. And James was fine with that. He was patient, and he knew their victories would only increase from here. She’d see his point before long. He’d make sure of it.

And until then, he’d marvel at his wife enough for the both of them.

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

[robexp03]

Horse Whispers - Chapter 5

In my dreams, I raced the wind himself across a glade that surely was made for me alone. Into the golden sunlight, in a small shallow valley near a great willow tree, with sunbeams spearing down brightly, I ran. Here the trees left this field to their slighter kin, while they crowded upon the ring of hilltops to gaze down fondly at the ancient minuet of bee and dragonfly, hummingbird and butterfly- jewel-bright, thought-swift, glittering amid the flashing lances of the risen sun.  Colors unknown clustered there, on stalks and bushes, and in paler hues by the lee of each hill where they bedecked the flowering moss. Sweet herbs, and savory, carpeted the spaces between and lush, cool grasses, not a stone or nettle to be seen, no holes or deadfalls to trip into.  The dancers called and I could not refuse the summons.

            I raced joyously encircling the glade, the wind whistling encouragement in my ears! “Faster, farther!” He seemed to say. My legs were possessed of the magic spell of speed! My muscles pumped, again and again, but I did not tire! Wings are not the only enablers of flight! The airborne jewels of the glade were caught up in my rapture and trailed behind me like a brilliant rainbow cometary tail, an extension of the blonde flowing hair that also trailed behind me.  My hoofed feet springing lightly against the earth, I spread my arms and threw back my head just to feel the delicious fingers of the draught of my passage massaging the mane down my back!

            I woke languorously from my dream and opened my eyes into the light of the dawn. I smiled wistfully at the clear memory of the vision, and worked to store it in a permanent place where I might always recall and enjoy it. I rolled onto my stomach and hugged the pillow to my chest happily cozy, and at peace. I closed my eyes and snuggled for a moment to drift back towards the glade's embrace before realizing that I was free!  All right!  I sat up on the edge of the bed and swung my legs over the side.

Looking down I realized that it was more like a form fitting examination table than a bed after all, and quite a drop to the floor. I edged closer, and the first surprise came when my balls dropped over the edge with a pronounced jerk! I sat for a moment, to gather my memories and separate them from the dream, while my testicles swung pendulous between my thighs. Oh yes, must watch that from now on, was the only thing that crossed my mind at the time. My eyes followed the unfamiliar line of my sheath up my abs, and I had to touch myself just to be sure it was real.  Such a pretty fur I thought, and so soft.

Scooting further I stretched one leg towards the floor, but for some reason I was having a problem judging the distance. I finally just pushed over and landed on both feet.  But something was wrong. My heels would not touch the floor!  I stood there on the balls of my feet and no matter how I tried, it felt like my achilles tendons had been shortened. Bowing my knees I squatted to get a closer look.

My feet looked out of proportion. Longer somehow, I thought. But aside from the odd feeling of standing on my toes, they seemed to work. I took a few steps and discovered that I had to walk a little differently to keep from dragging and stubbing my toes. Each step had to begin with a little lift in the knees, and then a step. The soles of my feet never touched the ground, and there was a feeling of having springs in each step. Somewhat absently I wondered what this would do to my wardrobe of expensive running shoes. And then I also wondered why it didn’t bother me. Somewhere I felt that it should, but it just didn’t.

The door swished open and Jerrod came in looking at a clipboard. I stood up too quickly and turned towards him and everything went haywire. The walls of the room swam strangely, and I lost my balance. I tried to adjust my footing and catch my weight on my heels, but I didn’t have any, and down I went with a crash! I hit a little rolling table a glancing blow with my head, and sent a tray of instruments clattering loudly. 

“Cody!” Jerrod yelled, “Are you ok?”  My left ear hurt like hell, and I hit full force on my tailbone, but my pride felt worse. Runners are supposed to be sure footed. A trip can mean all the difference in a race. My face blushed hotly, and I looked up at his concerned face. I was a jumble of legs and arms, and was still too dizzy to do more than smile weakly and say something stupid.

“Ah feyull daown” I said in my best Forrest Gump. I expected him to laugh or at least smile, but what I got instead was a badly shocked look and an open mouth.

“Hey buddy, are you having trouble talking?” he said in a motherly way. I blew my breath between my lips and made a very satisfying burble sound.

“No. I was trying to make you laugh. I’m all right. Really. My ear and my butt hurt, but no harm done. I just feel so stupid” I confessed. Jerrod put his arm around my shoulder and got me on my feet. Automatically I bent down to brush off my clothes, and then looked up at him with a lame grin. I wasn’t wearing any. “Oh man, and the day started so good too” I said shaking my head. Long hair fell in my eyes. I reached to brush it back but he beat me to it. Man, it felt good to have him run his fingers through my hair. “Thanks Lancelot” I said softly.

“You’re bleeding” he said. “Sit on the chair and let’s get something on that. What happened anyway?” 

“Well, I got dizzy when I stood up and turned, and I just couldn’t catch myself. Jerrod, my feet don’t work right.” He said nothing, but I swear he was silently apologetic. I could sense it somehow.

At that moment Dr. DeBiron breezed in the door, exuding a sense of satisfaction. He didn’t keep it though when saw the scene. Wordlessly angered, he turned my head right and looked at my ear.

“I think one or two stitches will be needed. What happened?” he questioned. Jerrod explained; I blushed hotly all over again.

“Doctor, my feet don’t work right” I said trying to sooth my bruised ego with a little blame placement. He only glanced down and back up.

“On the contrary, Mr. Omen. They are working perfectly” he said through a sigh. “Jerrod, bring the emergency kit. Now you relax for a few minutes, I will close this up, and then we will talk.”

“Can I sit on the bed? My butt hurts” I pouted.

“Let me look” the doctor said. I stood up quite steadily, despite the fear they both were wearing.  He turned me sideways, and touched my sore spot. How do doctors always know exactly where its sore, and they always go right for it?

“Oww, Dat hurts!” I did my best Gilbert Godfried. The doctor looked up at me sharply. “It’s a joke doc. Sheesh, you two are a gen-u-wine barrel… of... fun…” I trailed off as I looked over my shoulder at my ass.

At the top of my butt, right at the crack, there was a 3-inch protrusion. “That’s one hell of a swelling” I said dryly. “What the fuck is going on?” 

“Mr. Omen, I think you better...”

“Sit down?” I finished for him. “I hate this part of the movie.” He opened a small packet containing a suture

“Mr. Omen...” he lectured.

“Doc, it gives me great pleasure when you call me Cody” I offered, trying to get him to relax a little. His distress was beginning to unnerve me.

“Cody,” and I shivered again from head to toe.  “Sit still. This will pinch a little. Um…. you have an interesting future ahead of you.” <pinch> My ear jerked in reaction, but Jerrod took hold of it and kept it still.

I rolled my eyes around expressively and said “I think I know this speech. This is a Dad Talk isn’t it? Dad Talk number twelve, I think. <pinch> Ouch! Is that the needle or a hot nail?” Jerrod now was using both hands on my ear. “Wait a minute….. What the fuck???” I reached up with my left hand to where my ear wasn’t anymore. Smooth skin met my touch.

I started to get upset. I could feel my heart begin to pound. Jerrod sensed it too, and worry coated his hands. He took my hand and moved it up my head. To an ear. I could hear it rustle at my touch, but it wasn’t an ear as I had known it. My distress increased, and my ear folded back, um….automatically? I mean I felt me move it, but I didn’t do it. Jerrod struggled with the other.

“That is enough,” the doctor said sadly. “Let him go” and he snipped the thread. Both my hands went straight up and followed the unfamiliar shapes I found at the upper back of my head. As best I could tell, they resembled large short tubes. My breathing rate increased and I opened my mouth in a pant.

“Get my bag quickly,” the doctor said with soft urgency. I could smell my own fear.

“Doctor” I said between pants, “what’s going on?” Jerrod came back flicking a syringe in the light and handed it to Dr. DeBiron. I stood up and backed away pushing at the air with my hands. “No! No, just talk to me! You’ve got to help me Jerrod. Keep him away from me!” I almost started crying.

“Now buddy, you know I’m here for you.” My nose wrinkled oddly; Jerrod’s worry changed to deep affection as he spoke. He started to move calmly towards me. “Cody, <shiver> I won't hurt you. Dr. DeBiron won’t hurt you”. His sincerity washed over my fear and I took a step in his direction keeping my eyes glued to the doctor. Jerrod moved up close on my left side and placed a hand on my shoulder and stroked it down my back. He left a trail of warm scented friendship in its wake, wiping away at my fear. “Easy fella, you can do this.” His right hand went round to my cheek and he pulled my face around towards his. My eyes finally unlocked and I stared down into his concerned dark ones. He scritched my cheek fondly, and walked his fingers up to my ear and stroked it. Despite my remaining fear I closed my eyes and leaned my head into his touch.

            The doctor took a step and my right ear flicked forward. My eyes flashed open and I fixed him with a challenging frown. Instantly there was such a powerful wash of disappointment / sadness / failure from him that it made me blink my eyes, as if the acrid taste of it was hurting them.  But he looked no different in any way. I was very confused.

Then my mental voice began reasoning. This man is layered in masks. He has withdrawn his true self deep into the center of the Doctor, and has learned how to hide every trace of his feelings from everyone. The Doctor is only a carapace, hiding and protecting a sensitive inner creature. But a shell not only limits outside sensation, it also stifles inner sensitivity. The last of my fear evaporated and I smiled at him, and nodded my head causing a shock of hair to fall over my eyes.  He stepped forward and gently brushed it back behind my ear. And for the first time I remembered, his smiling face was genuine. That smile radiated from in interior spot, and it was fresh upon the air.

            I reached forward and wrapped my arms around him, put my head over his shoulder, and I produced a low rumbling “Murrrrrrrr” in my throat somehow. A sea salt breeze filled the room, and when I looked Jerrod had silent tears streaming down his face.

“Cody,” he began as that shiver ran through me again. “There is a great deal you must know. Unfortunately, I can't tell you everything, because I simply don’t know everything myself” he said. “What is going on is that you are changing. As planned yes, but more than that, you are changing in ways unplanned.  A metamorphosis is occurring. The only thing you do not know yet is that you almost died while I had you sedated. The internal organ and hormonal changes were happening, but your human body was not willing to adjust sufficiently, or perhaps rapidly enough. We nearly lost you. I made a decision to make further adjustments in your therapy.  Your human testosterone seemed to be incompatible with the rest of the changes. And so I engineered a new virus to modify yours to more closely resemble a horses, just as I did your adrenal and pituitary products. It saved your life, but….  You began to change externally as well as internally. Your new penis and scrotum were the first manifestations. I hoped it would stop there, but it hasn’t. Each day you have become more equine and less human” he said spreading his open hands before himself, almost in a request for forgiveness. “And I cannot stop it.”

            “You can’t engineer me back?” I asked hopefully.

“Perhaps in the future. We must allow your new DNA matrix to stabilize. Then, perhaps, we can begin to reverse the process. But to do so now, while the changes are still taking place, would mean certain death” he said sadly, and I could sense the truth of it. I looked down at myself.

“So, in 25 monotonous words or less, I’m turning into a horse?” I choked out.

“No, I don’t think so. You are manifesting some equine characteristics, yes. But I don’t think the change will result in an actual equine conversion since you have not received whole equine DNA. Most of what you are seeing so far can be tied directly to the modifications that we made to your glandular components. But we suspect that something, nature if you will, is also taking an interest in you. And from your raw material, a new creature, a new being, is emerging.”

            “That sounds very metaphysical for a man of medical science,” I prodded. His face flushed, and the air smelled hot and angry.

            “Not at all. This is indeed medical science at its finest. It is simply proceeding in unforeseen directions and the results are not completely predictable. Mother Nature does not give up her secrets easily.”

All this time, Jerrod had been silently petting my head and neck, as if I was some unthinking animal. But a great part of me was loving it, and more significantly needing it deeply, regardless of the part of me that resented it. I had a great deal to learn, not the least of which was who I was now.

“Doc, I need a mirror,” I said rather flatly.

“I don’t think…” He began. I stomped my foot hard making a loud thud on the floor. An impatient whicker came from my throat.

“I don’t care at this moment, Doc. I need to see the reality of all this” I said tersely. He looked me in the eyes a moment, and telegraphed resignation.

“Follow me, Cody” he said quietly, and I shivered yet again. I held up my hand to signal a halt. 

“Wait. There is something else that needs an explanation first.” They looked at me expectantly.  “Every time either of you say my name, I get a rush of uncontrolled shock that runs across my skin. You both can cause it, but Jerrod causes the most intense effect. It’s like a little shivering rush of fear or something. So, what is that all about?”

Dr. DeBiron and Jerrod turned their heads to look at each other, each expecting the other to respond first.  As usual, the doctor took the lead.

“Cody” the doctor began, and my nerves flowed electrically again. “You have accepted the fact that you are physically adopting many equine characteristics. Your body is changing inwardly and outwardly in a recondite manner. Just as your body is adapting, so too are your neural pathways and mental functions rearranging and recombining. In many ways, you are a young foal, experiencing his world for the first time. I foresaw this probability and provided you with an anchor of stability that you could cling too in times of stress. From the moment your new mind returned to consciousness, you have been integrating your old self with a newborn set of impulses and reactions. For your anchor, I chose Jerrod.” I looked wonderingly at Jerrod's face, but he was concentrating on a spot on the floor.  “He is a student of veterinary medicine, and his knowledge and practical experience as a horse trainer made him ideal to perform as my assistant, and if necessary, your guide and stabilizing influence. In short, the moment you saw and heard him, your mind imprinted on him as a foal will upon its mother. Your reaction to hearing your name spoken by him is undoubtedly a result of the combining of your imprinting with your human emotions.”

I nodded in understanding. I had done the same thing with Traveler. I had been present at his conception and his birth, and even before his patient and trusting mother had begun to clean him, I had held his wet and weak head in my lap. I spoke to him softly, lightly stroking his neck and muzzle, and the eyes that looked into mine were filled with love, but also with an intense need. I had been the first creature he had seen or sensed with his newborn body. Traveler had imprinted on me, and so had begun the most rewarding relationship of my own life.

“Doctor, are you saying that these feelings of love and trust I feel for you two are artificially implanted? That they are only the product of some hormone-based influence and not genuinely felt?” 

“Cody, what is emotion? How do we feel love for another? For that matter, what makes us fall in love in the first place?” he asked me.

“I have no idea” I answered truthfully with a shrug.

“No one has those answers” he stated quietly. “So, who is to say that what you feel is any less genuine, or any less profound, than any other love that you have ever acquired.  There is an old adage. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it’s a duck.”

“Considering what I must look like at the moment, I’m not sure I like that particular analogy doc, but I get the point” I muttered. 

 I stepped before the mirror, and in its full length, I saw a monster.

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

To be continued

[jjungkooksthighs]

Claws of Carnality | jjk (m) (14)

Pairing: alpha jungkook x omega reader

Genre: fluff and angst, abo/werewolf,  fantasy

Rating: 18+/nsfw

Word Count: 8.8k

Summary: The Duels of the Chosen begin, and the alphas battle the right to take the omega as their own. 

Warnings: CHARACTER INJURY, LOTS OF BLOOD MENTIONS, GORE (this will not be for people who are squeamish with blood/gore), dom!jungkook, alpha!jungkook, alpha!Taehyung, alpha!Jimin, sub!reader, omega!reader, cursing, praising, possessive!jungkook, teasing, dirty talk, marking, manhandling

A/N: Hello, all! It’s been some time, but we are back again with another update! I have been very busy with work and school, so that was one of the reasons this took so long. The other reason was that I knew a lot of you were waiting specifically for the long-anticipated fight, and so I became overly critical of myself and didn’t like anything I wrote. This is a chapter that was one of my first ideas for this story, so I wanted it to be as perfect as I envisioned it in my head. Nothing I wrote could match that, and finally I became resolved to just writing without stopping or editing until the end. I hope that you all find this to meet your expectations, given that it is over twenty pages long. Oh, and let me know what you think about that cliffhanger at the end (or anything about this chapter because comments are like the bread and butter of writers), yeah?

Series Masterlist

It is as if time itself has grown tired as the seconds slowly tick by, the silver circlet twining itself around your head becoming heavier the longer it stays nestled there.

It saps your senses and strength away to leave you entirely incapable of movement and thought. In some cases, it even dulls emotions. It was why the substance was forbidden to be used except in ceremonial rites like the Duels of the Chosen.

Soon, even managing a thought becomes a challenge in how the silver intertwists you in numbness in your own head. Even your eyelids fall lower over your eyes in how leaden they have become.

The sound of something distinctly metal comes from somewhere near your feet. It takes a moment for you to drag your irises down your mate’s body to where his hand is fiddling with the bolt holding the first latch closed on the brown wooden box at your feet. The box, like its counterpart that has yet to be opened, is bigger than the one your diadem had come from.

His long fingers easily flick up on the last latch to the second of the three wooden boxes that are of a sepia, umber, and burnt sienna make. It is the second largest box of the three. What your alpha reveals is on a bed of white velvet and you see not one, but two pieces laid under one another that shine in the moonlight.

They are identical and appear to be a kind of cuff for your wrist in their size.  They, like are your diadem, have twisting and tangling silver strands that root from the bottom of the piece to the top, and interspersed throughout the bevy of liana-like tendrils, you can make out small, intricately forged flowerets not unlike the curtain of vines that flowers of all colors and sizes cling to along the stony wall hiding the creek that you used to habit.

It's a task to summon the memories of that place with the circlet that siphons away your cognition. Every time you try, what you are searching for seems to swim away from you in the sea of darkness that has swept your mind in its sway.

“Forgive me, my beautiful flower,” your mate’s voice lifts your very soul as you watch him undo the clasps of the first piece, his digits working the hook with ease and, from his knees, he reaches for your arm while he says, “the tradition is that you must be bedecked in silver before I am allowed to go fight. I fear I may not even make it that far if I do not do this now.” His calloused fingers wrap around your forearm and he turns it so that the underside of your arm is extended to him as he lifts the silver cuff toward it with the other. He doesn’t release your forearm, but instead curls his fingers tighter over your bare flesh as he says, “But gods, you test me so.”

Trying to put together words or sentences is like trying to fish in a dark, murky river. As for your emotions, even they have begun to grow dormant under the waters of dullness that try to quiet them.

It's all you can do to let your head fall to the side in question, the leaf-shaped crystal hanging from the middle of your diadem reflecting the light of the moon.

Attuned to you as ever, your alpha grins, “All I meant is that you have a very, very powerful effect on me, my love.” He guides your arm forward until the back of your hand rests on his shoulder. Then, his fingers are gone and he fits the adornment over your wrist as he hooks the first of the five blossoming fastenings along the undersurface of the bracelet over one another while he confesses, “I wanted to keep kissing you,” he closes the last of the fastenings over your wrist before bringing it to his mouth and placing his lips over your bloodied palm before he turns your now limp arm back over so that you can put your dead weight on his shoulder. Then, he’s grabbing your other so that he can adorn it, too, as he tells you, “I wished to keep tasting you,” a pink tongue glides along his lip where your blood now coats it, a groan slipping from him whilst he secures the fixing on the other wrist cuff as he admits, “And I wanted to keep exploring your body.”

You can only whimper in answer, but even that sound is now muted to your own ears as if you have cloth stuffed in them while the silver sifts out the energy from your body like a drain where the metal touches your flesh. It is heavy as a rock, and your wrist is trapped within it as you whimper.

Your alpha’s eyes soften at that, and still on knees, he reaches for the third and largest of the ornately carved boxes. Somehow, his digits work even slower now on this one.  

You do not think about why. All you can do is sit and watch as a tethering torpor climbs up your arm like a fungus from where the silver cuffs bind them.

“You probably have already realized it by now, omega,” his eyes are locked on yours when his fingers find the hem of your gown behind your ankle and then he’s balling it in his hand, “but it gives me no pleasure to bind you up like this. I am very well acquainted with what silver does to our kind. I made this silver for you, but I also had to make it for myself, too.” He’s careful to lay both of your hands on your lap, “the only reason I am still capable of basic movement while touching it is because I seem to have made myself somewhat tolerant to it with how much I’ve had it on me during my ruts,” golden irises find yours when he adds, “ruts that I could not spend with you until you had accepted me.”

Your heart gives a weak pang against your ribcage at that.

“I’m almost done, sweetheart. Bear with me.” He tugs up on the ovular clasp on the third, final and biggest of the wooden boxes–this one the length of your calf in its size–before pushing inward, and then he’s lifting up the top of the box to reveal two grandiloquent adornments that you’ve never seen anything the likes of before.

It takes some time to process what they are, but you cannot ignore how wondrously they glint in the firelight that makes them sparkle bright as the stars.

With his hand still gripping at your skirts, your alpha coaxes your knees apart so that he can resituate himself and put one of his knees between yours.

It is a strange thing to be so silent, but you know if you didn’t have this silver on you right now, you would be begging.

Your alpha must know it, because he chuckles when he coaxes your left leg up and onto his so that your foot rests on his thigh, and gods, the sight of him on his knees for you has familiar heat stirring between your legs as your sex cries for him.

The wind chooses that moment to wind around you, and then your alpha is cursing under his breath, his fingers tightening in your skirt as he cusses, “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, omega.”

His movements hasten then, and his eyes dilate in desire. You feel your skirt ascend and climb along your leg until he’s got it bunched up atop your knee, but it is a blur after that the muted sound of a clink. You don’t even realize that he’s fitted the piece over your calf and pulled together the three clamps only with one hand along the back of your leg before he’s heaving a heavy breath and leaning forward to utter, “It is a good thing I am touching this silver and that it deafens my senses to an extent, because if it didn’t,” his lips brush the inside of your knee as he mouths, “I’d have likely been unable to stop myself from standing and taking you against this fucking tree you sit on.”

You have half a mind to tell him you want it, that you want him, but words do not come. Every time you seek them, they bury themselves in the silt of your brain and no matter how hard you try, the silver circling your head hides them from you.

All you can manage is a stuttered,” Ah..al…alpha.”

At the sound of your voice, your alpha’s irises contract from between your thighs as he looks up at you. “Here, my love. I am here.”

You wish you could speak more to him. You wish you could touch him. You wish he would-

“I can hear your desire as much as I can smell it, my love,” your alpha tells you as he brings his lips over to the other side of your knee and he presses his mouth to your skin, “your pre-heat is making you fucking needier as the seconds pass, pretty girl.”

You make an effort to make your thighs meet, but the leg that he’d just wrapped silver in does not heed your mind or your instinct.

You pout. It’s all your body has energy left to do.

You hadn’t noticed it before now, but the usual softness, warmth and wetness of his mouth and fingers was gone. Stolen by the silver that drew sensation away until little to none remained.

Suddenly, there’s something hard gliding along your upper shin, and when your alpha’s mouth leaves you, two fresh, new punctures dot your skin along the base of your knee.

You had not felt him bite you. There had not been any pain due to the dulling effect of the silver just beneath his mark.

Crimson now lines his mouth and he lets it descend from the middle of his lower lip and down his bare neck. You lick your lips as you watch it, your tongue dense as a stone.

Jealousy hangs low in your gut over you in how your own blood gets to trail down his body and you can only watch. Your alpha’s mouth curves up at that, and two canines, each red with your blood, protrude from under his lips.

“Worry not, my love,” your alpha’s fingers find your other ankle and he guides it up so that your foot rests on his leg, his head dipping between your thighs while his digits tug the ball of fabric of your skirts higher so that he has more access to you, “I will satisfy every single one of your fantasies, every single one of your dreams, and every single one of your cravings,” his mouth finds the tender flesh of your inner thigh as he angles his head to the side, your own lips parting as his tongue slides from between his to lick you as he says, “I’ll let you have me anyway you wish, my love. Anything to make you happy, pretty.”

You latch onto that word. You try to follow the line he’s thrown you in the river of languor, and you can manage through the current of listlessness, “Y-yours…w-want to-“

You try again, but attempting to get your head above the water of stupor that has settled around you is too much.

Your alpha coos, “Oh, my omega. I hear you. I see you,” He suckles at your flesh before lightly biting down the same time you hear that clinking sound again, his freed hand placing the other silver adornment along your shin only for the sinking of all of his teeth into your flesh to feel as if he were only nipping you. “I feel your very blood trying to give itself to me like this. How badly I want to give in to you, my little vixen.”

“Pack Alpha Jungkook,” your grandmother’s voice sounds in the distance from where she stands on her place at the edge of the timbered stage, “It is time. She is more than ready for you to go to battle.”

“Give me a moment,” your alpha declares.

You do not hear her at first. The sounds and vocables mix together and you can only discern bits of pieces of it.

Not…not ready…alpha…

They are the only words that you can remember long enough to think them.

In front of you, your alpha’s tongue drifts to and fro over the wounds he’d left on your thigh.

I must, my love. I must.

His voice finds you even though his mouth doesn’t move.

You attempt to reach for him, to get closer to him, but it’s as if a weight has been attached to your arm and no matter how much you attempt it, it is too heavy to move. As if to soothe the frustration you let out in the form of a shaky sigh, he gives you featherlight kisses anywhere and everywhere that he can along your thigh before he turns his head inward toward your other and opens his mouth to mold it against you, his tongue laving at you ardently.

The attention has your core clenching around nothing.  

Before he departs from between your legs, his digits finish their work in securing the clamps along the back of the other piece of silver he’d put over your shin.

Like the air, his fingers are ever present and wind over the silver etchings he’d forged for you until they roam to the front of the adornment he’d just attached to you. The knuckles of the hand he has tangled your skirts has gone snow white in the tight grip he has on the thin fabric.

He’s holding it like it is a lifeline, and honestly, it just might be. He’s all that is grounding you right now.

“Stars above, my love, you charm me even when silence and stillness have stolen what is only mine to have,” he gently helps you to put your feet back on the grass, his golden irises sowing themselves deep into yours as he does, “I used to think about what you might look like all tied up and bound for me, but none of my imaginings could ever be as good as this.” He rises to stand above you and it only takes two of his fingers under your chin to lift it enough so that you can keep your gaze on him, your bare neck exposed for him as he inspects his handiwork while he goes on, “You haven’t any clue just how seductive you can be when you aren’t even trying, omega. Look at yourself.”

Distantly, relief trickles over you at how fucking responsive your alpha is to you. You wouldn’t have otherwise been able to move your head so that you could look upon him given that the rest of your body isn’t responding to what the apex between your legs has been sobbing over this entire time.

Your wolf sluggishly stirs at his command, and you do as you are told with your head empty of everything except the need to satisfy him.

 It takes some effort. Drawing your eyeline away from him is like towing an anchor through a muddy seafloor. The red paint of your own blood that you’d etched all over him has darkened even more in its dryness across his muscled arms and corded chest. Lighter trails of it have swept themselves down his neck from where it drips from his lips from his earlier ministrations, and with the hooded look in his eyes and wild black hair that curls around his chiseled face, he looks like he wants to devour you.

You know that you’d let him. In the back of your mind, the image of him with his head trapped between your legs, your ankles thrown over his shoulders and his lips wrapped around your pussy flashes. It sends wetness between your already slicked folds.

“Lustful little thing,” your alpha groans when your scent reaches his nostrils, “Stop thinking about getting fucked, pretty girl. I told you I would take care of that when this is over. Now look at yourself,” he orders.

His fingers that he’s kept under your chin lower your head so that you have no choice but to look ahead where he wants you to. You don’t have the strength to move it on your own anymore.

 The first thing you notice is that he’s still got your skirts rolled up between his now snow-white knuckles. The second thing you notice is the skin of your thighs is now painted in bloodied trails of your essence that circle and tread toward the very bindings that your alpha had just put on you. The third thing you notice is that just below your knee, rivulets of silver run along your shins and calves. Like they have dripped from the rocks of the creek you often played in as a child and found respite in as an adult, the silver drizzles down your leg until it pools around your ankle in the thick band of metal that encircles it.

“C-creek?” you let the heavy, rolling tide of that thought bring the word forth from your lips.

“Yes, sweetheart. I had hoped to capture the essence of the places you love the most in all of the pieces I made by hand for you,” his fingers loosen around the clump of your skirts under his fingers, and slowly, it descends down your knee, your shin, and then finally your ankle as you both watch. “It’s not a perfect replication, but a lot of silver passed through my hands in my mission to make something only you would be able to wear and bear.”

Affection courses through your veins as steadily as the blood that runs through your body at his words.

“Pack Alpha Jungkook,” the sound of wood rattles against the platform she stands upon when your grandmother strikes the timbered stage with a staff of oaken bark to announce, “With your preparations complete, you must now head to the battle grounds you have chosen where your challengers await your arrival. If you have anything else you wish to say to your intended or to the pack, you must do so now.”

Without taking his eyes off of you, your alpha answers, “I do have something to say.” He coaxes your chin upward with the fingers he still has planted there, and then sunlight in the form of irises finds yours. His voice is carried only to you in the small breeze that blows over you. “I want you to know, omega,” his thumb slides along the cleft of your chin, “that I love you. And this fight…I do it for you. Everything I do and have done up until now has all been for you, my love.” He tilts his head up, his lips finding the spot between your brows just under the crystal that hangs from your circlet and then mouthing, “Be a good for me until I come back to you. I will return shortly.”

You bite at the log he’s thrown you, only a few words leaving you because the rest had sunken under the murky waters of thought in your head.

“Good,” you can’t even scrunch your brows together in consternation anymore because of how leaden even those have become. Your jaw hardly even moves when you speak, because doing so is impossible with the muscles that refuse to respond to you as you say between parted lips, “b-be good for…for y-you. R-ret…return shortly.”

That seems to satisfy the alpha, for he rumbles against you in response. “That’s my girl.”

His mouth leaves you, and though you can’t really feel their warmness or softness anymore because of the silver, you miss them already.

He gives you one last glance, and in those eyes of his, and compassion clings to them as they cross over you.

You want to reach for him. You want to feel those arms of his around you. You want him to stay with you. That thought sinks away from you even though you try to swim after it.

Stay… alpha.

Your alpha steps back, shaking his head as he does.  

I will never have to leave you once this is over, my love. Trust in me.  I will not fail you.

With those words he sends through your bond, he turns away from you. Panic somehow worms its way into your gut as you watch.

Your alpha’ voice is firm as a tree stump and sturdy as the bark of one when he speaks again as the grass crunches under his feet. “To any alpha here-mated or unmated-do not go near the omega. My omega,” he adds. “Get within in one foot of her, and I will hunt you down.”

Before him, the males put an arm over their front and pound their fist into their chest one by one.

The sea of alphas and omegas part like a river for him, and no one stands in his way as he walks, his shoulders set proudly as he moves with confidence cording his muscles.

You try to whimper, but the sound is lost somewhere in your throat.

The other wolves cluster to one of two sides so that you have nothing blocking your sight from him as he treads on through the grass that catches his feet, the firelight of the braziers set every few feet bathing him in a golden glow. The red paint of blood he wears like a second skin, and it is a dangerous warning to the three that stand several paces apart from each other in the distance ahead.

The continual crunch of grass under your alpha’s feet continues until the grass yields to the dirt of the plain by the old knoll that had stood since the old times.

Your alpha halts, resolve now set in those eyes of his.

Before him to his left, Taehyung stares with a sneer on his face. In the middle of the field, ahead of your alpha is Yoongi, the russet-haired male that has his arms crossed over his chest. To his right, Jimin bares his teeth.

Your alpha reveals his own teeth to them all.

“Pack Alpha Jungkook,” the voice of your grandmother descends over the plain as she ambles, with two other elders, down the stage toward the mound before the plain, “As you have been named the Omega Y/N’s champion, you have been granted the battle rights and so you may choose the terms of this battle.” She peregrinates still, the thick furs around her shoulders unmoved even in her shaky footfalls, “No one may contest your decisions, and your choices are final once given. If any wolf breaks these terms, he will be disqualified and deemed unfit to take the omega as his own. Do you all understand?”

“Yes,” your alpha, without missing a breath, answers.

The other three males nod.

“Very well. Chosen one, do you wish to take on all of your opponents at once, one at a time, or in any sequential order?” She makes it to the top of the knoll, her knees popping as she does.

“I will take on Yoongi alone. The other two I will fight together. It matters not to me which I battle first.” Jungkook asserts.

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Scared, Jeon?”

Taehyung laughs under his breath. Jimin cringes at the sound.

“Keep dreaming, Yoongi. I know how dirty you play,” Jungkook picks an invisible fleck of dust off his shoulder.  

“Will you fight in your human form, or will you shift to your lupine form?” The elder in grayed, wiry furs is unphased.

“The first battle I will fight as a human. My second I will fight as a wolf. The others will do the same.”

“Will you be using any weapons in your first fight?”

“Hands, teeth, and claws,” your alpha decides.

“Will this be to the death or to the surrender of the fallen combatants?”

“To the surrender. I do not wish to lose any of my alphas. Even if they are a pain in the ass.”

“Are there any other conditions you would like to set, Pack Alpha Jungkook?”

Your alpha’s eyes harden on each of the males before him. “Any wolf that falls in combat will bear those marks for the rest of his life. I will allow no healers or menders to their side unless the injury is life-threatening.”

“Those conditions will be met. Anything else?” The elder beside your grandmother asks.

“Yes. One more thing,” your alpha is unwavering as he takes a step forth, “No challenger may leave the perimeter of these grounds we stand on until the victor has been declared.”

“As you say,” the aged wolf on the other side of the lead elder says.

The rustle of trees sweeps over the land from the woodland around, and the fire of the braziers circling the arena of dirt is swept with the wind until all is quiet again.

Your alpha keeps his back to you, and so fixated on him, you do not see your grandmother lift her hand, the sound of horns filling the air as the two elders beside her blow into the wooden tusks with holes cut into them that they’d produced from the folds of their furs that cover the whole of their body.

“I will remind you, Jeon Jungkook, that as you are the current Pack Alpha, your title and rank will be stripped from you should you lose this battle. The victor will take your title, rank, and your intended should you be unable to beat them in combat,” The two elders at your grandmother’s side speak together, their voices melding into one, “Do you understand and agree to these terms?”

Your alpha doesn’t even flinch at the prospect. “I am aware of what will happen should I fail to be victorious. I consent to those terms.”

“Should any alpha fail to comply with these conditions, they will be exiled, and if it is the victor’s decision, he may decide to exile or end the lives of those he defeats.” The elders wait for all four males to acknowledge this with affirmations before: “Now, with the terms and agreements that have been given,” the elder in gray from atop the knoll who stands as the intercessor of the four alphas below voices, “Let the battle begin.”

For a few moments, all the males do is stand and stare between one another, no one willing to make the first move.

Your alpha is patient, so he waits. He has spent a long, long time waiting for you.

Worry snakes around your chest, its slithery movement slow and lazy as you watch your alpha’s muscles in his back tense as if he’s preparing to be attacked.

As if he can smell your concern, he turns his head to the side, his irises softening as they silently seek yours.

Worry not, my love. Just watch me. This will all seem like a dream in only a short while.

“The hell with this,” comes a dry remark from Taehyung, who shrugs off his black rabbit furs, the bones cracking from between his knuckles as he claws at his black linen shirt so that it falls in shreds at his feet, “I’ve been waiting for a chance to get revenge for what you did to my fucking shoulder, Jeon,” Taehyung covers the five circular wounds in his flesh, his eyes boring holes into your alpha, “and I will finish what I started with the female and make you grovel while I do it.”

“Oh, shut up already, Taehyung,” Jimin throws off his own furs, his eyes narrowing on the brown haired wolf who had just spoken, “I should destroy you first for what you did to my sister. To me,” he rips his own shirt from his body, “You fucking asshole.”

“Can you both just come at me already? I’m getting bored over here,” Your alpha stretches an arm behind his back, “Unless you’d like to let Yoongi have a go at me first?”

“Fuck off, Jeon,” Yoongi picks at his nails, “you two had better start ripping into some limbs, or I will.”

“No,” Taehyung pushes off his haunches and is off, “he’s mine.”

Jimin is on his tail the second he moves. Your alpha is still even though there’s a male running toward him and another behind that one. Taehyung’s arm lifts, his claws in the air and then he’s upon your alpha.

Fear constricts your stomach at the sight.

The brown-haired wolf draws his arm down in an arcing motion as if to slash at your alpha’s chest, but before it can make it there, your alpha’s hand, fast as lightning, races through the air and he grips Taehyung’s wrist with force, each of his nails sinking into the alpha’s wrist as if it were water. The brown-haired alpha barks in pain, his eyes unseeing of the other alpha behind him as he does.

Jungkook smirks, and with no effort, he swings his other arm back, his fingers clenching into a fist and then that fist makes contact with Taehyung’s stomach. Hard. The brown-haired alpha is flung like a pebble into the air and the impact of the throw has his head colliding with Jimin’s so that there’s a loud thud as Taehyung’s skull hits the other’s that is hard as a stone.  

“Surely you both can do better than that? I’m a little disappointed. I wasn’t expecting much from Taehyung considering he’s never been that great a fighter,” your alpha wrinkles his nose in disgust at the fresh blood that now coats his hand as he looks down at it, “but Jimin? You usually are faster than that. It’s unlike you.”

“Basta-“ Jimin is silenced when Jungkook impels his foot down on his abdomen to knock the breath out of him.  

Your alpha’s tone is devoid of any warmth when he chides, “I thought I told you not to address me with such disrespect.” He stomps on the downed alpha’s chest again, the rib beneath it cracking like a twig as Jimin yips in affliction.

Taehyung gets to his feet and swings, but Jungkook uses the body of Jimin like he’s a stepping stone to jump to the other side so that Taheyung misses and your alpha tuts, “Ah, ah, ah, Taehyung. It is rude to try to punch someone when they’re looking.”

“Like I give a fuck,” Taehyung curses, and when he swings again, Jungkook jumps back with inhuman speed. Across from him, he just narrowly misses Jimin who had rolled to his belly and pushed off his hands to get up.

Jungkook flicks his bloodied hand toward the ground as if to get it off and red dots the ground before he taunts, “You know, I’ve always thought you smelled absolutely rancid, Taehyung,” he wipes the remains on his trousers, “but I didn’t think it was possible for you to smell worse than the bottom of a fucking bog.”

Taehyung responds by yelling out the Pack Alpha’s name, and then he’s making another dash for him. Jungkook isn’t even phased by it. He just steps sideways so that the alpha’s claws and open maw miss him completely. Jimin comes for him next, but he dives toward the ground and rolls when the other alpha tries to swipe at his side from below.

 Yoongi, the passive bystander, stays where had been since the beginning and files at his nails using a rock he’d picked up.

Meanwhile, Taehyung scampers like a wild man toward Jungkook. Anger has turned the whites of his eyes red, and his movements only grow more erratic the longer he battles.

When Jungkook rises to his feet once more, he grins at the sight. “Always so quick to anger,” he spins when the brown-haired alpha’s arm descends downward, “and always so easy to defeat.” He rotates the other direction when Taehyung’s attempts to uppercut him, “I knew you would not be difficult to defeat from the moment I threw you against that tree in the fucking forest when you talked back to me. When you dared to disrespect and defile my intended with your tongue,” Jungkook’s fist ascends toward his maw, but the brown-haired wolf holds up both arms in front of his face to block. The force of the blow knocks his arms away from his face, one of his elbows pushed up into an area of his arm that it doesn’t belong as he curses loudly and the wolf staggers backward away from Jungkook, who mocks,  “I should take your tongue for all its slander, but taking that ego and pride from you will hurt you more than that ever could.”

Jimin sprints so that he’s waiting on the opposite side of your alpha, but before his outstretched foot can make contact with Jungkook’s stomach, his calf is caught by Jungkook’s fingers. Your alpha keeps that leg in his hold, his claws elongating and puncturing the flesh there so that Jimin winces and cries out.

Momentarily seized by the pain, Jimin grabs at his leg while Jungkook reprimands, “and you, Jimin…You used to be such a good friend to me. I have missed your presence and friendship.” He headbutts the male, “Were you not distracted by Taehyung, you might have actually made me break a sweat.”

The scraunch of dirt sounds from behind him, and Jungkook crouches as Taehyung catapults himself toward him. He hurls Jimin to the ground, and Taehyung’s teeth embed themselves into Jimin’s chest as the two tumble to the ground. In the scuffle, Jungkook’s claws that had been lodged in Jimin’s thigh had cut through his flesh like it was fluid, and blood sprays all around them before Jimin lands with a deafening thump on the dirt that is stirred up in a cloud around the males.

When it clears, a motionless Jimin is lain under Taehyung, who extracts his claws from around his heart and rises without even glancing his direction. Crimson gushes from the downed alpha’s wounds, his skin torn and mangled from his thigh all the way to his foot where his lifeblood flows out of him like a red sea. Bone peeks from beneath the five angry incisions that sever his skin from itself along his leg and his chest heaves with labor where the blood pushes itself out from the five punctures around his heart.

Agitation dots your alpha’s face where Jimin’s blood does not, his entire chest now speckled with crimson that you had not put there.

He had not wanted this to end in death for any under his charge.

“This is your fault, Jeon,” Taehyung spits, “If you had just fucking stood still, you would be on the fucking ground right now, and your little bitch would already be mine.”

That has your alpha’s irises lifting to his. They are colder than ice as he narrows them, “First you defile Jimin, who became your friend because I told him to, and then you insult my intended. Tell me, Taehyung, whose fault is it that you can’t even use your fucking shoulder where my claws severed some of the nerves there when the sun was setting?”

“Hmm,” Taehyung puts a bloody hand to his chin, “I would say it was the she-wolf who is to blame. I wanted to fuck her, and she didn’t want me to. You got in the way.”

“You will never touch her,” Jungkook lifts his lip so his teeth are on display, “and you will never have her,” your alpha growls, “not as long as I live and fucking breathe. I’ll break every bone in your body starting from your toes to your ribs if that’s what it takes to make you understand that.”

“Just as long as it’s not my face. I need that,” Taehyung’s sarcasm is loud, “the bitches I screw love it too much.”

With that, Jungkook roars so even the mountains beyond shake, and he rushes forward toward the brown-haired alpha. He moves with such speed that even the wind cannot blow past him, and it is over in seconds.

One second, your alpha is in front of the older wolf. The next, he’s sliding along the ground under Taehyung’s parted legs, the dirt scattering around him like the bones of prey after a hunt. Jungkook puts one arm out to steady himself before he turns off his heel and rises so he’s stood

behind the unexpecting alpha, and there’s no time for Taehyung to react before both of your alpha’s bloodied claws cut through the air like daggers and he’s dug them deep into the other alpha’s shoulders. Taehyung wails in pain as his freshly dressed wounds are reopened next to five new wounds on his other shoulder where red drips slowly from both shoulders down his bare, naked chest.

He thrashes in your alpha’s hold, but your alpha is stronger, and he knocks Taehyung’s knees out from under him so that he falls onto them in the black dirt.

“You’ve lost once again, you fool,” Jungkook utters, his claws tearing at the other’s flesh every time he thrashes, “now you can atone, at least a little, in your defeat.”

As they are, they both face you, and your alpha’s irises pierce yours when he orders, “Tell my intended that you’re sorry for debasing her with your speech and your actions. Tell her you will never do it again. That you’ll never pursue her again.”

Taehyung snaps, “This isn’t over yet.”

“Oh, but it is,” your alpha decides with derision, “It very much is.”

Taehyung attempts to wriggle out of his hold. Jungkook punishes him, his flesh tearing and ripping where Jungkook twists his claws deeper into him. Taehyung bellows in agony. More blood scatters down his back.

Jungkook huffs, only to extricate his claws from the male’s shoulders and kick him square in the back so that he falls to chest, his arms giving out on him with the way that the nerves had been cut and rearranged in the gory mutilation of his shoulders where flabs of skin barely hang on by a thread.

“Say it,” Jungkook orders as he stands tall above him. “I’m growing weary of waiting. I don’t want to have to use Alpha’s Bidding on you, but I will if I must.”

Taehyung remains silent minus the coughs where more blood spews forth from his lips. He must have bitten his tongue in the fall.

Though he can’t use his dislocated arm, he can still use his other one. That, and his legs.

Before he can even get his first foot on the ground, Jungkook’s hand darts out and his fingers project themselves over and around Taehyung’s neck so that he is held up under Jungkook’s digits. The Pack Alpha squeezes with enough force that Taehyung’s face begins to turn red, his breaths stuttering as his arms unsuccessfully attempt to pull the raven-haired alpha off.

“You’re weak, Taehyung. You always have been, and you always will be. Now give the fuck up already.” Your alpha urges him, the bite in his tone making the wolves around you shudder.

“I’d rather be fucking exiled.” Taehyung attempts to throw his only remaining good arm behind him, but Jungkook seizes his bicep in an iron grip.

Your alpha sighs with exasperation, tsking, “You really should know when to give up, you motherfucker.”

 “You don’t say,” Taehyung goads.  

Jungkook’s eyes narrow, his golden irises flickering as he mulls it over. Those irises settle on yours, and then your alpha’s lips set in a thin line before he acts.

 There’s no hesitation when he twists Taehyung’s arm into an unnatural angle, the crack of bones filling the air in warning as the wolf on his knees hisses and howls in agony.

“No,” Jungkook determines, “that would be too easy.” Jungkook’s teeth sharpen and shift so that they are pointed like blades as he growls, “Running would let you forget. But suffering, “ his canines elongate until they extend below his lower lip, “your suffering will haunt you as a wraith for the rest of your life.”

The word has hardly left his lips before Jungkook wrenches Taehyung’s thin arm up, his teeth flashing menacingly before they disappear into Taehyung’s hand, the sickening crack of bones breaking under his teeth as he bites down hard enough that his teeth penetrate the opposite side of his appendage. The male screams, his fingers twitching uncontrollably as blood bursts forth into Jungkook’s mouth.

It is fetid as bile. It is putrid. It is gamy, and Jungkook blanches at its disgusting tang so unlike the sweet sugary taste of your own.

“As much of a thorn in my side as you’ve been, I do not want to see any of the males under my watch be killed. However,” Jungkook throws his head back, his teeth dislodging from around Taehyung’s palm so that an ovular junction of dark holes arc over and under both sides of his hand and then Jungkook’s hoicking crimson spit from his mouth, “that doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you for what you’ve done.” He releases Taehyung’s deformed arm that is now bent at an odd direction, his jaw clenching as he says, “It doesn’t mean you are not due for discipline since you seem to have forgotten basic respect and decency.”

“I’ve got plenty of th-“

Before the downed mall can finish, Jungkook slices his serrated claws once across the brown-haired alpha’s back, his expression hardening even though the captured male yelps through the stinging sensations left in his wake, “Silence. I will not hear any more defiance or disrespect from you. You will give me your fealty, or I will make you hurt so much that you’ll never even remember what it was like when you could wake up in the morning and use all of your fucking limbs,” he yanks back on Taehyung’s neck, four of his fingers pricking crescents on one side and his thumb pressing tightly in on the other, his claws dangerously hovering over his nape. Like this, your alpha presents the fallen male to you as he continues, “and you will beg for forgiveness on your hands and knees for daring to deflower my mate in mind and in body, “with the hand that does not hold Taehyung captive, Jungkook’s long, curved claws shear the fallen alpha’s back along the unmarked half, and Taehyung’s eyes go white at that, blood bubbling in his throat as the will to fight falls from him with his blood while Jungkook finishes, “and you will bear these marks I’ve scarred you with for eternity, so that not even the gods may forget your faithless acts of lies and licentiousness with the unknowing omegas you defiled.”

It takes until his cheeks begin to turn blue for him to give a choked sound of defeat, his arms falling loosely at his sides as Jungkook tosses him to the ground as if he were nothing more but a piece of meat next to Jimin, who is still as a corpse next to him.

You grow wetter between your thighs at the display of your alpha’s power. You’d always known he was capable and that he was formidable, but seeing him reduce the pack’s strongest to nothing…it was arousing.  

Your alpha bends over between both of the fallen wolves, and then grabs a fistful of hair atop both of their heads and lifts their chins up so that you can see both of their faces.

Taehyung’s face is almost untouched save for the dirt and blood that have caked themselves onto his chin and cheeks. Jimin’s lids are slow to open and close, crimson dribbling from both sides of his stained lips. He is still lain on his back with pieces of his flesh hanging from his leg, the white of his bone peeking through small sections down his leg while his pectorals rising up and down heavily as he heaves air out of his system. His life essence trails sadly down the sides of his ribs.

Taehyung has not fared any better. The bones in both of his arms have been shattered and moved to areas that bones didn’t belong, and his back is marked in several puckered, open valleys of red, angry skin joined by rivers of crimson that make an ‘x’ shape down his back.  His limbs are thrown about him where he is prostrate in the dirt next to Jimin.

“This battle is over.” Jungkook states with finality. “Neither of you can continue.”

“I,” Jimin weakly rasps through the blood that bubbles up his throat, “I yield to you, Jungkook. You have beaten me.”

Jungkook’s fingers unthread themselves from Jimin’s hair, his skull landing softly on the ground as Jungkook guides it down. Despite everything, Jimin had once been his friend. Seeing him like this…it was not easy even for the Pack Alpha.

“Get him to the healers. He will bleed out if he’s not tended to immediately.” Jungkook commands, the emotion in his voice held at bay because he knows Taehyung, like a hound, can sniff weakness and prey on it.

Two males depart from the crowd of wolves around them. They do not question your alpha as they lift him carefully off the ground and onto a mat of grass that is attached to a set of wooden poles on each end for them to hold. Before they can walk away, Jungkook holds his only free hand out.

The two males stop immediately.

“You will answer to me from here on,” Jungkook’s eyes blacken in the eclipse from light to dark, his words deep as he spills them, “voice to me your regrets before I have you removed from my sight.”

Jimin can hardly keep his eyes open anymore, his throat aching from wailing too much. Drowsiness from loss of blood makes his eyelids droop, and it’s all he can do to incline his head downward, his eyes closing as he manages, “I have many regrets. One of my biggest,” he hiccups,” was that I thought I could win against you.” Remorse shakes his voice as he lets Jungkook know, “The other was letting Taehyung manipulate me and losing not only our friendship, but the female, too, because of it.”

With that, he’s carried away into a dreamless sleep and the two males extricate him from the battlefield.

“Pussy,” Taehyung hacks up more blood.

“I don’t recall telling you that you could speak. Perhaps I need to give another demonstration to you of just how weak you are,” Jungkook’s other arm raises up, but before it can go near him, Taehyung cringes and buries his face into the dirt.

Taehyung shrieks, “No! Not my face!”

Jungkook lowers his arm, “You’re pathetic, Taehyung. Now give up.”

“Fine. Just don’t ruin my face,” he screws his eyeballs shut, “I was bluffing about what I said before, alright? Alright?”

“I have tried to be a reasonable male,” Jungkook’s fingers bend inward where he still grasps the other male’s hair, and Taehyung’s expression twists in discomfort as your alpha cautions, “But my patience with you is at its end. Yield to me before I break some more bones.”

Taehyung bites down on his tongue, but he has no other options. He knows he’s lost and that he now has no choice but to swallow his pride.

“I…I yield.”

“Good. Now tell her you’re sorry for everything. You had better mean it, or I’ll hurt you even more than I already have.” Jungkook warns.

“Like hell I’ll apologize to a woman.” He defiantly counters.

Your alpha growls, and he stomps with force down on the back of Taehyung’s knee, the bone shattering as he does. “I didn’t ask for your fucking opinion. Do it. Now.”

Taehyung shakes his head into the ground, his trembling digits digging into the dirt as the threads of pride that remain in him all but sever.

“Gods, that pride of yours is really something. Perhaps by losing it, you’ll finally gain some sense again.” Jungkook provokes before his heel bears down powerfully on Taehyung’s other knee, the ligaments beneath fracturing and splintering upon impact.

Taehyung groans in torment, and what little of his pride had been left is torn from the very base of his being as Jungkook whips Taehyung’s head back so that his spine is curved up at an odd angle.

A little while away, some alphas observe Taehyung with expressions of disinterest, disgust, and dismay contorting their countenance for his misconduct toward their leader. The others watch their leader with delight dancing in their eyes. As for the omegas, many cling to another at the gory spectacle. A few glare with hatred toward Taehyung, but many more look in awe at your alpha.

“Cough up the last of your pride, you imbecile, because none will be left after this. If you will not submit of your own accord, I’ll just make you.” Jungkook tosses him to the ground as if he were nothing but a ragdoll, his irises darkening like the night, his words cloaked in the veils of shadows. “I command you to get on your hands and knees. You are to beg my mate for her forgiveness for any time you so much as looked at, thought of, or treated her in a way you knew I would be unhappy with. Then, you’ll pledge your loyalty to me.”

How anyone could refuse Jungkook would never be anything you could comprehend, but under Alpha’s Bidding, no wolf could disobey he who was the strongest of them all.

Taehyung grunts as the wolf inside him moves, and despite the unbearable pain that it causes him, he cannot help it.

He bows his head and his mutilated arms, maimed back, and disfigured legs all fold under him as he bites out between blood, “Forgive me, my lady.”

Words do not find you with the silver dampening all thought in your head. And in your gut, you can’t find it in yourself to care what this male thinks, says, or does.

All that matters to you is the one who stands behind him. All that fills your vision is him, and soon, he was going to fill you.

“The days of your disobedience are over. You obey and you serve me. Tell me this is true.” Jungkook demands, his eyes black as ash and his voice gravelly.

Taehyung can’t even pick his head up, for he’d landed on his nose in the dirt. With his dilapidated arms, he’d not been able to break his fall. It’s a struggle for him to speak between sputtering out the dirt, but he cannot ignore the male standing above him even if he wanted to.

His wolf speaks for him, his defiance dripping out of him with his blood onto the ground at the victorious wolf’s feet. “You are true in what you say.”  

Jungkook considers him before bidding, “You will never seek my female ever again, and you will do as I say when I command it of you without question, or I will sever your fingers, your toes, your legs, and your fucking arms from your body with my own hands if I have to. Is that understood?”

Taehyung’s skin crawls at the order, fear setting its teeth on him.

The last of his resolve slithers away from him, his muscles slackening as he concedes, “Understood, Pack Alpha.”

“What does it feel like?” Jungkook cocks his head to the side.

“What does what feel like?” Taehyung’s shoulders slump weakly.

Your alpha’s grin is vicious when he reveals rows of sharp teeth, his canines protruding from under his upper lip, “To lose.”

Those golden irises of his land on you and then they’re scaling over you as in a silent journey to appraise you of injuries even though he’s the one in the middle of the battlefield. They grow brighter the longer they are set on you, and with his attention deposited only on you, he doesn’t hear the pounding of paws against the dirt behind him.

All the veins in your body run cold, panic stabbing you through like an icicle. You are frozen in place under the numbing silver, but don’t care about the throbbing in your head from under your circlet that threatens to drag you into dark unconsciousness. Not even that can snuff out the scream that cuts through the air as a shrill sound rifts through your throat in the pitch of it that leaves the ears of every wolf in the vicinity ringing.

Those golden irises that are bright as the sunrise go dim as the dusk under the shadow of russet fur and snapping jaws.

[lizardsquisher]

As the Dragon Age fandom is experiencing a Renaissance, I wanted to invite Alistair/Mage Warden fans (we do it for the angst) and Mage Warden/Cullen shippers to read my fanfic, "A Rose for Lady Amell." See excerpt below:

Chapter One: Sympathy for the Bedeviled

Midsummer looked good on Denerim. Three years after the Blight had rolled through, spewing fire and chaos, tearing the nice parts of town to rubble and reducing the shady bits to ash, she was almost completely rebuilt. Her weathered face renewed, her stones freshly mined, her daub and wattle houses freshly daubed and wattled, she beamed under the cloudless blue sky like a stately lady instead of the half-maiden, half-crone she’d been before.

She would seldom look as fair as she did on a parade day. Garlands of red and yellow flowers bedecked every shop and dwelling, no matter how humble. Gold and silver streamers twinkled from the fences. And the parade route was marked by banners bearing the king’s crest—a pair of mabari rearing towards one another. The hounds were supposed to look fierce. But King Alistair fancied that they were playing with each other, about to pounce and roll through the grass, yipping happily. That would certainly represent him better than snarling beasts. He was not much of a snarler. Although, it had been ages since he’d last yipped.

He stood on the ramparts of the royal palace. The stretch of road that unfurled ahead of him teemed with people, a rippling, colorful mass waving flags and throwing flowers. And down the center of that sea of adulation, his true love bobbed towards him on the back of her shining black horse. She was a fine sight in her ceremonial armor—the polished silver contrasted nicely with the rich gold of her hair, which had been twisted up on her head to spill back down her shoulders like the plume on a knight’s helmet. Those locks swept here and there as she gazed around in amusement. She always looked surprised by the reception she received in Denerim. As if she hadn’t killed an archdemon three years ago and saved the world. Not to mention spending the years that followed rebuilding the Grey Wardens and driving the remaining Darkspawn back into the shadowy recesses of the earth. But then, she was a mage. People seldom cheered for mages. There was usually more whispering about abominations and waving holy symbols at them when they weren’t looking. Oh, and locking them up in stone towers to be chopped down by Templars at the slightest provocation. So perhaps her surprise was understandable.

This little display was to celebrate her latest campaign. His advisors told him that it was good to keep her in the public eye. To remind the people of his own heroics by association: the king who once fought side-by-side with the Hero of Ferelden. People devoured the story of their adventures. And they sighed and swooned over their romance. Nothing moved the masses quite like forbidden love.

Himself, he thought forbidden love was overrated. But no one ever asked him. Probably because he got grumpy when people talked about those stories in front of him. As if he and Renara were characters in a ballad, and not people who’d been rewarded for saving the world by losing the one thing they’d wanted the most. He didn’t feel bad about his resulting snarkiness. That kind of thing would make anyone grumpy.

Renara drew nearer to the shadow cast by the palace. She was close enough now that he could make out the sweet curve of her cheek and the blue of her eyes. Someone threw her a rose. She caught it deftly. A smile played across her lips as she sniffed it. Then, as if she could feel the weight of his eyes on her, she looked up at him. Smiling, she tucked the rose in her hair and gave him a wave. He waved back. The red rose looked lovely in her hair. And it broke his heart a little to look at it. He wished she hadn’t done that.

He went downstairs to meet her.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/46538692/chapters/117189202

[okay-j-hannah]

Episode 4: The New Heir

Doctor Who : Multishot

Eleventh Doctor x Reader

Word Count: 3790

Warnings: the spanish flu pandemic of 1918 and lots of references to characters in Downton Abbey - I apologize if you’ve never seen the series but I would highly recommend it 🤩

Request: This just came from my own head 😊

A/N: Follow the lives of the Crawley family and their servants in their Edwardian country estate as they search for the next heir, who will be asked to learn from the Lord and will be encouraged to be friendly with the eldest daughter.

Episode 3: As You Wish

Episode 4: The New Heir {You Are Here}

Episode 5: The Unknown Subject

The sound of tinkling forks and knives sang throughout the dining room. The rich mahogany table was bedecked with a number of alluring dishes and delicious scents. The guests were all alight by candelabras and the newly installed electric light.

(Y/N) cut a piece of the roasted chicken, tasting the rosemary instantly. The kitchens never disappointed in Downton.

Nor did the company. Seeing as life on the estate was frightfully dull without the people, (Y/N) took pleasure in the conversation. She enjoyed recognizing each of them as people from her own life.

Most of all the Doctor.

He sat beside her, taking on the persona of John Smith once more. “Please send my compliments to the kitchen,” he said politely, “You’re quite right – jammie dodgers are my favorite. I appreciate the homemade touch.”

The table rounded with laughs. (Y/N) looked over and eyed his plate full of desserts. He was lucid like her. Truly the Doctor playing the part just like her.

She turned back to the guests. “How have you enjoyed our gardens, Lady Cassandra?”

The heavily laden woman pursed her lips. She was covered in furs and feathers, practically getting in the way of the food she was pecking at. It was a surprise she could move her eyelids at all with the amount of makeup packed there.

Clearly she was a woman desperately holding onto her beauty as she fell out of her prime.

“I prefer roses over your tulips. But they’re beautiful, nonetheless. I didn’t expect the grounds to be so sunny in the country. It’d dry me out if I didn’t have my butler with me.”

(Y/N) held back a snicker thinking about her sniveling little comrade, Chip. The Doctor cleared his throat, apparently thinking back on the troubles the Lady Cassandra had caused in their own reality.

“You must visit our Downton Village Flower Show,” Lady Crawley said. She was the one supposed to be (Y/N)’s mother – she was one of the few (Y/N) didn’t recognize from her own world.

“I made a report on that,” Sir Octavian recalled from down the table, “And I will say the Lady Cassandra has a point about roses. They were the flower that won the show.” He played the local head of the newspaper in this reality.

(Y/N) took a sip of her wine, “If I’m not mistaken, you have a likeness for gardens, Sir Octavian.”

The man nodded, “I rather enjoy taking strolls. Particularly through statues and fountains as well. I’ve recently acquired a set of stone angels for my own garden.”

The Doctor spoke suddenly through a full mouth, “Weeping angels?”

“Yes, fascinating, aren’t they?” Sir Octavian remarked.

(Y/N) swallowed her chicken. If only the Sir remembered what the weeping angels did to him in the real world.

Mrs. Smith spoke, “I would be interested in seeing a piece about the local hospitals in the newspaper – if you don’t mind me saying so, Sir Octavian.”

“Mother, please,” the Doctor spoke quietly, “You can engage in your advertisements aside from the dinner table.”

His mother was being played by Harriet Jones.

“I apologize – Mother can be rather headstrong about the good causes.”

“I do believe you inherited that trait,” (Y/N) mumbled his way.

Lady Crawley spoke loudly to change the subject, “How have your tours of the village gone, (Y/N)?”

The Doctor responded, “Splendid, really. You’ve got countryside that will last for hundreds of years. Just imagine how they’ll grow and be preserved as national parks one day. An honorable way to preserve the ancient grasslands of England.”

The table had gone silent, forks and knives still.

(Y/N) kicked the Doctor beneath the table.

“Forgive me – just voicing silly antics Lady (Y/N) and I came up with on our adventures.”

“Adventures?” Lord Grantham, (Y/N)’s father, spoke, “Is that what you’re calling your daily outings?”

(Y/N) smiled, “That’s what they are more or less. The latest included a picnic overlooking the village. We tried to attract the rabbits with leftover salad clippings,” she snickered.

The table now shared their fondness for each other. It was no secret they were all in support of the pair to end their friendship in marriage. John Smith was the new heir to Downton and would inherit the title and estate from the family.

Should (Y/N) marry him, the family would have proper cause to remain at the house.

It was peculiar to play a part in a story where they should end up married. (Y/N) certainly didn’t mind, but she wondered what the Doctor thought.

He lifted his glass of wine, took a rather large sip, and spit the entirety of it back into the cup.

~~~

Amy was undoing (Y/N)’s hair, braiding it into a style to sleep in. “I’ve heard some wonderful things about your time with Mr. Smith.”

(Y/N) smiled, “I’ve heard similar things about you and Mr. Williams.”

“The valet?” Amy said with forced surprise, “Heard what things?”

“That you’re to be married,” (Y/N) eyed the woman through her vanity mirror, “That Father has starting searching for a cottage you two could stay in near the house.”

Amy sighed heavily, “Who told you?”

“I was the one who asked for cottage advertisements from Sir Octavian today on Father’s behalf.”

“Fine,” Amy grinned, “Now you share. I’ve noticed how Mr. Smith watches you when he thinks nobody is looking – if you don’t mind me saying.”

(Y/N) turned in her seat, “I rather like your forward nature, Amelia. Just don’t let Mother hear you speak like that.”

There was a knock at the door and a whispered voice, “(Y/N)?”

Amy was frozen and hesitant as she neared the door that was already opening. There stood the Doctor.

“Oh, hello,” he said in an animated voice. “I mean, I’m sorry – could I have a word with Lady (Y/N).”

“Let him in, Amelia,” (Y/N) spoke softly, “And I’d rather you keep this event to yourself, please.”

Amy nodded, letting the Doctor in and shutting the door behind her. Not before she shared a smirk with (Y/N).

The Doctor strode in, rubbing his hands together. (Y/N) took a relieved breath every time she saw him act like himself now. It was comforting after spending a couple realities of him not knowing the truth.

But it was still peculiar with how different he looked. He was still wearing his dress clothes – a suit with an ironed collar and shiny brass buttons – and shoes polished to see your reflection in them. His hair was combed and styled in a professional manner; it made her miss seeing it bounce about as he got into his usual eccentrics.

“Right,” he said quickly, “Splendid work playing the part. I thought a few times there we’d been spotted for being frauds but thankfully we were spared an immediate time jump.”

“You mean the times you ate nothing but jammie dodgers, spit back up the wine, and prattled on about the future national parks of the England grasslands?”

The Doctor threw a hand in the air, “Not important. I only meant to congratulate you on keeping up appearances.” He made to exit the room, but (Y/N) grasped his arm.

“What, that’s it?” she said with sudden anger, “You haven’t been cleverly thinking of some escape plan?”

“We’re surviving with the plan we have.” He held onto her head and planted a kiss in her hair. “Enjoy the fun while we’re stuck here!”

And he bounced for the door before she could lash at him with something more harsh. She still had yet to say something about her mysterious conversation with River Song. She very much wanted to hear from her again.

Not that she didn’t mind the luxury of Downton in the meantime. It was rather enjoyable going on rides or picnics with the Doctor while being treated like royalty on the estate. But that didn’t stop her from wanting to be just (Y/N).

(Y/N) and the Doctor. Companions traveling through time and space.

~~~

It was shaping to be a rather dull weekend as (Y/N) walked the grounds. Looking towards the skies she noticed incoming storm clouds. Clouds that were abnormal for the current season.

The Doctor had gone to meddle in the cottage affair with Mr. Williams and Amelia.

It left (Y/N) with a sense of boredom as she wandered. That was until she heard strange sounds coming from the estate.

She flew around, pebbles scattering around her feet. It sounded like… well, it sounded like the tardis.

She ran for the house, finding herself the staircase immediately and following the sound as it grew louder. She reached rooms that only the servants dealt with. Running through corridors and bumping into footmen and maids.

“Pardon me, Miss.”

“Sorry, Miss.”

“Lady (Y/N), is everything all right?”

(Y/N) ignored them all, hearing the wheeze of the tardis louder and louder until she reached a tearoom. She stood against it, catching her breath and hearing the sound warp.

She braced herself and opened the door. There in full glory was the tardis. It stood glowing and ominous as the day she saw it concealed in the trees.

Closing the door behind her, she whispered, breathless, “River?”

There was no answer.

“River, please,” she pleaded, reaching the box handle and pulling. It remained locked tight. “Hello?” (Y/N) knocked.

“Hello?”

“River!”

“(Y/N), finally!” River laughed, “I’m sorry our last conversation was cut short.”

(Y/N) sighed, leaning against the police box, “We don’t have much time. The dream doesn’t like us asking questions… or making escape plans, for that matter.”

“Have you gotten the Doctor to see the truth?” she spoke within (Y/N)’s mind.

“Yes, though I don’t think he sees the entirety of it.”

River grumbled, “What’s he going on about now?”

“Well, he refuses to think of another way out other than playing our characters assigned to us.”

“No, no – that’s just a mode of survival,” River said, “We can’t talk here. I can already feel the connection getting severed. You need to be somewhere away from the place you woke up.”

(Y/N) nodded, “Somewhere away from the estate.”

“Get somewhere far as soon as you can. Then I’ll try and reach you again – good luck, sweetie.”

(Y/N) felt a tug in her heart. River became silent and when (Y/N) blinked, the tardis was gone. She was left alone in a tearoom.

It was imperative that she got to a faraway location. Feeling out of breath, she ran for the staircase once more, the house slippers dainty on her running feet. She had to lift the hem of her dress as she ran outside, noticing how the grumbling clouds ahead seemed closer, and angrier.

Not trusting herself to remember how to ride a horse like in the last reality, she took off for the tree line on foot.

Trying to convince a chauffer to drive her would be impossible, besides she had to be alone when she sought after River Song. The delicate hairstyle that Amelia braided was coming undone as she fought against the hills and grass and incoming wind.

If the Doctor wasn’t going to do anything about an escape plan, then she was going to have to step up. She didn’t want to be stuck having to pretend in each new existence. She wanted the Doctor back. The Doctor and their old life.

Finding cover under a grove of trees, the light became considerably darker as the storm clouds sat heavy above her. She was far enough from the house now that perhaps the dream would be preoccupied with trying to locate her.

Then there was the wheeze of the tardis again.

“River!” she shouted, unafraid in the sanctuary of the woods. Quite like in the last reality, the tardis appeared nestled between the trees.

“(Y/N)? Brilliant, you were able to get away.”

“But I don’t know for how long,” she replied, running to the blue wood and placing a hand there. “Tell me how to get out of here.”

The tardis warped as River’s voice came through like a static walkie-talkie. “I told you there’ll have to be a big shock. (Y/N), I think you have to scare yourself awake. Like waking from a nightmare.”

(Y/N) leaned against the spaceship, ignoring the light spackle of rain that began to fall. “How am I supposed to scare myself awake?”

“I have my theories,” River continued, the metallic sound of buttons being pressed could be heard through the trees. “But none of them are pretty.”

“What can I do?”

“You’re going to have to die.”

(Y/N) felt the breath stick in her lungs, the smell of damp soil and rain filling her quickly emptying brain.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s the natural survival instinct. Like if you were trapped underwater, your body has a natural self-preservation instinct to get air back in your lungs. In this case, your body will wake itself up if your dream state is compromised.”

She soaked up the information, “And the Doctor?”

“I can imagine finding you dead would be enough of a shock to wake himself up.”

(Y/N) now leaned her head against the tardis, the rain beginning to fall more forcefully, “How do you suggest it happens?”

“For the last couple hours I’ve been working on how I can manipulate the conditions of your dream. I could make something plausible happen to you – something realistic to the reality you’re in so the dream isn’t suspicious.”

“Seems a little farfetched.”

“I’ve been manipulating the atmosphere from inside the tardis. Has the weather changed at all since we’ve been talking?”

(Y/N) gave a choked laugh, “It started to rain.”

River sighed, “Excellent. You should expect to get sick in the next day or so.”

“By your doing?”

“Precisely,” River said, “I hear the Spanish flu is all the rage in this time period.”

(Y/N) grimaced, “That doesn’t seem like a pleasant way to go.”

“But it’ll wake you up,” River urged, “We’re running out of time. I’ll see you soon, please keep the Doctor in check.”

The tardis was beginning to fade beneath her fingers, “Sure, thank you River,” she said, backing away and under the full deluge of rain. “You better make it quick.”

The spaceship was fully disappearing now, and the massive droplets of rain were feeling colder by the second. Being drenched in the cold would surely weaken her immune system. And then all River had to do was put someone with the flu virus in her vicinity.

With so many members of staff and incoming guests at Downton, that part was simple.

The trek back to the estate was much more grueling than running from it. With the combination of the rain and the slip of her soaking slippers, she was a mess upon entering the house.

Having fallen in the overflowing hills, the white of her tights were torn and muddy. The delicate soles of her shoes were compromised and left her toes wet and cold. Her hair fell from their braids, left damp and curled against her face.

She resisted the shivers as a lady’s maid gasped at the sight of her.

“Lady (Y/N)!” It was Amelia, “What happened to you?”

“Good evening, Amelia,” she replied, “How was your house hunting?”

The lady’s maid ran over to grasp her arm, “Abysmal – the rain ruined the fun. We just returned. My lord, you’re chilled to the bone.” She pulled on her arm, towards the stairs, “Let’s get you warm. There’s a cold going around and I’d hate for you to catch it.”

(Y/N) smiled ironically at her maid. The year was 1918 and the Spanish flu pandemic was fully on its way. River knew what she was doing.

“I hope Mr. Smith hasn’t returned,” Amelia continued, guiding (Y/N) into her bedroom. “I’d hate for him to see you like this.”

“Would you now?” (Y/N) sighed, the forward nature of her maid – gossiper that she was – could be just what she needed now. “Why is that?”

“Well, on our ride today…” Amelia began, gathering dry clothes and stoking the fireplace, “I told you of my suspicions of his affections toward you. Now there isn’t a doubt in my mind.”

(Y/N) waited for the maid to help her into her nightgown. “Quite the spy you are, Amelia.”

“I beg your pardon, miss. But it’s true – that man has got his heart set on you something fierce.” She fixed the buttons on the nightgown and got a towel to dry (Y/N)’s hair. “I know he’d fret over you if you fell ill.”

“Kind of him,” she said quietly, seeking the softness of the bedsheets. “I’m terribly tired, Amelia. Please send apologies to my family. I don’t believe I’ll attend dinner tonight.”

“Of course, M’lady,” Amy bowed, “I’ll ask that they don’t disturb you.” She made sure the fireplace was full and hot before exiting the room.

(Y/N) laid there trying to get warm. A headache was already growing, and a tickle residing in her throat.

~~~

River worked fast.

Within the next three days a fever grew to exponential degrees. She was wracked with insomnia and coughing fits. She was prone to nosebleeds and sweating through the sheets.

A medical doctor listened to her lungs and met with the group of people waiting for the prognosis outside the room.

With the door ajar, (Y/N) could just barely make out the conversation.

“She’s entering respiratory failure,” the doctor whispered, “Pneumonia has ravaged her lungs. I’d expect things to get a lot worse within the next day.”

Other worried mutterings filled the space. “How long?” came the determined voice of John – the Doctor.

“It’d be a miracle if she made it through the night.”

And that’s why the pandemic was so historic. People would catch the flu and a few days later would die. It killed them quick.

The family thanked the doctor, but John was quick to request time alone with her. The door was shut and (Y/N) could feel the pressure of someone leaning in beside her.

Nimble fingers found her clammy hand, “(Y/N)…”

Her feverish head rolled on the pillow, rasping when she said, “Doctor?”

“I don’t understand,” he said quietly, holding her hand more fiercely. “I didn’t think this would be a part of our script.”

“It’s just a dream, Doctor,” she coughed, “I’ll be okay.”

“You don’t know that,” he said darkly, “We don’t know what’s keeping us here.”

She fell victim to the pneumonia, coughing savagely. The Doctor grabbed her arm as if he could pull her to him and make it all better. He felt hopeless. He felt angry.

“We need to change the reality,” he ground out. “We need to leave this script.”

“That won’t change anything,” she rasped. “We have to let this play out.”

“I can’t,” he said quietly.

The fever was making her delusional, but it sounded like the Doctor was teary.

“Stop,” she said breathlessly, her eyes closed against the heat in her head. “Leave it be.”

“I can’t,” he repeated, “I won’t.”

She was fading, about to succumb to another bout of terrible, sickened sleep. She weakly wriggled her fingers within his grasp. “This is how we escape.”

The Doctor froze beside her, the wetness developing behind his eyes stalled. “What do you mean?”

“River…” she whispered, falling deeper in her sickness.

“River?” he said, “You’ve contacted River Song?” He stood from where his was kneeling, “What has she been telling you?”

(Y/N) had fallen under, the wheeze of her breath the symphony of her bloody lungs. The Doctor leaned over her, furious at being left out of a conspiracy. He was shaking, unable to look at the speckle of sweat against her temples, unable to look at the bluish tinge of her lips or the dark circles under her eyes.

Was it River’s doing? Was she the reason (Y/N) became fatally ill? She was smart enough to trick the rules of the dream state.

“Oi!” he suddenly yelled, “Hey!” He left (Y/N)’s bedside, screaming up at the ceiling, “You’re being manipulated. This was a revision of the dream. Someone is trying to invade. Please…” he breathed heavy, looking towards the sky. “Please don’t let her die.”

~~~

(Y/N) woke up sitting in a rolling desk chair. She was dressed in a professional women’s cut suit and a brown file folder was on the round table in front of her. She was in a meeting room with glass walls and a flatscreen tv.

She rubbed at her temples, the last remnants of the Spanish flu fading away. “What the hell…” she grumbled.

The door suddenly flew open, a group of people all similarly dressed in professional attire coming in with their own file folders.

Jack Harkness, Donna Noble, Amy Pond, and Rory Williams.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Jack winked, sitting beside her, “Did you sleep here?”

“Must’ve,” she said, massaging a crick in her neck, “We’ve been swamped with the press.”

Donna scoffed, sitting down and kicking her feet up, “You’re telling me! Those scavengers will pick our bones clean to get the tiniest detail on this case.”

“Hey, you’re the best liaison we have,” Amy nudged her friend, “I just can’t believe they asked the DAU to help with the case.”

(Y/N) scrunched her brow, finally reading the ink stamp on the front of her file folder.

DAU: Disaster Analysis Unit.

“This is a high profile case,” Rory said, opening his side bag to find his glasses, “They need as much help as they can get.”

“I don’t fancy the world ending because of some lunatic in a cocktail dress,” Donna said, flipping through the folder, “I mean who decides to be on the run from international governments in four-inch heels.”

“Classy,” Jack said with a grin, “If I was a criminal, I’d want to do it in style too.”

The door opened again, and (Y/N) had to consciously keep her mouth shut. The Doctor came walking in, file folder in hand. He was in a clean, pressed suit, his hair combed to the side and the lightest bit of scruff growing on his face.

He looked so un-Doctorish, but terribly attractive.

“Good morning, team,” he said with a commanding tone. He must have been the head of the DAU team. “We’ve gotten our next case and have pressure from all sides to apprehend her before a doomsday occurs.”

He went to turn the tv on, “Previously our unknown subject, she’s been identified after her last attempt to devastate England. She was caught trying to plague major cities with vials of disease she developed at her university. She tried to cause a worldwide pandemic.”

(Y/N) gulped, already guessing who their unknown subject was.

The tv flickered on and plastered to the screen was a picture of the suspect:

Professor River Song.

~~~

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[yandere-toons]

Yandere Cersei Lannister, Jaime Lannister, Tyrion Lannister, Joffrey Baratheon, Ramsay Bolton (Platonic Scenario - "A Fool's Mistake")

Warnings: Abuse of Power, Morally Ambiguous Reader, Violence, Death, Mention of Vomiting, Poison, Blood, Alcoholism, Mentions of Physical Torture, Emotional Manipulation, Toxic Mindsets.

Word Count: 8,760.

Part 1 (You are here) | Part 2 | Part 3.

A.N. – This isn't even remotely a cartoon, but I had a sudden interest and decided to break my own rule.

Despite the sweltering gaze of the sun bearing down upon the city, black robes swathed your body, gloves buried your hands and an iron mask starting from the forehead and stretching down to the chin hid your entire face. No part of you was exposed to the air that smelt of flowers and gold the closer one came to the Red Keep and stunk more of trash and illness when nearing Flea Bottom. "Northerners," a guard had muttered when you stepped off the wooden ship at the docks, and Jaime Lannister wondered how you had evaded the lure of a heat stroke.

The Kingslayer escorted you to the imperial castle that rose above the rest of the city, the majesty and cleanliness of the streets and people in them increasing the longer you approached it. What began as peasants in rags searching their pockets for enough coppers to purchase a meal evolved into lords adorned with rings and silk robes discussing the affairs of the realm. When the gates of the Red Keep closed behind you, it was as if you had entered a separate world.

Schemes hatched in dark corners replaced the cries of civilians as they were robbed or attacked, and the patter of handmaidens running to service their lords and ladies replaced the turning of wagon wheels and the braying of mules. The thick armour surrounding Jaime rattled as he led you to an empty bedroom. "My sister and the king have opened this chamber to you for lodging."

The knight held the door open, but your attention was diverted to the sight of a man and a woman in Lannister red idling outside another room further down the corridor. After pausing to stare in a momentary panic, the man waved at you and shouted, "Cousin!" His expression darkened to one of distaste before he hurried to enter the chamber with his fiancée.

Jaime released a sound like a combination of a chuckle and a scoff, his eyes travelling to the back of your head. "I suppose that makes us cousins, too." He pushed the door towards the wall to ensure that it would not close on you and stepped into the centre of the corridor. "People have been asking your kin about the mysterious sorcerer in the family." The amusement filling his tone was clear on his face, and he slowly walked backwards with the palm of his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"Why don't you rub elbows with a few of them?"

After a few minutes of traipsing the corridors and never straying too far from you and your cousin's chambers, a dwarfish man emerged from the kitchens with a bottle of red wine. He had popped the cork with a thrust of his thumb and was raising the drink to his lips when your appearance gave him pause. Dismay bloomed on his face as if he were looking at what he was certain would bring his death, but once you remained still, he squinted.

"Ah," greeted the Lannister, pulling the bottle towards his chest. "The talk of the Keep has finally arrived." The man tapped his finger against the glass as he studied your reclusive attire before approaching you in deliberate steps. "If we're to share a relative, we may as well share a cup of wine." Tyrion lifted the bottle and lightly shook it, but he soon turned and sauntered to a faraway door.

The interior of his spacious chamber was bedecked in deep shades of red and gold, with a balcony draped in silk sheets that billowed in the soft wind. He slotted the bottle next to a gold-plated flagon and shed a hefty sum of wine into two goblets on the table in front of you, one of which you seemed to either drink or pour out somewhere when he was not looking. Tyrion clasped the other goblet and selected a lavish chair with red cushions.

"So, your cousin, my cousin, marriage -- intriguing business, that." He glanced at you after each sip and peered about his room, coming to foresee your extended silence and deciding to fill it himself. "I know if my sister has her way, you're to become a Lannister. The first sorcerer in the family, it would seem." He tilted his head at this as though reserving his doubts.

Tyrion's gaze lingered for several moments in anticipation of a response, only for him to turn away — eyes drifting across the pristine stonework of the floor — and reach for the flagon when you regaled him with silence. "You don't seem very keen on this conversation." Pouring an excess of the sour liquid into his goblet, his tone adopted a slow caution as he took care not to spill a single drop.

"Lucky for us," he declared, "fine wine makes the lips loose." A quick sip evolved into a hum of delight, and the Lannister spun round while gulping the intoxicating taste of grapes. "I shall do all the drinking." With the flagon still clasped in his hand, he plopped onto the golden chair and crossed his legs atop the armrest. "Allow me to amuse you with my tales of woe, sorcerer."

The supply of wine sloshing in his goblet had dwindled to a thick glaze at the bottom of the ornate cup. Tyrion dumped a healthy amount of the flagon into his drink with the comfort and agility of an experienced drinker, and his voice carried none of the slurred vowels that one would expect from a man who drank liquor as though it were his mother's milk.

As he rested his voice to swallow a mouthful of wine and wipe the red stain from his lips with the back of his sleeve, the Lannister eyed you with a careful fondness. "I must say, few of my companions—" he spoke the word as if lacking faith in its accuracy "—have lasted this long." Despite the sincerity of his confession, a spot of humour leaked into his smile.

"Most start asking for gold."

He tipped the spout of the flagon onto the rim of the goblet without looking, only to cease his tale at the lack of weight pulling his hand towards his lap. "Hmph," muttered Tyrion as he took a moment to fix the goblet with a look of disappointment. "It appears I've exhausted our supply."

The man waved off the lull in spirits with a weary frown and lowered the flagon and goblet to his side. "No matter, I'll simply send for a chambermaid to fetch more." As he hopped to the ground with a clunk of his boots, you stood without obvious provocation and approached in steps so light that Tyrion wondered if you were real or a drunken hallucination come to frighten him.

Uncertainty crept into the Lannister's sunken gaze when you placed your hand over the top of the goblet. It hovered there just long enough for his eyes to flicker downwards and spot the fabric of a glove retracting into the many folds of your cloak, but his attention was then drawn to the sudden heft of the cup.

Wine, red as the surface of Blackwater Bay on an early morning, filled the glass and lapped at the edges after Tyrion jiggled it in surprise.

"Well, sorcerer."

He shook his head as if to regain himself.

"Perhaps there is a seat for you here, after all."

He continued to examine the wine with a distinct fascination, tentatively raising the goblet to his lips and nodding in contentment at the authentic blend of raspberry and grape. The Lannister settled onto his chair once more as you did the same, and he pushed the glass into the air for a toast.

"I could use a miracle worker like yourself in my company."

As the goblet neared his mouth for another sip, his tone shifted from earnest curiosity to dry sarcasm. "I'm sure my father would delight in requesting that you turn me into a real boy." Before the discussion could reach its natural conclusion, a knock at the door preceded the arrival of a Kingsguard marching into the room.

"His Majesty, the king, has demanded an audience with the sorcerer."

Tyrion squinted at the burst of sunlight that poured onto the walls and floor in streams. "Oh, he demands it." The spite lacing his statement earned neither a rebuke nor the ring of a sword unsheathed, the knight merely looking at you to follow him. Upon taking a long gulp of his newest cup, the Lannister peered at you with mock concern.

"Best not keep him waiting."

The chirping of birds followed your trek down the corridor, and the scent of pollen with the hums of lords and handmaidens speaking in hushed pleasantries billowed out of the nearby garden. As the final corner was approaching, a lord dressed in polar shades of green emerged from the lush vegetation. He sported the image of a golden quill on his robes and possessed a curious sort of urgency.

At the sight of you, he discarded some of his worries and hurried forward with as much restraint as his determination would allow. Before he could announce his interest, the Kingsguard held out a hand to stop him.

"Official business with the king. Step aside."

The man did as he was instructed but did not relinquish his intent to speak with you.

"You have my word, this won't take but a moment of your time."

His appearance failed to deter the knight from continuing onwards, so he began to walk beside you. "Much of Dorne has heard of your exploits. Prince Oberyn of House Martell, in particular, has expressed an interest in seeing your abilities for himself."

A jerk of his helmet in your direction indicated the Kingsguard's disapproval. "Leave them be. His Majesty is waiting."

The lord hesitated for an instant, realising that he needed to trim his speech. "We are prepared to gift you a generous sum if you would attend the tourney in Sunspear two moons from today."

You turned your head towards him, but the metallic surface of your mask betrayed no emotion.

A fast-moving shape rounded the corner with a red cape flowing behind and a colossal man wearing a steel helmet in the shape of a hound.

"Ser Trant, what is the meaning of this delay?"

The indignant voice of Joffrey reverberated through the corridor, his eyes darting between the knight and the lord before settling on the lord. He slowed his strides to judge the man's sigil and allegiance.

"Your Grace," whispered the lord in breathy alarm, his tone growing to one of awe as he dropped to his knees to bow. "Forgive me. I was merely welcoming the sorcerer to King's Landing." He glanced at you and then the king with an anxious smile, only to remove it from his face and lower his gaze to the floor once again.

Joffrey acquired a look of pride at the man's grovelling, but it soon turned to disdain with the memory of his transgression. "What would you know about King's Landing, Lord Jordayne? You spend your days in the Dornish heat."

The lord was quick to nod his head. "I do, Your Grace. But sand is closer to dirt than snow, yes?" He gathered the nerve to meet the king's glare, hoping his attempt at levity would save him from punishment or at least soften it.

Silence gripped the boy for a moment of calculation before malice drew his lips into a cruel smile. "And blood is closer to wine than water, wouldn't you agree?"

Lord Jordayne's belief in his safety crumbled like pieces of bread, and he struggled to find the words to pull himself out of the conversation.

The willowy figure of Cersei plodded to the same corner that her son had taken, her hands clasped together in front of her stomach. "Joffrey, is everything well?"

She observed each person in the corridor with the outward tranquillity that was expected of a queen. "I see our guest had prior arrangements." The woman took slow yet graceful steps towards the group and shuffled her attention between you and Lord Jordayne.

His bravado swelling at the presence of his mother, Joffrey whirled round to further debase the man. "Lord Jordayne thought his words more important than those of his king."

The lord peeked at the Hound from his position on the floor as if fearing that the boy would order his skull to be crushed at any time.

"Perhaps a night in the dungeons will teach him to respect his betters."

Cersei rested a hand on the king's shoulder, leaning forward to speak next to his ear with affectionate insistence. "All in due time, my son. But we have matters of family to discuss." Her gaze drifted to you, and Joffrey considered the truth in her statement before turning to Lord Jordayne in an act of deceitful benevolence.

"The Seven have smiled upon you today, Lord Jordayne. I grant you my forgiveness."

The man scrambled to his feet in a flurry of rapid thanks and fled into the heart of the garden. Joffrey watched as the shape of him disappeared among the flowers and thickets, his eyes holding a promise to revisit the event later.

The king turned about as Cersei whispered for you to come with her.

Ser Trant of the Kingsguard and the Hound filled the space behind you, while Joffrey and his mother stood in front of you. There was little room to stretch or do anything besides move with the huddle to the area usually occupied by the small council.

As the torches on the walls illuminated the long table in the centre, Joffrey faced the two men.

"Leave us," he commanded.

The Hound exited without question, but Ser Trant exercised some reluctance after offering you a distrustful glance.

With the knights standing guard outside the door, Cersei plopped onto one of the several chairs.

"We've heard stories of your talents. So far, many of them have remained only stories." No hostility was prevalent in her steady tone, but the unwavering intensity of her gaze begged a challenge.

You approached the table but did not choose a seat.

Joffrey ambled to your side, ditching all guises of politeness and unveiling haughty aggression. "Any peasant with a few coppers can claim such powers." He stepped back in anticipation of a grand demonstration.

"Perform your sorcery here, now. Your king commands it."

The wisps of the flames lapping the stone were extinguished in a sweep of abrupt wind. It was like every single torch had been doused at once, and the darkness charged forth to smother the room in an inky blanket.

From what scarce vision was provided, Joffrey and Cersei witnessed glimpses of you contorting your arms and body in ways that defied the limitations of bones.

As if the sun had been reborn in that room, the torches roared to a fresh glow that stung the eyes of the royals. A scroll was in the grasp of your hand, and you bowed to Joffrey while presenting the object. He failed to recognise the seal but opened it in disconcerted eagerness.

The letter detailed the treacheries committed by the Chancellor of the Exchequer over years that surpassed the length of his reign, such as funds intended for charity and infrastructure development landing both in his pockets and those of various lords. It snowballed into the crown's treasury being used by the chancellor to purchase jewellery and visit brothels.

His shallow breaths hastening to pants, Joffrey looked at you in a mixture of rage and bafflement. "How do I know this isn't forged?"

Cersei stood to confront her son's distress and rushed to examine the scroll. She lifted the broken seal into her hand and maneuvered it with her fingers, her eyes narrowing and her mouth opening slightly. "This, my son, is the private seal of the chancellor."

The smile that graced her lips was vindictive and reflected an inner want to see the culprit dead.

"It appears we have a rat in our midsts."

In the smoky hue of his office, the chancellor pressed his lighting stick to a candle and shook it once a tiny fire was created on the top of the wax. He grabbed a quill and dipped it in a pot of ink, but a faint echo that was gradually increasing in volume gave him a reason to watch the entrance and not write the first line on a slip of parchment.

A thunderous choir of footsteps paused outside the door, and the wooden structure was kicked inwards by a gigantic steel boot the size of his head.

The towering shape of the Hound leaned forward to enter the doorway and took strides so powerful that the paintings on the wall shook. He yanked the Chancellor of the Exchequer away from his desk with one arm, lifting him so high for just a moment that his shoes failed to touch the ground.

"In the name of Joffrey of the Houses Lannister and Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men."

The words, rehearsed and heard on frequent occasions when the king's temper was piqued, flew out his chapped lips maintaining a gruff strength.

Protests continued to sputter from the man's quivering lips, and they escaped in a series of grunts at the harsh tugs and demands for his release.

"Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm," recited Sandor, his voice growing agitated from suppressing the squirms of the chancellor.

He tossed the man through the doorway without a speck of grace and marched to the space just behind him.

The chancellor treaded the long folds of his robe in a desperate stumble, but he was caught by the Hound squeezing his arm in a grip that threatened to crush the bone.

"You are hereby charged with usury, embezzlement and treason and are to be stripped of your title, your status and holdings."

As he was dragged past the king and your cloaked figure, the former Chancellor of the Exchequer collapsed to his knees and entrapped the boy's soft knuckles in the hold of his calloused hands. "My king," he pleaded in a voice indistinguishable from the cries of peasants begging for scraps on the streets. "I have been nothing but loyal to you."

Sandor jerked the man to his feet with a grumble and shoved the back of his head towards the dungeon.

Joffrey retracted his hand to his chest as if stricken with a terrible disease by the contact, curling his lip as the elder's shout resounded from the end of the corridor. "I pledged my fealty to you!"

The jingle of chainmail and heavy boots marked the appearance of two guards. They each grabbed a different arm of the traitor and freed Sandor to return to his ward, hauling the man, yelling and howling, to a cell.

The king scoffed at his claim to innocence, and he glanced at your dark visage before nodding his head in confirmation with a cold sneer.

"He shall be publicly beheaded."

Once the shape of the former chancellor disappeared around the corner, Joffrey turned to you with a swish of his cape.

"I request your presence at the execution."

He did not bother to disguise the glee overtaking his face at the thought of the mighty axe swinging down to sever the head from the neck and stain the cobblestone with a river of crimson.

"I believe it will be a most invigorating sight."

* * *

Handmaidens and cupbearers alike dashed from one end of the table to the other, replenishing the supply of alcohol and delivering meals from the kitchens. Clouds of steam wafted off the plates of roasted boars and stuffed chickens and filled the room with a meaty warmth.

You sat on the left of the king at Joffrey's request with Cersei on his right and Jaime on your left, and no matter how many times they each looked in your direction, they never saw you eat.

Pieces of the food would disappear since the last time they looked, and the wine would lose a percentage of its volume. The mask on your face did not come off or slide to the side once, leading Tommen to peek underneath the table for the scraps.

Sipping his wine like the antidote to a disease, your cousin held the goblet against his mouth and peered over its rim.

Aside from the obligatory congratulations and the periodic comment on their excitable eating habits, the attention of the royal family was drawn time and time again to you and resisted focusing on anything else for longer than it took them to end the interaction with a curt remark.

His expression was one of drunk hatred, which garnered concern from no one but his fiancée.

An hour after the feast had begun, you rose with your cup to retire for the night.

Every Lannister attempted to persuade you to stay through different means: Cersei promised that the most delectable meal yet was on its way, Jaime made endless jokes about needing someone to heckle the pompous lords with him, and Tyrion strove to present himself as a desirable conversation partner.

Joffrey demanded it until his mother convinced him that they could visit your chamber later in the evening.

The glass of wine slipped past your fingers and bounced off the floor with a clang, and streams of the viscous, cherry-red liquid pooled in the marble surrounding your feet.

You clutched your stomach and lurched forward as if on the cusp of vomiting, streaks of wine seeping from the bottom of your mask like blood from a knife wound. Your head remained in the direction of the ground but twitched to the side in occasional glances at your cousin.

To your surprise, nearly half of the table rose from their seats.

Tyrion, who had been assigned a corner chair to not attract as much attention, was among the first to reach you. He had abandoned his wine glass at the end of the table and instead used his scarred hands to grasp your own. His mouth was opening as though he had comforting words to offer, but the man was overshadowed by Jaime rushing to steady your shoulders.

The rattle of his metal armour and sheathed blade followed his every step, ending with the sloshing of wine and the squeaks of multiple shoes gliding across the floor as the Kingslayer pulled you to an upright position.

A plea for your safety came from your cousin, while Cersei was running at an identical pace with one hand clutching a half-empty goblet. As the cousin unwittingly began to obstruct her path to you, she pressed her free hand against his side and shoved him away from the group.

You disguised your struggle against Jaime's grasp as a byproduct of the pain and feigned ignorance of your surroundings.

Cersei claimed the space beside Jaime, and Tyrion stepped back to survey the area for any sign of Grand Maester Pycelle.

"What's the matter with them?" called Joffrey, his angry tone rising to a shout and dripping with thinly veiled apprehension and bewilderment. When he did not receive an answer within the same breath that he demanded one, his eyes flitted to Cersei.

"Mother?"

The woman almost neglected to face her eldest son as she sputtered the quickest and most tactful reply she could muster in the short time.

"They'll be fine, Joffrey."

There was an impatient edge in her voice, the frantic movements guiding her from one side of the congregation to the next suggesting that the statement was more for her peace of mind.

"Poison," you shrieked with hoarseness, and Cersei stopped to pull her drink away from her body. You started to gurgle as if choking and expelled the remainder of the wine in your mouth through the eyes of your mask.

After Joffrey flinched at the sounds, Jaime went to remove your facial covering in hopes of helping your ability to breathe but struggled as you jerked your head away.

Petyr Baelish had applied just enough force to lift the majority of his weight off the cushion, and his palms were gripping the slant of the table as if to push back and stand.

Tommen peeked at the nearest dinner guests to ensure that no one would witness his impropriety before he dipped his head over his plate and spat out a wad of bread.

Myrcella shoved her plate away as if the alleged poison could leap out of the food, the fork clattering against the porcelain.

The gurgling, a churning of agony and saliva inside your throat, intensified when you fell to your knees and simulated a warrior succumbing to wounds on the battlefield. You allowed the song of death to reach a crescendo before quieting to nigh mute whimpers, and Joffrey descended into enraged shouts for the grand maester.

Jaime kneeled to catch your head and protect it from the harsh floor of stone, while Cersei discarded her goblet to grasp your shoulders in search of life.

A moment of tension and horror passed before the main doors were flung open to reveal Grand Maester Pycelle in the hold of two guards with Tyrion at their front. The maester was dragged into the room, and his old ears were bombarded with the furious shouts of various Lannisters within a matter of seconds.

Cersei refused to leave your side, but Jaime stood to address the man and give him more space to work.

As soon as Pycelle staggered to your motionless form and lowered himself onto the ground, Joffrey was at his heels with the Hound close behind. "Heal them," ordered the king as if asserting his authority was enough to inspire a miraculous recovery.

The grand maester looked over his shoulder at the boy and fumbled with your mask, discouraged by its seemingly unbreakable attachment to your head and your complete lack of a reaction to his endeavour.

"I will try, Your Grace."

Joffrey shifted from watching his attempts to unfasten your facial covering to glaring at him with wide eyes and bared teeth. "No, you will not try." He spat the word "try" with such contempt that Pycelle turned to offer a look of surprise and confusion, an absentminded mumble escaping from him.

The king leaned over to speak directly into his ear, and his voice was one of quiet malevolence.

"You will heal them, or I will add your head to the pikes on the castle wall."

Before Pycelle could summon a response beyond grunts and stutters, fierce coughing erupted at the opposite end of the table. A Dornish lord tumbled out of his seat as his hacking evolved into wheezing. Blood and wine spewed from his mouth in streaks that tainted the floor and his fine robes, yet the only member of the feast who spared him more than a glance was Petyr Baelish.

The attention of the dark-haired lord pivoted between yourself and the dying man in an apparent inability to understand.

Hearing the forced air struggle to ascend your throat as more than a croak, Jaime reared his arm back and slammed his fist into your chest. You lurched upwards from the immense force of the punch, and a black, tar-like substance proceeded to ooze from each cranny in your mask.

The sight drew varying degrees of revulsion and bafflement from Pycelle and the royals.

Joffrey, who had been looming over the maester, took a step back. "What is that coming out of their mouth?" The breathless shock pervading his system only worsened as your head twitched every few seconds with a violent cough.

"That would be the poison, Your Grace," explained Pycelle, although he was not sure of it himself. "They should recover in time." The grand maester nearly sought to retract his words when you stopped moving, the sole indicator that life had not left you being the slow rise and fall of your chest.

Tyrion allowed a moment to behold the inhuman liquid before he looked at the guards huddling about the royal family. "Get them to a bed," he ordered, pointing first to you and then to the main doors.

Cersei showed no readiness to let go of you and breathed with an unsteady composure that fought to dry the tears in her eyes before they fell, but Jaime brought his hands to her shoulders and coaxed her into standing.

Once you were carried out of view, your cousin, at a loss for the proper response, peeked at many of the distressed faces. "Perhaps we should delay the wedding." He was thinking of an explanation to add when every head in the room — save for the dead lord rotting on the ground — turned to him.

"No," countered Cersei, the argument leaving her more forcefully than she intended. The Queen Regent attempted to calm herself and met your cousin with the fake serenity that she had learned to present.

"The wedding will continue as planned. You heard the Grand Maester; they shall recover before the ceremony."

* * *

Your view of the world through the mask that shielded your face was hazy and darkened. Details residing on the far left or the far right were often obscured, and the entirety of Westeros seemed to remain in the dim glow of a sunset.

Seeing with troubled eyes did not conceal the haggard shape of a bearded man clad in dark robes, a pair of silver and lead chains dangling from his neck.

He sat on a small chair at your bedside and held a scroll in his tremulous hands. As his tired and worn gaze absorbed the signature and titles, indistinct mutters slipped from his tongue before a gust of air across the nape of his neck drew a weak yelp.

Turning to peek at the majesty of the room yielded no suspects, so he returned to the bed to find you sitting up and watching him like a predator in waiting.

"While you were recovering," mumbled the maester, jostling a hand inside one of the myriad pouches embedded in his robes, "a raven arrived for you." He presented a fat scroll that appeared to be sagging and stained in the centre.

The damage was too old to be the result of the maester's negligence, so you pointed a finger at the letter in a gesture for him to read it aloud.

A bit of arbitrary murmuring escaped the old man as he stretched the letter to its full length and positioned it close to his face. "My dearest friend, long have I dreamt of your embrace."

You did not miss the judgemental glance that he threw in your direction.

"To be without it is a curse I lament every day, and I fear the Southerners wish to make my suffering permanent." The maester seemed to consider his loyalties before proceeding.

"I met a man like them the other day. Father had ordered me to mete justice on a thief, who had stolen a loaf of bread from a merchant." He attempted to hide the questions and suspicions unfolding in his thoughts by adding inflections to mimic an honest storyteller.

"The cost was four coppers, but I knew he would be no better a man for paying it. I could see the taint on his thieving hands, so I—" the maester paused as if discovering a new detail in a familiar topic "—removed them."

This hesitancy to repeat the text drained the power of his voice until his confidence in the integrity of the letter was audibly crumbling. "His screams were agonizing yet soothing, made louder by the taste of his blood hitting my face as I gouged his eyes and fed his entrails to my hounds."

A growing discomfort in his belly shattered any courage in the old man and caused his hands to quiver as he prayed for the strength to finish the paragraph. "I am quite fond of your work, and it is a pleasure that I hope to share with you soon."

The last sentence was spoken like a hand retreated from the scalding touch of a boiling pot, desperate to get away and end the painful connection.

The scroll was tossed into your lap, and the maester rose towards the door. "I believe you're well enough to read the rest," he grumbled while wiping his hands on his robe to rid himself of the paper's filth.

The broken seal on the letter was the colour of fresh blood, which gained an uncanny significance when the stench of rot trickled into your nose. Mistaking your interest for confusion, the elder explained, "It is the sigil of House Bolton."

Holding the object seemed a transgression against what little goodness survived in the realm.

"King Joffrey and Lady Lannister have asked that you relay its contents to them as soon as you wake." The maester looked askance at you with the realisation that he had spoken faster than his mind could process the situation, and he hurried to exit the bedroom.

"I shall inform them of your health."

You chose not to divert your attention from jumping between the various lines of the letter, noting the smeared ink and dark splotches decorating the parchment.

It was a barely legible mess of demands for the annulment of the marriage, requests for you to visit the North, and details of combat victories phrased in such a way that they almost seemed to seek admiration.

The sloppy penmanship belonged to someone who was either writing under great duress or had no formal training.

The intimacy of the word choice, especially for descriptions of injuries that the author had supposedly inflicted, was akin to a paranoid rant or a confession of longing between paramours.

The chunk sitting on the end of the letter was frigid and squishy to the touch. Thinking at first that it was another, smaller letter or a gift wrapping of some kind, you nudged it and attempted to find an opening.

The smooth yet damp texture of the material — thick droplets of a crimson substance oozing from the pressure and staining your fingertips — elicited a shudder as you flung it back into the folds of the scroll.

When the malleable object slid down, the final line above the signature caught your eye. "Enjoy the gift. It was the one piece of him my hounds didn't eat."

Intrigue and concern echoed in the halls of the Red Keep like a wildfire devouring the hillside, each lord and handmaiden bowing their heads to further spread the news through pursed lips and hushed voices.

"The Dreadfort's raven has flown again."

* * *

The royal family, the small council, and every other lord dwelling in the Red Keep filed into the throne room for an emergency court session. Lords stood in a singular group on either side, while Joffrey took his place on the Iron Throne with his mother and grandfather sitting on smaller, less extravagant thrones.

Tywin, having plucked himself from the front lines of a war with the Starks to attend, carried the stench of a fresh battle — a mix of wet grass, sweat and blood — despite his clean black uniform.

Jaime stood among the line of Kingsguard at the foot of the stairs leading to the thrones.

Tyrion and Grand Maester Pycelle occupied the podium, with Tyrion motioning for the maester to fall into one of the congregations before he turned to the king and started to speak.

"Despite securing House Tyrell's approval, there has been some—" the Lannister averted his eyes for a moment of disgruntled recollection "—grumbling from the North."

Cersei tightened her hold on the goblet, shutting her eyes for an audible breath and sitting straighter on her throne.

Lord Baelish kept his gaze on the floor and resisted the twinge of discomfort threatening to topple his smile.

Joffrey shifted on the Iron Throne, and Tywin merely blinked.

Tyrion debated the propriety of every word as if discussing the intimate details of one's life to a host of strangers.

"It would appear that our recent arrangements have stirred dissent in House Bolton and a few of their vassals, particularly Houses Ryswell, Manderly and Locke. Threats have been made, and they are demanding an invitation to the ceremony and a place in the deliberations should we decide to go through with it."

The refined chuckles of men accustomed to wealth and ease filled the court with a pretentious melody. "Who cares what a butcher and his bastard desire?" jeered a lower lord, deriving his confidence from the vocal amusement of his colleagues.

Cersei wished their disregard for House Bolton was accurate, even managing a strained smile, but the tales of their gruesome treatment of foes strangled any willingness to laugh.

From his throne beside the king's, Tywin sat with his hand resting on the side of his head. "Of what threats do you speak?"

The calm voice of the general commanded a distinct level of obedience from the raucous lords. His impassive gaze, faulted only by a glimmer of amusement raising the edge of his lips, presided over the dulling of laughter among the court attendants.

Tyrion met the steely eyes of his father. "They have promised to shut down their portion of the kingsroad and cut off our access to timber, furs, silver and the continent's best silversmiths."

Joffrey lurched forward from his relaxed position on the Iron Throne and gripped the ends of both armrests. "What treacherous people would threaten their king?" There was a sliver of disbelief prevailing among the offence in his tone, so Tyrion reached into his pocket to unveil a scroll fitted with the broken seal of House Bolton.

"I have the letter right here, Your Grace."

An eternal hint of sarcasm layered his pronunciation of the title as the Lannister unfolded the scroll. "Should you choose to ignore our demands, we will strip you of these luxuries." He read a section of the contents with the practised indifference of someone reading a grocery list.

"A heavy toll will be exacted on any traders using the northern Kingsroad, your people will freeze in the coming winter from the lack of our furs and timber—"

Tyrion lowered the scroll and looked the king in the eye.

"—and your foppish lords will lose the coin and jewellery they so desperately cling to without our silver."

Taking a slow breath and brushing his fingers together, Joffrey appeared ready to declare war at that moment. "Well? And the rest of it?"

Just as Tyrion was preparing to recite the more graphic threats, Grand Maester Pycelle wobbled out of the line of courtiers and shuffled towards the centre of the court.

"Your Grace," he began with some urgency. "I have read this letter myself, and its contents are not fit for royal ears." When the king tilted his head at both the interruption and the warning, Pycelle lowered his gaze to the floor and failed to retain his previous volume.

"The second letter was far more vulgar, you see."

From across the great expanse of the throne room, your head whipped around to observe the grand maester.

The old man could not hold your gaze for longer than a single breath.

Petyr Baelish noticed you looking in his direction and began to slink nearer, while Joffrey badgered Tyrion to deliver the first letter to him.

"I wish to read it," demanded the boy. "Give it to me."

Tyrion had surveyed a few paragraphs once more, and his face was now reflecting the belief that his nephew would regret his words. Finding satisfaction in this, he strutted to the foot of the Iron Throne and had begun to extend the letter when Cersei snatched it.

Despite the grimace that rose to her visage at touching the accursed scroll, the Queen Regent refrained from facing her son as he released an outraged "Mother" and stared at her with his mouth agape.

Petyr came to a stop beside you and, after a brief silence, whispered, "I wasn't aware that Dornish wine had such ill effects on you."

As your mask turned to him, he scanned the array of lords standing across from you for wandering eyes and those nearby for potential eavesdropping. "Still, I was pleased to hear of your swift recovery. There might not have been a small council left to serve if you had tested the king's patience for much longer."

Cersei fixed her gaze on the opposite end of the room, a superficial smile clinging to her lips. "You needn't concern yourself with such trifles, My King. There are more pressing matters that require your attention."

Gradually, Joffrey settled back onto the Iron Throne and looked askance at Tywin. The eldest Lannister gave a slight nod of assurance before resuming his inspection of the lordly crowd.

Tyrion, who had bowed his head while his family squabbled, lifted his attention to his nephew. "Am I to assume the duty of drafting a response falls to me?"

Malice flooded Joffrey like a match lit beneath gasoline, and a scoff reverberated through the grand room. "As if you could be trusted with such a task." Steadying his tone to one of command, the king turned to Grand Maester Pycelle.

"I shall draft the letter. Prepare a raven."

A flash of worry overtook Cersei and nearly drove her to stand.

"Joffrey, no."

Her voice was just above a whisper, yet the boy faced her as if she had smacked him. She searched the rows of lords for the catalyst to the argument, eyeing you with a shaky determination. "Sorcerer, you consort with your friends in the North on the eve of your cousin's betrothal to Lannister blood."

The sense of betrayal in her voice ran deeper than a violation of courtesies.

A raspy hiss that seemed to echo in the ears of everyone present filled the throne room, and it took several moments of glancing at corners and shadows for assailants for the nobility to realise it emitted from you.

"My travels beget many employment opportunities."

The noise possessed the clarity of someone speaking within arm's length and lost nothing from the distance, flowing from the ceiling, floor and each wall with equal strength.

Pycelle was quick to intercede. "It was far too personal for mere employment, My Lady. Their presence is highly coveted by the rulers of House Bolton." He shook his head and pretended not to see your menace, keeping his eyes on the Queen Regent.

When you outstretched your arms to answer, all the Kingsguard except for Jaime clutched their weapons tighter.

"I cannot be blamed if my skills make an impression."

Joffrey went from reclining on the Iron Throne to sitting upright at the knowledge that you were capable of talking, his expression one of conflicted unease.

"I've never heard you speak before."

It was a simple declaration, but the significance behind it was as varied as the shades of red on his cloth. Envy at not being the cause of your reply resided in his downcast gaze, frustration with the fact that it disturbed rather than pleased him led his fist to clench, and umbrage at your lack of interest in conversing with him guided his unblinking stare to yours.

"It unnerves me," was his conclusion.

Whether this was a request for you not to speak again or a demand for the opposite, Tyrion looked between yourself and Joffrey with a lingering question.

"Pardon me, Your Grace."

He was unaffected by the sharp turn of the king's head. "But if the wedding is to commence in a few hours, should we not resume preparations?"

Simmering with renewed pride as if the purpose of the court session had escaped him, Joffrey stuck his head in the air and held himself higher on the Iron Throne.

"Yes, let us show these Northern savages we shan't accede to their petty threats."

* * *

The sun, unfettered by the veil of storm clouds threatening to bring a cleansing rain, sat against an ocean blue sky.

Royals dashed under the canopies with the aroma of tarts chasing them as they devoured the sweets littering the many tables before seeking shelter from the rays. Those who lacked access to the tents or found theirs at full capacity ordered servants to fan them and, if no one else was looking, fanned themselves with their hand.

Guards roasted in their suits of steel armour, but Joffrey bit into a sliver of pie with a satisfied chuckle. Cersei exuded a similar pride from beside him, a half-eaten pheasant on the table in front of her and a goblet of wine resting in her hand.

Tyrion was downing one glass of wine after another and causing handmaidens to scurry back and forth with empty and new flagons while he peered at the ceremony in sullen disinterest.

Sweat had formed on the brows of many guests and trickled down foreheads in some cases, yet the black robes enveloping your body were unchanged. You sat in the canopy reserved for the Lannisters by decree of the king, ignoring the chatter of lords in favour of watching your cousin applaud the ceremonial duel kicking up dust in the middle of the clearing.

He noticed your gaze a few different times but would only hold it for a second before yielding to his fear and looking away.

Marvelling at the powerful swings of the blades as the duelists knocked each other into the dirt and littered their cheeks with fresh cuts, the king presumed the meaning of your inaction to be one of worry.

"Your assailant would be a fool to strike again now," he proclaimed, observing the multitude of guards circling the royal family's tent and barring the exits to the clearing.

"We shall find them, and I will have their head served to those they hold dearest."

Just as you were slowly turning to him, one of the duelists fell to the ground in defeat. His sword clattered out of his hand, and the other man rose his blade into the air with a cry of triumph. Cheers erupted in the throngs of nobility, who tossed spare coins and bits of food at the victor as he bowed to his most generous donors.

Joffrey crouched to retrieve an ornate crossbow resting on the side of his throne and lifted it into his arms, pointing the weapon at the sky and grasping its trigger and foregrip.

He admired the elaborate carving of the object as if gazing upon his finest achievement. "I believe a celebratory hunt is in order. Would you care to join us?"

The king looked in your direction but saw nothing more than a vacant chair.

His contentment was wiped off his face as he spun towards the crowd and cast his eyes across the heads of various lords and ladies flocking to the newlyweds. He began to search the royal seats and take laborious breaths when no one jumped to resolve his trouble, but Cersei offered a look of concern that evolved into her peering at the guests as well.

The boy spotted Jaime guarding the entrance to the canopy and approached him with haste, his boots thumping against the floorboards while he called, "Uncle!"

The Kingslayer did not heed him until the second call, after which the knight turned in a bit of surprise.

"The sorcerer, where are they?" panted Joffrey, somewhat winded.

Jaime glanced between the king and your original seat, alarm and confusion overtaking his chiselled face. He whipped around to inspect the crowd and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword as if expecting to find you wrestling with a potential abductor.

Joffrey spun on his heels when someone grasped his hand, only to meet the stressed affection of Cersei.

"Perhaps they're just getting some refreshments, my son. They will return soon." Her smile quivered as the boy yanked his hand away and seemed to grow angrier at the suggestion.

"Refreshments? I am the king!"

He balled his fists at his side and lightly stamped his foot. "I did not give them permission to leave!" Rage heightened the volume of his scathing tone, and the roars of their king attracted the scrutiny of royals in adjacent tents.

While Cersei fought to conceal her pain behind a smile, the cantankerous voice of Tyrion joined the arguing.

"Lost them again, have you?"

The Lannister followed the journey of an olive as he plucked it off a stick and pitched it onto an empty plate.

"You just can't seem to keep them around."

Blinking to deflect some of the sunlight irritating his eyes, Tyrion faced his nephew with the apathetic frown of a man unconcerned with his own safety. "I don't see what the problem is. You have a wonderful personality."

The chest of the king began to heave, and his nostrils flared with an audible intake of air. He pointed a finger and leaned forward slightly. "You would be wise to shut your mouth, Uncle, or I'll have your tongue cut from it."

Tyrion swiped another olive and examined the small fruit, tilting it back and forth in front of his lips.

"Ah, that would make wine less appetizing."

The man reclined on his plush chair and gestured in a half-shrug to the crowd forming around the newlyweds. "Well, I'm sure they'll gladly stop the bedding ceremony to help track a sorcerer who could be halfway to Winterfell by now."

Any semblance of control vacated the boy, and the resulting venom shattered his composure into an apoplectic scowl. "I am the king. They will do whatever I tell them to do!" His voice had ascended to a shriek by the end of the declaration.

Cersei gripped his forearm and tried to soothe him by whispering reasons to direct his attention elsewhere, her gaze darting to the sight of Jaime antagonizing a lord who had attempted to reach you earlier.

With a nonchalant shake of his head, Tyrion opened his arms in the direction of the guests. "Then, by all means, your people are waiting."

* * *

The shadows enveloping the chamber began to draw together like water flowing towards a drain, and a cloaked figure emerged from the wall adjacent to the mass of linen sheets and silk blankets. The darkness gained depth and a humanoid shape as silent steps moved to the bedside of your cousin.

The glint of steel on the tip of a thin blade caught the moonlight edging through the stained glass window above the bed, travelling up a host of black fabric to sprinkle dim light across a shiny mask.

The man's blood spewed from his neck and spilled onto the floor before he could awaken to react. The embroidery of the golden and red covers was infected by a crimson hue that cascaded over his body and the side of the bed, but no sounds were uttered beyond the ring of metal, the rush of liquid and, finally, the intermittent dripping.

After looking upon the deed, the assassin retreated into the inky blackness filling the room and vanished.

When the fiery sunshine of dawn illuminated the royal chamber, the princess rolled over in bed to greet her new husband with a smile. She draped a hand on his chest and gave him a mild jostle. It was then that the blurriness of sleep vacated her eyes, and the shock of waking to a corpse propelled her to her feet.

The screams of a horrified and brokenhearted woman echoed in the Red Keep.

Guards stormed through the door with their swords drawn and poised to strike, but his blood had dried hours ago. Decay was beginning to appear in his sunken cheeks and pallid skin, which elicited a sob from the princess and prompted her to collapse beside him and cradle his head.

As the guards recognized their limited usefulness, one man raced to alert Jaime and another the king.

Instead of visiting the scene of the murder, Joffrey collected the Hound and three of the Kingsguard and marched to the door of your chamber. He entered without knocking or announcing himself in any way.

"The castle has been placed on high alert. Come with me."

The king stopped after a few seconds of walking and scanned the room for you, only to find it empty.