#torchlit thoughts

[lampadions-pickle]

wikihow to stop inflicting children with existential dread

[lokisgoodgirl]

A Royal Audience: The Rite

Chapter 1 Masterlist for The Rite is here A link to my full Masterlist is here Summary: (1) You, an Asgardian court nobody, fall asleep in the palace baths and have an unconventional introduction to the elusive Loki Odinson. (w/c 3.7k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Loki x female reader. Smut. Language. Voyeurism.

Water splashes and your legs fly up, floating out into the murk of torchlit water. Bracing against the stone edge, you glance over your shoulder with a blossoming horror. The curved arch reveals the glittering lights of Asgard below; mountains which had glowed with low-afternoon light when you’d settled in the palace baths now cloaked in darkness. Why did no one wake me? It's forbidden for anyone but the Royal family to be in the baths after sundown. And the penalties are severe.

Surely more of a guideline than a rule, you think optimistically as you get your bearings. Panic twists in your chest. Surely Odin can’t imprison every member of the court who dozes off in the hot springs.

Heaving yourself onto the side, you shiver in the immediate chill. The loss of warmth is like the absence of a lover’s touch; leaving their bed on a winter night. You’re surprised you can remember what that feels like. A breeze blows through the atrium as you grasp for the robe you discarded earlier. It sticks to clammy skin, thick droplets seeping though the fabric as you gaze longingly at the towels lined up at the side. No time. But as you flick soggy tendrils of hair from beneath the collar, your ears prick. No. Footsteps. There’s only one doorway to the baths. A security thing. One hallway – in and out. Your eyes dart frantically at limited options. Tall, imposing pillars encircle the room. One of them will have to do. All you can do is pray the guards just take a quick peek around the door. The squeak of your bare feet on the floor fades just as your wet skin meets marble. You cover your mouth, eyes screwing shut. The door swings open, creaking on ancient hinges. “Prepare the oils,” someone commands. A dark, enunciated order which seems to settle in the steam.

A shudder runs down your spine. That voice. Another one replies in hushed reverence, flopping sandals scooting over the marble floor while bottles rattle. “Haste,” the first growls.

You clutch the flimsy robe tighter to your chest. The first time, you might have been mistaken. But as the irritated syllables of that solitary word settle, there’s no mistaking it. Prince Loki. If you were asked to swear in front of the Norns that you’d never envisioned the dark prince as you touched yourself in the dead of night, thought of his forbidden curls twisting through your hair as you rode him, the timbre of his moans as you choked on his cock – you’d be a fucking liar. I mean, who hasn't? But this? This is beyond the pale. Even conjured from your sickest fantasies. This is wrong. This is...a death sentence.

And yet, you find yourself edging closer to the side of the pillar.

Should you announce yourself? Grovel? Retreat out the door with garbled apologies, bowing with your face lowered and begging for your life? Probably.

But it’s too late now. Far too late. And if you’re going to end up in the dungeons, as on some level you always suspected you would, at least this image will sustain you.

Loki Odinson stands all limbs and and length at the edge of the baths. From emerald-encrusted slippers to the crown of dark waves spilling over his shoulders – he’s perfect; unmistakeably royalty even in his lounge-wear. What little there is of it.

White steam rolls above the water, as sheer and flawless as the chiffon robe that moulds to his body. The faint hue of his skin shows through the forest-green material, fingers toying with the tie circling his hips as he casts a scathing glance to the servant whirling a phial of oil between his fingers. “Tis’ ready, my lord” the servant says. The prince grunts, letting the sash fall open.

You hold a breath as the garb falls down the sinewy bulge of his shoulders, deep carves of tricep muscle illuminated in torchlight. You’ve never seen him so close; never had time to admire the stark beauty emanating from every angled inch of him. Without the distracting glint of his armour it’s almost enough to make your eyes water. Glimpses of him had been in passing, a stolen gawk before you bowed you head and he moved quickly through the great hall past the other courtly nobodies.

The luxuriously weaved material slides over his skin, folding and rippling as it drips from his fingertips. It shimmers in low flamelight and he rolls his shoulders back as it drops, abdominals clenching. You clench along with them as the robe pools around his ankles. Your palms sweat against the pillar, fingers beginning to claw as Loki steps into the water. He rakes his hair back, tilting his chin to the ceiling as he puts one foot ceremonially in front of the other. Making an entrance, even without an audience. Or so he thinks.

The servant stands obediently by the bath’s edge, staring ahead as the prince’s thighs flex with each effortless step, liquid lapping around his knees.

As much as you try not to look, sort of, to preserve some sliver of dignity for the god, saliva wells under your tongue. His perfect cock bobs between his legs. It’s true what they say, you think in a daze. His pubic hair is an immaculate shadow. Even his balls are perfect.

Loki sinks down, dipping long hair back in the water before seating himself in the opposite spot you’d occupied minutes ago. Jet hair plasters to his skin like tar, droplets of water clinging to his torso. “Begin,” he mutters with an air of annoyance. The servant complies, pouring the rose-tinted phial into his hand and beginning to massage the god’s scalp.

You watch in utter beguilement as Loki’s head is nudged from side to side, indecent moans of pleasure snaking from his throat as the favoured servant carries out his work. Thin drips of oil roll down the prince’s brow, catching the light. He tips his head back, jawline pointed to the ceiling like the blade of an axe. He lets out a whimper of pleasure.

You press your lips together so hard it hurts as a crease appears in the god’s brow, his eyes shut as the man kneeling behind turns the attention to his shoulders. The oil spreads down the thick of his neck, to the crevices of his collarbone; glistening. “Oh-h, yes…there-” the god growls, a gnawing groan shaking the air. For the first time, you notice the unmistakable heat of arousal sliding between your thighs. Squirming, you think briefly about looking away. You decide against it. In the blink of an eye, Loki’s mood changes like a winter wind. He leans forward, an abrupt tsk punctuated by the wave of a hand. “Leave me,” he demands. The servant looks visibly confused, fingers poised in the air above tense muscle. Loki turns expectantly over his shoulder. “Need I say it again?” he purrs menacingly. It was quietly brutal. You smirk in spite of yourself. Classic Prince Loki, you muse. You never dreamed you’d get to see it in person.

The man shakes his head, shuffling to his feet. He shuffles out the room with little bows and letting the ancient latch clunk into place. Your breaths quicken and the sudden gravity of the situation settles like a boulder in your throat. Frozen, you watch Loki eye the door a moment longer before resting back against the stone with a lazy sigh.

Long fingers run through the slick of his hair while water slops around his nipples. Gods, how you want to pull one between your teeth as you pump his- “Aren’t you cold?” His voice was an arrow. Sharp, targeted, tipped with venom. It’s hit spreads through your body, white noise filling your brain, blood thundering in your ears.

“Aren’t you cold?” he repeats, sterner this time. You realise with horrifying clarity that Prince Loki of Asgard, as eusive and unknowable as faraway galaxies to a mouse, is talking to you. And he’s naked. And you’re definitely spending the next decade in the dungeons. If you’re lucky.

With shaking hands, you step out from behind the pillar. The game is up. But to your credit, you have closed your eyes, one palm shielding them in a last ditch attempt at salvation. “Your Majesty I apologise I...fell asleep in the water, and woke up after sundown- the laws, and you came in...I didn’t know where to go- what to do-please have mercy...” You squint between parted fingers to gauge his reaction, hoping that the last threads of your long-gone innocence are believable. The prince curls a finger to his lips, covering a smirk. “I did not look upon your majesty...” you lie. The god’s eyes run from your ankles to your face, a devious smile playing at one side of his mouth. His lips part, chin tilting upwards, tongue resting behind his upper teeth before the perfect enunciation of, “Liar.”

“I did not look upon-” you stammer, lowering your hand and staring at the floor.

“-Oh, stop it.” Loki says. It’s followed by a melodic chuckle ricocheting around the marble walls. You glance up. One elbow rests on the stone behind him, water rippling against his chest. He tilts his head, raising the other arm out the water. “Never let it be said the God of Mischief is not merciful,” he rumbles coyly. A solitary finger beckons. “You must be cold,” he repeats for the third time, softer. “I assure you the baths are warmer than the dungeon, if that was your intent for the remainder of the evening.”

Each step feels like an eternity as you let yourself be drawn forward by weak flesh. You can’t take your eyes off his, thundering silently into your soul like a sexual storm. “I am not to the dungeons, then?” you ask cautiously. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

He winks, a perfectly timed droplet of oil falling from his chin to the water below with a thick plop. It makes your stomach flip. He stiffens suddenly, raising his palm in a ‘stop’.

“You may leave now...if you wish,” he says. An aura of stiff formality settles on his expression.

This is the Loki you recognise from feast days and speeches which ring around the towering cloisters of the great hall. The palm held upright softens to gesture to the other side of the pool. “Or you may stay, if you wish. Either way, sending such a flower to the dungeons to wilt and wither would surely be a greater crime than the one you have committed.”

He pauses. There’s a flash of pink as his tongue runs over his lips. His gaze drops to your fingers fidgeting nervously with the sash of your robe, still stained with watermarks from its hasty assembly. “Curiosity is only natural, one supposes,” he says.

“I didn’t mean to do it,” you reply quietly.

Loki’s eyes meet yours, one eyebrow rising. “Ah, but you did.” His voice is deeper, wisps of intrigue catching in every syllable. “In my experience, the path paved with mistakes leads to better stories. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You bite your lip. “Your Majesty are you...sure? I’m-” you glance towards the door, hesitating before you met the prince’s waiting stare, “-naked, under this.” Loki’s long index finger dips teasingly into the water, feigned surprise making his brows rise as he watches it sink beneath the surface. The lip twitches again as his digit skims, slow ripples pulsing out from his body. “Egalitarian, wouldn’t you say? Considering your recent education on my own state of undress.” Heat rises in your cheeks, matching the inexplicable confidence beginning to blossom in your belly. Loki smiles expectantly, resting both elbows casually on the ledge.

His lips form a soft o as your robe falls around your feet. You feel his stare roaming your body as keenly as though its his hands. Can he see the translucent sheen of arousal smeared down your inner thighs as you step into the pool? Possibly. Probably.

It’s true what they say about his body, about his temper, about his cock, after all. Why not his powers of perception?

The water licks against your skin, the thrill of this forbidden meeting making every hair on your body stand to attention. Pores tingle against the embrace of heat as you sink beneath the surface, perching on the flat stone seat beneath. The curve of your mounds bob above gently lapping water.

The same spot you’d been in earlier. But now, the view is entirely different.

You imagine that the archway behind you is a beautiful scene. Asgard’s moons would be shining, their light halo’ing your wetted hair against a blanket of stars. And yet, Prince Loki’s eyes never leave yours.

Although ten meters stretch between you, the whisper of his breath seemed to curl against your ear. You widen your legs beneath the water, immediately squeezing them closed again. Your lips purse, stifling a whine. “Your first royal audience, I gather?” Loki asks politely. You nod. This is madness.

Slowly, he shifts. One arm slips beneath the water, then two. His chin dips, observing you seductively from half-lidded eyes. “Why have I never seen you before?” The question hangs amidst the steam rolling over soft ripples.

“I find myself new at court, your Majesty” you hear yourself answer. It isn’t true. But it's better than the embarrassing reality. You're an invisible cog. “Liar,” he murmurs seductively. The corners of his eyes crease with mirth, a wet curl falling down to the side of his cheek. Somehow, your fingers find their way to your clit; hidden beneath the sweet-smelling veil of the baths.

“How can I have overlooked such a jewel in the midst of this grey wasteland?” “Wasteland?!” you scoff. It's bold, a peal of laughter escaping in spite of yourself. “Hardly.” The god cocks an eyebrow. “Despite my hyperbole, the sentiment remains. How did I miss you?”

There’s a moment of silence; anticipation choking the air. A suspicious disturbance begins to swell at the water by Loki’s mid-section and a chill of desire makes you shiver despite the temperate water; imagining those long, elegant fingers wrapping around that long, elegant cock. You began to toy with yourself, sparks of pleasure thrumming through your veins. Your shoulders began to roll in time with the pressure of your fingers. Unmistakeable. Breaths rise and fall in your chest, breasts bouncing lightly at the surface.

He grits, throat working as the straight lower line of his perfectly white teeth flash into view. The swell of water above his groin crests to a flurry; his deep, filthy exhales wrapping around your inhibitions and choking them. All pretence gone, you release the moan you’ve been holding.

Loki breaths out hard, a low ragged breath that seemed to part the steam caressing the water’s surface. “Mmm,” he grunts, neck stiffening. A vein at his throat stands hard and thick, straining as water began to splash against him from his abuse beneath. This is a scandal. You are a scandal. If anyone finds out, you’re finished...and yet. As the prince’s chin points to his glistening chest, wet from the splashback from fucking himself beneath the surface, you find you care not one jot.

His eyes darken, long lashes curled up to knitted brows. Loki’s lips are parted, tongue hovering and forming senseless words between laboured breaths. His cheekbones flash in the low light, soaking hair strewn over his milky skin. And always, his gaze is on you. The lofty, untouchable, inscrutable god that you’ve fantasised about is looking at you as he pleasures himself. Thinking about you as he sits across the water tugging his flawless cock. And if this is the shining, glorious moment which would burn out in a blaze of reputation-ruining glory to ash then so be it. Worth it. His dulcet moans of onanism grow louder, timing with your own. Only once do you tip your head back as you feel climax rear, a growled command of ‘look at me,’ through gritted teeth snapping you forward again.

If you’re ever deigned worthy to feel the prince inside you, have his marble body flush to your own in the throes of passion, feel his lustful praise hot in your ear– just once – you would die happy. But this? This could be enough. “S-so dutiful,” the prince moans, his shoulders juddering as he strangled the words. “B-brave,” he gasps. His brow furrows deeper with one last longing stare at your glistening neck and shoulders as you cum hard, a quiet mewl of his name echoing around the baths. It’s all you can do not to scream. “G-gods,” Loki chokes. Every muscle you can see in his body seems to tense, a thundering roar like ripping leather cascading from his throat. His mouth hangs open, grimacing to the atrium above. In the death of his cry, there’s silence but for the splash of water as the two of you compose yourself. Still flushed from orgasm, you push your hair back. The prince raises the hand that had been pleasuring himself out the water, inspecting a thick, white string that clings to his fingertips. He turns his gaze to you as he sucks the cum from his digits. God he’s fucking filthy, you think. I knew it. It takes every piece of willpower not to wade across the baths and lick it from his mouth. You bite your lip, matching his sultry demeanour and the prince’s eyebrow twitches. Your reaction is clearly to his satisfaction. “This has been amusing.”

He stands abruptly, breath stealing from your lungs as his entire body comes into view again. You aren’t prepared. The god’s cock is still hard. Long and perfectly formed, it’s earlier fairness now replaced with the blush of his work. Above, his abdomen glistens; pearled droplets of oily water running leisurely over muscled ridges. You open your mouth and close it again. Loki smiles. He turns and the toned meat of his ass shifts on his ascent up the short steps out the baths. With a click of his fingers, the robe and slippers he’d discarded are upon him once more. Your stomach drops.

“I didn’t tell you my name,” you blurt as he approaches the door. Prince Loki’s profile slices into view, the perfect arc of his bone structure lined over one broad shoulder in dancing torchlight. His eyes cast down and move to yours with theatrical precision.

“Your name?!” he purrs incredulously. “We must keep some mystery, surely.” And with the swirl of his robe and a thud of the ancient latch, he’s gone.

Loki’s stomach churns, emerald slippers feeling heavier with every step. He feels along the wall, blinking away the dizziness growing behind his eyes. Risky. Even for me. He pauses at the end of the corridor, steadying his breaths. There was something about her. Something which shattered any semblance of decorum he usually clung to in the presence of the court, however strange the situation. Her audacity. Gods, the look in her eyes as she brought herself to climax; pinning him under her gaze like a starving wretch at a feast. He stares at his feet, jewels throwing prisms from torchlight. “Brother?” Loki looks up, immediately rolling his eyes. “Spying on me? Truly you need to find something more wholesome to occupy your time, brother.” “Of course not. I intended to join you.” Loki’s stomach lurches as he notes the robe hanging off his brother’s shoulders, the plush red towels stacked in his glowering manservant’s arms. “No,” he snaps as Thor attempts to pass. The hand pressing against his brother’s chest is still wet, and he has a sudden hope it’s only water. “The temperature is not pleasing tonight. Tepid, at best. Trust me, brother.” “Is that so?” Thor asks, eyebrow rising. If he finds her in there, she’ll be punished. He won’t think twice before running to father like a dog. The thought wouldn’t usually cause him alarm but there it was again, that niggling feeling that greater fates were at play. He studies Thor’s face. "Trust me," Loki says. His brother sighs. “I trust you with very few things, Loki, but the temperature of bathwater is verily one of them.” He waves a hand and the servant scuttles away into the gloom. “In truth, brother, I hoped to speak to you about the Rite.” A hiss blows between Loki’s teeth, eyes darting to the side. “In my own time.” “Your own time?!” Thor stomps forward, making the torches rattle. “You’ve had five hundred years to find someone, Loki. Nine moons; that’s all you have until you must wait another five centuries for the alignment. Don’t you want to secure yourself in the succession? What if something were to happen to father? To me? The people of Asgard must be assured of your suitability.” “The entire thing is a farce. The fact that you succeeded, proves it.” Thor’s face darkens. “Don't speak of our sacred traditions that way. You know they’re in place for a reason.” A snort steals from Loki’s nostrils. “I have no doubts of my skill, I know I could rule Asgard’s people selflessly and with great enthusiasm; why must it be paraded in an inane peacocking which will make the high-lords wilt with inferiority?”

Silence hangs thick in the narrow corridor.

“A fact which makes your refusal to participate even more perplexing," Thor says, narrowing his eyes and yanking the sash at his waist in a way Loki assumes he thinks to be dramatic. "Nine moons, brother.”

As Thor's footsteps die away; he listens for splashing, for movement, for sneaking. But there’s nothing. He steps out the emerald slippers and pads back to the door, turning the handle with a final, furtive glance behind him.

He expects to see you draped nude over the chaise in the corner, or perhaps spread for him at the edge of the baths with hungry longing in your sharp eyes...but you’re gone. Loki frowns and stalks to the pillar which concealed you before. “Borr’s blood,” he hisses under his breath, scanning the room.

And then he sees it; something silken and knotted loops around the balcony pillars, glimmering in moonlight. He realises suddenly that the draping which normally billows in the evening breeze is gone. Loki smirks as he paces to the balcony and casts a cursory look over the edge. The makeshift ladder hangs to the level below. The royal laundry, if he’s not mistaken; the same hot spring source. “Nine moons,” he repeats quietly to the silence, rapping his knuckles against the marble twice before turning away with a smile.

💖Thanks for joining me for this lil journey! 🕯️Tags in comments x Read Chapter Two, Successional Pleasure HERE

[brittle-doughie]

Eyoooooo I Uhh, have a really long au that’s been kinda driving me insane to keep to myself lately but not only is it nowhere near done, I’m pretty sure it’s already way too long to reasonably fit into an ask so, I guess I’m asking if you’d like to read it? Idrk I just want someone to share this idea with so that I don’t lose it completely. It’s a variation of the beast ancients au but things go horribly wrong both really slowly and really quickly.

As payment for a nothing ask, I give you: a character study moment that has absolutely nothing to do with the au in question I just thought it was neat.

You were cornered.

Nowhere left to run.

The last gleam of hope dying as you stumbled your way in. All that greets you is red torchlit stonework.

‘Why the hell are there even dead ends in here?!’ You mutter, mostly to yourself, knowing full well there’s not much of a point in being quiet now. But your incredibly valid question must wait as your pursuer, and the one who broke off your leg has found you. Huddled in the corner, clutching a dagger and jam still leaking out of where your leg once was. He hums, an idea having piqued his interest. The loud clatter of his weapon falling against the floor startles you to attention. What you see, is quite strange indeed.

Burning Spice Cookie stands just a few feet away from you, arms outstretched as if waiting for a hug, and a colossally smug smile on his face. Stranger still, is what he says next.

“Come here, hit me, show me that fire in your eyes again, little cookie”

By far, the weirdest thing though, is that you listen to him.

Hobbling back to get a better angle, your remaining leg shudders and struggles to carry you any farther. The dagger in your hand the only thing still keeping you grounded, aware that what is happening is real. And Burning Spice simply waits, far more patiently then you ever expected him capable of. The hopelessness of the situation rattles you once again, and it spurs you forward, dagger flying through the air towards your assailant, and you along with it.

The dagger strikes true, piercing through dough with ease as jam leaks out of the wound you’ve caused, wetting your hands as you try to keep your vice grip on the dagger as your good leg has finally given out on you. Putting your whole weight on the comparatively tiny blade.

And he doesn’t even flinch

Burning Spice plucks you by the nape, holding you up in one hand as the other pulls out the dagger. Your hands fall down with it, barely having the strength to keep focus now.

“A well placed strike given your handicap. I think I’ll keep you all to myself.” He brings his hand up to cup your cheek, even after you flinch away, he remains ever gentle, ever patient. A part of you is pretty sure you’re hallucinating from jam loss at this point. That’s the only explanation for this-

“I wonder what that fire in your eyes will become. Will it be smothered-“ Burning Spice is stopped mid sentence as something cuts him just below his eye. He simply cannot help the fondness and pride he feels for you already. His grinning teeth on full display as if revelling in the wounds you’ve caused.

“Yes, I’ve already decided. You will be my favourite little spitfire.” Your head slumps, dagger clattering to the floor as your grievous wound finally catches up to you. And just as gently, Burning Spice carries you to your new home.

-ephemeralcryptid

Y/N Cookie will be a beautiful new addition to the Spice Swarm.

Golden Cheese was only holding them back, keeping them a constant in the tides of Change. Burning Spice can fix that….

And now? She can only watch as Burning Spice leaves with them deeper into his palace, their weak body in his arms.

She wanted to scream….

Run after them…

Demand he comes back to fight her….

Instead…

Between her dough cracking and coughing up strawberry jam…

She cries….

She cries for her precious treasure back….

A treasure that may not be hers anymore…..

[dxrlingluv]

Uh, you did NOT have to break my heart with Telemachus x reader "Not Me, But Her". 😭 Also, just discovered you, and I love your writing! Im just here to beg for a part 2 for "Not Me, But Her". Of course, this doesnt mean that you HAVE to.

If you're out of ideas for it, I have a suggestion(NOT an order, if you dont want to write this, you dont HAVE to. You might already have something in mind...) Anyhow, maybe the reader decides to give up(for now) on Telemachus. So they grow colder towards him, and find a new person(a suitor or another servant) and treat them as they did Telemachus in the past. Now, Telemachus starts to miss their warm personality towards him. Lyra doesnt even have to try and steal Telemachus. She might help and support Tele, which, of course, the reader misunderstands as them being together. So Tele tries to win back over the reader.

Sorry its a bit long. Anyhow, you wrote that you were sad, so I hope you're doing better now! Even if you dont write this, Ill still love your writing!

Our Future

A/N : I was planning on being evil and make this an angst with no comfort haha, but then I saw the support and the comforting words I’ve been receiving, so I thought, “why not make them happy?”. Telemachus art is from Duvetbox!

WARNING : Part 2 of “Not me, but Her”. Slight angst, happy ending, Fem!Reader.

Word Count: 3.6k

The grief that shattered you in the torchlit corridor did not break you. Instead, when the tears finally dried, leaving salty tracks on your skin like riverbeds after a drought, something new and hard settled in their place. It was resolve, cold and clear as winter ice. You had spent years pouring your warmth, your hope, your very essence into a vessel that would not hold it, and you were left empty. No more.

The decision was not made in anger, but in a profound, soul-deep exhaustion. It was a matter of survival. The next morning, you rose and began the deliberate, painful process of building a wall around your heart. When you saw Telemachus across the courtyard, his brow furrowed with the familiar weight of his burdens, the old impulse to rush to his side, to offer a kind word or a cup of water, rose in your throat like a phantom ache. You swallowed it down, turning on your heel and focusing on the stone flags beneath your feet, one step at a time, until the urge subsided. You learned to make your face a placid mask, your voice a neutral current, and your eyes—your eyes never truly met his again. You were a ghost in his halls, impeccable in your duties, but utterly devoid of the spirit he had never truly noticed until it was gone.

That spirit, the innate warmth and care that was so much a part of you, needed a place to rest. It found a quiet harbor in Arion. He was the junior assistant to the palace scribe, a young man from a lesser family that had lost its lands and fortunes two generations prior. He possessed a quiet intelligence and a gentle demeanor, but in the boisterous, political viper's nest of the palace, his quietness made him invisible. You understood that kind of invisibility. He was perpetually overworked, his tunic often bearing the smudge of spilled ink, his dark hair falling into eyes that held a permanent, thoughtful sadness.

Your friendship began with a bruised apple. It was an offering made on a whim, a simple act of redirecting a kindness that no longer had a home. But Arion's reaction was unlike any you had ever received. His face, when he took the apple, was a study in stunned gratitude.

The next day, he sought you out. He found you tending to the potted herbs near the kitchens, and he held out a small, smooth piece of papyrus. "It is not much," he said, his voice soft and hesitant. "But my master discards the ends of the scrolls. I thought... I thought you might like it. For lists, or... or for drawing, if you are so inclined."

You took the small, precious gift, your fingers brushing his. For the first time in a long time, you felt a warmth that was not your own, but one that was being offered to you. "Thank you, Arion," you said, and a small, genuine smile touched your lips without you even willing it to. "No one has ever given me a gift like this before."

A bond formed, quiet and steady. It was a friendship woven from small, shared moments. You would save him a heel of bread; he would read you a line of poetry from a scroll he was copying. You would help him re-roll a particularly cumbersome map; he would tell you stories of the old gods he was researching. You found solace in his calm presence, and he seemed to find light in your gentle attention. In a world of loud, demanding men, his quiet respect was a balm. Your relationship wasn't one of fiery passion or aching romance; it was something perhaps more profound—a mutual recognition of each other's worth, a quiet haven of kindness in a harsh world.

Telemachus, meanwhile, was drowning. The great sea of his anxieties had not lessened, but the small, personal buoy he'd never realized he had was gone. He'd finish a grueling session with his sword master, muscles screaming, throat parched, and would instinctively scan the courtyard for your familiar form. But you were never there. The cool waterskin no longer appeared as if by magic at his elbow. The silence in his study was no longer just quiet; it was empty. He felt your absence as a draft in a warm room, a persistent chill he couldn't locate.

He began to watch you, trying to understand the shift. He saw you work, your efficiency more pronounced now that it was unsoftened by any personal warmth. He saw the cool, dismissive nod you gave him, the same you gave any other servant. It pricked at his pride, then, more alarmingly, at something deeper. He felt... ignored. And he was stunned to realize how much it bothered him.

The vague sense of loss sharpened into a blade of pure jealousy the first time he saw you with Arion. They were sharing a bench in the shade of an olive tree, eating a simple meal of bread and cheese. You said something, and Arion let out a soft, breathy laugh. In response, you smiled at him—a gentle, luminous smile that crinkled the corners of your eyes. It was a smile of pure, unguarded contentment. A smile he had never, not once, earned for himself. He felt a hot, possessive anger rise in his chest, so potent it startled him. Why were you smiling like that for a lowly scribe's assistant?

The sightings became a form of exquisite torture. A week later, he saw you both in the tapestry room. Arion was helping you mend a tear in a heavy drape, your heads bent close together, your fingers working in tandem. As you finished, you noticed an ink smudge on Arion's cheek. With a familiar ease that bespoke countless similar moments, you reached up and gently wiped it away with your thumb. The casual intimacy of the gesture, so simple and so profoundly domestic, sent a jolt through Telemachus. It was a touch without artifice or agenda, a touch born of genuine affection. He had commanded you for years, but he had never known that tenderness.

The final, crushing blow came during a cool evening. He was seeking solitude on a secluded balcony, his mind churning with plans to deal with Antinous, the cruelest of the suitors. Below, in the small, walled garden reserved for the queen, he saw two figures. It was you and Arion, walking slowly along the path. You were speaking, your hands gesturing as you told a story, your face animated in the moonlight. Arion listened with an attentiveness that was almost reverent. Telemachus couldn't hear your words, but he didn't need to. He was witnessing you give the most precious part of yourself—your thoughts, your spirit, your unguarded presence—to someone else. He remembered all the times he had cut you off, dismissed your words, or simply turned away. He had treated your voice like background noise, and here was someone else treating it like music.

Just then, Lyra appeared at his side, holding a woolen cloak. "My lord, you will catch a chill," she said, her voice full of sincere concern. He barely heard her. His eyes were locked on the scene below. You glanced up then, not at him, but in the general direction of the palace, and saw him standing there with Lyra draping the cloak over his shoulders. He saw your expression falter for only a second before settling back into a calm neutrality. He watched you turn back to Arion, say something soft, and continue your walk, leaving Telemachus standing on the balcony, feeling more alone than ever. He knew what you must have thought, and the bitter irony was that Lyra's kindness felt like ashes compared to the warmth he now understood he had lost from you.

He could not bear it another day. He sought you out, finding you as you were leaving the main hall. He stepped into your path, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs.

"Y/N," he said, his voice strained.

You stopped, your arms empty, but you held them as if guarding your chest. "My lord," you said, your voice a placid stream flowing over cold stones. Your eyes were on his chin, not his face.

"I have been a fool," he began, the words rushing out of him, raw and unpracticed. "A blind, arrogant fool. The kindness you showed me... the care... I took it for granted. I treated it as my due, not the gift that it was. I see that now. I see it when I see you with... him."

You were silent for a long moment, simply absorbing his words. He saw a flicker of the old pain in your eyes, a deep, ancient sorrow. But it was distant, like a storm long past.

"And what is it you want, my lord?" you asked, your question devoid of accusation. It was a simple, honest inquiry.

"I want...," he faltered, the enormity of his request finally dawning on him. "I miss you, Y/N. I miss the person you were."

Your gaze finally lifted to meet his, and for the first time in months, you let him see. But what he saw was not the adoring, hopeful servant he remembered. He saw a woman, calm and whole, whose peace was no longer tied to his notice.

"My lord," you said, and your voice was softer now, tinged not with coldness, but with a sad wisdom. "The person you miss... I had to let her go. She would not have survived. Her heart was not meant for a world that saw her kindness as a convenience." You took a small, steadying breath. "The warmth you are looking for is not something I can give you anymore. I have learned to build my own fire, and to share it with those who value its light."

You offered him a small, final nod, one that held not dismissal, but a strange kind of pity. "I wish you well in your search, Telemachus."

You used his name, without his title, for the first and for what you hope will be the last time. Then you walked away, your steps unhurried, leaving him standing alone in the grand, empty hall. He did not call after you. The finality in your voice was absolute. He was left with nothing but the crushing, monumental weight of his own regret. He had been given a treasure, and in his blindness, he had let it slip through his fingers, only to watch, helpless, as another man recognized its worth and gently picked it up. The pain of it was a lesson, sharp and brutal, and he knew with a certainty that would haunt him for the rest of his days that this was the beginning of his wisdom.

In the wake of your final, quiet conversation, a strange peace settled between you and Telemachus. The tension did not vanish, but it transformed from a brittle, painful thing into a long, somber silence, filled with unspoken understanding. Telemachus, for his part, accepted the boundary you had drawn with a maturity that surprised you. He ceased his attempts to breach your walls, and instead, took to watching you from a distance.

From his vantage point, he began to truly see you for the first time. He watched your friendship with Arion, and though a bitter pang of regret twisted in his gut with every shared smile he witnessed, he forced himself to look past his own pain. He saw the easy camaraderie, the mutual respect, the way you both seemed to draw strength from each other's quiet presence. He saw Arion listen to you with rapt attention and saw you comfort Arion with a gentle hand on his arm. Telemachus began to admire the resilience you had found, the peace you had carved out for yourself without him. The admiration was a painful, humbling lesson, and he poured that bitter education into his duties, facing the suitors with a new, steelier resolve born of profound personal regret.

You, in turn, could not help but notice the change in him. The frantic, boyish energy was gone, replaced by a deep, pensive gravity. You saw him treat the other servants with a consideration that had never been there before, asking their names, thanking them for their service. He no longer carried himself with the thoughtless privilege of a prince, but with the weary weight of a man learning the cost of his own actions. One evening, you saw him staring into the fire, his expression so full of lonely remorse that a forgotten warmth stirred in your chest—not the old, aching devotion, but a new, more complicated empathy. The ice around your heart had not vanished, but it was beginning to show cracks.

Your friendship with Arion, meanwhile, deepened into a sanctuary. One afternoon, while you were helping him sort a stack of sun-bleached papyrus scrolls, the sound of a lyre, accompanied by a clear, confident voice, drifted in from the courtyard. It was Ctesippus, one of the more flamboyant suitors, known more for his poetry and preening than his outright brutality. Arion froze, his hands stilling over a scroll, his gaze lost in the distance. A soft, mournful sigh escaped his lips.

"His voice is as clear as the streams on Mount Neriton," Arion murmured, almost to himself.

You looked from the suitor back to your friend's wistful face, and understanding bloomed. "Arion," you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. "Your heart is far away."

He looked at you, his gentle eyes clouded with a hopeless affection. "Is it so obvious?" he whispered, a sad smile touching his lips. "He is beautiful, is he not? Like a verse from Homer brought to life. And I am... a scribe's boy with ink on his fingers. His world is so far from mine, Y/N." He confessed his quiet, impossible crush, a secret he had held close in the lonely chambers of his heart.

You squeezed his arm, your own past heartaches giving you the perfect words of comfort. "Your heart is good and true, Arion. That is worth more than all the lyres in Ithaca. I am glad you trust me with its keeping." In that moment, your bond was cemented not as lovers, but as something arguably deeper: two souls weathering the same storm, offering each other the simple, profound gift of being understood.

Weeks later, Penelope tasked you and Telemachus with a discreet and urgent project. A shipment of rare Phoenician cloth, part of her dowry she wished to protect from the suitors' greedy eyes, needed to be moved from a lower storeroom to a hidden chamber behind her own suite. It was a task that required both strength and subtlety, forcing the two of you into close collaboration.

The first hour was a study in awkward silence. You worked with a detached efficiency, while Telemachus seemed afraid to even breathe too loudly in your presence. But the sheer physicality of the work slowly eroded the formality. As he passed you a heavy, cedar-lined box, his hand brushed yours, and a jolt of startled awareness passed between you. He pulled his hand back as if burned, murmuring a quick apology.

"It is heavy," you said simply, your voice even. "I will take that side."

Slowly, a new rhythm emerged. He began to defer to you. "Do you think this chest will fit through the west passage, Y/N? You know the architecture better than I." He no longer gave orders; he asked for your counsel. He treated you not as a servant, but as a trusted partner. As you worked, a shared memory surfaced—a time in childhood when you had both hidden in this very same secret passage during a game.

A small, hesitant smile touched his lips. "I remember you knew this hiding spot even then. You never told anyone where I was."

"It was a good hiding spot," you replied, and a genuine, answering smile bloomed on your face before you could stop it. It was a small moment, a fleeting truce, but it felt as significant as a sunrise after a long night. The air between you lightened, warmed by the ember of a shared past.

The breaking point for Telemachus came a few days later. He saw you in the garden with Arion. Your friend was clearly distraught, his shoulders slumped in defeat—Ctesippus had likely mocked him or treated him with casual cruelty. You were speaking to him in low, soothing tones, your expression one of fierce, protective loyalty. As you spoke, you reached out and cupped his cheek, tilting his face towards yours, a gesture of profound comfort and solidarity.

From Telemachus's vantage point, it was a devastating tableau. It looked like a lover comforting their heartbroken partner. He saw in that single touch a depth of intimacy he was now certain he could never hope to achieve. He believed, in that moment, that he had lost you completely and irrevocably. The pain was sharp, but it clarified his purpose. He could not keep pining for what was not his. For your sake, and for his own sanity, he had to let you go. Properly.

He found you that evening by the olive tree in the main courtyard, the place that had been the backdrop for so much of your shared history. He approached you not with the desperation of before, but with a somber, settled resolve.

You saw him coming and your heart gave a nervous flutter, but you stood your ground.

"Telemachus," you greeted him quietly.

He stopped a respectful distance away. "I will not keep you," he said, his voice low and steady. "I only... I needed to say something. I have spent these past weeks learning a difficult lesson, one you tried to teach me long ago. I see now what true companionship looks like. The respect. The kindness."

He swallowed, his gaze earnest and filled with a deep, painful sincerity. "I see the happiness you have found with Arion. He is a good and gentle man. He sees you, Y/N, in a way I was too blind to. You deserve that." He took a breath, the words costing him more than you could know. "My chance to be that man has passed. And I accept that. I only wished to say that I hope you will accept my sincerest wish for your future together. May it be long and happy."

You stared at him. The silence stretched, filled only by the chirping of crickets. His speech was so noble, so full of heartfelt, tragic renunciation that it would have been beautiful, were it not so utterly, completely, ridiculously wrong. A strangled sound escaped your throat, a noise somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.

"My future?" you repeated, your voice incredulous. "With Arion?"

He looked confused by your reaction. "Yes? I have seen... you are very close."

You looked at his handsome, earnest, completely bewildered face, and the dam of your composure finally broke. You laughed. It wasn't a small chuckle, but a full, rolling laugh of pure, unadulterated disbelief. You pressed a hand to your mouth, trying to stifle it, but it was no use.

"Telemachus," you finally managed, wiping a tear of mirth from your eye. "Arion is my dearest friend in this world. My brother. And the last person whose heart I would have any claim on." Seeing his utter confusion, you took pity on him. "His affections, my lord, lie with a certain suitor known for his skill with a lyre and his unfortunate choice in company."

The wave of emotions that crashed over Telemachus's face was a sight to behold. Shock. Disbelief. Stunned, dawning comprehension. And then, a wild, electrifying surge of hope so powerful it made him dizzy. All this time, he had been mourning a romance that had never existed.

"So you... you are not...?" he stammered, his princely composure gone.

"No," you said softly, your laughter subsiding into a warm, gentle smile. "We are not."

He looked at you then, truly looked at you, with all the walls between you shattered by the absurdity of it all. He saw the warmth in your eyes, the smile on your lips, and he saw his second chance, shimmering and improbable and more precious than any kingdom.

"Then, Y/N," he said, his voice thick with emotion, stepping closer until he could have reached out and touched you. "If your heart is not taken, and your future is not written..." He paused, his gaze locking with yours. "Would you allow me the honor of trying to earn it? Not as a prince who was a fool, but as a man who would spend a lifetime proving he has learned his lesson. Allow me to court you. Properly. With walks in the garden, and conversations that I will never again cut short. With the respect you have always deserved."

You looked at the man before you—humbled, sincere, and stripped of all his old arrogance. You saw the regret that had carved new lines of character into his face and the hope that now made his eyes shine. The last of the ice melted away, not in a flood, but in a gentle, sun-warmed thaw.

"Yes, Telemachus," you said, and your voice was full of a light he had never heard before. "Yes. I would like that very much."

[midnight1404]

Robb and his connection with the direwolves or magic and religion in general (part 2)

"How did the king ever take the Tooth?" Ser Perwyn Frey asked his bastard brother. "That's a hard strong keep, and it commands the hill road." "He never took it. He slipped around it in the night. It's said the direwolf showed him the way, that Grey Wind of his. The beast sniffed out a goat track that wound down a defile and up along beneath a ridge, a crooked and stony way, yet wide enough for men riding single file. The Lannisters in their watchtowers got not so much a glimpse of them." Rivers lowered his voice. "There's some say that after the battle, the king cut out Stafford Lannister's heart and fed it to the wolf." "I would not believe such tales," Catelyn said sharply. "My son is no savage."

Acok, Catelyn V

"A hall is no place for a wolf. He gets restless, you've seen. Growling and snapping. I should never have taken him into battle with me. He's killed too many men to fear them now. Jeyne's anxious around him, and he terrifies her mother." And there's the heart of it, Catelyn thought. "He is part of you, Robb. To fear him is to fear you." "I am not a wolf, no matter what they call me." Robb sounded cross. "Grey Wind killed a man at the Crag, another at Ashemark, and six or seven at Oxcross. If you had seen—"

...

He frowned. "Should I have Grey Wind sniff all my knights? There might be others whose smell he mislikes." "Any man Grey Wind mislikes is a man I do not want close to you. These wolves are more than wolves, Robb. You must know that. I think perhaps the gods sent them to us. Your father's gods, the old gods of the north. Five wolf pups, Robb, five for five Stark children." "Six," said Robb. "There was a wolf for Jon as well. I found them, remember? I know how many there were and where they came from. I used to think the same as you, that the wolves were our guardians, our protectors, until . . ." "Until?" she prompted. Robb's mouth tightened. ". . . .until they told me that Theon had murdered Bran and Rickon. Small good their wolves did them. I am no longer a boy, Mother. I'm a king, and I can protect myself." He sighed. "I will find some duty for Ser Rolph, some pretext to send him away. Not because of his smell, but to ease your mind. You have suffered enough."

Asos, Catelyn II

They carried the corpses in upon their shoulders and laid them beneath the dais. A silence fell across the torchlit hall, and in the quiet Catelyn could hear Grey Wind howling half a castle away. He smells the blood, she thought, through stone walls and wooden doors, through night and rain, he still knows the scent of death and ruin.

...

The axe crashed down. Heavy and well-honed, it killed at a single blow, but it took three to sever the man's head from his body, and by the time it was done both living and dead were drenched in blood. Robb flung the poleaxe down in disgust, and turned wordless to the heart tree. He stood shaking with his hands half-clenched and the rain running down his cheeks. Gods forgive him, Catelyn prayed in silence. He is only a boy, and he had no other choice.

Asos, Catelyn III

In the days that followed, Robb was everywhere and anywhere; riding at the head of the van with the Greatjon, scouting with Grey Wind, racing back to Robin Flint and the rearguard. Men said proudly that the Young Wolf was the first to rise each dawn and the last to sleep at night, but Catelyn wondered whether he was sleeping at all. He grows as lean and hungry as his direwolf.

Asos, Catelyn V

The sight of the dogs made Catelyn wish once more for Grey Wind, but Robb's direwolf was nowhere to be seen. Lord Walder had refused to allow him in the hall. "Your wild beast has a taste for human flesh, I hear, heh," the old man had said. "Rips out throats, yes. I'll have no such creature at my Roslin's feast, amongst women and little ones, all my sweet innocents." "Grey Wind is no danger to them, my lord," Robb protested. "Not so long as I am there." "You were there at my gates, were you not? When the wolf attacked the grandsons I sent to greet you? I heard all about that, don't think I didn't, heh."

"No harm was done—"

"No harm, the king says? No harm? Petyr fell from his horse, fell. I lost a wife the same way, falling." His mouth worked in and out. "Or was she just some strumpet? Bastard Walder's mother, yes, now I recall. She fell off her horse and cracked her head. What would Your Grace do if Petyr had broken his neck, heh? Give me another apology in place of a grandson? No, no, no. Might be you're king, I won't say you're not, the King in the North, heh, but under my roof, my rule. Have your wolf or have your wedding, sire. You'll not have both." Catelyn could tell that her son was furious, but he yielded with as much courtesy as he could summon. If it pleases Lord Walder to serve me stewed crow smothered in maggots, he'd told her, I'll eat it and ask for a second bowl. And so he had.

asos, Catelyn VII

(this last one is more for "stop the propaganda that book!robb didnt wanted greywind with him in the rw bc he didnt wanted to hear catelyn's advice bc YOURE WRONG (also trying to make satisfy walder the most possible was also catelyn's advice)")

[nalyra-dreaming]

I have a question because I don't remember what actually happened in the books, just what impression it left on me. But I keep seeing people talking about Armand and Lestat like it was this grand passionate MUTUAL love affair and I always saw it as pretty one-sided on Armand's side. Lestat came to love him eventually, but to me it was never passionate or romantic. More like the way you have love for someone who has been around most of your big life moments so that history creates connection and love. More of a platonic, familial type of thing. But then I just saw someone describe them as "feral for each other" and I'm confused. Am I remembering wrong? Or are people creating headcanons?

Wellllllllll.... It depends a bit on how you want to see it I guess.

I do think that Lestat is mightily attracted to Armand. And Armand to him. And in the "Cinderella scene" (I'll post it below), there is a lot of talk about love and desire.

But it also becomes clear through the scene that Armand is spell-binding Lestat, in order to (force-) feed on him. And thereby blows it - ultimately forever.

And against the far wall, a backdrop of satin and filigree, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, like something imagined, Armand. Armand. If there had been a summons, I never heard it. If there was a greeting, I didn't sense it now. He was merely looking at me, a radiant creature in jewels and scalloped lace. And it was Cinderella revealed at the ball, this vision, Sleeping Beauty opening her eyes under a mesh of cobwebs and wiping them all away with one sweep of her warm hand. The sheer pitch of incarnate beauty made me gasp. Yes, perfect mortal raiment, and yet he seemed all the more supernatural, his face too dazzling, his dark eyes fathomless and just for a split second glinting as if they were windows to the fires of hell. And when his voice came it was low and almost teasing, forcing me to concentrate to hear it: All night you've been searching for me, he said, and here I am, waiting for you. I have been waiting for you all along. I think I sensed even then, as I stood unable to look away, that never in my years of wandering this earth would I ever have such a rich revelation of the true horror that we are. Heartbreakingly innocent he seemed in the midst of the crowd.

Yet I saw crypts when I looked at him, and I heard the beat of the kettledrums. I saw torchlit fields where I had never been, heard vague incantations, felt the heat of raging fires on my face. And they didn't come out of him, these visions. Rather I drew them out on my own. Yet never had Nicolas, mortal or immortal, been so alluring. Never had Gabrielle held me so in thrall. Dear God, this is love. This is desire. And all my past amours have been but the shadow of this. And it seemed in a murmuring pulse of thought he gave me to know that I had been very foolish to think it would not be so. Who can love us, you and I, as we can love each other, he whispered and it seemed his lips actually moved. Others looked at him. I saw them drifting with a ludicrous slowness; I saw their eyes pass over him, I saw the light fall on him at a rich new angle as he lowered his head. I was moving towards him. It seemed he raised his right hand and beckoned and then he didn't, and he had turned and I saw the figure of a young boy ahead of me, with narrow waist and straight shoulders and high firm calves under silk stockings, a boy who turned as he opened a door and beckoned again. A mad thought came to me. I was moving after him, and it seemed that none of the other things had happened. There was no crypt under les Innocents, and he had not been that ancient fearful fiend. We were somehow safe. We were the sum of our desires and this was saving us, and the vast untasted horror of my own immortality did not lie before me, and we were navigating calm seas with familiar beacons, and it was time to be in each other's arms. A dark room surrounded us, private, cold. The noise of the ball was far away. He was heated with the blood he'd drunk and I could hear the strong force of his heart.

He drew me closer to him, and beyond the high windows there flashed the passing lights of the carriages, with dim incessant sounds that spoke of safety and comfort, and all the things that Paris was. I had never died. The world was beginning again. I put out my arms and felt his heart against me, and calling out to my Nicolas, I tried to warn him, to tell him we were all of us doomed. Our life was slipping inch by inch from us, and seeing the apple trees in the orchard, drenched in green sunlight, I felt I would go mad. "No, no, my dearest one, " he was whispering, "nothing but peace and sweetness and your arms in mine. "

"You know it was the damnedest luck! " I whispered suddenly. "I am an unwilling devil. I cry like some vagrant child. I want to go home. " Yes, yes, his lips tasted like blood, but it was not human blood. It was that elixir that Magnus had given me, and I felt myself recoil. I could get away this time. I had another chance. The wheel had turned full round. I was crying out that I wouldn't drink; I wouldn't, and then I felt the two hot shafts driven hard through my neck and down to my soul. I couldn't move. It was coming as it had come that night, the rapture, a thousandfold what it was when I held mortals in my arms. And I knew what he was doing! He was feeding upon me! He was draining me. And going down on my knees, I felt myself held by him, the blood pouring out of me with a monstrous volition I couldn't stop.

"Devil! " I tried to scream. I forced the word up and up until it broke from my lips and the paralysis broke from my limbs. "Devil! " I roared again and I caught him in his swoon and hurled him backwards to the floor.

Now, Lestat fights Armand off after this, but I think this is what a lot of the passion stems from - and also the reason why it will never come to pass.

Because Lestat does desire Armand. But Armand forced him, just after Magnus forced him. And that ended it, before it could really start, until time changed it into a more gentle love.

[grumpyoldfker]

Absolution

Rocks fell. Blood spilled. Eyes filled with sorrow and love met his own, a soft smile lingering even as she was buried beneath the weight of stone. His beloved. His Aleria. Sealed away in agony, lost to the ruin of their home while he could do nothing but watch.

The battlefield was a chorus of suffering. Blood soaked the boot-trodden grass. The sharp cries of the dying merged with the thunderous roar of war. A troll, wild with bloodlust, charged toward him, a crude axe raised high to deliver the killing blow.

Then Adonis awoke.

The covers lay in disarray, kicked aside from a night of restless thrashing. Sweat clung to his skin, beading along his brow and chest as his breath came in harsh, uneven gasps.

Your nightmares are unrelenting, old man.

Slowly, he sat up, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose before swinging his legs over the mattress. The cool marble floor met his bare feet, grounding him in the present. Yet, the voice in his mind did not relent. It taunted him, whispered at him to surrender—to let go of duty, of purpose, to wither into dust like the forgotten.

Her memory stains your very being.

Rising, Adonis moved to the window. The moon hung high, casting the courtyard in silver light. The weapons of his patrolling guardsmen glinted as they moved through the night, silent sentinels of his domain. His gaze flicked back to the bed. Sleep would not return to him—not with the past clawing at his mind, not with the phantom voices refusing to fade. He longed for release, for a reprieve from the weight of memory. But what freedom could the mind offer when it was the very thing ensnaring him?

His thoughts drifted to his Majordomo and his wisened words.

"My Lord, you are a man rooted in war, but one who branches out in valour and honour."

His gaze wandered the room until it settled upon his armor, standing tall upon its stand, each strap fastened with meticulous care. Beside it, his warhammer rested, waiting. He stepped forward, fingers curling around the hilt as he lifted it, turning the raw iron over in his hand.

"Old friend," he murmured. "You have seen more of me than any other."

He lowered the hammer, but he did not release it.

Are you truly just an old fool, destined to die in the halls of a decaying estate?

His brow furrowed. He moved to the door, heedless of his state—bare-chested, clad only in loose trousers—before stepping into the torchlit hall. The guards at his door snapped to attention, their expressions unreadable. If they found their Lord’s dishevelled state unusual, they did not show it.

Adonis moved through the winding corridors of his home until he reached the front entrance. He pushed through, stepping into the courtyard. The patrolling guards halted, their eyes flicking toward him. Without a word, he jerked his head toward a familiar space.

You are mad.

The soft foliage and cobbled paths gave way to the dust and dirt of the training grounds. Adonis stood in the center, waiting. His retinue had already understood the unspoken command. They advanced, drawing their weapons—not out of defiance, but duty. Duty that outweighed hesitation.

Do you wish to die, then?

The first blade struck. Adonis came alive. His hammer rose, parrying the blow with a forceful deflection that sent the attacker stumbling. Another lunged with unerring precision. He twisted, slipping past the strike, then pivoted, driving an elbow into the assailant’s jaw. More came. More fell away.

I like watching you dance, my love…

Two shielded guardsmen advanced in tandem, one feinting left, the other charging head-on. Adonis did not wait. He met the charge, crashing into the shielded warrior with the force of a bull, sending him sprawling. The second guard hesitated—just enough for Adonis to turn upon him, blade and hammer clashed in rapid succession. Then, with brutal efficiency, he drove a boot into the man’s chest, sending him reeling.

You are nothing more than an animal, clawing at the history of your failures.

Adonis stilled. His guards lay scattered at his feet, clutching their wounds, gazing up at him with a mixture of awe and unease. He closed his eyes.

And there she was.

Aleria. Her hand outstretched. A whisper of calm in the storm, offering peace to his endless rage.

His fingers slackened around the hilt. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached for her.

Who are you, my love?

Adonis opened his eyes. The ghost was gone. But his resolve remained.

His hand lowered as he exhaled, steady and sure.

"I am Lord Adonis B’andtherion—Patriarch of my house, the Bull upon the battlefield. Hear me well: no tide will drown my will, no storm will extinguish my fire. My lineage shall bear the weight of the fallen and stand where others falter. Let the world remember my name, let the stars bear witness—I am here and I am forever."

He turned to the men he had bested, watching as they rose to their feet, cradling their bruises and gripping their wounds with silent resilience. Not one among them faltered. One by one, they retrieved their swords, and then—without command, without hesitation—they struck their blades against their shields and roared. He roared with them in unity.

The sound rang out, deep and unyielding, a steady rhythm that surged through the night like rolling thunder. They encircled their Lord, their fealty absolute, their devotion forged in steel and blood. The echoes of their tribute carried across the Ghostlands, a testament to the unbroken will of their Patriarch.

[clockwork-ashes]

All You Have Is Your Fire - Part XXIII

Find all previous parts on Ao3 :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge thank you to the lovely @sad-scarred-sassy who deserves all the credit for the post that inspired me to start writing this :) Another huge thank you to everyone reading! ALSO please look at this post, I gasped it's so lovely. All of @teddyhoneybear's moodboards are stunning <3

Tag List: @anishake / @nocasdatsgay / @mybestfriendmademe / @talibunny30 / @halfbutneverwhole / @wishfulimaginings / @goldenmagnolias / @emmers-bens123 / @cauldronblssd / @xirose / @rarephloxes / @thehighlordishere / @the-darkestminds /

Unlike the oracles of Day, the witches in Autumn have been known to prompt visions of the future using herbs easily found within the forest… 

Elain felt her heart thudding against her chest, almost painfully. She tracked the following lines with her fingers. The aged ink was rough on her skin. She had to hold back a grin, growing increasingly more pleased with the information she had found. 

Jewelweed. 

Primrose. 

Oak leaves. 

Elain whispered the name of each plant, committing them to memory. 

Her first instinct was to tell Lucien, to have him know as soon as she did that she had finally stumbled across information that seemed useful. 

They had been searching the library with Cora’s help, carefully going through each book case, reading the titles on every shelf. Elain could hardly remember how many chapters she had read, and how many pages she had flipped through. Words had begun to melt together, and she much preferred to spend her spare time learning a little bit more about her mate. 

Lucien was with his mother, though, and in the silence of their shared chambers, Elain remembered his warning. She needed to become more familiar with her abilities. The thought was enough of a push to get her started on one of the larger and more intimidating books she had thrown onto the coffee table. 

Aster.

Sugar maple. 

Hemlock. 

Elain skimmed over each word on the list one final time, deciding she would instead go and find Cora. She had last seen the other woman with the High Lord’s wife, going over floral arrangements for the wedding. Cora seemed to enjoy all of the planning, and while Elain had initially been resistant to giving her opinion on the reception, she could admit there was a part of her that was secretly looking forward to seeing it all come together. 

Elain had to remind herself she was not actually marrying Lucien, not in any real sense. 

She quickly wrote a note on a piece of paper Lucien had already used to jot information he planned to further look into. Placing the side with her looping scrawl onto his pillow, Elain took a moment to straighten her skirts and slip on her shoes. She had told Lucien that she would simply stay in their rooms, but her mind was whirling with thoughts. 

While those in Autumn refer to themselves as witches, they are more commonly referred to as seers across Prythian and in most of the regions on the continent…

Elain tucked the heavy book close to her chest as she walked into the corridor, slamming the carved door shut behind her using her foot. She blew a stray curl away from her eyes, hoping that Cora had returned to her room but had not yet gone to sleep. 

The Forest House was always a little more quiet in the evenings, and Elain liked walking the torchlit halls better when there were less people around. She had not been expecting to see anyone, especially since Cora’s room was not really too far from her own. 

As Elain spotted Callum slowly approaching, she inched ever so slightly closer to the stone wall, hiding the title of the book with her arms. She smiled but chose not to wave, maintaining her friendly expression as he came closer. 

Unlike Felix and Ronan, who tended to holler her name and flash her viper-like grins, Callum was usually content to ignore her presence. He seemed very serious on most occasions, and while Lucien insisted he cared very little for his brothers, her mate always seemed to have good things to say about this one. 

“Lady,” Callum said in greeting, his rough voice ringing in the empty hall. He bowed his head, the short strands of his hair looking like copper coins in the light of the flickering torches. 

Elain was a bit surprised that he had addressed her at all, but she had become very talented when it came to hiding her emotions. She mirrored him, tilting her chin down politely in a practiced gesture. “Good evening.” 

Instead of continuing on his way, Callum slowed down. Elain watched as he awkwardly adjusted his dark jacket, as he cleared his throat. “Looking for Eris?” 

Elain shook her head, not entirely certain why he was interested, but she saw no harm in telling him the truth. “I’m going to see Cora,” the book she was holding felt heavy in her hands and she adjusted her hold on the ancient object. “My lady’s maid,” she added to clarify, thinking that perhaps he would not recognise the name. 

Elain saw as Callum scrunched his nose, familiar. It was almost as though she was looking at Lucien whenever he heard something he did not particularly like. He quickly replaced the expression with a tight lipped smile. “Have a nice night.” 

“You as well,” Elain offered, but Callum had already turned his back on her. She had to fight a frown, trying her absolute best to convince herself that he was simply in a hurry. The torches in the corridor flared brightly, shocking Elain into releasing a little yelp. Before she continued walking towards Cora’s room, she cast a glance around her to ensure no one else had witnessed her small moment of embarrassment.

Elain decided that she would not dwell on the interaction with Lucien’s older brother, balancing the book in one hand as she reached for her skirts. She skipped steps as she went down a flight of stairs, turning a sharp corner and finding herself face to face with Lethe. 

If Elain had given it a moment’s thought, she would have assumed that the Autumn Court noble was blocking her path. She was not entirely fond of the other woman, but she smiled despite it, eager to maintain a level of peace between them. Elain remembered the way that Lethe had danced with Lucien during their first few nights at the Forest House, jealousy a wild beast within her, but she swallowed the feeling away. 

“Good evening, Lethe.” Elain said, keeping the slight annoyance from her tone, choosing to ignore her title. 

The smile she received in return was vicious, embers dancing in her eyes. Elain tried her best to just move past her, but Lethe blocked her path again in a flurry of black skirts. Elain noticed, for the first time, how pale the other woman was. It gave Lethe an eerie appearance, even if Elain could admit that she was lovely. 

“Lady Elain Archeron,” she responded, her brown hair styled in a braid that made it look as though she were wearing a crown. 

“Can I help you?” Elain asked, losing whatever patience she had for the creature in front of her. She remembered her manners, tilting her head to the side as if she were genuinely curious. 

Lethe shrugged, the movement elegant, like a dancer. She looked Elain up and down, her eyes falling to the book. With a small frown, she spoke. “How kind of you to ask, but no.” 

Elain attempted to move past Lethe one final time, but as she was blocked once more, her urge to groan grew significantly. Nose in the air and trying her best to imitate the Lady of Autumn, Elain’s tone was serious. “I’d like to get by,” she said, making it very clear that she was in no mood for courtly games. 

Lethe hummed, “I suppose you can pass.” She shifted out of the way, leaving a very small space for Elain to squeeze through. She looked at the nails of her hand in a gesture obviously meant as a slight. Dark brows raised, Lethe asked a final question, the words a seductive drawl. “Have I been distracting?” 

While Elain could detect the amusement in her tone, she had no idea what Lethe might be referring to. Ignoring the courtier, Elain moved around her, using all of her self control not to shoot her a frustrated glare. She could not help mumbling an annoyed “unfortunately” under her breath as soon as she was sure that Lethe would not be able to hear her. 

Elain quickened her steps, she had had enough interactions for the night and she really only wanted to speak with Cora. She held onto the book in her hands tightly, hoping that neither Callum or Lethe had seen the title or recognised the spine. 

As soon as she found herself in front of the thick door leading into Cora’s room, Elain felt as her shoulders dropped in relief. She had not even noticed that she was tense, but she was glad at the very least that Cora’s presence was always enough to ease her nerves. 

Elain raised her hand, fingers closed into a fist, ready to knock on the aged wood. Before Elain could do so, the door opened suddenly, Eris marching through the arch of stone in a blur of red hair and white shirtsleeves. 

Elain lost her breath as the heir to the Autumn Court crashed into her much smaller frame. She dropped the book as she collided into him, but Eris snapped out his hands, catching her before she could stumble. Her nose was pressed uncomfortably against his chest and she had loose curls of her own hair stuck between her teeth. 

Elain looked up, ready to make her displeasure clear, and to perhaps even bother Eris a little bit, but a wave of foreboding went over her. She felt unwell, like the stone floor had given way beneath her feet. 

Elain heard as Eris said her name, but it was a faraway sound, as though he were speaking underwater. She could still feel the grip he had on her arms, gentle. Golden eyes flashed brightly as Elain gasped, air pulled from her lungs. She was shocked at how easily her body went limp, at the feeling of her muscles losing their ability to keep her upright. 

Elain tried to ask Eris for help, but the world was a blur, and as everything snapped back into focus, she was no longer in the Forest House. 

There was a dagger made of gold in Elain’s hands. She held the weapon carefully, the blade flashing in the light of the setting sun. Elain let her finger drag along the edge. 

Rose petals, dark as blood, fell against a leaf strewn path. Elain took a small step, twigs snapping like fragile bones beneath her bare feet. 

A wolf howled somewhere in the distance, and agony ripped through Elain’s chest. The sound echoed in her ears, sharp and loud. 

Over and over, again and again, the wolf howled. 

Elain dropped the dagger, put her hands over her ears, and clenched her eyes shut. 

All she could see was unending darkness. 

Elain woke up slowly, pins and needles traveling up her legs uncomfortably. She shifted, placing her fingers against her temple in an effort to steady herself. As her eyes fluttered open, the room stopped its spinning, everything returning back to normal. 

Elain wanted Lucien, but she instead found herself with Eris. 

He would have carried her, she decided. Eris had placed her carefully on a small bed, the skirts of her dress trailing off of the mattress and onto the carpeted floors. The room came into focus, the flames in the fireplace were stoked to brightness and shadows fell across the walls.  

Elain blinked just as Eris leaned over her. Worry lined his expression, a frown pulling at his lips, but his voice sounded angry as he spoke. “What was that?” 

Elain took a moment to respond, choosing instead to sit up. Eris helped her lean against the headboard, offering her his hand so she could scoot along the covers. She looked around Cora’s room, taking in the familiar and neat surroundings. 

Elain’s eyes fell to the small sketchbook on the nightstand, where a lovely drawing of a hound was on the open page. She breathed in deeply to ground herself and to gather her thoughts, keeping her gaze pointedly away from Eris. Mixed with Cora’s scent of mountain air and spruce trees lingered the smell of apple orchards and campfires, distinctly Autumn. If Elain were less worried about what Eris would have said about her visions, she might have asked him why the pillows smelled like his jacket. 

“Elain, what was that?” He repeated, dragging fingers through his hair. He said it softly, encouraging her to speak freely. 

Elain frowned, finally meeting his eyes. “I had a dizzy spell,” she blushed, hoping Eris would believe her lie. 

“That’s a human ailment.” He replied, waving her comment off with a dismissive flick of his wrist. The worry was slowly leaving his features, his brows furrowing slightly in thought. Elain watched his eyes sharpen with a calculating edge, and could practically sense the way he was going over the events leading up to her vision. 

Even worse, Elain could feel as the level of trust carefully built between them began to crack, on the verge of shattering completely. 

Eris watched her, tracking each small movement with a predator’s precision. Elain sighed, knowing Lucien would not like the idea she was contemplating. Her resolve broke entirely as Eris raised an auburn eyebrow. 

“Eris,” she began, licking her lips and remembering who exactly Eris was. He was known for being awful and cruel, Lucien had accused him on multiple occasions of being selfish and manipulative, her entire family hated him with a passion. Elain placed a hand on his arm, overstepping perhaps in a way, but he did not flinch from the pleading look she cast him. “Eris, I need your word.” 

He held her stare, tilting his head. Flames flashed in his eyes as he nodded. “You have it.” 

Elain knew he could very well be lying, that Eris could simply turn around and share what he learned with his father, but she somehow knew that would not be the case. A memory flashed in her mind, one from years before, Cassian mentioning how Beron had tortured his own son, a frown on his usually smiling face. 

“You can’t tell a soul,” she said softly, but she tightened the hold she had on his arm. 

“You have my word, Elain Archeron,” Eris smiled, his promise cutting the tension in the room. Unlike his fleeting amusement, the genuine emotion transformed his sharp features until he became a softer male. The torches flared around them in response. “I do love a good secret.”  

And so Elain told Eris Vanserra, prince of Autumn, one of the Night Court’s most well kept ones. 

[edosianorchids901]

Whips and Scorns of Time

@fwfanweekend prompt - "past, present, future"

Something had clearly gone exceedingly wrong during the ritual. Ordinarily, Holmes found the patterns of power easy to manipulate, to seize control, to redirect it into something harmless.

Perhaps he had accidentally redirected it into himself. The ritual had been intended to affect time, to warp it, to unravel the stitches of the present until time reached the point they wished. To return to the point of Rochester’s ritual, and this time raise the Great One.

Holmes had managed to avert that, at least, but based on the rapid and unsettling swirl of images around him, he had lost his own grip on time. Past, present, and what might be future flashed all around him, scenes flickering against the grey haze.

“Like a magic lantern show,” Holmes said to himself in the steadiest tone he could manage. “My heart, be calm. This is merely another realm, and thus can be escaped.”

He looked around. Other than the grey haze and the images, he could see no way to shed his blood or meet his demise.

“And thus, no way to advance. A shame there are no convenient cliffs nearby. Or axes.” Sighing, Holmes studied the barrage of images. A garden with a pond. A chamber full of cultists with obsidian daggers. A man aiming a gun at him. “Well, those are certainly all deadly enough. Perhaps they hold the clue.”

It wasn’t merely deadly scenes that flashed around him, however, however. There were others. A library, with Jon sitting atop a bookshelf. Watson beside him, expression determined. And another garden, a different garden, one with fat lazy bees drifting through the air.

“Peaceful gardens will not help me advance through this ritual, if it is still a ritual and I am not lost to time for all eternity,” he remarked, attempting to ignore his racing pulse. “With that cheerful thought, let us see what lies in the past.”

Or at least, that had been his intention. But as he reached towards the ghostly image of that pond, and of his mother, it changed. Rather than his mother’s chair, his fingers touched a different image, one of a torchlit mausoleum and a man aiming a gun at him.

The man fired just as the world crystallized, and Holmes cried out at the sudden, terrible pain in his chest. He had been shot before, but not like this. Not in a way that seemed extremely fatal.

“Holmes!” an extremely familiar voice screamed as he fell. Another gunshot roared, and a cry of pain answered. “My God, Holmes, no!”

“Watson.” Blood ran across Holmes’ lips, although given that he had only just stepped into this moment, he could not be certain whether it had originated due to the gunshot. “John.”

“I’m here. Sherlock, I’m here.” Watson’s arms were around him in an instant, lifting and cradling him as he wheezed. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t fast enough, I…”

“You’re older,” Holmes said, and then winced at himself. Yes, Watson was clearly older, with more lines to his face and grey hairs in his mustache. That was, however, to be expected if he was glimpsing the future.

What he had not expected, however, was for Watson to suddenly let out a weak laugh. “Oh, thank heavens. This is now. I hoped, but… Listen, Sherlock, you’re going to be all right. I know you’ll be all right.”

“I fear I am… somewhat less certain.” Holmes coughed, and agony seized his chest again. “I seem to have been shot.”

“I know. You told me about this, that you saw it.” Tears running down his cheeks, Watson hugged him closer and kissed his brow. “But it will be all right. You told me this is not the end.”

It certainly felt like the end, the world going dark, hot blood pumping out of his body, pain tearing him open. It was just as likely that he had lied to Watson. That having witnessed his own death, he had lied about it, knowing that otherwise the shadow would constantly lie across them both, rather than just one.

But there was no time to say anything, for what time remained was slipping away. Holmes’ vision blurred and darkened, his heart weakening with each beat. Watson was speaking to him, tone increasingly urgent. Holmes could not answer him, body no longer responding at all to his wishes.

And then, there was silence.

When the world reappeared, everything was different. The sun shone down brightly, the sort of sun that Holmes knew remarkably well.

“Cordona,” he murmured, and startled at the sound of his own voice, the voice of a child. “I’m on Cordona.”

“‘Course you are, Sherry. We’ve been here a month, remember?”

Tears stung Holmes’ eyes at that familiar voice, a voice that he had greatly missed these past few years. “Jon.”

They were in town, with Holmes carrying a stack of books. There was no indication of which day this was, but there had been so many like it that it hardly mattered. Running an errand for Mycroft, most likely.

“I’m right here, Sherry.” Jon touched his arm, and Holmes turned towards him. “Are you all right?”

Jon looked young, which made sense given that he had always seemed to be the same age as Holmes. Young, and quite understandably concerned.

“I am,” Holmes said, feeling at his chest. There was, predictably, no wound. “It’s good to see you, Jon. I’ve… I’ve missed you.”

It was a foolish thing to say, everything considered, but Jon’s eyes widened. “Whoa. You’re not my Sherry at all, are you?”

“I fear not.” Pain twisted in Holmes’ chest, but there was little point in chastising a past version of Jon for the future one abandoning him. Nor was there any point to going home, to asking his mother why she had done what she had done while she was still alive to answer. “And I cannot stay. Unless I am about to be run over by a cart or nearly killed in some other fashion, this is not the way forward.”

“Not today.” Sorrow clouded Jon’s face, and he sighed. “See you later, Sherry.”

Holmes closed his eyes, concentrating, and the warmth of the sun and sounds of Cordona vanished. They were replaced by chanting, by drums, and by Watson crying out his name.

Opening his eyes, Holmes found himself at a ritual site, but not the one at the mausoleum with an older Watson. That was his Watson, and this was the present, or very near it. Slightly before Holmes had stopped the ritual.

It was still underway at present, cultists bowing to mystic artifacts that looked as if they had not come from this planet. The drawing room of the country house was full of them.

And then they turned, daggers in hand. Last time this happened, Holmes had dodged them, destroyed the artifacts, and then tried to take charge of the power.

This time, he simply remained where he was, waiting for them to stab him. These rituals always wanted his life, and he must end this one properly if he wanted to ensure that it did not unravel history for the whole world.

The cultists did not stab him, though. They seized him and threw him down on a table that seemed to be serving as altar. Hands clamped around his throat, strangling him.

It was like drowning. Holmes thrashed instinctively, but he couldn’t break free. Ringing in his ears drowned out even Watson’s desperate shouts of his name.

The world blurred, darkened, and then again, there was silence.

He could feel the world changing around him, could feel the cold of the country house vanishing, to be replaced by something warmer. And yet, he kept his eyes shut, shuddering.

Ordinarily, he was curious at all times. At present, however, he had little wish to know what horrifying situation he might encounter next in time. Another shooting? A stabbing?

Or perhaps the time he dreaded most of all. With his mother in the garden, and the pond.

The sound of bees buzzing filled his ears, and sun shone down on him. But before he could panic, before he could become certain that he was about to be drowned, an extremely familiar voice spoke. “Sherlock? Are you all right?”

Holmes opened his eyes. He was indeed in a garden, but this time kneeling on the ground beside a flowerbed, damp soil on his hands. And beside him… “John.”

Watson smiled at him. He was much, much older this time, perhaps in his sixties. He’d put on weight as he aged, and the lines in his face were deeper still. His hair was nearly all grey now, save for a few streaks of brown.

He looked good. He looked happy.

“Are you all right?” he asked kindly, dusting his own hands off and touching Holmes on the shoulder. “Is it your hands?”

Holmes glanced down at his hands, then dusted them off. They hurt, as did all of his joints, and indeed his muscles. Watson, too, moved stiffly. “Ah, no. Not quite. I fear I am not your Sherlock.”

“Not my Sherlock?” For a brief moment, fear crossed Watson’s face. But then it eased, and he nodded. “Ah, of course. What year was that ritual? Eighteen eighty-four?”

“Eighty-five,” Holmes said with relief. He dusted his fingers more thoroughly, unbuttoned his shirt, and felt his chest. There was a scar there, from where he was shot.

“You survived that,” Watson said kindly. “I told you that you would, because you had told me. You said I must never fear for you, for we would grow old and happy together.”

Holmes smiled, taking Watson’s weathered hand in his. For the moment, his own was just as weathered, just as old. “If this is a reflection of reality, that is. If you are not a hallucination, or a dying gasp of my mind reaching for a comforting, imagined future.”

Watson chuckled and stroked his thumb across Holmes’ skin. “In some ways, you never change. I know you will not believe me, but we have been friends and partners for forty years now. We have indeed grown old and happy together.���

“Well, if this is real, then I am glad of that.” Holmes studied the garden, and the nearby beehives. Further away, there was a house, and a barn with horses grazing in an adjacent paddock. “Sussex, unless I am mistaken. But I fear I must leave now.”

“I know. You must face *her*.” Expression darkening, Watson gathered his other hand as well. “I wish there was more that I could do, Sherlock. That I could somehow give you strength, for I know this is terrifying for you. All I can tell you is that it will be all right, and that I will be there for you when you find your way to your present.”

“Thank you, John. That is enough to fortify me for the struggle ahead, as your words have always been.” Holmes closed his eyes again, and let go of this peaceful, happy future. He did not belong to it, not yet.

Nor did he belong to that horrible, shattering moment that he must confront next. It would seem real. His mother would seem real.

But she was dead, and this moment was in the past. He would die again, or nearly so, and then he would return to his present, and to Watson who would be waiting for him.

He confronted the past with open eyes, not hesitating this time, focusing on the precise moment that he needed. The grey haze blurred, and then he was back in the garden with the pond.

And with his mother. Instinctive terror clawed at him as she surged out of her chair. Her slap hurt as much as the first time, and so did his body crashing to the ground. And then the pain of being dragged across the garden, her grip crushing.

“Mum, it hurts!” he cried again, unable to stop the childish, instinctive plea from slipping out. It would do no good this time, no more than it had done the first. “Mum, stop!”

“Who are you?” she cried, madness in her voice, the same madness that Holmes so feared falling into. “Reveal yourself!”

His pleas did nothing. She didn’t believe him. And this time, he really wasn’t her Sherry, which no doubt did not help matters.

She seized him, hurled him into the pond, and held him under. Hatred, madness, and the veil of the water distorted her once-beloved face. Holmes struggled, panicking, water burning his lungs.

He was going to die, he was going to die here, drowned again. He tried to call out for her, for Mycroft, for Jon, for John. He couldn’t.

The water took him, and there was only darkness, and silence.

It seemed to stretch out forever, an eternity. He couldn’t move now. He couldn’t do anything.

Had he trapped himself between seconds? Or broken time itself?

But then time began to move again, and the darkness cleared. He tried to breathe, and couldn’t, and his heart pounded faster. Was he still drowning?

“Holmes! Sherlock, can you hear me? Easy, breathe. Just breathe.”

Holmes breathed, or tried to, and then coughed. His throat hurt. “John.”

“Oh, thank God. Easy, now, you had a close call. Those cultists nearly strangled you to death.” Watson’s face blurred into view, eyes wide and frightened. “I’m assuming that you did something to the ritual? I shot some artifacts, and that made them let you go, but then they just fainted.”

Too exhausted to speak, Holmes nodded. He could easily sleep for a week, were it not for the nightmares. “Yes. The ritual is over. Time is safe, and so is the world.”

It was all something of a blur after that. Watson helped him out of the house, leaving the unconscious cultists behind with the shattered remains of their dreams for raising the Great One. They borrowed a horse and trap, and drove back to the inn where they had spent the previous night.

“You must… alert the local constable,” Holmes managed as Watson helped him to their rooms. His throat ached, words rasping, and he was developing a horrible headache. “Send them out.”

“I will, just as soon as you’re lying down.” Watson was pale, but his expression resolute. “You nearly died. You must rest.”

“For once, I shall not argue.” Particularly as he had died, in a sense.

Once in bed, he closed his eyes and simply waited for Watson to return. As he was incapable of being without mental stimulation, he turned his thoughts to time, and to what he had seen.

It was, without a doubt, fascinating. He had seen enough strange, powerful forces by now not to doubt what could be done, and yet it boggled the mind to think that travel through time was possible, even mentally.

The past had been accurate, to the last detail. The sights and smells of Cordona, just as he remembered. His mother’s madness and violence, the same. If it was not truly the past, then it was as accurate a facsimile as could be made.

As for the present, it seemed that by his inaction when he returned to the ritual, he had changed things. Originally, he had not been strangled, merely caught up in the swirl of time. Now, in what had become the present, he had certainly been strangled.

But what of the future? Had that future been real? Even with all the darkness in the world, would he and Watson someday live in Sussex, with a garden, horses, and bees? Would they truly have a long, happy life?

It was a strange thing to contemplate. To a certain extent, Holmes had always presumed he would have a short life, that he would either go mad or be killed on a case. And yet, it had felt real. That happy future had felt so very real.

Perhaps it was.

When Watson returned, Holmes gave him a tired smile and lifted his fingers. “Watson.”

“My dear Holmes.” With a shaky exhale, Watson sat beside him, took his hand, and kissed it. “The local authorities are on their way to the house, and I gave them all the information they needed about the various criminal activities, the kidnappings and so on.”

“And they believed you?”

“Well, not at first. But I mentioned your name, and that changed matters.” Watson beamed at him, a little teary. “It seems my stories are giving you a reputation.”

“Mm.” Given the current state of Holmes’ throat, it was likely best to delay any comments about what sort of reputation Watson’s fanciful stories must be giving him. He simply wished to be together. “Are you all right?”

“Well, I’m better now that you’re… responding again.” Watson hesitated, then pressed on. “Will you tell me what happened? Later, I mean. I know something strange happened during that ritual. I could see it in your eyes when you came back.”

“Yes. Strange indeed.” Holmes drew another rasping breath, and winced. According to the future encounters, he had told Watson all about this. About what had happened during the ritual, and about those glimpses of a life together. Perhaps after a little sleep, they could discuss it over brandy and a pipe, if Watson would let him smoke at present. “Later, I will gladly tell you.”

“Well, I admit I’m excited to hear all about it. For now, you certainly must rest, and I believe I must too.” Moving somewhat stiffly, his arm and leg no doubt sore, Watson laid down beside him. “But we have plenty of time for that.”

“Quite.” Smiling, Holmes snuggled against him and closed his eyes. “You and I have plenty of time, for everything.”

[savagewilderness]

Artists of Tumblr.... A Plea.

The next bit of TVL audio book, I intend to attempt one of my daft improvisations to shall follow. If anyone would like to create art (specifically of this Armand, especially if inspired by Assad Armand) for it and are happy to collaborate, given that I shall tag you.... I will place your image (or images, if you do more than one, or if more than one person responds) with whatever I improvise along with this bit of narrated audiobook when the time comes that I improvise to it.

I cannot promise the quality of what I'll improvise, as who knows till I do it. But...

"And against the far wall, a backdrop of satin and filigree, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, like something imagined, Armand.

Armand.

If there had been a summons, I never heard it. If there was a greeting, I didn't sense it now. He was merely looking at me, a radiant creature in jewels and scalloped lace. And it was Cinderella revealed at the ball, this vision, Sleeping Beauty opening her eyes under a mesh of cobwebs and wiping them all away with one sweep of her warm hand. The sheer pitch of incarnate beauty made me gasp.

Yes, perfect mortal raiment, and yet he seemed all the more supernatural, his face too dazzling, his dark eyes fathomless and just for a split second glinting as if they were windows to the fires of hell. And when his voice came it was low and almost teasing, forcing me to concentrate to hear it: All night you've been searching for me, he said, and here I am, waiting for you. I have been waiting for you all along.

I think I sensed even then, as I stood unable to look away, that never in my years of wandering this earth would I ever have such a rich revelation of the true horror that we are.

Heartbreakingly innocent he seemed in the midst of the crowd.

Yet I saw crypts when I looked at him, and I heard the beat of the kettledrums. I saw torchlit fields where I had never been, heard vague incantations, felt the heat of raging fires on my face. And they didn't come out of him, these visions. Rather I drew them out on my own.

Yet never had Nicolas, mortal or immortal, been so alluring. Never had Gabrielle held me so in thrall.

Dear God, this is love. This is desire. And all my past amours have been but the shadow of this.

And it seemed in a murmuring pulse of thought he gave me to know that I had been very foolish to think it would not be so.

Who can love us, you and I, as we can love each other, he whispered and it seemed his lips actually moved.

Others looked at him. I saw them drifting with a ludicrous slowness; I saw their eyes pass over him, I saw the light fall on him at a rich new angle as he lowered his head.

I was moving towards him. It seemed he raised his right hand and beckoned and then he didn't, and he had turned and I saw the figure of a young boy ahead of me, with narrow waist and straight shoulders and high firm calves under silk stockings, a boy who turned as he opened a door and beckoned again."

[obsidian-dovahkiin]

Hearthside Heroes (Closed TES RP)

It was a frigid and lonely night. The icy winds blew harshly, leaving the cobbled streets empty. It was the kind of cold that would reach into people's bones, where each step becomes a prayer for a torchlit doorway. They almost feel the warmth of the fire inside in their daydreams. Letting that feeling become legitimate in their mind, rather than the freezing reality as they dismally trudge forward. Not even the animals seemed to stir from their homes, equally aware of the unappealing winds outside. A cold night usually gives people a reason to draw closer to one another, to feel the natural warmth mortals are born to give. Sitting comfortably, cosy in front of a fire. Perhaps with a warm drink, to warm them from the inside. Obsidian was not amongst them.

Though she hailed from the sun-scorched Ashlands of Vvardenfell, the biting chill of Skyrim no longer fazed her. The first years spent in this frigid land had been a daunting test, with ice-laden winds gnawing at her skin like a persistent, unwanted companion. Her responsibilities as the Dragonborn left little room for respite, but necessity forged resilience. In her quest to adapt, she learned to endure the numbing embrace of the cold by plunging herself into the invigorating waters of Lake Illinalta. Each frigid dip hardened her spirit and fortified her body against the relentless winter.

This resilience played a pivotal role in her ultimate decision to claim this rugged land as her forever home. Lakeview Manor, nestled conveniently close to the lake, stood in quiet harmony with its surroundings, a refuge against the elements. As she turned her gaze towards the estate, the flickering glow of candlelight leaked from the windows, casting warm, golden hues that danced across the encroaching darkness. Beyond, her garden swayed gently, a colorful tapestry woven from vibrant leaves and delicate petals, rustling softly in the crisp breeze as if whispering secrets to the night.

On the grassy embankment, her leather-bound journal rested open, its pages fluttering gently in the breeze. Beside it sat a bottle of Sparkling Honeydew wine, a thoughtful gift from her adoptive father Vorcano, its shimmering label catching the moonlight. Neatly folded next to the journal and wine were her clothes, each piece carefully arranged as if awaiting her return. The scene was a quiet reflection of her life, a blend of cherished memories and the simplicity of a moment spent in solitude. These moments were becoming increasingly more common. It had been four years since Obsidian had battled with Alduin, putting the World Eater to rest. So many memories, warm and full played through her mind. She would never forget the feeling of arriving in Whiterun for the first time. Never forget the first time she met her future companion Serana. Never forget her celebrated return home after defeating Alduin. Never forget meeting the Unbound Dremora who would go on to be her partner. Never forget when she and Lydia woke up in a haybale after a long night at the Bannered Mare. Never forget how proud she felt to hear Hermaeus Mora name her as his champion. So many memories.

The one on her mind presently was that of her husband Alessandre. The half-giant spectacle that he was. She remembered a time she had business to attend to in Whiterun. While dashing around the city, she noticed Alessandre was surrounded by a group of children sitting at his feet. They were fascinated with the stories he was proclaiming, each bombarding him with questions. Obsidian was uncertain if her husband had even noticed her presence. Though the sight of him in that moment burned into her memory. The thought of children was something that used to annoy Obsidian. She was far too busy to start a family, and there was no way she would raise a child in the war-torn lands of Skyrim. However, she didn't dare to leave her life behind and return to her tribe to have a child. Even if she chose this, what use would it be? Her duty as Dragonborn and Daedrologist would continuously get in her way. Although that memory…. it repeated in her head over and over to the point of near insanity. The way he smiled at them, the way they looked at him. How safe they all felt around a man who should theoretically send them scarpering.

Obsidian sighed, leaning her head back against the grassy bank as she opened her eyes to the stars and the moons, Masser and Secunda. From a young age, she had desired more than the mundane life of an Ashlander. She had accomplished numerous great feats and achieved everything her heart desired. She was a sung hero, an asset to the study of Daedrology and a local hero of the province. Yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was still more waiting for her out there.

But what?

[lampadions-pickle]

can't believe elliot called (comic) elliot being marginally evil several years before it started becoming a thing in tDC

[scotianostra]

January 2nd 2010 saw the sudden death of David R Ross.

David R Ross became known as “the biker historian” after writing a string of highly acclaimed books on Scottish history, notably about William Wallace. For his research, he travelled his native land in full black leathers on his black Kawasaki motorcycle. At 6ft 5in tall, and in the kilt when not in leathers, he was often told he’d have made a far better Wallace in Braveheart than “that wee Aussie”. Nevertheless, Ross respected Mel Gibson’s 1995 movie and believed it “raised the profile of Wallace and pricked the Scottish psyche to a great extent. There had been nothing like this in Scotland since 1978 when we were going to win the World Cup in Argentina with Ally’s Army,” he said. In 2005, the 700th anniversary of Wallace’s judicial murder.

Ross gained domestic and international prominence when he set off on a Walk for Wallace, retracing his hero’s final trip from Robroyston, Glasgow, where he had been betrayed and captured, to Smithfield in London, where he was hanged, drawn and quartered. Along the 450-mile way, “Big Davy” was cheered by Scots and hundreds joined him for the final six-mile hike into London. There, he presided over a symbolic funeral service for Wallace at the St Bartholomew the Great church in Smithfield, close to the spot where he died. Ross’s dream, was to bring the Scottish patriot “home” for a symbolic funeral he had been denied 700 years earlier when his body was cut into pieces to be displayed throughout the land as a warning to other would-be independence fighters. Ross and his supporters carried a coffin they said was carrying Wallace’s spirit, packed with letters, poems and good wishes from Scots.

On their return to Scotland, they held a torchlit parade in Lanark and buried the coffin there, at St Kentigern’s church.

Ross was serving convener of the Society of William Wallace, set up to preserve the memory of the Scottish patriot, which meets in Elderslie, Renfrewshire, where Wallace is thought to have been born.

David R. Ross died on this dayy 2010 in his home in East Kilbride due to a heart attack.

Sadly I never got to meet David as I only started taking an active part in the memorials and such of Scottish Battles since around 2012, but I have heard many people talk about him, and know just like another convener of the Society of William Wallace, Duncan Fenton, who I did know, David was a very well respected man.

You can read David’s own biography on his blog here http://davidrross.scot/biog.htm?fbclid=IwAR2oNwNhYr8jLltv3w6S7R7wSWXaLYWimPTGASE03NG8vi4Sq0r1UZ5Kvi8

[wolfawaycamp]

Anything Bobby/Jacob. Please. I am so tired of paddling my rarepair pool noodle alone in the Quarry pond.

Maybe set when Bobby has to get him down from the trap? I am begging 🙏

🌦️ the monkey’s paw curls. I wrote bobbyjake :)

Jacobus seethed from inside his family’s private box at the Amphitheatrum Flavium. He wished his family never found out he was really an omega, not a beta like he had been pretending to be when he first presented. The patrician class always spoke of male omegas as a gift, as great politicians and orators who could continue the family line without doubt of relation. But male omegas were banned from the military and his best friend Nicolus Furcillus— an equestrian family, not a patrician like Jacobus— had enlisted to fulfil his proper duties as a Roman vir. Jacobus just missed his best friend. He wasn't even very good at being a politician, either— he’d do better in battle, wearing lorica segmentata alongside his comrades.

The venationes were pretty dull today, he thought. Not even the more exotic animals they kept bringing out for the fights made it exciting. He couldn't leave though, for the same reason he had to attend. He needed to keep his public image up if he wanted any chance of keeping his political career afloat now that he was moving into his twenties as an unmated omega.

Then they brought the wolves out and there was a man with rippling muscles exposed for all to see— and a hat Jacobus had never seen before. He had no weapons. Jacobus was immediately intrigued.

There was a bizarre art to the brutality of his fighting style— tearing right through wild wolves like they were nothing. He had to be an alpha. Jacob felt a pang of jealousy at the status he held, even though it was ridiculous because Jacob was in the patrician class and the man was down there. Finally, something interesting.

“Serve, quis est?” Jacobus asked his maid once he took himself out of his trance. (Slave, who is he?)

“Nomen ei est Bobbius Hackettus,” his maid responded quickly. (His name is Bobby Hackett.)

“Quid? Ignobiles— isti Hacketti?” (What? The dishonoured— those Hacketts?)

“Sic. Pugnat ut reddat debita pro familia eius.” (Yes. He fights to pay debts for his family.)

Bobbius was still fighting, still going, dripping with blood. Jacobus had to meet him. After Bobbius had finished, Jacobus decided to slip away from his box— surely no one would question a quick break. He bribed his way into the hunter’s quarters easily with his patrician status and money. They barely cared at all, but when presented with a couple sesterces that care went down to none.

“Hackette!” Jacobus called out upon seeing the familiar rippling back muscles, mid cleaning himself with olive oil. There was still a lot of blood on him. (Hackett!)

“Quis est?” the man asked, turning around. He looked a lot more… innocent up close, somehow. There was a softness in his eyes. (Who is it?)

But still… Jacobus wasn't used to being so much smaller than someone, even alphas— he had always been a tall omega. It felt a little scary, considering the man was cleaning wolf blood from his body— but something deep inside him was preening at the thought of the size difference.

“Jacobus Custo. Pugnabas bene,” he asked awkwardly. He didn't know what he was doing down here, he was running on pure adrenaline. (Jacob Custos. You were fighting well.)

“Bene facis— pugnas?” Bobbius responded, giving him a nod. Jacobus couldn't keep his eyes off the oil and blood on his chest shining in the torchlit room. (Thank you— you fight?)

Jacobus felt shame run through him, which he was sure Bobbius could smell in the pheromones he had suddenly lost control of. “Minime. Vetitus est— sum… omega.” (Nope. It is forbidden— I am… an omega.)

🌦️(if my Latin is wrong it's not my fault, I am sick xoxo)

[deathbypixelz]

No Sister Left Behind (4.3k)

New one shot :) This one details Tarinne's escape from the Alliance outpost in which she'd be imprisoned and interrogated during the Third War. It's from the perspective of one of the Sentinels attacking the outpost during the recovery mission.

If you haven't already, read this post I made on my WoW/OC sideblog, as it explains a headcanon/AU thing that's central to this one shot.

AO3 link in case anyone (with an account) would prefer to read it on there.

-----

It’s been only months since the humans and orcs landed on Kalimdor’s shores, with the Legion and Scourge not far behind. The Sentinels are spread thin and losing ground in Ashenvale. Every victory against old enemies is matched by a loss to new ones. But unlike the Legion, the humans take prisoners. Now, two weeks after a midnight ambush on a human encampment went catastrophically wrong, it’s time to free one.

-----

World of Warcraft | Original characters

Be warned for: graphic violence, some elements of horror, and torture (not shown directly)

Under the light of two crescent moons, the forests of central Ashenvale were silent as a songbird watching a circling hawk. The star-soaked sky was cloudless. The wind held its breath. The trees stood still as stone, not risking even a whisper in their creaking voices. They only stood and watched the hawk's nest in silence.

It was an ugly thing – a stockade of stripped timber encircling a cluster of square buildings. All were squat and perfectly square, save for the watchtowers -- one east, one west -- which loomed over the torchlit outpost as if to mock the trees around them. A single, wide gate to the north was the only entrance and exit. At present it was closed. Deep ruts scarred the earth with a path winding north into the forest, marking where wagons and armored machines of war had crawled to and from this outpost in the preceding weeks.

The orcs and humans had made landfall only a season before. This compound was less than two months old. But the destruction around it would've easily fooled anyone.

The outpost sat at the center of a circular clearing, the dusty earth dotted with tree stumps and pockmarked with pits left by explosive charges. If one looked closer, they would see the broken arrow shafts still in the ground. The splintered wood that was the only remains of a glaive thrower.

And to the south, a shallow pit filled with dark, unmoving forms: at least a dozen bodies still wearing the leather and fur that had failed to save them.

With some effort, Sentinel Runa Stillblade dragged her eyes from the pit and stuck them firmly to the outpost. She blew a measured breath into the balmy air. She shifted her weight, the thick oak branch beneath her holding strong.

From here, she could see over the stockade and most of the western side of the compound. The buildings along that side of the stockade had dimly lit windows. No movement inside. The alleys between them were empty. Near the gate: huge, eagle-headed, armored machines. The siege engines that had doomed the attack two weeks before. But it was not them that concerned her; her eyes were on the watchtowers and the shadowy figures inside.

Her foot started to tingle and she shifted her weight again, forcing herself to relax her grip on her bow.

‘Don't overcomplicate this’, her superior had said just hours before. ‘Getting her out is your first priority.’

Runa ran her free hand along her belt, verifying for the umpteenth time her dagger and horn were still there.

‘You said you wanted a chance to make things right after falore An’ethella couldn't be recovered. I'm giving you that chance.’

Movement in the air above the outpost shook Runa from her thoughts. The hand on her bow clenched again before she recognized the shape of a short-eared owl.

The owl circled above the buildings on the western side. Twice it pitched down towards something near the largest one before rising again. Then it dove and disappeared behind the stockade. A few seconds later it reappeared, climbing higher and higher with deep, silent wingbeats. Once it rose above the light of the torches and was only a shadow against the stars, it turned and glided south. Runa watched it until it disappeared into the trees.

She counted to ten in her head, then let her form solidify from the shadows of the oak's boughs. She kept her eyes on the branch beneath her to hide their shine.

A second weight alighted on the branch, and Runa looked up into the owl's golden eyes. Surrounded by black feathers on a round, near-white face, they almost appeared to glow.

Runa smiled softly and held out her left arm. Kim'shalla, her companion of nearly a decade, climbed onto her forearm, its claws scratching the thick leather of her bracer. It looked down at her bracer as it shuffled its feet to find a comfortable grip.

She waited for Kim'shalla to settle, then she clicked her tongue. Paused. Then clicked it twice more.

Kim'shalla's head turned to face her. It blinked a slow blink, looked back at the outpost for a beat, then down at its feet as it adjusted its grip again. But this time, it moved its talons with purpose.

A-L-I-V-E, the short taps and longer holds spelled out letter by letter. Q-U-I-E-T. A-L-O-N-E.

Kim'shalla repeated this message once, then settled down again and puffed out its feathers, its task complete. It looked at Runa expectantly.

She nodded in thanks... and relief. She reached around and took a small piece of rodent meat from a pouch on her belt.

Kim'shalla pecked it from her palm.

Runa waited for it to swallow its treat, then clenched her left hand into a fist. With a disgruntled clack of its beak, Kim'shalla left her arm and glided a few trees down.

The beat of its wings blew a strand of curly black hair into Runa’s face. She brushed it away and began shuffling backwards along the branch, her split-sole boots giving her a sure grip. Her form faded back into the dark air. When she reached the trunk, she rapped her knuckles thrice on the lichen-spotted wood.

Prepare to move.

She held her breath and perked an ear to wait for the response.

From a branch above her, two taps: Understood.

She responded with three taps in a different rhythm — wait for my signal — and again the scout above responded with two.

In one smooth motion, she plucked an arrow from her quiver and rested it against the bowstring. Her gaze once again on the eastern watchtower, she waited.

And waited.

For nearly two hours.

~~~~~

It was not until the moons reached their apex that the watchman abruptly stood from his chair.

Runa tensed.

A second guard’s head appeared as they emerged through a trapdoor in the floor. The new arrival climbed up.

She forced herself to keep still as they began to exchange words, despite how her fingers tingled with the urge to let fly.

The new lookout made vague motions with their hands, then the first laughed and punched the second’s shoulder in response to some jest. The first moved past the other and began climbing down the ladder.

The moment his head disappeared from sight, Runa loosed her arrow. The new watchman dropped without a sound.

On the other side, the watchman in the western tower dropped as well.

A storm crow swooped out of the branches above Runa, silent as thought, trailing tail feathers shimmering blue and purple. A second followed just a few wingbeats behind. Then a third.

They dove over the stockade and out of sight.

Please let this be easy.

Over the top of the stockade, Runa saw the crows land on the roof of one of the buildings on the western side. It was taller than the rest, with large double doors — likely a storage barn.

They sauntered as crows did to the edge of the roof and dropped down. She caught a glimpse of something metal partially covered by canvas beside the building’s north wall.

Now they will break the lock and reshape the stockade to allow them all out. Once she is free, we can-

A soldier carrying a lantern pulled himself halfway through the trapdoor — Runa had been so focused on the crows she hadn’t seen the light growing in the ladder shaft.

The soldier froze at the sight of the body. He got out half a warning shout before Runa’s arrow sank into his chest.

Shit.

He gasped, coughed, and dropped the lantern, which bounced off the wooden floor and back down the entry shaft. A second later, glass shattered far below. The soldier grasped for the arrow in his lung, then toppled backwards off the ladder. Another second, then a hard thud.

A shout below, then another, and another, and another.

Shit!

Two more storm crows dove out of the tree above Runa. Their forms began to change midair. Their bodies grew, their feathers shrank, limbs lengthening, joints popping, until they solidified into two kaldorei men in leather and fur — one bald, the other with a thick, dark braid running from the top of his head to his waist. They hit the ground and ran to the stockade, cloaks of black feathers shimmering behind them.

They stopped at its base and the bald druid raised an arm towards it. The other mirrored him, then they both set their feet as if to put their weight against a heavy object, and began murmuring words Runa couldn't catch over the growing sounds of alarm.

Dead leaves and dust began to circle them as their words became a chant. Their voices rose, they lifted their arms, the leaves and dust following. Then the air between them solidified and slammed into the stockade. Solid timber shattered like glass.

Runa yanked the horn from her belt and blew a long, deep note, though it was more a formality than anything. The Huntresses and their sabers below were already leaping through the breach.

Runa leapt from the branch, rolled across the dirt, and vaulted over broken timbers through a cloud of swirling dust. More storm crows swooped past her like whistling arrows. A saber sailed through the dust and splinters an arm’s length from her, all muscle and claws, its rider’s glaive flashing.

To the north, an enormous crash as the druids blasted the gate to splinters.

Distant lantern light turned the dust to orange, silhouetting the dozen or more soldiers that had circled the breach. Mostly humans, and a few of the shorter beings called dwarves. They shouted orders in their strange language, heads snapping around in the murk.

Runa sprinted through a gap between them just before a Huntress charged through, glaive arcing. Steel sliced into flesh, blood sprayed. A body hit the ground, then its head.

A human-sized form appeared in the dust beside Runa, she reached for her dagger, then a storm crow slammed into their face. The human dropped their sword and tried to pull the crow away, shrieking in pain, but two more landed on their shoulders and arms, engulfing them in a cloud of wings and beaks and claws.

The wind whistled, then howled, then a wall of air swept through the combatants. A few humans toppled over, shouting curses. The dust hissed into nothing. On the other side of the courtyard, the three original druids stood with their arms raised.

Runa turned right and ran north. She stopped, blinking dust from her eyes, then caught a sound behind her and threw herself to the ground as a human’s mace whistled through the air where her head had been.

She rolled, rose to one knee, and drew back an arrow as the soldier charged, her mace held high. A heartbeat, then Runa loosed and the arrow sank into the soldier’s throat. Blood spurted, she choked and gasped, stumbled, and dropped with a thud.

Runa sprang to her feet and continued north. A handful of Huntresses and half a dozen archers were pouring through the northern breach. Human and dwarf soldiers ran out of the nearby buildings, some for the south and some for the Sentinels. Arrows flew. The druids had already surrounded the eagle-headed siege engines, their arms raised. Vines sprouted from the ground and stockade, flowing over them, crushing the metal like paper.

She ran past a cluster of tents and jumped over the body of a half-dressed soldier, their eye sockets raw and empty, lips torn to bloody ribbons. Human words Runa had come to recognize echoed behind her.

“We’re under attack!”

“Night elves! Nigh-“ A gargled scream, then a thud.

She glanced at the buildings along the western side. Her feet slowed.

The metal and canvas object beside the storage barn, as she had presumed, was a cage. It was hardly big enough even for a human. Its bars were thick, its construction sound.

But the door hung wide open, and it was empty.

Have they already…? No, they haven’t sounded the-

Something moved in the alley between the storage barn and the building beside it. A flicker of light.

In the alley behind her, someone shouted in Human. A heartbeat of hesitation. She wheeled around, reached for her dagger, but the dwarf soldier’s bayonet caught her thigh and cut straight through leather.

She hissed with pain and fell to a knee. He drew his musket back, raised it to swing again, and she twisted and cracked her bow into the side of his head. He cried out and stumbled, blood pouring down his temple. She scrambled away and pushed herself up. She readied an arrow, sucking in breath through the pain, but he was upon her before she could raise her bow. He swung the musket towards her knees, she feinted, loosed the arrow, and it thunked into the dirt near his foot. She spat a curse and darted past him into the alley.

She slipped into the thick shadow and flattened herself against the wall halfway in. She held her breath as he moved into the alley, musket held low. Pain radiated up her thigh.

The dwarf’s dark eyes flicked back and forth, passing over her twice. He was saying something in a mocking, sing-songy tone, but the words were meaningless.

He walked past her. One more step. Another.

She darted out of the shadows and sank her dagger into the side of his neck. Hot blood sprayed across her knuckles. She tore it free and sprinted out of the alley as he dropped, choking out his last breath.

Runa stopped at the alley’s entrance, the pain in her leg forgotten.

The storage barn was in flames.

This was not part of the plan-!

“What have you done?!” she shouted at a fair-haired archer as she ran past.

“That wasn’t us!” the archer shouted back, and continued on.

“Then who-“

A man screamed, voice shrill with terror, from the building beside the barn. The door had been torn clean off its hinges. Runa caught the movement of a struggle in its dark interior. A smaller figure darting away from a much larger, broader one.

Instinct urged her forward and she ran out into the courtyard. She was halfway across when the dirt near her foot exploded. A blast from somewhere above and behind. She threw herself to the ground, then looked up for the source of the sound.

She could just see the top of a dwarf’s hooded head as they crouched behind the wall of the eastern watchtower, hurriedly reloading a blunderbuss.

“ARCHERS! WATCHTOWERS!” she shouted, and readied an arrow. She forced her eyes to stay on the dwarf even as the sounds of the struggle behind her grew louder.

The dwarf stood and raised their blunderbuss, head peeking out over the wall. Then two arrows pierced their skull and they dropped like a bag of stones.

Runa looked to her left, where twenty or thirty paces away the fair-haired archer was already nocking another arrow. They made eye contact, Runa made a motion of thanks, then spun on her heel and ran to the door of the building. The stinging in her thigh was fading to a dull warmth.

Its interior was silent. She stopped at the doorframe and peered inside.

The firelight poured through small windows and filled the interior with uncanny, wavering shadows. This building was an armory, and it was in ruins. Swords and maces scattered across the floor, empty hooks on the walls, chests of mail and plate armor upended, the tang of weapon oil leaking from broken bottles.

And in the far corner, surrounded by the shattered remains of empty crates, was the corpse of a bearded, pale-skinned human man. He wore leather and cotton. The scabbard on his belt was empty, and beside it was a cat o’ nine tails hanging from a metal ring. He laid on his back in a dark pool of blood, his body twisted, legs splayed awkwardly as if he had been trying to crawl away from something. His eyes were still open, mouth frozen in a silent scream, blood draining from the corners of his lips. His hands gripped the edges of the kite shield that had crushed his throat so completely it still stood upright, jammed clean through his neck into the floorboards.

The hairs on the back of Runa’s neck stood on end. Her eyes moved from the mangled corpse to the door a few paces from him, still hanging open. The stockade was cast in yellow firelight beyond.

She readied another arrow and left the doorway. The smoke stung her eyes and throat as she moved south in a sort of half-run along the line of buildings, away from the fire. Bodies dotted the courtyard and the southern end of the compound. Near the barracks, the Huntresses and druids were making short work of the remaining soldiers.

Runa glanced into every alley as she passed it, but all she saw were shadows. Her heart pounded in her neck. She sprinted past a Huntress and her saber chasing a soldier into an alley, then glanced over her shoulder.

The fire had spread to the armory and was already reaching for the next building down.

Please, gods, grant me a bit more time.

The sound of another gunshot echoed off the stockade, ringing from everywhere at once.

Runa threw herself into an alley. She took a breath and leaned out, an arrow drawn back.

“Healer!” a distant voice shouted from somewhere near the barracks.

Then a second shot, a flash of light in the windows of a small outbuilding on the other side, near the breach.

Runa stayed close to the wall and raised her bow, eyes searching the windows for a silhouette. But either murky shadows filled the inside or the windows were more grime than glass, because there was nothing.

Something in the corner of Runa’s vision caught her attention. Not far from the gunner’s outbuilding, a tall, hulking figure darted into a dark alley.

Too tall to be human.

The wood near Runa’s shoulder exploded into splinters. An instant later the gunshot split the air.

She exclaimed in shock and stumbled back into the alley, blinking wood-dust from her eyes. She spat a curse.

One, two…

She turned and ran towards the stockade, then rounded the corner.

Sitting against the back wall of the building was a dark-haired archer, and beside her the bald druid from the breach. The archer’s face was twisted in pain, the leather on her right shoulder torn and soaked with dark blood. Her bow was still in her limp right hand. The druid was digging in the pouches on his belt, frantic.

Six, seven…

“Did the druids free her?” Runa asked, breathless.

The druid and archer looked up, startled.

The druid shook his head. “We didn’t… No. Two flew down, but couldn’t open the cage before-”

Runa nodded and ran past them.

Fourteen, fifteen, six-

The gunshot rang again. Runa turned on a heel and sprinted back through the buildings into the courtyard. She loosed an arrow into the back of a soldier’s thigh as he ran after an archer, then she reached the alley the figure had disappeared into.

Seven, ei-

Another mangled body was slumped against the wall. Another human. Her shortsword was stuck blade-down in the dirt a few paces away. Her jaw was dislocated, her neck and throat red and raw, blood soaking her collar and running down her plate armor in sheets. Runa stepped closer and saw where skin had torn from muscle. Pale cartilage and tendon.

Someone had nearly ripped this woman’s throat out.

A possibility flickered into Runa’s mind. A chill on her nape again. But she set her jaw and continued past the body. She reached the end of the alley and paused.

Fifteen, sixteen… seventeen…

Eighteen…

Nineteen…

Twenty…?

She leaned around the corner, back towards the breach, as the shot finally rang out. A flash of light and a portion of the stockade burst into splinters. Then a man shouted with alarm. An arrow flew from the courtyard and sank into the stockade, followed by a second thunk where the man’s voice had come from. He shouted again — gargled, weak. A thud.

Then the hulking figure ran out from the same alley, but this time Runa caught the shape of long ears, lilac hair, and ragged clothes.

Her heart leapt.

“Falore!” She ran out of the alley, but the other kaldorei had already disappeared through the breach into the forest beyond.

Runa pulled the horn from her belt and blew two, deep notes, the second longer than the first — mission success.

A few distant, triumphant shouts sounded from the corners of the compound, but the sound of whistling arrows and clashing steel continued.

There were still intruders to kill.

She ran to the breach and vaulted over the broken timbers, now spattered with drying blood, and landed in the dirt on the other side. Her momentum carried her to the tree line, but her steps faltered. She looked down at the dirt around her then back at the breach.

The confusion of footprints made tracking impossible.

A calm hoot from above and Runa turned. Kim’shalla’s eyes glinted from a tangle of branches.

Oh, bless you.

Runa clicked her tongue and nodded into the forest.

Kim’shalla left its perch and glided through the trees a short distance before alighting upon a low branch. It turned its head to look back at Runa and gave a slow blink.

She stepped into the trees, fighting the urge to run. When she was nearly below Kim’shalla it took flight again, glided in a slightly different direction, and landed again. She followed. It flew, landed, and she still kept pace.

They continued like this for minutes, pausing every now and then while Kim’shalla tilted its head to listen.

To Runa, the forest was silent. The din of the battle became no more than a distant hum. And in the silence, her relief at having freed the prisoner began to sour into something else. She found herself gripping her bow a little tighter, though she couldn’t name why.

She became increasingly aware of how her footsteps were cracking thunder in the heavy silence and shadows.

Kim’shalla landed in a tree at the top of a low hill. Once Runa reached its crest, she paused and raised her ears. She heard it too, now: dry, ragged panting.

She broke into a half-run, heart pounding harder. Kim’shalla followed.

They came to the edge of a small glade, and Runa stopped.

The kaldorei woman she had seen sprinting through the breach was on the ground, leaning against a tree, her back to Runa. Her lilac hair was tangled and matted, her broad shoulders heaving and shaking. She wore only ragged trousers, which meant Runa could see the red, glistening, crisscrossing tangle of weeping wounds covering her from her nape to the small of her back. Raw muscle bared to the elements. Blood fresh and old ran in sheets down her back and over her sides. The wounds had not even been given the chance to scab over.

Those sadistic, godless devils!

She began creeping forward, bow held low — she did not remember nocking an arrow — but stopped a few paces from the woman.

Something about the way she hunched over, the way her shoulders shook, the twitching of her ears… it wasn’t right.

Runa opened her mouth, searching her mind for the name from the briefing. Her heart pounding in her neck didn't make it easier. She could only remember the second half.

“Falore Bla-?”

The woman whipped around, lips pulled back, teeth bared, eyes wide, wild, and devoid of everything but primal rage.

Blackhelm lunged, hands reaching, and ripped the bow from Runa’s hands. Runa leapt away. Kim’shalla screamed harsh and hollow.

Blackhelm tossed the bow aside and pushed herself to her feet. A strange, wheezing, almost-growl leaked through her teeth. Her eyes were two pinpoints of icy white light in dark, sunken sockets. Her chest heaved, thick muscle showing through skin thinned by deprivation. Blood ran from a cut on her forehead, down her cheek and over the taught tendons in her neck. Her hands were dark with blood.

Runa couldn’t move. Something about those eyes locked her in place. It was something ancient. Something unknowable. Something older than the kaldorei themselves.

Wolf-touched.

Kim'shalla screamed again, shaking Runa out of her fear-trance.

“Falore!” she shouted. “Blackhelm! Stand down!”

Blackhelm took a step forward. Her whole body shivered. So much muscle overloaded with so much more tension than it was ever made to bear. How it had not already torn her apart…

Another step forward, and the final spark of memory.

“Tarinne!” Runa reached for her dagger. “Stand down now!”

Tarinne Blackhelm blinked. Another half-step forward, and Runa pulled her dagger. Then Tarinne blinked again. She squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head weakly, then stumbled and fell to one knee.

Runa hesitated.

The wheezing growl fizzled away. Tarinne took in a few gasping breaths and began coughing horrible, wracking coughs. Like she had not tasted water in days.

Runa sheathed her dagger, ran up, and crouched beside her.

Tarinne looked up as she did and shrank away just an inch. Her eyes were wide, bloodshot, and desperate.

“Falore,” Runa said gently. She held her hand above her shoulder, debating whether or not to touch her. “What did they…?”

“Healer,” she rasped. Dry strings of saliva and phlegm hung from her lips. “I need…  a…”

She collapsed with a rattling sigh, and Runa's heart dropped. But then Tarinne's chest rose with breath, and with shaking hands, Runa stood.

”Healer…“ she breathed, mind still processing this. She looked up, back the way she’d come.

“Healer!”

She broke into a run, back to the outpost and the glow of the fire, her bow forgotten.

”I NEED A HEALER!“

[aebi12]

"Resentment" - Chapter 1

Summary

He is the cause of her sufferings. He took her dragon, her betrothed, and her father. Now, he will also take away her future by having to marry him.

With so much history and bad blood between Rhaena and Aemond, their forced union has everything to fail, except that the proximity will make them discover that perhaps they have more in common than it seems.

AU - the Greens win the war.

***

The word gets caught in his throat.

For an instant, Aemond seems unable to make a sound, unable to give the command and carry out the punishment.

But only for an instant.

When his gaze refocuses on those haunting green eyes that once spelled his world, the weight of her crime echoes in his mind.

And then he finds his voice.

 “Dracarys”

Screams. Screams are soon heard as Vhagar opens her jaws and unleashes flames from it.

But there hadn't been any screaming that afternoon, had there?

No. She hadn't screamed…why then…?

"Wake up, prince Aemond."

Small hands tentatively touch his shoulder, moving him gently and waking him, allowing his recollections to return to that hidden part of his memory as consciousness once again bathes his mind.

His bedroom. He is in his bedroom, not in Harrenhal.

Aemond grunts and fixes his good eye on the maid who, candle in hand, has awakened him. The poor girl backs up a couple of steps, startled, noticing the disgust in the expression of her master.

"What is happening?" he asks when the voice of a woman crying in pain reaches his ears

“It's the queen, my prince. She has begun with her labors."

Already? It is what he wonders internally, although he does not verbalize his doubt.

"My family?"

"Gathered in your mother's chambers"

Aemond nods and pulls back the sheets that cover him, sitting up on the bed and reaching for the leather patch he keeps on the nightstand.

"Go away, I can manage myself"

The young woman makes a quick curtsy before leaving the room.

Aemond sighs and drains the glass of water that is always by his bedside before washing and dressing.

When he is ready he emerges from his rooms in the Tower of the Hand, and strides down the dimly torchlit corridors, his sister-in-law's screams growing louder and louder as he approaches the royal family quarters.

It's going to be a long night, he thinks as he nods to Ser Arryk and enters his mother's chambers.

"Mother?" calls softly

"She is with Ellyn"

Aemond finds his younger brother sitting by the fire.

"What are you doing here alone?"

“I was not alone until a while ago,” Daeron replies, “Mother and I were praying, but the maesters came looking for her.”

The prince restrains himself from rolling his eye and concentrates on the last part of the information that his brother has given him, "I imagine the prognosis is not good"

Daeron shakes his head and drinks from the wineglass he is holding, “There were almost three moons to go before the baby came. The maesters do not believe that the babe will survive”

Aemond nods, though he isn't sure if his brother sees him. He had already imagined something like this when the maid had informed him that the queen was in labor.

“I really thought this time would be different”

The young prince's voice sounds pained, his gaze meeting Aemond's, who can tell how affected he looks. Sometimes when he gazes into Daeron's youthful face, he can still see the five-year-old version of him clinging to his mother's skirts in an attempt to prevent him from being taken to Oldtown.

"Our sister-in-law is still very young, they can try again." Words are more of an empty courtesy, a vain attempt to cover up reality. This was the fourth time Ellyn had become pregnant, the only time she had managed to keep the baby inside her long enough for her swollen belly to be displayed at court. "Where is Aegon?"

"He drank milk of the poppy before going to bed," Daeron pours himself another glass of wine and hurries it, "They tried to wake him, but he's fast asleep."

"Maybe it's better that way"

"Maybe"

“Stop drinking so much or you'll end up like our brother,” Aemond says, exasperated, as his younger brother pours himself another glass of wine.

Daeron gives him an embarrassed smirk and sets his glass aside, sighing as he returns to his place by the fire. Aemond sits in the front chair and a comfortable silence settles between the two princes, which is broken more than an hour later, when their mother returns.

"Mother!" Daeron immediately stands up and goes to Alicent, "What happened?"

Aemond turns to face his mother, examining her somber expression, the dark circles under her eyes, and how pale she looks.

"It was a boy. He had hair as dark as the Baratheons” The woman hugs Daeron and lets her son, who is already quite a bit taller than her, comfort her by running his hand on her back.

"How is Ellyn?"

"She is going to be fine, but she needs to rest," Alicent pulls away from her son's chest and cradles his face in her hands, "You should rest too, darling, it's still a while until morning."

“I want to be here, with you both,” Daeron replies, and Alicent tilts her face to her eldest son, as if realizing for the first time that he is there, too, “Surely there will be a council meeting to…”

“Mother is right, you better go back to sleep,” Aemond cuts him off, getting to his feet, “There is nothing we can do for now. The arrangements for the funeral and everything else will have to wait until morning."

Alicent nods and kisses a defeated Daeron on the forehead, who leaves without protest.

"Do you want me to stay? We could…we could pray, perhaps,” Aemond proposes as the door closes behind his brother.

Alicent glances at him briefly before smirking and shaking her head, “Maybe in the morning, Aemond. I would like to rest, you should do the same”

Her voice is not without affection, but the prince can't help but get the impression that his mother already wants to send him out of her room. The thought fills him with an unpleasant feeling in his stomach. "Of course, I'll see you in the morning"

However, upon returning to his quarters, it becomes clear that he won't be able to sleep, so he begins reading the many scrolls that require his attention until the sun begins to make its way into the sky, which is when he heads towards the training yard.

“I thought I wouldn't see you today,” Ser Criston greets as he removes his white cloak and chooses his usual morning star.

“You know me, Ser Criston, I never skip training,” he replies, taking his sword and moving into attack position in front of the knight.

Cole smirks and the fight begins. Despite years of arduous preparation, it is not easy for him to defeat the Lord Commander, but when he succeeds, an arrogant smile spreads across his lips.

“Well done, my prince,” Ser Criston congratulates him, and he seems to hesitate before adding, “I heard about the queen and the baby.”

Aemond nods. It wouldn't be long before everyone in the palace and the kingdom found out about his family's new failure.

"It was the will of the gods, we can only accept it," continues the knight. Aemond looks down to avoid making a face that betrays what he thinks about the gods and their designs, aware of how religious his old weapons master is, and not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable, “Does the king know?”

"No, I don’t think so."

Ser Criston leaves his morning star on the table with the other weapons, "I'll go see him after I freshen up, do you want me to talk to him?"

Aemond understands what Cole is offering, to take away the burden of having to break the news to Aegon, and is internally grateful for his proposal, though his face remains impassive and he simply nods, "Surely my mother will be there too.”

"Try to get some rest before the council meeting," says the knight, patting him on the shoulder, "The kingdom and your family will need you now more than ever."

Ser Criston bows before leaving the courtyard, his words following Aemond as he gets ready to meet the members of the Small Council.

"The king?" he asks as a servant helps him with the chair

"He is in no condition to attend this meeting," Alicent replies, her hands clasped in her lap, her voice thick with sadness.

Aemond just nods. Aegon might have many faults, but it couldn't be said that he didn't feel the loss of his children. His brother had mourned, in his own way, the death of his heirs with Helaena and those that Ellyn had not been able to keep in her womb.

"What about the queen?" Daeron asks

“In bed, too weak to get up. She lost a great deal of blood, and she was very close to sharing the same fate as the little prince,” Grand Master Orwyle replies and seeks the dowager queen's gaze. Aemond notices that his mother nods to him and the old man continues speaking, "Her grace may not be able to conceive again."

There is a moment of awkward silence among the members of the council, although the prince notes from their expressions that no one is really taken by surprise by the maester's diagnosis.

"Surely you can't say that for sure," Daeron says, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, "Ellyn is very young, she is strong, she will heal."

Orwyle smiles condescendingly at him, “Another pregnancy would kill her, my prince. It would not be advisable for the queen to conceive again."

Aemond tilts his face and purses his lips, his fingers drumming the corner of the table.

“I dare say that I speak for all the members of the council,” says Tyland Lannister, “When I say that we need to find a solution to the problem of the heirs”

Or to the lack of them, Aemond thinks, “What do you have in mind, lord Lannister, considering that my sister-in-law will not be able to bear my brother a child?”

"We could, perhaps, ask the Faith for an annulment of the marriage," the man looks at Alicent, tentatively.

"On what basis? The marriage was consummated."

“Her inability to give heirs to the king”

Daeron snorts, and Aemond looks at him, half exasperated and half amused. What the hell is his little brother doing here? Alicent takes Daeron's hand and squeezes his fingers, tacitly asking him to control his reactions. Their closeness stirs something inside the prince, who looks away, annoyed.

"We can hardly blame the queen for that," Alicent replies, "The gods blessed their union, we cannot simply break it, it would be improper."

“Not to mention that Borros Baratheon would not take such an insult lightly,” adds Aemond.

His mother nods and sighs, turning to him, "We'll have to resort to other alternatives."

Their gazes meet for long seconds, and Aemond is perfectly capable of reading what's in them.

Duty and sacrifice.

His mother's favorite words and those that have dictated her actions throughout her life. The words Aemond had followed since he was a boy… until the start of the war.

Now, he realizes, his mother appeals to them once more as she watches him, nervously fidgeting with the rings on her fingers.

"Who?" ask finally

"Rhaena Targaryen"

“No,” he says flatly.

Not her, he thinks as he lowers his head and can swear a pang of pain runs down the scarred side of his face. Any other but her. Not the girl for whose stupid accusations he had been scarred for life and accused of stealing a dragon.

Alicent sighs, "Lady Rhaena is best suited to be the mother of the future heirs."

“An alliance with any other noble house in the realm would be wiser,” he retorts.

His mother seems to look to the council members for support. Aemond wonders if they had been secretly planning this for a while. Most likely it was.

“Your cousin Rhaena is the best choice, prince Aemond,” Lannister tries to reason, “Her friendship to lady Arryn is well known, which would ensure an alliance with the Vale. You are well aware that Lady Jeyne was in favor of princess Rhaenyra and that…”

“I know all that, lord Lannister,” Aemond cuts him off. He doesn't need the man to remind him who their allies were and who were not during the war, “Even so, I don't think we should assume the Vale will resume good relations with the crown just because I marry my cousin. Why would they? She is just a guest there, a noble lady with nothing really to offer, no titles, no land…”

“Her blood is important,” his mother cuts him off, “Her blood would give more legitimacy to your children”

"Legitimacy?" he asks incredulously, astounded by the dowager queen's choice of word.

"Yes, legitimacy," Alicent seems reluctant to speak, tilting her face, but finally faces him, "Half the kingdom still calls your brother usurper, if a new war hasn't started it's because they don't have a male heir to place on the throne," a look of sadness appears on her features, "Lady Rhaena is the daughter of Daemon Targaryen. Like it or not, the prince was respected by many noble houses. Having his blood on the throne would appease the lords who only bend the knee in fear of your dragons."

Aemond makes an annoyed noise. He can't argue with his mother's arguments, because he knows they are true. It was fear, not loyalty, that kept his brother on the throne.

“Your mother is right,” the maester chimed in, “It is better for lady Rhaena to marry you than another high lord. If she or her sister had a male heir, the conspiracies would start again and King Aegon's throne would be threatened."

“We should have chosen her as Aegon's wife from the start,” Alicent sighs, “We should have convinced the king that she was the best choice. Maybe I would have my grandson by now if so”

Ser Criston, who has remained silent up to this point, cautiously approaches the prince, "Your family needs you, my prince," he says, repeating his words from earlier, "You must secure the future of the dynasty."

Aemond grimaces, "Baela would be a better choice," he proposes. If he's going to marry one of her cousins, it had better not be her.

“No,” his mother replies, alarmed, “Lady Baela's behavior is questionable. Reports say that she lost her virtue long ago and that she misses no opportunity to give herself to stable boys and servants. I will not have the lords of the kingdom question the paternity of my future grandchildren."

No. That wasn't their style, Aemond thinks with a cynical smile.

“Not counting her unfortunate temperament, let's remember that she tried to kill the king. In addition, her wounds could play against her at the time of delivery," says the maester

Lannister nods, “Rhaena is a gentle lady, and her demeanor has been faultless. She will be a good wife."

Aemond balls his hands into fists, "Hardly, lord Lannister, considering that she will be marrying the man who murdered her father."

“And her betrothed,” Daeron comments, earning a reproachful look from his mother, to which he just shrugs, “I'm just saying that, like Aemond, I think there's a lot of history between the two of them. It probably won't be a happy union."

Aemond is tempted to make a sarcastic comment at his brother's naïveté, but his mother's words stop him.

“It doesn't need to be. They just have to fulfill their roles and produce a royal heir. They can keep their daily activities separate”

Her voice denotes a shadow of sadness and bitterness, her gaze distant before resting on his eldest son's.

And there it is again.

Reproach.

There is so much reproach in her gaze. There isn't a day that he hasn't noticed the reproach in her eyes since he returned from his somewhat failed mission in Storm's End. Since his actions in the war had created an abyss between them, since his slip in Harrenhal had finished burying the unconditional affection that his mother had once harbored for him.

Affection that seems to have been transferred to his younger brother, the war hero, the Daring, the courageous young prince. Affection that he tries to recover every day, without success.

"Is this what you want?" he asks quietly leaning towards his mother

“This is what we need,” Alicent nods, “And what your reputation needs, too.”

Alicent's hand covers his and, it's been so long since she's willingly sought his contact, that he lets go of the momentary pain and embarrassment he feels at his mother's words.

If marrying Rhaena Targaryen is what he needs to cleanse his wrongs in Alicent's eyes, then it is what he will do.

“Fine,” he replies, “Make the necessary arrangements. I will marry my cousin as soon as you see fit."

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