ellsbigshoes - Tumblr blog

ellsbigshoes · 4 days ago

Text

My Most Faithful Lover - 2. Hands that never forgot

pairing: Knight!ellie & Princess!reader

synopse: A harpist begins to dream of a life not her own — a white dress stained in red, a knight who watches her like someone who’s already lost her once. In waking life, a fencer’s touch feels too familiar. In dreams, silence speaks louder than memory. Between two timelines, something ancient stirs… and it remembers her.

content: MDNI 18+, eventual smut, fluff, angst, violence, war, use of “y/n”, reader is referred to as princess (sometimes), Ellie referred to as Elouise (sometimes), use of swords, daggers etc. gore(ish), blood, homophobia.

8.775 characters.

"loving me is going to haunt you for a lifetime." - ?

The pain came like a spear between the ribs, cold, sharp, and then warm like blood dripping in silence. You felt broken, like porcelain dropped from an ancient altar - piece by piece, without haste, without mercy. Your long white dress wrapped in pearls, glitter and lace was now stained with blood, as much as your hands, perhaps that was your blood, perhaps that explained your great pain. Faster than a clap of thunder, you wake up shaking as your alarm clock calls you to yet another rehearsal in preparation for the end-of-year performance. It was strange, after meeting Ellie, the fencer who admired you in silence, your dreams were more real, more lived. So real that you could feel their caressing touch as if they were satin threads.

It was the start of a new week, and everything seemed to be running out of sync - hurried footsteps, overlapping voices, duties running over each other. Inside the room, time flowed differently: there, every note was a wait, every silence a judgment. At first, it was hard to keep up. Their colleagues played like someone repeating a forgotten prayer - their fingers were precise, yes, even impeccable, but their souls were blind. They lacked love, or perhaps remembrance.

You, on the other hand, were born with the sound of the harp inside you. It wasn't an instrument, it was an extension - strings that vibrate like part of your own breath. From an early age, you felt that your fingers knew the way before you even thought. But now, surrounded by cold eyes and rigid postures, their connection seemed... out of place. While they strummed away like automatons, you felt each note as if your soul were being called by name. And that, paradoxically, made you seem strange.

Sometimes looking at yourself was like seeing the twenty-second major arcana - The Madman. - The madman, the fool, the joker. A card that calls you to take risks and follow your own path. This card teaches us to embrace uncertainty and have faith in our abilities. And you? oh dear... despite being so disturbed by those who play like robots, you play like The Fool; with confidence in your abilities, you become someone else, it's as if something inside you calls to you in the shuddering of the strings, with each resounding chord it's like sinking quietly, letting the water consume your lungs.

One of your greatest prides is that you can play the Moonlight Sonata 3rd movement. No one imagines that you keep such cunning at your fingertips, and that's not even the best part about you. okay, I admit, it's not that easy to be that confident every day, but you know how hard you work, and you know that you're a natural.

As you rehearsed again, this time with the room full, you found yourself remembering the girl you met that afternoon with the heartwarming rays of sunshine. Could she really be the girl you've been dreaming of since childhood? nothing seems to make sense anymore... does she know? why did she ask if you already knew each other? so little time to talk and so many questions at the same time.

Even so, you answered at that moment: oh... I don't think so. – You said it and smiled a little, awkwardly.

Ellie then giggled a little. – I'm sorry, it must have sounded strange, right? you just have something familiar about you, but I don't think I've met you anywhere. I'd remember you.

You didn't know how to describe this feeling, nothing but confusion, and at this moment it would be best to just forget, even if it hurts, because something in your heart is calling out, wanting to push you towards her.

The sun was barely touching the stones of the inner courtyard when the iron gates opened. The morning was cold and still, as if time were breathing more slowly within the walls. A faint scent of dried lavender came from the gardens still wet with dew - and in the center of the silent dawn, she arrived.

She was riding a horse as black as burnt wine, the reins tight, the posture too straight for someone so unaccustomed to resting from overexertion. You wore the mantle of the queen's guards, but something about your presence seemed out of place - like a page sewn out of order in an old book. You were sitting among the blooming castle roses. Large buds of a striking blood-red color, although you had always loved white, the tragic and intense red had always attracted you. The queen's voice broke the silence, clear, firm as ever:

– This is Elouise. Your new guardian.

You, the princess, slowly raised your gaze, meeting that of the knight. Ellie dismounted with almost ritual precision, bowing her head in greeting.

– Your Highness.

Her voice was low, husky like a forgotten ember - and it hid something. Something the princess couldn't immediately decipher, but which remained there, in the air between them, like golden dust suspended in light.

The queen continued, already walking away:

– She was trained in the Cern Hills, under the order of the White Shields. She's discreet, efficient. And she will be shadow and blade by your side, until you need one.

Elouise didn't raise her eyes until the queen had disappeared behind the columns. Only then did she look at the princess fully. It wasn't the look of a servant. Nor that of an equal. It was the look of someone who knows the end of a story even before the first chapter.

You, still sitting among the roses, noticed that the dew had embroidered your dress with tiny sparkles. You tried to ignore the weight of Elouise's gaze on you - it wasn't the kind of gaze you offered. It was the kind you kept. And that, somehow, was even more dangerous.

– “The Cern Hills,” you repeated, without emotion. I imagine that silence is part of the training.

Elouise didn't respond immediately. Instead, she watched a red petal fall to the ground, as if the flower itself had surrendered to the weight of what hung in the air.

– Silence is sometimes more useful than a sword.

The answer came calmly, but there was a thread of... something. Old resentment? Tiredness? Guilt? You couldn't tell.

– What do you prefer? – you asked, looking straight at her. – The sword, or silence?

Ellie hesitated. And in that brief instant, you noticed a crack. Almost nothing. But real.

– I prefer what doesn't require me to choose.

You arched an eyebrow.

– A convenient answer.

– An honest answer.

The wind blew again, and the red roses fluttered. One fell near Elouise's foot. Without thinking, she crouched down and picked it up. She held it out to you with a short gesture, as if returning a piece of scenery was her obligation.

– It looks more like your kingdom than mine.

You took the flower slowly, your fingers brushing against hers for a second - just a second, but enough to feel something strange. Like a shiver coming from inside.

– Red has always been an ungrateful color," you said, staring at the rose. – Blood or passion. You never know for sure.

Ellie didn't answer. But she didn't look away from you.

You thought about asking her what she saw there - in your skin, your face, your eyes - that made her look so... cautious. But you didn't. Not yet.

The sun was already falling behind the mountains when you took refuge in the old hall, the one no one had used since your aunt's bereavement. Inside, the walls still smelled of wax and aged wood. The harp stood quietly in the corner. Like a secret waiting to be awakened.

You sat in front of it as you had done since you were a child, your fingers already knowing the ways, even if your mind was elsewhere. You played without thinking. And perhaps that's why you played better. The notes floated through the air like a veil, light, sad, almost transparent.

Then, without you noticing, someone stopped at the door.

Elouise.

She stood there, leaning against the dark wood, arms crossed, no armor. Just shadows wearing shadows.

You didn't stop ringing. But you spoke, without looking:

– Are you going to escort me even when there's no danger?

The answer took a while, but it came.

– That sounds more dangerous than most battles.

You laughed, softly. Still without turning.

– Harps don't kill.

– No. But they remind you.

Now you've turned. Her eyes were fixed on your fingers, as if each note that came out of the harp opened a door that she herself had locked from the inside. A distant glow inhabited her gaze. Of someone who recognizes something - but doesn't know why.

– Do you know this song? – you asked suddenly.

Elouise hesitated. For a moment, she seemed to swallow her memory.

– Yes, Your Highness. I used to listen to it when I was little, I remember my mother dancing and celebrating happily... – She said looking down with a small smile and sighed. - Anyway, it doesn't matter.

She said and resumed her serious face. – I think it's about time to go to sleep, isn't it?

ㅤ𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 | 𝔫𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔭𝔞𝔤𝔢..

man i'm really sad that today i couldn't add color to the fonts, for some reason the site started crashing and i don't know how to solve it sorry guys

tags;; @sewithinsouls @valeisaslut @zzelysian @liztreez @oneinameliann @idioticconfusedteen @smaugayra @500daysofpoppy @elliescoquettegirl

(comment if you want to be in the taglist <3)

#wlw #ellie williams #ellie x fem reader #sapphic #ellie x reader #ellie tlou #lesbian #knight #fantasy #princess #my most faithful lover #lesbian pride

111 notes · View notes

ellsbigshoes · 4 days ago

Text

i love her omg

── TRENCHES ༊*·˚

pairing: pirate!ellie williams & siren!reader

synopsis: a compilation of headcanons for ellie and reader's quiet life on the texas coast.

content: literally just tooth-rotting fluff.

word count: 1.3k

series masterlist

dedicated to the lovely @ellsbigshoes who wanted a glimpse into ellie and reader's future!! <3

───────────────────────────────

BONUS: "𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒐𝒆𝒔"

1. Meeting Joel

When Ellie first brings you ashore to Galveston, Joel is waiting on the dock. He’s leaning against a piling with his arms crossed, the Gulf breeze rustling the sleeves of his worn flannel. The first thing he sees is you clinging to Ellie’s side like the land might bite you.

His eyes narrow slightly. He doesn't speak. Ellie doesn’t say much either — just walks up, tilts her head toward you, and mutters, “This is her. The siren who killed the royal court.”

Joel’s gaze lingers — not unkind, but measured. You hold your breath, ready for judgment, for the silence that so often follows when humans realise what you are. But then Joel just nods.

“You got her through hell,” he says, voice low.

Ellie nods once.

"You love her?"

She nods again.

“Then she’s alright by me.”

The first thing Joel offers you isn’t a handshake — it’s a warm roll and a seat at the kitchen table.

Later that night, when Ellie’s out on the porch, Joel finds you standing barefoot in the kitchen, hands tapping restlessly against the table. He watches you for a long second before asking, “You ever had pecan pie?”

You shake your head.

He slides the pie across the table and mutters, “That’s about to change.”

2. Your first real thunderstorm on land

It comes heavy and fast one summer night, lightning peeling across the sky like veins. The waves roar like old ghosts, but the ceiling doesn’t fall. The walls don’t collapse.

Still, you panic — muscles locked, breath shallow, that old trauma blooming in your chest.

Ellie finds you under the kitchen table, clutching Pearl.

She doesn’t say a word. Just crawls under with you, pulls a blanket over your shoulders, and whispers stories from when she was little — about Joel trying to cook over a storm-fire, about falling off the crow’s nest during a monsoon.

You laugh through the tears. And when the thunder finally fades, you fall asleep in her lap with her fingers tracing circles against your spine.

3. You build a garden

Mostly herbs, some tomatoes. You insist on growing wildflowers, fascinated by the way petals bloom toward sunlight. Ellie tries to act uninterested, but she always remembers to water them.

One day, Joel catches her crouched beside a lavender bush, muttering, “You better grow or I swear—” before realising she’s being watched.

“You tell anyone, I’ll bury you in the compost,” she growls.

Joel just chuckles and hands her a watering can.

4. Ellie teaches you how to sail

Even though you are a creature of the sea, the mechanics of sailing are a mystery to you. Ellie insists on teaching you the ropes — literally — from tying knots to steering the ship. You first time at the helm is a disaster (you end up going in circles for twenty minutes), but Ellie never stops grinning. “You’re terrible at this,” she teases, arm slung over you shoulders. You just smirk and whisper, “Lucky I’ve got you, then.”

5. Ellie proposes — in the most ridiculous way

She tries to be smooth. She really does. She plans it out with flowers, candles, and a walk on the beach under the stars. But she’s so nervous she ends up tripping over a tidepool and blurts out “Do you want to marry me or what?” while soaked to the knees. You just laugh, kiss the water off her lips, and says, “Of course I do, Els.”

6. You create lullabies with your siren voice just for Ellie

After a long time of fearing her own voice, you start experimenting with soft, harmless melodies — not to enchant, but to soothe. One night, Ellie has a nightmare and wakes up shaking. You hold her and hum a soft tune against her temple. It doesn’t pull Ellie under like magic — it wraps around her like a blanket. From that night on, it becomes your ritual. No enchantment, no danger. Just love, and sound, and safety.

7. Pearl becomes a mother

One morning, Pearl disappears into the dunes and doesn’t return until sunset — with three squirming, squeaking puppies in tow. You are delighted, Ellie is horrified, and Joel just sighs and starts building a bigger pen out back. One of the pups ends up sleeping on Ellie’s pillow every night, much to her dismay (and secret fondness).

8. Ellie gifts you a journal

You’ve never had one before. Ellie finds it in town, bound in cracked leather, and gives it to you with a shy look. “For your thoughts,” she says. “Or drawings. Or poetry. Whatever sirens do.”

You fill it with everything — drawings of Pearl sleeping in the sun, half-remembered songs from your youth, sketches of Ellie’s profile when she’s not looking.

Ellie never reads it. But you leave it open on the table one morning with a sketch of her holding Pearl, the caption:

"My home in two heartbeats."

She blushes and tackles you onto the couch, muttering, “You’re going to be the death of me.”

9. The Wedding

It’s not legal. Not by any crown or church. The world they live in doesn’t grant two women — let alone a human pirate and a sea-born siren — the rights of matrimony.

But they don’t need a world’s permission.

You choose a quiet morning, the sea calm and the sky pink with dawn. Ellie braids your hair with tiny shells. You help her fix her collar, your fingers trembling with nervous excitement.

Joel sets up three chairs and a table on the sand. Pearl is freshly brushed and wearing a crooked flower crown. Joel insists it was Pearl’s idea. Her pups nap around her.

No papers. No priest. Just a vow.

Joel clears his throat, trying to sound official. “Alright,” he says. “You two know what you’re doing?”

Ellie shrugs. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

You, already tearing up, whispers, “I’d marry her every day if I could.”

Joel’s voice softens. “Then do it.”

Ellie takes both of your hands, a rare pink blooming across her freckles. “I used to think I was cursed,” she says, staring at you like the sun rose just to touch your skin. “But you — your voice, your kindness — made me believe in something bigger. You gave me peace. I want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life.”

You say, voice shaking but sure, “I was afraid of humans. But you... you were the first to see me and not run. I want to spend the rest of my days learning the world with you in it.”

Joel wipes his eyes when he thinks neither of you are looking.

“Then by the power vested in absolutely no one,” he mutters, “you’re as married as it gets.”

Pearl barks. Joel claps once.

You and Ellie kiss, barefoot in the sand, sea breeze catching your robes and wrapping you in each other.

Later, Ellie carves your initials into the old driftwood railing on the porch. You trace them every evening as the sun sets.

10. You grow old, but never apart.

Time slows in Galveston. The world spins differently when you’re in love.

Ellie grays first — streaks of silver at her temples that she pretends to hate but never dyes. You press kisses there every morning.

You don’t age the same. Not exactly. Your blood still remembers the tide. But Ellie never resents it. She just laughs and says, “Guess one of us has to be the hot one forever.”

You threaten to dunk her in the ocean. She kisses you before you can.

You grow old, together. And in the quiet between storms, you remember what it was to bleed, to burn, to survive.

But mostly — you remember what it was to be loved.

───────────────────────────────

taglist: @jazzyxox @rhian88 @boricuasirena25 @sleepingwasp @hyperbabes @vangoes @iluvelliewilliamsasf @jester-loverre @ellieslittleslutt @mariesmagix @morticeras @l0veylace @angelicalovesgirls @ellsbigshoes @azxteria @eriiwaiii2 @oneinameliann @alyaserrax

38 notes · View notes

ellsbigshoes · 8 days ago

Text

MAN I'M A LOSER. LIKE A BIG LOSER. PRETTY GIRLS FLIRT WITH ME EVEN AS A JOKE AND I DON'T KNOW HOW TO ANSWER TO THEM 😭😭😭 I FEEL LIKE A LOSER ELLIE. I FEEL SO EMBARRASSED

#ella freaking out

8 notes · View notes

ellsbigshoes · 8 days ago

Text

I'm already excited

── ❝ [FINAL VERDICT] ❞

pairing: fbi detective!ellie williams x fbi psychiatrist!reader x gang leader!abby anderson

synopsis: ah, the beginning — the most boring part of every story. well, not this one. when tragedy strikes the city of seattle, its citizens don't know what to do. do they believe the 'innocent' man who supplies their junkies with their daily dose of special medicine, or the officers who arrested him just to close the case?

content: MDNI 18+ content, sexual themes, murder mystery, fluff, angst, suggestive scenes, swearing, love circle, yearning, jealousy, slow burn, use of y/n, usage of alcohol, violence, mentions of drugs and arms dealing, graphic descriptions of blood and dead bodies (note: this will be updated as i go)

word count: 1.1k

series masterlist | next chapter

PROLOGUE: "𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐝"

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐃

𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟓, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟓

───────────────────────────────

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝚰𝐂𝚰𝐀𝐍 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝚰𝐍 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐘

𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐆𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐁𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐬, 𝐂𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫

SEATTLE — The body of Joel Miller, 52, a beloved local musician and single father, was discovered early Thursday morning in an alley behind Murphy's Diner on Capitol Hill, the victim of what police are calling a particularly brutal homicide.

Miller, who performed regularly at downtown venues and was known throughout the community for his acoustic guitar performances, was found by a homeless man around 2:30 a.m. The victim had been stabbed multiple times in what Detective Ray Morrison described as "one of the most calculated and vicious attacks" he had witnessed in his 20-year career.

"This wasn't a robbery gone wrong," Morrison told reporters at a press conference Friday afternoon. "Mr. Miller's wallet, containing over $200 in cash, was left untouched. His guitar was damaged in the attack, but nothing was stolen. This appears to be the work of someone with a very specific intent."

The crime scene, which remained cordoned off for nearly 12 hours as investigators collected evidence, showed signs of what police are calling "ritualistic positioning" of the victim's body. Specific details are being withheld pending the ongoing investigation.

Miller, who had lived in Seattle for over fifteen years, leaves behind his 14-year-old daughter, Ellie Williams. The teenager, who was reportedly at home during the time of the attack, has been placed in the care of social services while family arrangements are finalised.

"Joel was one of the kindest men you could ever meet," said Seth Murphy, owner of Murphy's Diner and a longtime friend of the victim. "He'd come by after his shows sometimes, just to talk. He was so proud of his daughter — everything he did was for her. This is just senseless."

The investigation took a dramatic turn late Friday when police arrested Jerry Anderson, 45, alleged leader of the local gang known as the Wolves of Liberation Front (W.L.F.), in connection with Miller's murder. Anderson was taken into custody at his residence without incident.

While police have not released specific details about what led to Anderson's arrest, sources close to the investigation suggest that Anderson was in the vicinity of the crime scene on the night of the murder. Additionally, investigators point to Miller's recent inquiries about gang activity near local schools — inquiries that may have put him on the W.L.F.'s radar.

"Mr. Miller had contacted our community outreach division several times in recent months, expressing concerns about gang recruitment activities near his daughter's school," said Police Chief Patricia Reeves. "We believe this may have led to threats against him."

Anderson, who has maintained his innocence since his arrest, appeared briefly in court Saturday morning where he was denied bail. His attorney, Marcus Webb, issued a statement calling the charges "baseless" and "a rush to judgment by a department under pressure to solve a high-profile case."

"My client has never met Joel Miller, has no connection to this victim, and categorically denies any involvement in this heinous crime," Webb's statement read. "The real killer is still out there while an innocent man sits in jail."

The W.L.F., which Anderson allegedly took control of after the death of his predecessor three years ago, has been linked to various criminal activities throughout King County, including drug distribution and weapons trafficking. However, the organisation has never before been connected to a murder of this nature.

Anderson's arrest has sent shockwaves through the local gang community. His 15-year-old daughter, Abby Anderson, was seen outside the courthouse Saturday, surrounded by several individuals believed to be W.L.F. associates. When approached by reporters, the teenager declined to comment but appeared visibly distraught.

Community leaders are calling for calm as tensions rise between law enforcement and gang-affiliated residents. Reverend Marcus Johnson of the Downtown Baptist Church, who knew Miller through his volunteer work with local youth, urged the community to "let justice take its course."

"Joel's death has torn a hole in our community," Johnson said. "But we cannot let anger and fear drive us to more violence. We must trust in our justice system to find the truth."

Miller's funeral service is scheduled for Tuesday at 2 p.m. at Seaside Memorial Chapel. In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations be made to the Seattle Youth Music Program, an organisation Miller supported throughout his life.

The investigation remains ongoing. Police ask that anyone with information about the case contact the Seattle Police Department at (206) 555-0199.

───────────────────────────────

Maria Santos has covered crime and courts for the Seattle Herald since 2005. She can be reached at [email protected]

───────────────────────────────

𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐄:

Editorial: "Gang Violence Reaches New Low" - Page A6

Community Response: Local Musicians Plan Memorial Concert - Page B1

Crime Statistics: Violent Crime Up 12% This Quarter - Page A8

taglist: @applejusue @ferxanda @noliaswaves @iadorefineshyt @azxteria @sewithinsouls @jazzyxox @thxtmarvelchick comment to be added!!

a/n: first chapter is here!! i reaallyyy like the newspaper format like the school journalist in me is fangirling in her cage ❤️‍🩹

82 notes · View notes

ellsbigshoes · 9 days ago

Note

mds nao aguentei o big shoes no username KKKKKKKKKKKKKK

todos os brs sempre me reconheceram 🙏🏻

0 notes

ellsbigshoes · 9 days ago

Text

New York City, 1970s

40K notes · View notes

ellsbigshoes · 9 days ago

Text

THERE'S NOTHING BETTER THAN COMING IN TIRED FROM A COURSE AND RECEIVING THIS WORK TO READ

── TRENCHES ༊*·˚

pairing: pirate!ellie williams & siren!reader

synopsis: when the attempt to turn you over goes wrong in every way possible, you are left to do the unthinkable. meanwhile, ellie storms the palace, desperate to save you from the prince's wrath.

but some people don't need saving; they just need to be held.

content: MDNI 18+ content, eventual smut, fluff, angst, gore(ish), swearing, enemies to lovers, yearning, slow burn, use of y/n, usage of alcohol, violence, sexism, speciesism, homophobia, implied kidnapping, men being horny and disgusting (note: this will be updated as i go)

word count: 5.5k

trenches masterlist | previous chapter

───────────────────────────────

CHAPTER 7: "𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓"

IT TOOK TWENTY-FIVE DAYS TO REACH SAINT BARBARA.

Twenty-five days of watching the sky change colour through the bars of a rusting iron cage. Twenty-five days of bruises ripening like fruit on bare skin, rope burns etched into wrists and ankles like cruel tattoos. Twenty-five days of hunger gnawing through flesh, and thirst turning your throat to sand.

You had forgotten what silence felt like. The ship groaned endlessly beneath you, creaking like an old beast with too many bones. The men above deck drank and cursed and gambled with lives they didn’t own. You heard them talk about you at night — sometimes with awe, sometimes with laughter, always with greed.

They thought you were a mermaid.

They thought you were tame.

Idiots.

The moment they reached port, the air shifted. Saint Barbara rose out of the morning haze like something carved from a tyrant’s dream. Tall white walls, golden domes, razor-straight towers piercing the sky like spears. The sea was calm, but there was a wrongness in the wind. Something sterile and too quiet. You could feel it in your bones: this place reeked of power.

Tommy’s ship docked with a jolt that shook the cage. A few dockhands gathered to watch, eyes narrowing, mouths parting. Their confusion turned to revulsion when they saw what was being hauled up from the lower deck.

You.

A woman.

In a cage.

Naked. Bruised. Tied like an animal.

The moment sunlight hit your skin, you flinched. Your scales, long suppressed by the heat and dryness of the voyage, flickered faintly across your shoulders and hips — silver, iridescent, otherworldly. Just enough to unsettle.

Just enough to tempt.

The crew leered. Several tried to mask it with smirks, spitting tobacco over the side as they prepared the winch. One man, no older than twenty, stared a bit too long and was elbowed by a grinning companion.

“Bet she sings sweeter than she looks,” one muttered.

You met his eyes through the bars, a slow scowl slithering across your face.

Then she hissed. Low and guttural. A sound born of brine and blood.

The boy flinched so hard he dropped the rope.

They loaded your cage onto a wooden wagon with care that wasn’t kindness — more the caution of thieves transporting a curse. You let your gaze wander over the faces of the men around you. Not one of them looked you in the eye. They didn’t want to see your rage. They only wanted your silence.

They would not get it.

From across the harbour, hidden in the ragged mouth of a coastal cliff, Ellie watched it all through the spyglass.

She hadn’t slept in three days.

The ship she’d commandeered was still and silent, tucked into the rock like a barnacle. Her crew, scared confused, waited on her command.

But Ellie didn’t speak.

She watched.

And what she saw made her fingers twitch toward her blade.

You.

They’d dressed you in nothing but bruises and defiance. Caged like something unholy. You was curled against the bars, your back bent awkwardly, legs folded beneath you. Even now, even filthy and half-starved, you looked like something not of this world. Something the sea itself might weep for.

And the men around you didn’t deserve to touch her. Let alone sell you.

Ellie’s mouth twisted into something dark.

She focused the glass on the man walking behind the wagon. His hair, once dark, was now streaked with ash-grey, his beard overgrown, face gaunt. But Ellie knew the shape of that jaw. The set of those shoulders.

Tommy.

Her uncle.

The bastard her father had mourned more than once. The ghost who’d abandoned their family and reappeared now as a monster in plain clothes.

She remembered Joel describing him once: "He always did have a hunger for gold, that boy. Never enough coin in the world to feed it."

Ellie’s hand tightened around the brass casing of the spyglass.

She watched Tommy bark an order. The wagon jolted forward. You cage rattled on its wheels.

Ellie lowered the glass and turned away, blood singing in her ears.

She turned to face her 'crew.' The ones who now looked to her with uncertainty and fright.

“She’s here,” Ellie said simply.

They waited.

“And?”

“And we’re getting her back.”

A murmur passed between them.

“From the palace?”

“From the king?”

Ellie nodded.

“I don’t care if it’s from the devil himself,” she said, voice hard. “That girl belongs to the sea. Not a cage. Not a crown. And not a bastard with a sword.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Then a gruff voice from behind: “What’s the plan?”

Ellie’s eyes turned once more to the city.

And her lips curved into a smile that held storms.

The wagon moved slowly — deliberately — as if the driver knew that speed would deny the crowd their full spectacle. The wooden wheels groaned beneath the iron cage, dragging you like some cursed relic through the heart of the city.

And Saint Barbara?

It welcomed you with teeth behind its pearls.

The city was all too beautiful. Sunlight struck the polished stone buildings and scattered golden reflections into your eyes. Domed towers rose like reaching hands to the sky, and balconies bloomed with bright flowers, vibrant against bleached walls. But beneath the sweetness of perfume and incense, the city stank of sweat, smoke, and something rotten beneath the mask.

Eyes followed you. Not just one pair — hundreds.

Some widened in awe. Others narrowed in judgment.

You curled your fingers tighter around the bars, wincing as the rope burns across your wrists flared. Still, you didn’t look away. You wouldn’t. Not now.

The first gasp came from a woman in a blue corset, walking with two children. Her eyes locked on your bare shoulders, your bruised hips, the faint shimmer of scales along your thighs where moisture still lingered. She blanched, yanked her children away like you carried plague, and crossed herself twice.

Behind her, a man in merchant silks whistled low.

“Well, I’ll be damned. A real sea wench.”

“Thought she’d have gills,” another said. “Still—ain’t disappointed.”

A round of laughter chased that comment.

You didn’t flinch. You’d endured worse in the depths, among barnacled wrecks and snapping jaws. But there was something about this — this slow dehumanising march — that made bile rise in your throat.

The heat beat down on you, baking your skin, but still the onlookers came — leaning out of windows, gathering in doorways, trailing behind the wagon like wolves sniffing blood.

One man had the nerve to lean in as the cage paused at a sharp turn. His eyes lingered far too long on your chest before flicking to your face.

“Sing for us, sweetheart,” he purred. “Bet you sound sweeter than any bard.”

You bared your teeth.

And snarled.

A low, feral sound that sent a shiver up his spine. His smile wavered. He stepped back, muttering something vulgar under his breath as he blended into the crowd.

“Oh, she’s got claws, this one. King’s gonna have a riot.”

A group of women watched from a stoop. They were dressed like dolls, lips rouged and necks laced in velvet, but they couldn’t hide the curiosity in their stares. One whispered something to the others and blushed. Among them, some stood out.

A merchant’s wife, blonde curls bouncing beneath her parasol, gasped at the sight of your half-naked form, cheeks blooming pink as her gaze lingered longer than it should have. She bit her lip. You scowled harder.

Another woman — tall, sharp-eyed — flushed at the sight of your bare breasts and didn’t look away. She watched you until the wagon turned the corner.

If you’d been in your siren form, their arousal might’ve fed you.

Now, it just turned your stomach.

Your scowl deepened.

Let them gawk. Let them turn their heads and pretend not to dream of cages when night fell.

You weren’t a fantasy.

You were a warning.

A trembling in the tide before the sea swelled to devour them.

More catcalls came as the wagon rolled on. The crowd followed the wagon like it was some kind of festival parade. Eyes peeled wide. Lips wet. All of them hungry. A few even applauded.

“Ey! Fish girl! You for sale or just on display?”

“Bet the king’ll keep her in his bathhouse!”

“I’d pay a thousand just to touch her—”

You bit back another hiss, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. The rope at your ankles rubbed raw with every jostle, and your skin pulsed where your scales had begun to rise, reacting to the faint humidity now that you were near the sea again. They itched—glistening faintly in the light, drawing more attention than you wanted.

You tried to shrink back, curl in, hide the glimmer of inhuman beauty. But the bars gave no space. They offered no mercy.

Another corner. Another square. Another surge of stares.

The city was endless.

You passed a baker who threw a cloth over the window display as you approached. A priest who looked at you like he’d just seen prophecy and sin collide. A soldier who snorted and turned away — but not before adjusting the front of his uniform.

It was then you understood — truly understood — why your sisters hated humans.

Why they sang them to madness and dragged their bones into the trenches of the sea.

It wasn’t just the greed.

It was the entitlement.

The audacity to take something beautiful, trap it, cage it, reduce it to whispers and coin.

You’d spent years wondering if your kind had been too cruel.

Now, you weren’t sure they’d been cruel enough.

“Look at her face,” someone whispered behind you. “You think she’s crying?”

“No,” another voice said. “She’s angry.”

You were.

You were so angry you thought your body might split apart from it.

And still, the wagon rolled on.

Up through the merchant’s quarter. Past fountains of carved alabaster. Toward the glittering white road that led to the king’s palace, which sat like a crown atop the hill — sharp, gilded, smug.

You heard one of the sailors call out, “Nearly there.”

Good.

Let it be nearly over.

Let them think they’ve won.

You’d give them one last show before the sea came to collect what was hers.

───────────────────────────────

The palace of Saint Barbara rose from the cliffs like a shrine carved by the gods, every marble spire and arch a testament to arrogance. Its towers skewered the sky, glinting with salt-kissed gold and fog-dampened sunlight, while its domed roofs gleamed like the shells of deep-sea beasts. Wind howled through the high gates and whistled off the battlements — a sound so mournful it might’ve been mistaken for the cries of spirits lost to the sea.

Even in the grey light of morning, the guards stationed along the sea wall had seen the wagon coming. They’d seen the cage. And they’d seen you.

You, inside the iron bars, bare save for the seawater still drying off your skin and the faint glimmer of scales along your hips and thighs. Your wrists were raw from rope, you lip split, but your jaw tilted skyward like a queen paraded through the gallows.

They hadn’t asked questions. Not when Tommy said one word—“mermaid.”

They opened the gates with reverence and haste.

You had not spoken in hours. Your throat burned, your body ached, and the cage floor gnawed at your knees with every bump in the road. But your silence was no surrender. Your eyes burned with a different kind of fire.

As the wheels clattered onto the palace stone, you braced yourself.

And when the cage door opened to check your restraints, you bared your teeth with an annoyance that seemed routine for the past twenty-five days.

The guards flinched. Tommy laughed.

“She’s got a bite, this one.”

One of the younger guards — barely more than a boy — lingered too long with his gaze. His eyes dragged across the bare skin of your legs, your collarbone, the raw curve of your ribs. You turned your head and hissed, low and guttural, and the boy stumbled backward.

Your voice was cracked and dry as old driftwood, but you managed one word:

“Coward.”

Tommy smacked the bars shut with a curled fist. “You’ll lose that sharp tongue when the King’s men cut it from your mouth.”

But your attention had already drifted to the spires above.

Somewhere in the bones of that monstrous palace, you knew the throne room waited. Velvet curtains. Gilded columns. An ornate seat of power for a man who paid in blood and bought legends like wine.

This would not end well.

“She’s alive,” Ellie muttered to herself. “Still fighting.”

Behind her, boots thudded on the wooden planks.

“We’ve got enough,” one of the crew said. “Steel, powder, blades. Hell, even that old battering ram we nicked off a Spanish cruiser last winter. We’re set.”

Ellie didn’t move.

Her hands rested on the railing, fingers twitching like she was holding back the instinct to leap into the water and swim the rest of the way.

“She’s in there,” Ellie said.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. You didn’t see her.” Her voice cracked. “She’s barely got skin left from those ropes. She's naked in a cage like some beast. And those bastards—” She choked off her fury with a sharp inhale.

The crew member gulped behind her. “Then let’s make them regret it.”

Ellie turned, green eyes flashing. “Get the others. Quiet. We move through the streets in pairs. No pirate colours. No noise. We don’t draw attention until we reach the gates.”

“And then?”

Ellie smiled. It was a vicious thing. “We knock.”

They docked near the old harbour wall, where shadows clung like barnacles and watchmen rarely patrolled. From there, they filtered through the city like spilled ink — dark coats, quiet steps, eyes sharp.

Saint Barbara was waking.

The streets were slick from an early storm, the cobblestones black with rain. Vendors opened stalls. Chiming bells marked the hours. A preacher screamed about the end of days on a corner while whores smoked cigars outside a wine house. No one noticed the pirates walking among them.

But Ellie noticed everything.

Every whisper. Every step. Every sound that might signal someone following them.

The palace grew larger with every street they passed. She could feel it like a bruise under the skin. And somewhere within its white-marble belly, You were waiting.

She didn’t know what condition she’d find you in.

But she would find you.

And this time, Ellie wouldn’t be too late.

The palace’s throne room yawned like the mouth of a leviathan — wide, echoing, and lined with polished bones. Marble columns flanked a long velvet carpet dyed the colour of old blood. Sunlight dripped through stained-glass windows in fractured hues, painting the cold floor in molten blues and violent reds. On either side, nobles lined the walls like wolves in waiting — draped in silk and suspicion, their faces masked with powdered disdain.

At the end of the hall sat the King.

Crowned with iron and salt-gold, he looked more like a statue than a man. His beard fell in sculpted waves over his breastplate, and his ring-laden fingers tapped against the throne’s armrest with a rhythm that suggested both impatience and hunger.

The doors opened with a boom.

Tommy entered first.

“Your Majesty,” he said, voice ringing, “I bring you your prize.”

Behind him, six men dragged the iron cage over the velvet runner, scarring the crimson fabric with metal teeth. You swayed inside like driftwood. Your wrists were still bound, your hair wild from the sea breeze, and your eyes were alight with loathing.

The nobles gasped.

A few covered their mouths.

Others leaned forward, enchanted.

“She’s real…”

“Gods, look at her skin…”

“That shimmer — it’s like pearls…”

Tommy’s men reached the base of the dais. With a grunt, they unlatched the cage and yanked the door wide. One reached in, grabbed you by the arms, and pulled you out with no ceremony. You stumbled, fell to your knees on the polished floor, the chill biting into your bones.

“She’s no fake,” Tommy declared. “Gills when she’s wet, scales that bloom in rain, and a mouth sharper than a shark’s. Stories didn't say she'd be feisty, though.”

The King raised a hand.

Silence fell.

Then a new voice pierced the quiet.

“My bride,” Prince Leon said, stepping down from the dais with the sound of embroidered boots against marble. “So this is the ocean’s offering.”

Leon moved with calculated grace, a smile resting just shy of arrogant. Golden curls spilled over his collar, his chin clean-shaven and his lips stained like wine. He knelt before you, careful not to touch you, and studied your face like a collector admiring a rare gem.

“You’re even more exquisite than Father promised.”

You didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

But the muscle in your jaw twitched.

Leon chuckled. “Oh, I like her fire. It’ll make taming you that much more satisfying.”

“She’s yours, Your Highness,” Tommy said. “As promised.”

Leon rose. “And your payment, as promised, will be granted tonight.”

You glanced up, blood crusted in the corner of your mouth, and for the first time, spoke loud enough for the court to hear.

“I’d sooner rot than be your queen.”

A hush fell again.

But Prince Leon merely smiled, his teeth too white. “You’ll learn. Eventually, everything does — how to bow, how obey me.”

He turned to the King.

“She’ll be housed in the east wing. Not the dungeons—I want her comfortable. And muzzled.”

The King nodded once.

“See it done.”

And the guards stepped forward, chains in hand.

"One moment," Leon holds up a hand, halting them. His lips pull in a cruel smirk.

"I'd like to inspect her further."

───────────────────────────────

The palace loomed above like a vengeful titan — its ivory towers catching the last light of day, its flags whipping in the sea-brined wind. The cliffs below roared with crashing waves, and the narrow cobblestone streets that twisted up toward the palace gates were nearly empty, save for two sentries leaning against halberds and watching the horizon with half-lidded eyes.

Until they saw her.

Ellie strode ahead of her crew with a purpose that silenced even the wind. Her coat snapped behind her like a black flame, sea salt crusting her hair and shadows pooling under her eyes. Behind her, the others emerged in twos and threes, hands resting on the hilts of stolen blades, coats concealing muskets and pistols, storm-laced tension crackling in every step.

The guards straightened. One squinted, then paled.

“Wait a minute—”

The second guard reached for the bell-rope fastened to the wall.

He didn’t make it.

Her impromptu first mate, Jack, surged forward with a dagger in one hand and a small iron weight in the other. With a single brutal swing, he cracked the weight against the bell’s mechanism before it could ring out. The copper ringer hit the stone with a clatter, useless. The second guard opened his mouth to shout — only to be silenced by the butt of a pistol slamming into his jaw.

The first guard lunged forward, blade out, but Faye, another crew member, was faster. She swept his legs out from under him and drove her boot into his gut.

“Keep it quiet!” Ellie hissed.

But it was too late.

A shout echoed from the wall above, followed by the heavy thunder of boots. Torches flared. Crossbows were readied.

“The bell!” one of the guards cried.

It rang. A mournful clang that sang of bloodshed and alarm.

“Shit,” Ellie growled. “Brace for impact!”

From every direction, palace guards poured in, wearing iron-plated tunics stamped with the royal crest, blades gleaming in the low light. They rushed with practiced discipline, but Ellie’s crew met them like a rising tide—brutal, unrelenting, and too angry to die.

Steel met steel.

Jack ducked under a swinging halberd and drove his knife between a guard’s ribs. Faye used a broken spear shaft like a staff, cracking knees and knocking helmets off. Muskets flared, smoke choking the air as a few of the crew members fired blindly into the cluster of bodies.

“Protect the flank!” someone shouted. “Hold the bloody line!”

Ellie didn’t stay to lead.

In the chaos — amid clashing swords, exploding powder, and the screams of metal on flesh — she saw her opening.

The palace gate, only half-closed.

Its great iron doors had jammed mid-shut, unable to lock while the guards poured out.

Ellie ran.

She ducked beneath the spinning blade of a halberd, used the shoulder of a bleeding guard to propel herself forward, and slid through the narrowing space between the gates just as they groaned closed.

Darkness swallowed her.

She didn’t stop.

The stone corridor beyond echoed with her footsteps, torches lining the walls in twin rows of flickering gold. Sweat stung her eyes. Her lungs burned. But her hand never left the hilt of her sword. Not until she was sure no one had followed her.

Behind her, the sound of battle dulled — like thunder heard from deep underwater.

She was in.

She pressed herself against the wall, heart hammering, breath shallow.

Somewhere above her, past winding halls and gilded staircases, you were being held.

Naked. Caged. Paraded.

Ellie gritted her teeth.

They’d made a mistake letting her through that gate.

And she was going to make damn sure they knew it.

“You’ll look stunning in white,” Leon said, as if you were already draped in silks and chained to his side.

Behind him, the king chuckled — fat, bejewelled, drunk on wine and entitlement. The courtiers murmured, some appalled, others entranced. They were the same breed: cloaked in velvet, eyes sharp and dripping hunger.

Leon smirked, hand reaching out to caress your face.

You flinched. But he didn't stop.

His hand trailed down to your neck. Slow. Reverent. Cruel.

The whole court was watching you.

And they had no idea.

You had sworn never to sing again.

You remembered the way it used to feel—the shiver in your spine, the ache in your chest, the way your lungs burned when the first note left your mouth. How men followed you into the ocean like lambs to slaughter, smiles on their faces. You had given up that part of yourself. You weren’t like them. You never wanted to be.

But this was different.

His hand met your collarbone, fingers tracing uncomfortably close to your chest.

This was survival.

This was justice.

You closed your eyes.

And then, you sang.

It started like a heartbeat — low and pulsing, curling from your throat like smoke from a dying ember. The sound slipped into the air like silk drawn through water, invisible at first. Barely a tremble. Barely a whisper. But it spread.

It grew.

The song filled the throne room like the tide filling a cave—slow, inexorable, ancient.

Men stilled. A goblet clattered to the ground.

Your voice wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle. It was the raw note of a storm breaking against a cliffside, of shipwrecks and funerals, of longing so deep it carved holes in the soul. It shimmered through the air in waves, bending reality, pulling the light sideways. Candles flickered. Glass fogged.

And the men — every man in the room — forgot themselves.

Leon’s smug expression melted into wonder. His pupils dilated. He blinked once, slowly, as if waking into a dream. Then he dropped his hand to his knees, his lips parted.

The king murmured something — an old sailor’s prayer — but his voice slurred, twisted, drowned in yours.

You kept singing.

The power in your voice surged.

It tore through the court like a riptide — subtle at first, then devastating. Faces slackened. Eyes clouded. They began to sway, mouths forming silent words as if to echo your tune. One by one, they unsheathed their weapons. But not from fear.

Your voice didn’t ask.

It commanded.

A lieutenant stumbled forward, glassy-eyed, hands trembling as he reached for his sword. An eerily calm smile washed over his face as he turned the blade around to point it at himself. One second the blade was in front of him. The next?

It was in him.

Courtiers clutched at their chests. Nobles stumbled into one another, some laughing, some crying. The guards fell almost immediately — blades lodged in their chests and their minds unraveling beneath your song like thread pulled from an old net.

The court became a wave of motion — some floating, some flailing, all drowning.

You sang harder.

Higher.

Tommy fell to the floor, lifeless, a bloody dagger in his grip.

Your body ached. Your ribs burned. Your throat seared with the weight of it. But you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

Because this wasn’t just a song. It was a reckoning.

You sang of drowned cities and sister’s bones. Of ships that never returned. Of every scream swallowed by salt. You were the voice of vengeance bottled for generations, now cracked open and spilling across gold-tiled halls and velvet thrones.

Leon reached for you.

Not with lust, not even reverence — devotion. Madness. His mouth moved in time with yours, wordless, desperate. His hands hovered near a broken shard of glass like it was a jewel.

Behind him, the king had slumped over in his chair, face pale and wet. His court — his empire — crumbling around him, each soul unraveling to the sound of your voice. He was no exception.

His hand came up to the ties of his cape. A slow, weak smile pulled at his lips before tightening the garment around his throat, Death stealing his breath away.

Even the walls seemed to bend, the stained-glass windows rattling as your notes pushed higher, impossibly high, trembling in every beam of wood, every flake of stone.

You were glowing.

Your skin shimmered, slick with swear that had yet to dry, and beneath it, your true form began to emerge. Your claws arose once again. Scales fluttered along your arms and across your shoulders like armour — wet pearls and oil-slick sapphires shifting in rhythm with your voice.

They called you beautiful.

But now they saw what beauty could become when it was caged.

The spell twisted tighter.

Leon crawled closer to you as he pulled a dagger out from its sheath. He held it to his neck. Amidst the groans of pain and the last gasps of air echoing through the grand hall, his whispered words clung to your skin like a bad memory.

"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen..."

Then, with one slash, the Prince of Saint Barbara was no more.

It was only then that you stopped.

The silence was jarring, unnatural.

The last note still clung to the walls like sea-foam.

For a moment, there was stillness.

Then—

Prince Leon collapsed.

His eyes rolled back.

Others followed.

Some crumpled in place, unconscious or worse. Some wandered toward the shattered glass, dazed and muttering. A few noblewomen huddled in corners, untouched, sobbing quietly. A chamberlain wailed beside a man who no longer breathed.

It was over.

You were shaking, throat raw, body trembling.

But you were free.

And you had survived.

The throne room doors crashed open under the weight of Ellie's boot, hinges shrieking like wounded gulls. Smoke from the braziers swirled in the sudden gust, curling around broken pillars and shattered chandeliers like ghosts fleeing the living. Ellie didn’t hesitate.

She charged into the carnage, gun drawn, breath sharp and shallow — not from fear, but anticipation. She expected a fight. Expected guards, swords, fire.

What she found instead was silence.

And death.

Bodies.

Dozens of them. Draped in finery, in velvet and silk and gold-threaded robes — sprawled across the polished marble floor like marionettes whose strings had been violently cut. Their faces were frozen in expressions that made Ellie’s gut churn — slack-jawed awe, half-lidded bliss, tear-tracked terror. Some had fallen on spears. Others had jagged glass clutched in stiff hands. Crimson arced in elegant trails down white marble stairs. Ornate banquet knives were buried in throats and chests and stomachs.

And in the center, unmoving — you.

You knelt in a pool of moonlight and blood, hair tangled, skin streaked with saltwater and sweat, your body wrapped in nothing but glistening scales and silence. The ropes still hung loosely around your wrists, chafing raw red marks into your arms. Your eyes were wide and wet, unfocused, fixed somewhere past this world.

You looked like a painting. A cursed idol. A deity caught mid-descent.

And for a terrible second, Ellie thought she was too late.

“No,” she breathed.

Then she ran.

Dropped to her knees, heart threatening to tear out of her chest. She sliced your limbs free before her blade dropped to the marble with a loud clatter. “Y/N—hey, hey, it’s me.”

No answer.

You were trembling. Not from cold — from whatever had just ripped through your body like lightning. Your breath came in broken gasps. Your lips were parted but silent. Your face, usually so luminous with curiosity or mischief, was pale and wet with tears.

Ellie reached for you with shaking hands, cupping your face like something fragile. Your skin was hot beneath her palms.

“Breathe,” she whispered. “Come on, baby. In, and out. I’m right here.”

A faint sob cracked in your throat — not a sound, just a shudder, like your body had broken somewhere deep inside.

She shifted closer, gathering you into her arms like you were made of seafoam. You didn’t resist. Didn’t speak. Just collapsed into her with a ragged exhale, your fingers clutching at her coat, like an anchor in a storm.

Your face pressed into her chest, breath hitching, heartbeat frantic beneath your ribs. And Ellie held you through it, her grip firm, grounding, one hand curled protectively over the back of your head.

“I’ve got you,” she murmured. “I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

You sobbed, finally. Sharp and helpless. Then again. And again.

It wasn’t the soft weeping of someone trying to keep it together — it was the kind of sound that tore from the core. Grief and guilt and exhaustion tangled in one raw, aching note.

Ellie didn’t flinch.

She held you tighter, letting you drown in her chest. Her heartbeat was steady. Her voice low and constant.

“You’re safe now. No one’s gonna hurt you again.”

The marble beneath you was cold, slick with blood. But none of it mattered. Not the dead, not the scent of iron, not the distant sound of boots or the guards lying unconscious behind her in the courtyard.

Ellie could only look at you.

Your wrists — raw and welted. Your arms — trembling and slick with sweat. Your back — scarred from ropes and cage bars. And your mouth — the mouth that had just condemned an entire court to death — was trembling like a child’s.

You looked like you were trying to disappear. Curl into yourself and vanish.

She wouldn’t let you.

“I know what you did,” Ellie whispered. “And I know why.”

You made a sound, soft and choked — half protest, half confession.

“No. No. Don’t.” Ellie brushed your damp hair back, tucking it behind your ear. “They were going to hurt you. That bastard was going to keep you in glass for the rest of your life. And I don’t care if the whole world thinks you’re a monster.”

She pressed her forehead to yours.

“You’re mine.”

You shuddered. Her words sunk in slowly, like warmth seeping into frostbitten skin. And finally — finally — your eyes met hers.

Wide. Glassy. Hollowed out by horror, but clinging to the sound of her voice like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to the world.

“Ellie…”

Your voice was a whisper. A ripple across glass. A tide retreating.

“I didn’t want to. I didn’t—” You hiccuped, voice splintering. “They were touching me. Dragging me. I was—”

“I know,” she said, kissing your temple. “You were protecting yourself.”

“But I—” Your lips quivered. “I killed them.”

Ellie looked around at the bodies again, then back at you.

“They weren’t innocent,” she said, voice firm. “And you’re still here. That’s what matters.”

You crumbled in her arms again, this time with quieter sobs. Not sharp like before — just small, tired, like waves lapping against a crumbling shoreline.

She shifted to sit against the nearest column, drawing you into her lap. Your arms wrapped around her waist, head tucked beneath her chin. She stroked your back slowly, soothing your breath back into something steady.

“I’ve got you,” she said again. “You’re okay now.”

And you believed her.

Somehow, you believed her.

There were corpses around you and blood on your hands, but in her arms, it felt like none of it mattered.

The spell had broken.

You were still alive.

And Ellie was still holding you. Not out of obligation, out of something a million times stronger than that—

Love.

And if meant cradling someone close even after they’d sung an entire kingdom's court to its knees, then Ellie Williams was the most hopeless romantic alive.

───────────────────────────────

a/n: so trenches nation...how we feeling?? yes, i killed off tommy but then again, if it was between him and joel, we all know who's the clear option 😔 anyways only the epilogue is left now so get ready for some tooth rotting fluff <33 i worked on this chapter since 8am,, it's 12:30AM NOW 😭

48 notes · View notes