kriz-fics

[kriz-fics]

By Want Undone

“But, love-” He pulls away before you can find relief. “If you hold back, if you don’t come before the tenth stroke, I might have to start again.” His fingers dig into your hip, and his voice dips, deliciously sinister, and devilish. “Wouldn’t that be a shame?”

📚AO3 link to The Sword's Legacy📚

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Smut

Length: 5.4K

CW: Oral (m/f receiving) / power play = D/s elements, light CNC, impact play (spanking), mild pain play / accidental exhibitionism

“Eren- Eren, stop.”

He does not. Not at first. His grip on your wrist is firm as he drags you through polished stone and cold corridors, past empty alcoves and towering windows where moonlight spills silver onto the floor. He moves as though chased, as though chasing something.

You stare at the back of his head, then attempt once more to pry his fingers off you. Once more, you fail. “Eren,” you call again, trying to suppress the prickle of unease that courses through you and not quite succeeding. What’s wrong with him?

A silly question. You know full well what is wrong.

“Eren.” Your voice comes sharp this time, a note of command that you hope will cut through the haze of whatever this is.

It does. At last, he stops.

Not gently. He halts as if struck, turning on you so suddenly you nearly collide with him.

You flinch back at the look on his face.

Have you ever truly seen his rage? A temper he has, you are well aware of that, but this…

Gods, is he really this jealous of Roman? you think, almost in wonder, as you watch his chest rise and fall rapidly, his breath coming harsh, unsteady. His jaw is clenched shut, his mouth a hard, unyielding line, but it is his eyes that give you pause.

Jealousy incarnate. And something else. Something convoluted. Something more.

“What’s wrong?” you whisper, heart in your throat. His throat bobs, and for a long moment, the longest in your life you feel, you merely stare at each other.

Footsteps shatter the night’s silence and with it your impasse. He is dragging you again before you quite know it, toward the nearest doorway. You have the briefest impression of lamplight, tables, and the smell of food, until he presses himself flat against the adjacent wall, holding you close, your back against his front.

The footsteps are upon you, now. A lone servant, most like, come to do his duty or steal a moment from her yoke.

You have found yourselves in some sort of servants’ room, a preparation hall, by the looks of it. Rows of tables cover every surface, most clear of food, the feast having started hours past. A couple of empty platters and a cluster of goblets lie scattered on a tabletop or two. A single oil lamp flickers in the corner, but for that, the place is unlit.

Eren’s fingers flex around your waist. You can feel the hard line of his body, the heat of him, the tension coiled so tight you think he might snap beneath it. You shift against him, testing his hold. His grip only tightens. Your voice is a murmur. “Eren-”

“Be still.” A command, not a plea. His breath fans against your ear, rough, uneven.

The footsteps fade down the corridor, swallowed by distance. The tension in you begins to wane, only to pick back up again when his hands start to wander. One palm skims the curve of your hip, deliberate, claiming. The other trails higher, along your ribs, just beneath the swell of your breast, fingertips barely grazing, teasing.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

Eren does not answer, not with words. His hands speak instead, tracing slow, knowing paths over your body, shaping want from frustration. His fingers feather down, caressing your stomach, each touch screaming desire.

You suck in a breath, pulse a frantic thing within your chest. The air between you thickens, rife with something that feels too much like danger, and inevitability.

“You’re angry,” you murmur, though your voice betrays you, lacking the steel you intend.

A chuckle, low and dark. “What gave me away?”

Your hands find his wrists, meaning to still him, command him as he had you, but you hesitate. He sees, and takes advantage.

His mouth brushes the hollow beneath your ear, breath warm, lips just shy of pressing a kiss there. “I’m tired,” he mutters against your skin. “Tired of them all.”

Them? you would’ve asked before the realization hits. A hundred noble eyes flickering between golden candlesticks and goblets of spiced wine and the spectacle of him. Eren’s name had been in many a mouth tonight. As it had been the past week or so.

“Can you believe? The Magister’s own son, a blasphemer. It’s not a good look, oh, no, not a good look on the high and mighty Jaegers.”

“He came to the Kirschtein boy’s aid, though, and made no murders.”

“Call it what you will, blood spilled is blood spilled. All the worse for it having spilled on holy ground.”

Your heart stutters. “So you bring it here? To me?”

He bites you, hard enough to make you gasp. “Where else should I take it?” he asks, hoarsely. “Should I drink it away? Fuck it away in some other woman’s bed? No.” His hands dig into your hips, and he presses against you, forcing you to feel how high his blood has risen. “You’re mine.” He catches hold of your throat, not squeezing, not yet. The threat of it sets your own blood to singing. “And I am yours. That’s how it is, with us. Isn’t it?”

You should stop this. Gods, you should stop this.

Another set of footsteps comes and goes from outside the door.

We’ll be more careful next time.

But careful isn’t half so sweet as careless. So you roll your head back, and bare your throat.

Eren groans, and then there is only him, his hands and mouth and the keen edge of desperation as he takes what he needs - and you let him.

His grip shifts, rough, unrelenting, and before you can draw breath, he is spinning you in his grasp. The world tilts, the lamplight blurring for the space of a heartbeat; then his hands are at your jaw, your neck, and his mouth crashes against yours.

It is not a kiss meant for softness. It is raw, searing, a claiming made flesh. His fingers dig into your skin as though to anchor himself, to remind you - and him - that you are here, and his.

You choke back a gasp as he presses closer, devouring you, lips parting yours with a hunger that speaks of frustration, and fury, and everything he has no words for. His teeth scrape, his tongue demands and, gods help you, you answer in kind. Your tongue slides against his, shivers running down your spine as you listen to him breathe in deep through his nose, as if he would inhale the very essence of you.

You moan, startled, into his mouth as he begins to walk you backward. Step by steady step you move, until the backs of your thighs meet solid wood. You barely have time to brace yourself before he lifts you, grip firm around your thighs, seating you atop an empty table with effortless strength.

A breathless laugh breaks from you, equal parts amusement and disbelief, because isn’t this how it always goes? Some dark corner, some room, his hands on you, his mouth hungry, his knees hitting the floor like a man driven to prayer.

You lean back on your palms, watching as he kneels before you, fingers already pushing up the silvery hem of your gown. “How do we always end up like this?” A smirk plays at your lips, teasing, wicked. “With you, on your knees for me. And me, spread open for you.”

Eren chuckles, slipping his hands up your thighs and parting them with a lazy sort of insistence. “Maybe it’s just the natural order of things - me, worshiping at your shrine.”

You pant, giggling when his lips find the sensitive skin above your knee, teeth grazing just enough to sting. "Blasphemer," you whisper, voice catching.

He grins, wicked and wolfish. “Then damn me,” he says, winding the laces of your smallclothes around long, slender fingers. “I’ll keep praying anyway.” He tugs and bends his head, and all is lost to lust, and heat, and Eren.

“Oh, gods,” the words gust past your lips, melting into a shuddering breath, which you hold when he pulls you close and begins flicking his tongue against your clit. You gasp, back arching as he twirls his tongue and sucks until you are rolling your hips against his face, grip tight in his hair. You bite your lip, whimpering, chest heaving, thighs shaking around his head.

And then he is locking his arms around you, tapping his tongue so fast that your spine bows and you lurch forward, curling around him and crying out hoarsely. You bite your lip again, muffling the whines he draws from you at the delicious suction of his clever, clever mouth.

A scuff of boots against stone. The low murmur of voices. The creak of a door somewhere further down the hall. Footsteps. Slow, unhurried, drawing closer.

Your back snaps up straight, and you begin pushing at him in spite of your body’s protests. He holds on the tighter, though, and pushes two fingers inside your sex for good measure. When you try to pull up, heart thrashing with anxiety and elation both, he pulls you back down and works his tongue harder, pumping his fingers inside you quick.

The voices outside are clearer now, familiar. Nobles, wandering out of the feast, drunk on wine and whispers. Another step, and another, closer, closer.

Your peak is coming, closer, closer.

Your eyes flutter shut, teeth sunk so hard into your lip you nearly draw blood. Not yet. Not like this. Not when they might hear. Your stomach clenches as you fend off your impending end.

Then his palm cracks against the soft swell of your ass.

The scream explodes out of you, as does your shock.

Did he just-?

You clap a hand over your mouth.

Outside, the footsteps pause. Then comes a woman’s soft laugh, a knowing murmur, footsteps moving on.

Heat surges to your face, and fury and embarrassment twining like a lover’s knot.

You glare down at your bastard lover. “You-”

The bastard merely smirks at you, squeezing your stinging flesh almost pertly. “What did I tell you about holding back, love?”

Your mouth parts, but before you can form words, to curse him or beg him for more, his hand comes down again.

Another sharp crack, another burst of stinging heat.

You jolt, breath catching, thighs clenching around his shoulders. Your hand flies to grab his hair, more to steady yourself than to punish him, though you can’t help but give it a vicious tug in retaliation.

The bastard actually likes that, groaning deep and low and unrepentant. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your inner thigh. “Don’t hold back for them. No one else is here. Just us.”

Before you can do more than just gape and gather your wits, Eren’s grip on you tightens. “But you do hold back,” he muses, voice thick with amusement, and something darker coiled beneath. “That’s the second time you transgressed. That won’t do.”

You scoff at that, twisting against him, but he is already moving, forcing you around with an ease that sends a thrill rushing through your blood. You gasp as your stomach meets the cool wood of the table, hands splaying over its surface to catch yourself. He kicks your legs apart without preamble, one broad palm pressing firm against the small of your back, keeping you where he wants you as he lifts your skirts over your hips.

Your cheeks burn at how exposed you feel, slumped over the table just so, spread open and displayed like a dockside whore. Which is rather passing funny, really. What is there he hasn’t seen? What inch of you has not been mapped by his hands, by his mouth? What part of you has not been tasted, taken, laid bare before him? And yet, like this, you feel stripped anew though you remain fully clad; every nerve within thrums with mortification and something else, something hotter, something you will not name.

"A proud lady I have here," his lips ghost over the nape of your neck, the words nearly gentle - if not for the way his other hand trails over the naked curve of your ass, domineering, appraising. "You can be surprisingly stubborn when you want to be. But stubborn girls need to be taught their place, don’t they?"

Wetness seeps between your thighs; the reaction stuns you, so much as to render you absolutely still. Eren hums in approval, kneading your heated flesh, taking his time. "That’s better," he says, as if you had done something to please him. He smoothes his hand down your rear, then reaches lower, fingers teasing at your soaked folds before leaving off, to your utter dismay.

“Perch your pretty ass up for me, sweetheart,” he bids you, before you can make your dissatisfaction known, tapping the back of your thigh lightly. You find yourself hastening to obey, lowering yourself to your elbows and pressing your chest flat against the smooth oak. Your heart hammers within the cage of your ribs as he squeezes a cheek and moves closer. You can feel him, hot and hard and straining against you even through the cloth of his pants.

“Eren-” You are near shaking with anticipation, and anxiety, whimpering behind your bitten lips as his fingers steal between your legs, running slowly up and down your slit before sinking deep inside. Gooseflesh rises up your arms at the sound of his laughter, low and dark, the sound of a man savoring his own wickedness. He pumps slow and deep, spreading you open as you clench around him, squirming and panting beneath his touch. He kisses the nape of your neck, lingering and deceptively tender, before murmuring, “Ten, I think.”

You barely have the sense to understand him, so lost are you to the pleasure curling through you, the tight coil in your belly wound near to breaking. “W-what?”

“Ten strikes,” he elaborates, slipping from your core only to trace lazy circles over the sensitive, swollen flesh of your clit that he had left bare to his mercy. “One transgression,” his lips brush over the curve of your shoulder, “is worth five strikes.” A pause, just long enough for him to press inside you again, stroking knuckle-deep, making you moan softly. “And you-” He curls his fingers, rubbing against that spot that makes you see white. “You transgressed twice.”

Your eyes widen as flames blaze up your cheeks. Madness. This is madness. He is madness. Your nails claw at the polished wood beneath you, useless, desperate. “That makes ten,” he drones, withdrawing and leaving you empty. Bereft. You let out a growl which seems half a sob. He laughs at that, not unkindly. “You see, sweetheart? Even now, you resist.” He caresses your rear, warm, possessive, reverent. “Let’s see if we can break you of the habit.”

Scarcely have you taken a breath when he raises a hand, coming down on your cheek hard enough to make you jerk against the table. A strangled groan escapes you before you can bite it down, your ears ringing and full of the resounding smack of his blow. The pain flares hot, settling low into something treacherously pleasurable.

Eren exhales harsh and quick, palming the burning flesh almost lovingly. “One.”

You make a sound, part protest, part plea, but he only tuts in amusement. He delves between your thighs again, drenching his digits with your juices. “But, love-” He pulls away before you can find relief, spreading your slick over your aching skin. “If you hold back, if you don’t come before the tenth stroke, I might have to start again.” His fingers dig into your hip, and his voice dips, deliciously sinister, and devilish. “Wouldn’t that be a shame?”

The slap of flesh against flesh resounds through the hall. Two.

“Fucking hell,” you whisper breathlessly, scrabbling at the table and gasping loudly at the next strike. You pant, blinking more white splotches from your vision as his fingers enter you once more and drive you to the brink.

Sin.

Is this sin?

If so, it is not the thing your mother had whispered of, not cold, not a thing to chill the bones. No, this is hot. Searing. A brand against your skin, against your soul.

Sin, you think dizzily, has never felt so sweet.

Right, left, right, left, he hits, each stroke making you clench hard around him, intensifying everything a thousandfold. The count comes up to ten. The number drifts through your mind like a spectre, almost too faint to grasp. Ten. It should have been over.

But that isn’t right. Is it?

Crack.

Eleven.

Your breath hitches. The haze fractures. Another stroke lands, swift and deliberate.

Twelve.

You push your forehead into the tabletop, heaving in ragged gasps of air, stifling a sob as his hand connects again. Your skin sings with pain, your stomach pulled in so tight you can’t unclench it. You moan, low and hoarse, as his fingers rub steadily, relentlessly over your sweet spot. Close, you are so close; you should’ve reached your pleasure by now and then some, but…

What is this?

The next slap sends a bolt of pleasure-pain streaking up your spine, so intense it nearly unmakes you. You should have shattered. Instead, you clench down harder.

“Oh?”

He gives you another taste of his palm, the fifteenth or the fiftieth, you don’t know.

“You actually like this, don’t you?” His ensuing laughter makes you shiver.

Smack!

Let go, let the pain end.

It isn’t just pain you will end, though.

The next few slaps strike deeper, harder, pushing you further into something you shouldn’t want this much. A shudder wracks you, raw and visceral.

But, gods, it feels so good.

You can taste salt on your lips, feel wetness streak your cheeks. You raise your eyes to blurred lamplight and hazy darkness, feel him slip out of you with a soft, wet squelch. You tense, heart hammering in your chest more than it already is at present. What is he doing? You uncoil a little when you hear the suction of his lips licking off your juices from his fingers.

And then pain, sharp and searing, explodes where he strikes you, his palm cracking against your ass and cunt all at once.

You shatter, hard.

A scream rips from your throat, tearing through you as if it had been caged inside your ribs for a lifetime and only now found its way free. You buck against the table, your whole body convulsing, thighs squeezing tight around his hand as you claw uselessly at the smooth wood. Pleasure as you have never felt before swallows you whole - wild and merciless as a storm rolling in off the sea.

The storm leaves you wrecked in its wake, tossed ashore, breathless and limp. The wooden table is wonderfully, blessedly cool against your burning skin, your cheek pressed to the polished grain, your limbs trembling uncontrollably. You flinch as he bends over you and blows a gust of air into your face. You gasp and, all at once, you can breathe clear again.

“Hey,” he murmurs gently, kneading the flesh he’d just punished, his fingers idly sweeping over the evidence of what he’d done to you. You bite back the quiet whine bubbling up your sore throat. “Are you all right? Was that too much?”

You open your mouth to reply and promptly begin coughing. He reaches for you, carefully taking a sweaty hank of hair off your face and wiping the tears off your cheek with the lightest of touches, the very picture of patience. He waits as you float back to yourself, his hands never straying far, always touching, always steady.

“I-” You swallow, lick your lips, and try again. “I- need a moment…” you rasp, trying to steady your shaky breathing while he runs his fingers through your hair.

“Was that too much?” he asks again, kissing your neck with a tenderness uncharacteristic of a man who had just struck you senseless mere moments ago.

You clear your throat and answer, “Yes… no… I don’t know.” You let out a wisp of a laugh at the absurdity of it all. “It was… intense, that’s for bloody sure.”

“But you’re all right?”

“Yes,” you smile, dreamy and sated despite the aches. Gods, what have you made of me, you infuriating, incredible man? “I’m fine.”

A pause. Then, another kiss, another warm touch of his lips against the nape of your neck, slow and lingering. “Good,” he answers, quiet and satisfied. “But you’ll tell me if I ever go too far.” It isn’t a question.

You giggle, shifting beneath him, testing the soreness in your limbs. “If you ever go too far,” you stretch languidly beneath him like a well-rested cat, “you’ll be the first to know.” You can breathe easier now, yet your pulse remains thrumming in your ears. The soreness settles in like an old ache, a reminder, a claim. You shift again, and the movement makes you all too aware of the slick still pooling between your thighs, the way it clings to you like a second skin.

Heat creeps up your neck, not from embarrassment - never that - but from the sheer obscenity of it, the evidence of your own ruin. Gods, you are drenched, still trembling from the offshoots, your body so thoroughly wrung out that even the press of air against your naked skin makes you shudder. You feel marked, remade.

It is only then, as you return to yourself, that you notice the strain in him. His breathing comes quick, uneven, less controlled than usual. His hands, so sure and demanding before, hold your hips fast as though fighting the urge to grip tighter, pull you against him, and take. His mouth traces paths against your shoulder, open and warm.

Tentatively, you push your rear back against him. Still hard, still aching. You smile, and say as much, “You worked yourself hard, you know.”

His chuckle is soft, indulgent. “Did I now?”

“Mm-hmm.” You straighten gingerly and turn in his hold, twisting against his grip, your skirts slipping free from his fingers to cascade in shimmering silvery swathes to the floor. You hiss, grimacing when your sore arse makes contact with the hard edge of the table.

Eren smirks, the curve of his lips lazy, pleased. “Sore, are we?”

You shoot him a glare, but it lacks any real venom. “You know I am.”

His hands come to rest on either side of you, caging you in back against the table. He leans close, so close you can see the way the black of his eyes eclipses the green, see the flush of his skin creeping up his neck. “Good.” His voice is rich with satisfaction. “You’ll think of me every time you sit.”

Gods, he is insufferable. Insufferable and intoxicating and yours. You bite your lip, studying him. For a man so given to impulse, he is showing remarkable restraint. Eren Jaeger is not the most patient of creatures (and still so hard it has to be near agony), yet here he stands, braced against the table, merely smirking, watching. Waiting.

Well. That simply won’t do.

You reach for the fastenings of his shirt and begin prying them apart. You keep your eyes on his all the while, slowly working each button loose, just to watch his composure fray at the edges. He breathes in harsh and quick, but he lets you have your game.

Then, you grow impatient.

With a fierce tug, you pull, sending buttons scattering to the floor like spilled coins. His tunic gapes open yet it is no good, not yet, not with that damnable undershirt of his getting in the way of your heart’s desire. You grab the bone-white linen, and tug.

“Impatient little thing,” he huffs out a laugh as the cloth tears with a satisfying rip, baring his chest to you at last.

You run your hands across his naked skin, savoring his warmth. “Call it recompense,” you murmur before shifting, gripping his shoulders and twisting you both in a sudden movement that near throws him off his feet. With a grunt, Eren stumbles, the backs of his thighs meeting the edge of the table. You have the satisfaction of seeing his smirk falter, just for a moment, as he catches himself on his hands.

“If this is recompense, I’ll be more than glad to pay,” he tips his head back, groaning deep in his throat as you begin kissing a path down his body, tracing the lines of muscle, the hard-earned strength beneath his golden skin.

You giggle into his chest. “You will," you say, a threat and a promise. "And you’ll pay in full." You lick your tongue out and taste the salt of his skin, before taking a nipple into your mouth and lightly sucking. Your cunt clenches at his moans, fresh wetness soaking your thighs anew as you flick your tongue over the hard little bud and nip, releasing him with a wet pop and repeating the gentle torment on the other side.

Your eyes flash to his face as you lower yourself to your knees. Your bottom burns, screaming in protest, but you don’t care; your tongue slides over the sharp cut of his hipbones as you revel in his look of mindless ecstasy, the whitening of his knuckles as he holds onto the table’s edge as though for dear life.

You can feel it, feel him, when you sink lower still. Your hands find his laces, untying them with no ceremony, no teasing preamble, just purpose. Swift and sure. No measured strokes, no slow ascent to madness. No. He will not get the luxury of languishing in it as you had.

His cock springs free, thick and heavy and flushed a deep purple-red at the tip, already leaking from desire long deferred. You watch him twitch as the cool air meets his too-heated flesh, your hands coming up to take him by the hips.

“Fuck,” he mutters, as you waste no time.

He groans loudly as you take him in deep, slapping his hand against the tabletop in a desperate bid to keep his balance. You do not let up, will not let up, pumping him fast and hard down your throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, l-love, w-wait-”

You change your pace, deaf to his pleas, easing to a slow, deep suctioning pull and twist. You are rewarded at once by his near collapse - his legs buckle, making him reach out quick for the table to stop his headlong drop to the floor. “Gods, I’m go-” He pulls his hips back, trying for distance, relief, but you will have none of it. Your fingers dig into his hips, keeping him still. The table gives and slides across the floor a couple of inches, forcing him to scramble for stability. “Fucking hell.” The moan that escapes him then is wrecked, raw, torn from his throat like a prayer half-uttered. It sends a shudder through you; his pleasure chimes through your blood, makes you dizzy with need, makes the ache between your thighs throb all the harder.

So you take him further down, so deep that you begin to gag, but still you do not let up. You lift your gaze to watch the glory of him, watch him pant so hard that the muscles in his chest flex each time he takes a breath.

Your eyes meet, and for a moment, the world narrows to that single, blistering point of connection - the wreckage of him, the triumph of you. His lips part as though to say your name, but no sound comes, only more ragged, uneven breaths. His hands, so desperate for an anchor, clench and unclench against the table’s edge.

His gaze flickers past you, to something over your shoulder.

You feel it before you hear it, the shift in his body, the tension twisting into something sharper, hotter. The way his pleasure spikes, how he grows even harder in your mouth, his hips twitching forward, not away.

You would have pulled back, but his hands snap to your head, keeping you in place. His grip trembles, his fingers curling in your hair, his hips thrusting forward and back as he fucks your mouth in earnest.

The scream rings out. It tears through the hall, high and shrill, followed at once by a tremendous crash - the clatter of pewter goblets, the heavy thud of silvered platters striking stone. Then, the hurried, frantic patter of footsteps fleeing into the dark.

A couple more heartbeats, a suck, a roll and a gentle tug on his balls, and he breaks.

“Gods, fuck,” he hisses, back arching as he comes with a loud cry, spilling so hard he doesn’t even hit your tongue. He holds you there, hips jerking in helpless, shuddering pulses as he rides out his pleasure, his breath torn from him in shattered gasps. His legs shake beneath him, ready to give at any moment.

You swallow for what seems like ages, and when you pull back at last, popping him from your mouth and licking your lips, he is still looking at the doorway, at the space where some poor fool had stood and watched, too stunned to move until it was too late.

He sits back heavily on the table, legs splayed, chest rising and falling in great, uneven heaves. His skin is flushed, his tunic a ruin about his shoulders, his hair and body damp with sweat. He looks well and truly fucked. Conquered.

Still, his hands seek you. A lazy tug on your wrist, a firm pull, and you find yourself hauled onto his lap, your skirts pooling around you. His arms wind tight around your waist, a solid weight anchoring you to him.

For a time, neither of you speaks. You trace idle patterns along his chest, fingers following the lines of his collarbone and old scars, while his hand trails lazily up and down your spine. A silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable, but full, sated.

Then, he laughs. A quiet thing, barely more than a huff of breath against your temple. "Think she'll ever recover?"

You grin against his shoulder. "If she does, she'll have a very interesting confession to make."

He snorts, pressing his lips to your hair. "Poor girl."

"Poor girl," you agree, but you are smiling, and so is he.

Another moment passes before you shift, studying him with that keen, searching gaze of yours, seeing past the pleasure and the aftermath to the lingering load he has carried on his shoulders even before you had set upon each other. "Do you feel better now?"

He sighs, long and slow, still idly stroking your back. "I’m tired."

“That’s not what I-”

“I know. I’m tired of them all, I told you. The Eldians. The Brauns. The court. My father.” His grip on you tightens, fingers digging deep against the small of your back, like he can sink into your skin, burrow beneath it and find some measure of peace there. “All of them.”

Them. Their whispers and sidelong glances, Jean Kirschtein’s face twisted in grief and rage, the weight of what the Brauns had done. And his father. You hold him close, concerned. That is one tale you have yet to hear. You’ll have it of him. But not today.

"Let me stay the night," he says. Not a command. Not quite a request either.

You hum, leaning in, resting your forehead against his. "You're making a habit of it, you know."

His arms lock around your waist, as if you might disappear should he let go. "Twice doesn’t make it a habit."

You laugh quietly, your breath warm against his lips. “No? Three times, then?”

“Three times, maybe.”

"And if Yelena comes knocking at my door come the morning, you might find yourself under my bed yet again."

He smirks. "Wouldn’t be the worst place I’ve been."

"Hmm," you muse, combing your fingers through his hair. "Give it time."

He chuckles, but the tension in him has unwound, at least for now. His lashes flutter, heavy-lidded with sudden exhaustion, and when he leans in again, it is slower, softer - a kiss to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

You sigh, melting against him, letting him hold you there, warm and safe and his, for just a while longer. And when the lights burn low, when the night stretches dark and deep beyond the windows, he slips into your rooms like a thief in the night. But one well-practiced, and well-wanted.

---

A/N:

Dusting off this blog to say Happy birthday, Eren, my beloved! Glad to be able to make his birthday and celebrate it with good, tasty smut ✨🎉🎊🎁🎈🎂

Reader's POV of the smut scene in the upcoming new chapter of TSL (main chap will have Eren's POV, not yet posted as of today). You can read TSL in AO3, link above. Since this is pretty stand-alone (since it's all smut) I decided to post it here, too.

It was an Experience writing this one, I must say. I hope you guys enjoy this one, and once again, happy birthday, Eren~ 💕

[kriz-fics]

LAQUAN SMITH Fall/Winter RTW 2025 if you want to support this blog consider donating to: ko-fi.com/fashionrunways

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The Nightfarers

[kriz-fics]

Dusting off this blog to thank @princess-okkotsu so much! Aleks, this is incredible! That emerald ring is such a *detail* I can't, like, it fits so much, it's almost scary, haha! Thanks so much for the tag! 😊

Okay I wanted to do that game I saw on the dash with making fic covers and I made too many I had to stop at 9 LMFAO anyway. Here’s the link to make your own!! Open tags!

Fics above:

Serial Bereavements by @banjjakz

Genesis by @genetopia

An Angel Standing in the Sun by @blondeboyfriend

The Sword’s Legacy by @kriz-fics

The Last Song by @ficsforeren

Reason & Responsibility by @dreamyjaeger

Poems for Driftwood by @besotted-eros

また君に恋してる by @banjjakz

Pomegranate Ink by @m1ckeyb3rry

[kriz-fics]

Posting Hiatus

This probably will get as much attention as my work here but it won't hurt to get this out.

After a couple of abysmal months and an inactive taglist (either Tumblr is broken, everyone's inactive, or I get buried or whatnot), I will stop posting long fics here, since I can see now it's not friendly to long work - especially when it's heavily plot-centered. AO3 is SO much friendlier to my work - it's made for stories, after all. Tumblr, I see, is more for drabbles, sex fics, and if there are long fics, they're usually not plot-heavy.

So, I guess I'll keep this blog when I get around to writing the above kinds of fics (they come every so often, so, yeah). It's so disheartening to see people straight up learning from my work and not giving it the time of day? Like so much for 'author appreciation' on this site but it is what it is.

Also, still keeping TSL up for archival purposes? Will only update on AO3 from now on. I hate getting writer's block because of thinking about posting on Tumblr - I need to get it out of my writing system so I can at least be happy about writing my pride and joy. At least now I can be excited again because AO3 readers show their interest more.

Again, will still be posting my shorter works here some time down the line.

Til then.

[kriz-fics]

Posting Hiatus

This probably will get as much attention as my work here but it won't hurt to get this out.

After a couple of abysmal months and an inactive taglist (either Tumblr is broken, everyone's inactive, or I get buried or whatnot), I will stop posting long fics here, since I can see now it's not friendly to long work - especially when it's heavily plot-centered. AO3 is SO much friendlier to my work - it's made for stories, after all. Tumblr, I see, is more for drabbles, sex fics, and if there are long fics, they're usually not plot-heavy.

So, I guess I'll keep this blog when I get around to writing the above kinds of fics (they come every so often, so, yeah). It's so disheartening to see people straight up learning from my work and not giving it the time of day? Like so much for 'author appreciation' on this site but it is what it is.

Also, still keeping TSL up for archival purposes? Will only update on AO3 from now on. I hate getting writer's block because of thinking about posting on Tumblr - I need to get it out of my writing system so I can at least be happy about writing my pride and joy. At least now I can be excited again because AO3 readers show their interest more.

Again, will still be posting my shorter works here some time down the line.

Til then.

[kriz-fics]

The Sword's Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Nineteen: Weeds and Duty

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters), Slow Burn

Length: 9.7K

CW: Pretty tame this chap, though there is a bit of friskiness in there. Recommended listening for YN's POV in the beach: Dancing in the Rain

“Ah, this one would be-”

“Demon’s thistle, sir.”

The Lord Alexander Rhyzkov laughs. “My daughter has taught you well.”

Eren lets forth his own chuckle. “That she has, sir.”

That dreaded day of goodfatherly bonding turns out not to be so dreadful. A huge bear of a man he may be, but the Lord Paramount of Vascalin is as gentle as a pup, and amiable as he always is.

Eren had started the day utterly sick with nerves. On the one hand, dawdling in his rooms seemed like a very viable option. He had almost done so; the thought of what his future father by marriage would say (or do) were he late killed the notion dead. Eren hastened forth, as frightened as if he were walking to the scaffold. 

Like the condemned, he took inventory of his sins, especially those against the ancient House of Rhyzkov. Not many, to be sure, but he had trespassed now and again. He could’ve endeared himself better to the family in the wheelhouse when they were yet traveling. There was that incident with the newt and Lydia (she did keep the thing as a pet and laughed about it afterward, but still). Then, there was his worst sin, the worst and blackest of them all, which had everything to do with the Rhyzkovs’ beloved heir and his less-than-pure thoughts of her over the past year…

He resolved never to look the Lord of Arsechkala in the eye, then - eye contact was crucial for the reading of minds, and Eren had taken into his head that the lord of bears could somehow read his.

Funny that his first battle (which was not a battle, not in the truest sense) had not been half as petrifying as the prospect of spending time alone with his future goodfather. The absurdity of it all had sobered him. He is an anointed knight, the Falcon Knight, the Knight of Highridge, he had faced worse things. He is a man and this would not unman him. And so he went, determined to face it like the man he is.

He need not have girded up his loins so tightly, for good fortune smiled upon him. For this day, at least.

“Not all weeds are an evil, as any man of the field will tell you. Some have their uses.” Lord Alexander pulls up another bunch of fine, silvery spider weed and adds it to his already teeming basket. “Some are eaten, some are drunk, some have other, more extraordinary uses.” He considers the mass in his hamper and nods in approval. “I think I have enough for the making of one kerchief. For the sweet lady of the house.”

The utter love in the older man’s mien resonates with Eren. His own lady’s sweet smiling face fills his world. He has a gift for you (another, yet another, you can never get too much, he can never give too much), furnished by nature as well. It is no delicate scrap of gauzy spider silk but it should be no less remarkable. Or so he hopes. It will all rely on his skill; hard work has never been so crucial, not if he wants what is best for his lady.

“There’s a lesson to be had in weeds, I think,” Lord Alexander goes on, uprooting dandelions and adding them to his second basket, filled with more dandelions, clovers, and nettles. Edible weeds, fit for tea. “I shan’t lay them all out, but they’re there, if you care to think on it.”

The Month of Resting came upon them at a slow creep and with it true autumn for them as live in the South. The autumn storms blew ever more fierce each week, which heralded the closing of the ports. A serene silence fell over the city as the people took their rest from seasons’ worth of hard work. The rains drive them all within and keep them there, in any case, as though determined to let them have that much-needed respite from the slog.

Goldhaven’s sanctum is not so green as before. Browns and yellows and oranges, crimson and gold, autumn’s hues paint the sacred gardens in vast swathes. The ever-present wind is chill and cuts through cloth as a hot knife cuts through butter (for those stupid enough not to dress proper up here, anyway). The day dawned a rare one, lacking cloud and shade, and so Goldhaven’s lord sent the dire invitation at last.

“How has your stay been so far?” Lord Alexander eyes a bunch of still-blooming goldenglow thoughtfully, before adding them to his tea basket.

A clutch of raven blades catch Eren’s eye. Good for the memory, you tell him helpfully, and so he sets about taking them up. He can give them to you for your brews. “It’s been a terrific couple of months, I thank you so much for the hospitality,” he answers the lord’s erstwhile question, polite as pie.

Lord Alexander hums in approval. A comfortable silence, one of many occurring that day, falls upon knight and lord. For a long while, Eren is content to spend the time merely weeding, searching for those that can be of use to his sweet Healer. Most boys will be searching for flowers for their girls, not weeds, yet here he is. The thought is most humorous. He had given you a lifetime’s worth of blooms the past season, in any case; you are always better off with a little more variety, he likes to think.

“You grew up in part in the South, yes? Lenberg, as I recall. Is it so very different from these parts?” Lord Alexander hands him a blackberry from the nearby bush and eats one himself.

Eren murmurs thanks and pops the morsel in his mouth. It is sweet if a little tart, and succulent; the juice runs down his throat in sugary rivulets, so very tasty. “It is different, sir, but not so much that both sides are distinct from the other. Different tongue, different customs, but otherwise the same.” He smiles a little. “Now that I’ve spent time without them, I find that I can miss our holy days. The Creed’s, I mean. Not that it’s deadly dull here or anything!” he rushes to clarify before the lord can take offense. “It’s just… You don’t celebrate much. But if you do, it’s so much more… exciting.”

The lord, to Eren’s great, good fortune, does not take offense. “‘Tis true, we don’t have cause to celebrate any one god for every month of the year, and so we limit ourselves to life’s most significant occasions. But, see, we have more gods than the Creed could ever fathom. If we did as you do, we would be feasting every day forevermore to appease the Old Ones, they who are nameless and without number.”

Eren steals a look at the nearby godstone. It is the cleanest, most well-cared-for godstone he has ever seen, so much so that he can see every detail upon the proud, serene face of the featured god. How many gods does this one represent? he wonders.

“So, a knight you are now,” the Lord Alexander remarks, absently, almost to himself. He seems far away from Eren then, though he is standing not five feet away, twirling a bloom of poppy between his fingers. He catches Eren’s stare and smiles beneath his big, luxurious beard. “A title most well-earned. Not easily, I know,” the older man’s eyes linger on Eren’s face, at the slash above his left eyebrow, then flickers to his right arm, at the puckered scar concealed by his tunic’s sleeve. “It seems we are both marked by that day.” The lord rubs at the rich amber sleeve of his robe distractedly, at the right forearm that bears the mark of the northman’s blade. “But yours were more nobly begotten. It is no small feat to save the life of the Majesty himself.”

“It was my duty.” They are his own words, it is his own tongue, yet Eren hears a stranger speaking.

“Duty.” Lord Alexander seems to ponder the word. The poppy twirls in his hand, red petals spinning left, right, and back again, unceasing. The older man gathers himself, and Eren finds that he has held his breath, bracing for what his future goodfather may say. “She is your duty.”

That… is most unexpected. “Sir?” Eren frowns a little, confused.

“Her. The Lady Rhyzkova to come. She will be your calling, the heart of your service. Oh, they make you swear, to defend, to be truthful, to be loyal. To serve. But such vows these are. Who shall you defend? The weak, the helpless. To whom should you be loyal? To her, your liege. Yet, in the end, it all comes back to the king, who is above all.”

The poppy drifts from the large and lordly hand, to land lightly on the basket atop the goldenglow. Red on gold. The Rhyzkov colors inversed. 

“Service is the very essence of a knight,” the lord continues his solemn speech, “but you are more than just her knight. Of knights she has aplenty, of husbands she will have only the one. Knights are loyal, obedient, dutiful, yet their vows would have them serve many, too many. A husband has only to serve one. A husband is bound only to one. For where she goes, will you go. From two now as one, your hearts forever bind.”

The words of the wedding rite. New and old both. 

Eren can feel his heart beat just that bit faster as his goodfather-to-be fixes him with the most imposing look. “The weak, the helpless, the king, you have a duty to them. But next to her, what are they? Remote and far away and not immediate. She is your everyday. Your duty, you will revolve around her. So be there for her. Be there for her, Eren, as her mother is for me.”

The smile the older man gives Eren softens the austere lines of the bearded face as he goes on, “It is a heavy burden, to rule. It is tiring and oppressive, so very oppressive. And it gets lonely, up there at the seat of power. She will need you to help her bear the chains of command. Carry her, protect her, love her. We do not oft come into it, love, not our sort, but I think…” Eren fights not to look away as Lord Alexander gazes at him with so much gravity as if to lay bare the very soul of him. Her eyes. You have the lord’s eyes. You are the very image of your mother, but for those eyes. The wicker of his basket digs into his palms. “Yes, I think love is not such a hard commission, not for you.”

Loving tenderness takes the lord’s face over once more as he bends to pluck more poppies. “I would have fallen beneath the weight of my own chains had Theresia not been there with me through it all,” says Lord Alexander, so very softly. “Love her, Eren. That is all I ask, as a father who loves his daughter. Keep to that duty and I will rest content.”

Duty. She can be such a poxy bitch at times. It had never been for her sake that Eren took up the call to arms. Duty had been far from his mind when he set out to become a warrior. They are not so much strangers nowadays. He had learned the way of duty over the years, she is not so exacting a mistress as he makes her out to be, granted. Yet he is slowly coming to find that she is easier to bear with some more than others.

He can bear duty to you. “I will, sir. There’s no one else I’d sooner serve than her,” Eren Jaeger avows, with his own words and his own tongue.

The lord bends to pick up his baskets, pleased and so very content. “Nothing could please me more.” He is a big man, Alexander Rhyzkov, a veritable bear of a lord, yet his countenance at present is more redolent of a child’s stuffed bear than a living, savage one. “Of all the candidates for the hand of my daughter, you are the best of them, I see that now. I could not have asked for a better goodson.”

Warmth blooms deep within Eren at the heartening words. “I-I’m glad you think so, my lord,” he forces out and stoops to retrieve his own basket - the better to look away from the older man, he is so flattered and so, so flustered - then hurriedly snatches his hand back as he spies a centipede crawling amidst his harvested greens.

“Ah, here.” Lord Alexander strides forward with a stick he had procured from the nearby bushes and proceeds to scoop the poisonous thing up. He flicks the stick and the creature away, into the blackberry bushes; the hundred-legged thing vanishes beneath the undergrowth. “Such nasty creatures, but so vital to life’s cycle. As are so many others… Come, lad, we have weeded as much as we can, let us leave them to repopulate the area in peace. You have much still to learn. Unless my girl has been a thorough teacher, in which case you must show me the fruits of her knowledge.”

“We both have a lot to learn, sir, but she was very thorough with what she knew. I only hope to have made her a good student.” He did, when all is said and done, which comes as a great relief. It will not do for him to make such a fool of himself, or to undermine his lady’s capabilities. You will find in him a good and able servant, which is just as well. You are as fine a mistress as he can ever hope to serve.

My lady, my mistress, my duty. It will seem that they all three are one and the same. If you are duty, though, you are not such a poxy bitch now, are you?

“A fountain such as this would work well, don’t you think?”

You consider Yelena’s fount, watching the water spray into air and trickle down stone. The skies above are not so gray as the pool, and don’t threaten rain. It is a good day for gardening. You had offered to replenish Healer Darya’s stores and had seized your chance when the day dawned fine and bright. You had not been long at your labors before Father happened upon you in the green (that was not so green), intending to do his own spot bit of gardening. The company is much welcome. You would’ve invited Eren had he not had the yen to spar the morning away. And it has been a while since you and your father have spoken in a more relaxed setting away from statecraft and policy.

A patch of stink bloom is flowering not a foot from you. You give the plant a wide berth, wrinkling your nose and thanking the gods that you have not stepped on those. They are the most horrid things in the garden by far; curiously (and most ironically), they also make up the stuff of the best perfumes in existence. Everything has its uses, even life’s dregs. You give your father answer at last, “Yes, a fine fountain would be a good idea. It’ll make it more the water gardens you envision, what with the river and all.”

Lord Alexander hums, though his pleasant mien is replaced almost at once with one more regretful. “Yes, I can see it now, the Sphere restored to its old glory, perhaps even better than before! Ah, I should have started years ago, when all was quieter and we could better afford to be extravagant. All those years staying at the place and not once did I see its worth. The gods only know why they sent the curse of yearning a score too late.” He sighs and picks up his pruning shears. “The Lady Zoya had the right of it. War makes misers of us all.”

“You think it will come to that?” 

You are staring back into your own eyes, all of a sudden. The Rhyzkov eyes. Men are wont to say you have your mother’s look, the Dietrich look, yet your eyes are all Rhyzkov.

The Rhyzkov eyes that behold you soften. “Once, there was the sweetest little girl of six tottering about the council chambers. The flagon she carried was half her height and weighed like bricks. She was barely tall enough to see over the table but she did her duty well and ably, never was a better cupbearer ever seen in those parts. That same little girl would bring us joy of a night when she would give her little speeches at dinner. A passage from some political treatise she was too young to understand, a short poem of legends past, whatever the Herald had her recite to ease her tongue and nerves to public speech, all brought us such delight.” Melancholy wistfulness fills those Rhyzkov eyes. “It seemed like such a short time ago, those years of bliss. Now, that little girl is a woman grown.”

“Not just yet,” you are compelled to point out, smiling slightly.

Lord Alexander huffs in amusement. “A year makes no difference, it will pass us by faster than we’d all like.”

“What was war like?”

Something seems to fracture behind those Rhyzkov eyes. The sight wrenches at your heart, but you must know.

“I see you are not to be put off. Admirable in a ruler, inconvenient for the father of that ruler, when she asks the most inconvenient questions.” Father heaves a deep breath, his massive shoulders rising and falling with the action. “I was your age when red war broke out, or near enough as makes no matter. Your lady grandmother was no novice of battle, she had seen her share of transgressors over the years. All of them foreign, as it happened, Cydamae in those days had been hellbent on conquest. We hit them hard enough to scare them off, thank the gods. For this lifetime, at least.

“You will never learn battle as I have, you have been blessed in that, child. It is no easy thing, to take a life with your own hands, to see the light leave their eyes as they enter the ether, to feel their bodies giving way beneath your steel… Or, should I say, it is too easy. People should die harder than that, I remember thinking then. What life you will take will be by your word. Some say that is easier by far, but sometimes, I put that into question. Their ghosts still haunt you all the same… But it is a necessity you have to bear, for the greater good.

“I wish I could tell you more about how it is to rule through such times, but I have never had that chance. Would that your lady grandmother was here with us now. I was only ever her warrior, her soldier, taught to obey commands first and foremost. The ruling came after all was at peace. All I can do is ease the way for you and pass on her wisdom.” The look of melancholy deepens. “With things the way they are these days… Outlanders are not our greatest enemies and never have been. For as long as she has been, Lovaya has contended with enemies from within more often than those from without.”

The skies seem grayer now up above, the wind brisker, chillier. It makes the green rustle louder than before and near muffles the sound of the fountain. “Know that I do not want to see you in such times, child,” Father says, so very softly. “I only hope that this is but a passing shadow, as it has always ever been. I hope I have done well by you, in any case, come what may.”

Come what may. Your fingers wrap about your gardening shears and hold fast. “I won’t fail you, Father.” In that, I have no choice. No choice but to thrive, and succeed, for too much hung in the balance. Your city, your State, your folk.

You stiffen with surprise as Father comes close, bends, and presses his forehead lightly upon yours. For a while, you stay thus, father and daughter taking comfort from the other in this their sacred sanctuary. You close your eyes briefly and take in the beloved scent of solace, of tea and leaves and green growing things, so full of life. You wrap yourself in it, as you had your favorite childhood blanket, the one you could not do without, for without its protection, the monsters in the dark would come and take you away to the deepest hell. You feel the scratchiest of kisses upon your forehead. “You are so very young, sweet child.” Father moves away, and you are a woman grown once more. Or near enough as makes no matter.

“I suppose we had best hurry, if it’s threatening rain. What else must you gather?” Father asks as he turns to his gardening once more.

You appraise your basket, running over the list of herbs in your mind, before replying, “Dittany.”

“Dittany…” Your father beckons you over to a hedge of shrubs lining the righthand parapet of the sanctum. The distinctive gray-green leaves of the healing herb stares up at you from beneath the hedgerows.

“I never thought to see that adage come alive in you,” Father remarks as you bend to cut yourself a clutch of greens.

“What adage?” you ask vaguely, distracted by the pressing task of choosing the best specimen for use.

“The hands of a ruler are the hands of a healer.” Father brushes a gentle hand over your head. “That you shall be, I know, in more ways than one. They will love you well, when you come into your own. The Light of the South, as your grandmother was and her mother before her and all the ruling ladies of Arsechkala there ever was, back to the Queens of Sand and Sea.”

You stand, cradling your basket. The Light of the South. You smile as Father wraps a huge arm around your shoulders and guides you back into the shelter of the palace. No choice but to thrive. No choice but to succeed.

“I hear you’ve been making a Healer out of your knight as well.”

“Well, I had to get him into your good graces somehow,” you laugh, but sober up at once. “He was a very attentive student, picked up things so quickly. He’ll make a fine gardening companion.”

“That he did.” Father herds you into his greenroom so you may start drying herbs. “You can make the sanctum bloom together someday, perhaps even the Sphere, restore it to its bygone glory. Wouldn’t that be pleasant?”

You take up a seat in front of the dark wooden counter and place your basket on the tabletop. “So very pleasant.” Perhaps the both of you can make more than a garden bloom, in time. Come what may, through light and dark, it will be pleasant to have Eren by your side. It won’t be so bad, to walk in darkness with him. You can bear the darkness with him.

---

Across the sea, the sail is growing with every passing minute. Up above, the skies are growing grayer still. The wind, already brisk, forever brisk by the seashore, blows ever more fiercely.

“My lady!” Troian calls from his post by the dunes. “We should go back! The sky will break any moment!”

The ship is so close, yet so far away from the safety of your port. You must see its journey through. “It’s all right, I want to stay. Just a bit longer.”

“You’ll catch a chill if you get soaked!”

It is astonishing how irritating an otherwise heartwarming sentiment can be. “We brought drying sheets this time, didn’t we? And you are well-equipped with that rainshade of yours. We go when I say we go, and not before.”

That brings the galling bleating to an end. “...my lady. Of course, my lady, I meant no offense. Was only doing my duty, beg pardon.”

Guilt makes the frost within melt some. “Pardon granted, no offense was taken. You are only doing your duty, as you said.”

The trepidation vanishes from your sworn sword’s voice. “My thanks, my lady. You need only call whenever you’re ready.”

“Of course.” The blustering wind and the crashing waves are the only sounds to be heard for some time after.

Irritating and galling he may be at times, yet it cannot be said that Troian is a man wanting for duty. And loyalty. And so the tail becomes the shield. Father had chosen your shield well, for all its worth.

“It’s about time you have a shield of your own, my lady, the Liege of Vascalin must always be well-protected,” Lord Alexander had said, a couple of days before he left. “And I know just the man you’ll be needing.” At least he had not needed to look far for the paragon. Childish grievances aside, you cannot have asked for a better shield than Troian. Better him than some cold, aloof sword you cannot talk to; you do not think you can stand another Yelena serving you in close quarters.

A beam of light cuts a trail of white across the pewter skies toward the horizon, from the sea lamp by the docks. Having it lit had been one of your first major commands as ruling Lady. The Lodge you have had opened as well to welcome this galleas to port. A stray ship is an uncommon sight during these times and poses no small amount of risk - were they pirates - but the sail is enough to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Black it is, with the distinctive sleek lines and geometric shapes so favored by the Gleaming Islanders, picked out in silver thread. Perhaps this is the vessel of the new Kayigar ambassador, Prior Ilya had told you, they had been due to arrive some weeks ago but had yet to put in an appearance. Most like they were caught in some storm and are lost, or worse, floating down to rest at the bottom of the sea; you have all but given them up as a lost cause. It is a relief, unexpected but a relief nevertheless, to see those sails appear on the horizon. It will be wise to open the port to receive this one, you all agree. And were they pirates masquerading as ones harmless, the garrison will be more than enough to throw them back to the depths.

Were they the genuine article, though… You roll the green tear around your palm, feeling the slightly pitted but otherwise smooth finish of the glass rubbing against your skin. It will seem the Lady Rhyzkova has guests to entertain. 

An eel slithers quick inside your stomach. Drumming your fingers against it brings it to heel. For the moment.

It is not a hard thing, to entertain guests. There are harder duties to be had than greeting foreign dignitaries. You are equal to the task. You must be equal to the task. You will not shame Father so.

He had left not five days past to answer the royal summons to court. At once, you were apprehensive. This is a first, a very concerning first. The Month of Resting has barely dawned yet already there are summons. Only for the Conclave, Father told you, as though that would reassure you (it does not). He had chosen not to bring the family along, citing your rest and well-being as his priority, he will have you enjoy what time you have away from the bedlam of court for as long as you can.

“Vascalin is yours, my lady,” he said during your leave-taking in the palace courtyard, looking down at you from his gray destrier huge as he was, before calling the march. And so the torch was passed.

You have gone to great lengths not to drop it. Now you find yourself juggling duty and anxiety, wondering what has happened that is so urgent that the king must needs summon his advisors to court a month early.

The Northern Matter, it must be the Northern Matter, nothing else in recent memory has plagued the realm as much as it has. The northern lords must have called their banners and are threatening war.

A cold drop of water splashes onto your forehead. From the sky, not the sea, you note, even through your distraction. You are by the surfline when next you register your surroundings. Seafoam brushes the tips of your toes, cool as ice. The sail has grown even larger.

No, that can’t be right, nothing is confirmed, there is no need to get ahead of yourself. To jump to conclusions so easily ill becomes a ruler. There is no war as yet, not until there is solid, hard evidence of the fact.

But why else would the king call the Conclave? He won’t summon them all just for anything, not for a matter that can keep until the court returns to session. And jumping to conclusions is not all bad - it is prematurely acting on them that ruins many a good liege. You are well within your rights to assume, and consider all your options for all the possibilities open to you. As Father will do.

Eren calls your name from further down the coast. He comes to you at half a walk and half a jog. “Let’s go back, the sky’s about to come down.” 

Come down it does no sooner have the words left his mouth. You shiver as the heavy drops patter against your skin like water made rock - not quite hail but close enough. Yet you make no move to return to your shield and the shelter of his rainshade. You simply watch as Eren draws closer, sodden and tousled.

The both of you had spoken of this political development in great detail the past few days. While he offered interesting insight, and no small amount of comfort, you cannot help but wish he is a bit more politically minded. Eren the Statesman is there, you can sense him, yet he lacks practice and experience in the realm of civic intrigues. While you can coax him further down that road, it will take time. You do not have time, you can’t wait for the reassurance - born of practical, pragmatic, and realistic thinking - that you need at present, much as you would love to receive it from him.

You had written Armin at once, this practical, pragmatic, and realistic friend of yours, and told him all. Well, not all. It is all well and good to speak of the Northern Matter - everyone and their mothers know of it by now. Not everyone is privy to the Conclave’s business, however. If news of their dealings are to be common knowledge, it will not come from you.

Armin had shared your concerns of further conflict yet, ultimately, you can do nothing but wait, wait and see how the tapestry will unfold, and react accordingly. That was his most practical, pragmatic, and realistic answer.

Wait. It seems that you must wait after all. The practical, pragmatic, and realistic answer, it transpired, did little to reassure you.

Eren is before you at last, soaked to the skin as you are. His dark hair is plastered to his head, fringe half-obscuring his eyes. “Look at you, you’re soaked! Why didn’t you run to Troian and his rainshade?” He stares down at you, equal parts fond and exasperated. You stare up at him, silent, merely observing. Half-obscured they may be but still you can see his eyes. They seem more gray than green, today. Gray as the skies above. Gray as the seas below. Such a drab color, you have always thought, yet in him, it isn’t so.

Slowly, the exasperation vanishes the longer he beholds you, until all there is left is soft fondness. He raises a hand and lightly presses his knuckles onto your forehead. “My lady’s in her head again,” he says, mild and quiet, before looking out to sea.

The ship is close to port, close enough for you to see each hoary line and stripe and bar that crisscross the ebon sail. It slips past the distant rocky bluffs soon after, and at last, you know they are safe.

“You’ll do fine, love.” You start as a rough and gentle hand cups your face to turn you away from the distance. “Come what may, the Lady of Vascalin will do what needs to be done. And she will do it well and perfectly.”

Thump, thump, thump.

What have you been thinking, looking to others for comfort? There he is, standing before you, as he has been all this time, saying the right things, as he has always done. What would statesmen know of giving comfort, true and honest, anyway? Eren as he is is enough. You need nothing else.

Rough and gentle fingers stroke your face, his calloused skin warm, warmer than it ought to be in this chill rain. You watch him, silent, so silent, hardly daring to breathe as he begins his tentative study of you. Rough and gentle fingers trace down your cheek, your chin. Your breath hitches in your throat as his thumb brushes the bottom of your lip, the touch light and so very faint, a wisp of a touch, hardly substantial.

More. Touch me more. I need more.

But he is moving on, lower, to your neck. What disappointment that rose within you vanishes as you feel his fingers curl about your neck, feel his thumb press against the hollow of your throat above your black pearl pendant, firm, firm as he had not been with your lips. Your heart lodges itself into your throat. You wonder if he can feel it beating, hammering, pounding beneath his hold.

It feathers across your collarbone, his thumb, in another mild caress. Watching him is the most fascinating thing. For he is as lost in you as you are in him. He runs his hand down your sodden skin as though entranced, caught in a spell of your own making. He seems detached, somehow, yet attentive at the same time as he drags his fingertips lower, lower, until they are stroking the soft swell of the tops of your breasts, partly bared by your red deep-necked vevda. The shiver that courses through you has nothing to do with rain’s chill.

Everything fades and ceases to be. The sea, the rain, the cold, they are as nothing. There is only Eren and his fingers, rough and gentle and sensual as they run down your chest, tracing the curves, sliding below the soft flesh to stroke the skin beneath.

The breath leaves your lungs entirely as he slips past the edge of your dipping neckline, stroking, caressing, feathering over the swell of your breast. The clinging fabric limits his movements and keeps his fingers firm against your flesh as he inches closer and yet closer to your nipple.

Thump, thump, thump.

Your soft intake of breath makes him stop. His eyes seek yours and hold fast, searching. Whatever he sees there makes him retreat, the heat of his fingers parting from your breast. Relief and regret contend within; you do not know which of them you want to win out.

He does not part from you entirely, that much brings you relief. His path continues down your front, across your stomach, until he comes to rest at last at your hip. His fingers curl about you and pull you close.

“We should go. We might catch a chill,” he says, in a voice so deep it sets shivers running through your body once more. But he makes no move to steer you away.

Which is just as well. The rain feels as warm and fresh as a spring shower. You aren't so cold, not anymore. What shivers wrack your frame come not from the weather. “I don’t feel cold.”

The eyes that stare down at you are so very black, those eyes that were once green. Green as the sea glass you had found earlier in the sand. Mermaid’s tears, they call them, and they come in all shades of dazzling colors. Luck brought you one to make a match for your betrothed.

Heaven’s tears cascade upon you in sheets devoid of any one particular hue. You watch as it soaks your betrothed’s face, droplets without count running down his fine features, threading through his hair and dripping, on his cheeks, his nose, his mouth.

A tear, jewel-bright, catches against his bottom lip, making the most mesmerizing sight. Your hands are moving before you quite know it. You pocket the sea’s jewel and raise your hand to give him your touch as well.

The tear slides down your forefinger to mix with the tears upon your skin. His breath is warm, his lips soft. You watch those lips purse and move to kiss your finger, slow and lingering.

You have always loved the way his eyes change color. From green, to blue, to gray, they are ever the colors of the sea. They are black now, black as the sea at midnight, filled with want and so much desire. It is with concerted effort that you draw yourself out of those depths. To drown in him will be the sweetest death yet you have a journey of your own to complete.

Your path continues past his lips, down his chin, to the hollow of his throat - the apple nestled within bobs a little as you pass, scraping your fingernail lightly against the prominence. You trace the crease of his strong chest, made visible by his vee-necked tunic, and lay a hand atop his heart.

Thump, thump, thump.

His cream tunic is near transparent now, the cloth clinging to every ridge and hard crest of his muscled torso and stressing the beauty of him. He is so warm, impossibly so, so very hale, and strong, and alive. Beneath your hand, his heart beats fast, drumming yet steady.

Black eyes draw you in once more, and this time you cannot look away. You are falling, drowning, lost in him. The lips that you had touched, so soft, so yielding, have parted. You can feel him down every inch of your body, he has pressed you up against him, his arms tight about your hips, your waist. His mouth is yielding yet the rest of him is not, you cannot break away even if you want to. And you do not. You do not, not when he is this close, and getting closer still, leaning down…

“My lady! Sir!”

The rain is icy cold again, and the wind is loud in your ears. So is your betrothed’s growl as he snaps his head up to look at the approaching guard. You swallow, your hand fisting against Eren’s shirt, and make to push away from him, despite yourself. The sane and rational within know he will not harm you (never, never), yet the deep and primal in you want to distance yourself from that terrifying visage of animal rage. If looks could kill… But he is iron and immovable, and so you have no choice but to remain within his embrace.

Eren’s mouth has closed and thinned in utter displeasure. “Fucking bloody bugger…” He squeezes your waist and sighs, the fight going out of him with the gesture. “Am I only allowed to kiss you in front of our wedding guests?” he grumbles, sounding so woebegone that your heart goes out to him even as you giggle.

You pat him gently on the chest. “Patience, love. You’ll have your taste soon or late.”

He gleams down at you, smirking a little. “I’ve never been known for my patience, love. I’ll have that taste, sooner rather than later.” He takes your hand from his chest and presses a kiss on the palm. A shock of heat spreads from your hand to the rest of you as you feel his tongue drag across your skin, wet and warm as the rain isn’t. “Sweet,” he murmurs, eyes smoldering up at you, then closes your hand around his kiss and frees you at last from his hold.

Troian comes up to you that very moment, holding the big crimson rainshade aloft and brandishing drying sheets, which you take graciously enough (Eren keeps his temper, at least, you are thankful for that much). You leave for home when you are as dry as you are like to get (which isn’t very dry at all).

The dunes are a trial to traverse with all this rain yet somehow you manage. This is where you had had your first kiss, you recall suddenly. It was yet another one of your customary trips to the beach. Mother was so occupied with the twins and the new babe, Darya, that it had been no difficult feat to stray away from your roost.

Roman had been with you, as he often was those days, being Father’s ward. What began as a simple stroll to collect shells somehow ended up becoming a game of Hawk and Chicken. It had been such a merry chase, made all the more merrier when you caught the chicken at last. Before either hawk or chicken knew it, though, they were tumbling down the dunes, you had been so enthusiastic in your role of raptor. When the world stopped spinning at last, you found that you had landed on the chicken with your mouth pressed firmly to his.

The days afterward had been nothing short of awkward yet the seeds of curiosity had taken root. You had not been able to take your mind off the kiss and the feel of a boy’s mouth on yours, so you had sought Roman out and kissed him again to see if you truly liked it some. You liked it more than some, it transpired, and so did he. The days of stolen kisses began not long after.

That is a tale you have yet to divulge to your jealous knight - you do not want Roman’s inevitable mauling to be on your conscience.

You have been writing each other as is your wont during the reprieve, as Eren will write Armin. That, too, you have not divulged, but Eren has never been interested in who you are corresponding with besides Armin; useless to give answers when no questions are asked. The Lady Meledina is getting worse, you learn from her worried yet resigned son, it is only a matter of time ‘til he ascends the Masquer’s Seat. That is the most dismal letter you have received this season.

You smile despite the gray turn of your thoughts as Eren drops his drying sheet over your head in a fit of gallantry and waves away your concerns about his well-being (what if he gets sick? He is too fit for that, apparently). The hand that holds his kiss, and a corner of your drying sheet, still burns. You flex the fingers within the damp linen. Yet another secret, stolen kiss. It seems that you are meant for stolen kisses.

Not for long. The thought buoys your steps onward and upward. You will have all the kisses you can possibly want, in full view of everyone. They cannot begrudge a young wife her husband’s kisses, after all.

Perhaps it isn’t so bad a thing, to miss that kiss. Another first had happened here, another memory is attached here, that of another kiss with another boy. You’ll have your kiss in a place all your own, a place free of another first, another memory, another boy. A place where you can have your own first and new memories with the one whom your soul…

“Oh, gods be damned.” Eren is tugging you hurriedly onward, away from the dunes as fast as he can while impatiently waving Troian over, urging him to pick up the pace so he can keep you shielded from the driving rain.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, worried and stumbling along in your knight’s trail. Should’ve worn a shorter vevda, you think for the hundredth time as you fight not to trip over your lengthy skirt. You did not come to the beach to go wading, yet you did not anticipate having to make a mad dash for home.

“Nasty buggers nearby.”

A bloom of them has manifested not too far from the dunes, sure enough, spectral sea jellies with huge pearly white caps and long deadly stingers, floating aimlessly across the sands. “They’re only deadly when crossed, and I have no intentions of doing so, I promise you,” you tell Eren. “There’s no need to rush, surely.”

He grunts non-committally, yet does not slow.

“Just how badly did it go for you the last time you ran afoul of the nasty buggers?” you query, remembering his words from the lakeside of Shimmerwood, weeks and weeks and weeks ago now. It is not something to laugh at, you know, yet you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

“Always wondered why Armin didn’t tell you that, it was the most entertaining thing. He couldn’t stop laughing at the time, anyway.” His face pinks such a pretty shade made more conspicuous by the gray dullness of the world. “You’ll have the tale from me… someday.”

“I can always write or ask him myself, you know.”

“Argh, my lady, just-” He sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. The quick succession of expressions flitting across his face is most amusing. “It’ll be better coming from me,” he says at last, resigned. “I’ll tell you. Tonight. I’ll be your dinnertime amusement.”

You giggle and hold on to him the tighter. “On your word as a knight?”

“On my word as a knight.” Behind his exasperated resignation is no small amount of mirth.

The rain seems to be letting up some, you notice as you approach the sea gate. The guards salute you and inform you that the Kayigar ship has just docked; the customs officer is, as of this very moment, determining its legitimacy as a true diplomatic ship.

Duty and reality set in once more, yet they are not so frightening, not this time. You feel Eren’s hand squeeze yours and your soul sings. You are equal to the task, there never was any doubt about that.

---

Footsteps echo through the chamber as the steward and your guests climb the steps to the audience hall. But for that, the place is silent.

Not so, you realize. Drums are pounding in the deep, thrashing, booming loud in your ears, boom, doom, boom, doom, yet somehow, no one seems to give it any heed. It is a long while before the dawn breaks. What drums there are in the hall come from inside your chest. Still, the silence is so complete it is a wonder to you that no one can hear your private symphony.

Boom, doom, boom, doom.

Your bejeweled fingers grip the wreath of welcome on your lap, your only anchor, the only thing close at hand to keep you steady. Your true anchor is off to the side of the chamber with the rest of your little court. For the thousandth time, you wish he is up here with you. Only consorts have the right to stand on the dais with their ruling spouses, however, and it will be some time still ‘til that happy day of nuptial bliss. You must needs face your guests alone.

You suppress a sigh, clutch at the wreath just that bit tighter, and allow your eyes to flicker over to your betrothed. Not once did you feel his gaze leave you, and for that you are grateful. He has a blazing look on his face, hard almost, and filled with pride, so much pride that you feel yourself become emboldened as though you have imbibed the most potent of tonics. No tonic would be as revitalizing as that gaze, though, that you know without a doubt.

It seems such a ludicrous thing now, your trepidation. They are only guests, and no one to fear. You are equal to this task.

“My lady.” Paul Kolas the steward strides to the foot of the Golden Chair’s high dais, his usually thin voice coming loud and strong. “The High Marked and High Honorable Ambassador of the Gleaming Isles of Kayigari, Onyankopon, son of Ata Panin, of the Shavelocks,” he announces in the Diplomats’ Tongue, stumbling a little at the foreign, unfamiliar name but otherwise delivering a perfect introduction.

The Lady of Vascalin smiles most graciously and stands from her seat. “Your Honor, my lords,” you begin, mirroring your steward and speaking in kind, “I give you welcome to fair Lovaya and her beloved daughter Vascalin. In the sight of gods and men, I offer you the hospitality of our halls.” You raise the wreath, and at once, a group of servants set forth to crown your most exalted guests and offer them fare - slices of lamb and wine - to strengthen their rights to krajü.

Each man of the delegation has his head shaved clean, as only those of the black-skinned clan of Shavelocks could be. Of the seven Kayigar clans, the Shavelocks are deemed the least opulent, the simplest of the Islanders. Compared to their brethren of Goldveins and Proudmarks and all the rest of them, they eschew finery; His Honor, Onyankopon, in his robes of black and silver satin, is the very picture of quiet elegance.

“My most gracious lady, I thank you kindly for this warmest of welcomes.” His Honor dips into a deep bow and rises, smiling, his voice smooth and made more liquid by the refined inflections of the tongue of diplomacy. “We were led to believe that we would be received by Vascalin’s illustrious lord but here I see the most beautiful of women come to honor us with her beloved presence instead. Manu be praised, I did not think to bathe in the Light of the South’s radiance so soon.”

You laugh, soft and mannerly. “I thank you kindly for those loveliest of words, Your Honor. You are a credit to your trade, indeed. My lord father has received a most urgent summons, one that he must needs answer, and so he left me to rule in his stead.” Once the initial pleasantries have been spent, you go on, “We are most glad to see you well and whole, my lords. I must confess, we were most worried. The autumn storms are not known for their mercy.”

“Manu has blessed our voyage, and blessed us with the most excellent captain.” Onyankopon ushers forward a green-robed man, who bows and smiles, proud and humble both.

“A more blessed lot I have never seen.” You gesture at Paul, who strides forward at once. “You are weary, I know, from such a hard and dangerous voyage. A suite of chambers awaits you in the guest wing, where you can rest and recuperate at last. I took the liberty of having a feast prepared. They are taxing things, especially after a strenuous journey, but I hope you will honor us with your presence at table tonight.”

“Of course, my lady, we look forward to doing your excellent Lovayan fare justice.”

That is not half-bad, you think as you watch Paul escort your guests to their chambers, exulting and allowing yourself to feel some measure of pride. By the steps of the high dais stands Eren, gazing up at you with the same proud, hard, blazing look on his face that he beheld you with earlier.

You descend to meet him with a smile more genuine than any you had yet made during the audience.

That was not half-bad at all.

---

“My lady.”

You glance toward the drawn red velvet hangings of your bedchamber, surprised to hear Troian’s muffled call. Yelena is standing in front of you, fastening your sheer emerald-studded podonza to your left shoulder with a brooch of emerald, round-cut and ornamented with silver wings.

“What is it?” you answer, as Yelena finishes and steps away with a bow.

“Sir Eren’s calling. Should I send him in?”

“Ah, yes, please.” The sheer strength of your joy at the prospect of seeing your dear knight once more would have surprised you, once. Not at present, never again.

“I have come to worship at the shrine of beauty,” Eren declares, bowing an exceedingly low bow when you emerge from your bedroom.

“Oh, hush, you,” you giggle, dismissing Yelena and watching her cross the privy chamber to take her leave. Troian is standing by the entry hall a respectable distance away, keeping a close watch. 

“You didn’t change,” you note, eyeing your betrothed’s ensemble, the very same he had worn for the ambassador’s audience: a gold-trimmed vevda of red-violet with sleeves that fall to his elbows, paired with a podonza of gold brocade, fastened to his left shoulder by a square-cut tourmaline brooch. The wreath that circles his dark head is plain gold. He looks very much a prince tonight, you think, dreamily.

He snorts at your words in the most un-prince-like manner. But you won’t have him any other way. “I didn’t run a cavalry charge, did I? Didn’t make a mess of myself all day, I promise you, my lady. These threads still serve.”

You lean in close and take a whiff of him. Wood, the faint scent of laundry soap and sweat, Eren. All good scents. “Still smell nice, at least.”

He smiles and looks about the room. His expression softens. “You put them up already.” He walks to a framed bunch of moon violets on the wall opposite and examines them, running a hand down the gilt mounting, lost in memory.

You move to stand next to him, sharing in his thoughts. “I can never thank you enough for these.”

“You are most welcome, my lady. You deserve every single one. The land’s beauties for the land’s beauty.”

“Perhaps you should hang up your sword and take up a pen instead. Are you sure you’re not a poet?” You laugh as he pinches your side.

“Truth, love, no poetry.” His head swings slowly about as he searches each frame. “I know that was a long time ago and we weren’t exactly… partial to each other then, but did you keep-”

“They’re in there,” you nod to your bedchamber.

Something flashes across his face, something more than memory. “I haven’t told you, have I? Zeke was the one who told me to get you flowers. Most useful bit of advice I’ve ever gotten from him,” he says with the immediate disrespect of a younger brother. You shake your head at him, cheeks hurting from smiling so much. “I wasn’t too enthusiastic about the idea,” he shoots you a contrite look, which you pardon, waving him on, “but I saw the sense of that. Girls like flowers, don’t they? Took a quick look at the gardens, but all the flowers in bloom seemed… boring? Inadequate? Not enough? Only the winter roses stood out to me. They’re supposed to be a winter bloom but they were still there in the spring, living, fighting on until the very last cold snap.”

Still so very Eren, even with his choice of flowers. His account warms you to the very core. He put thought into his offering, though he knew you not, though he liked you not. Most boys would make do. But not him. Thank the gods I did not neglect his gift. His first gift. You suppose you have much to thank your future brother by marriage for. “Your brother’s rather romantic for someone who hates his wife.”

“I would never.”

Eren sounds a deal more serious, then, graver. You blink up at him, puzzled. “Never what?”

“Hate you. Not like he does Elva. I could never.” He turns so he can face you properly. At once, your heart begins to drum.

Thump, thump, thump.

“You are so very beautiful, my lady,” he murmurs and brings up a hand to run long, slender fingers through a loose curl, escaped from your bun. “My Lady of Rhyzkov is a woman of emerald tonight.” His eyes alight on the emerald rose that holds your tresses in place, before running slowly down your body in its opulent trappings of silver and emerald satin.

You feel that stare as if he had run his hands all over you. He almost had, that selfsame day. When he takes up a hand to kiss, you feel his mouth on your lips, your neck, your breasts. 

Desire rises hot in you once more. Your bed is so close, you realize, it will be so easy to draw him in, lead him past those velvet curtains and let your lust take hold at last. Again, and again, and yet again. After all, that is what the marriage bed is for. Our marriage bed. The insight brings another shock of heat through you. You will never look at your kip the same way ever again.

“May I have the honor of leading you in tonight?” Winter sets in when he withdraws and offers you his arm. The temptation to let them all bugger themselves and eat without you and your betrothed is a strong one, yet duty’s voice is stronger still.

You sigh and take his arm. “Of course, good Sir. Back to the slog of pleasantries and politics we go.”

“You did wonderfully, love, didn’t I say? It was a good start. And a good start will lead to a good path.”

You certainly hope so.

As the feast proceeds underway, with your Eren on your left and His Honor to your right in the place of high honor, you can see the truth of your knight’s words. Everything goes smooth as glass. It isn’t a bad start at all, you feel. Not half-bad at all.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

---

A/N:

Duty, duty, duty. It starts for the little lady. What *is* going on in the court?

Eren hangs out with the future father-in-law (he's not so bad, heh) and reminded of his duties to you, anxiety sets in as duty starts to make itself known, and we start to see how YN will be as a lady ruling in her own right. So far, so good.

And things get that much hotter between the young lovers-not-lovers. Yet another kiss foiled, they really should stop taking it slow, yeah? And I would so love to see them kiss in the rain, nothing is more romantic...

Til next update!

Tagging: @princess-okkotsu @lukepattersin @tojis-discord-kitten @camilo-uwu

[kriz-fics]

The Sword's Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Nineteen: Weeds and Duty

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters), Slow Burn

Length: 9.7K

CW: Pretty tame this chap, though there is a bit of friskiness in there. Recommended listening for YN's POV in the beach: Dancing in the Rain

“Ah, this one would be-”

“Demon’s thistle, sir.”

The Lord Alexander Rhyzkov laughs. “My daughter has taught you well.”

Eren lets forth his own chuckle. “That she has, sir.”

That dreaded day of goodfatherly bonding turns out not to be so dreadful. A huge bear of a man he may be, but the Lord Paramount of Vascalin is as gentle as a pup, and amiable as he always is.

Eren had started the day utterly sick with nerves. On the one hand, dawdling in his rooms seemed like a very viable option. He had almost done so; the thought of what his future father by marriage would say (or do) were he late killed the notion dead. Eren hastened forth, as frightened as if he were walking to the scaffold. 

Like the condemned, he took inventory of his sins, especially those against the ancient House of Rhyzkov. Not many, to be sure, but he had trespassed now and again. He could’ve endeared himself better to the family in the wheelhouse when they were yet traveling. There was that incident with the newt and Lydia (she did keep the thing as a pet and laughed about it afterward, but still). Then, there was his worst sin, the worst and blackest of them all, which had everything to do with the Rhyzkovs’ beloved heir and his less-than-pure thoughts of her over the past year…

He resolved never to look the Lord of Arsechkala in the eye, then - eye contact was crucial for the reading of minds, and Eren had taken into his head that the lord of bears could somehow read his.

Funny that his first battle (which was not a battle, not in the truest sense) had not been half as petrifying as the prospect of spending time alone with his future goodfather. The absurdity of it all had sobered him. He is an anointed knight, the Falcon Knight, the Knight of Highridge, he had faced worse things. He is a man and this would not unman him. And so he went, determined to face it like the man he is.

He need not have girded up his loins so tightly, for good fortune smiled upon him. For this day, at least.

“Not all weeds are an evil, as any man of the field will tell you. Some have their uses.” Lord Alexander pulls up another bunch of fine, silvery spider weed and adds it to his already teeming basket. “Some are eaten, some are drunk, some have other, more extraordinary uses.” He considers the mass in his hamper and nods in approval. “I think I have enough for the making of one kerchief. For the sweet lady of the house.”

The utter love in the older man’s mien resonates with Eren. His own lady’s sweet smiling face fills his world. He has a gift for you (another, yet another, you can never get too much, he can never give too much), furnished by nature as well. It is no delicate scrap of gauzy spider silk but it should be no less remarkable. Or so he hopes. It will all rely on his skill; hard work has never been so crucial, not if he wants what is best for his lady.

“There’s a lesson to be had in weeds, I think,” Lord Alexander goes on, uprooting dandelions and adding them to his second basket, filled with more dandelions, clovers, and nettles. Edible weeds, fit for tea. “I shan’t lay them all out, but they’re there, if you care to think on it.”

The Month of Resting came upon them at a slow creep and with it true autumn for them as live in the South. The autumn storms blew ever more fierce each week, which heralded the closing of the ports. A serene silence fell over the city as the people took their rest from seasons’ worth of hard work. The rains drive them all within and keep them there, in any case, as though determined to let them have that much-needed respite from the slog.

Goldhaven’s sanctum is not so green as before. Browns and yellows and oranges, crimson and gold, autumn’s hues paint the sacred gardens in vast swathes. The ever-present wind is chill and cuts through cloth as a hot knife cuts through butter (for those stupid enough not to dress proper up here, anyway). The day dawned a rare one, lacking cloud and shade, and so Goldhaven’s lord sent the dire invitation at last.

“How has your stay been so far?” Lord Alexander eyes a bunch of still-blooming goldenglow thoughtfully, before adding them to his tea basket.

A clutch of raven blades catch Eren’s eye. Good for the memory, you tell him helpfully, and so he sets about taking them up. He can give them to you for your brews. “It’s been a terrific couple of months, I thank you so much for the hospitality,” he answers the lord’s erstwhile question, polite as pie.

Lord Alexander hums in approval. A comfortable silence, one of many occurring that day, falls upon knight and lord. For a long while, Eren is content to spend the time merely weeding, searching for those that can be of use to his sweet Healer. Most boys will be searching for flowers for their girls, not weeds, yet here he is. The thought is most humorous. He had given you a lifetime’s worth of blooms the past season, in any case; you are always better off with a little more variety, he likes to think.

“You grew up in part in the South, yes? Lenberg, as I recall. Is it so very different from these parts?” Lord Alexander hands him a blackberry from the nearby bush and eats one himself.

Eren murmurs thanks and pops the morsel in his mouth. It is sweet if a little tart, and succulent; the juice runs down his throat in sugary rivulets, so very tasty. “It is different, sir, but not so much that both sides are distinct from the other. Different tongue, different customs, but otherwise the same.” He smiles a little. “Now that I’ve spent time without them, I find that I can miss our holy days. The Creed’s, I mean. Not that it’s deadly dull here or anything!” he rushes to clarify before the lord can take offense. “It’s just… You don’t celebrate much. But if you do, it’s so much more… exciting.”

The lord, to Eren’s great, good fortune, does not take offense. “‘Tis true, we don’t have cause to celebrate any one god for every month of the year, and so we limit ourselves to life’s most significant occasions. But, see, we have more gods than the Creed could ever fathom. If we did as you do, we would be feasting every day forevermore to appease the Old Ones, they who are nameless and without number.”

Eren steals a look at the nearby godstone. It is the cleanest, most well-cared-for godstone he has ever seen, so much so that he can see every detail upon the proud, serene face of the featured god. How many gods does this one represent? he wonders.

“So, a knight you are now,” the Lord Alexander remarks, absently, almost to himself. He seems far away from Eren then, though he is standing not five feet away, twirling a bloom of poppy between his fingers. He catches Eren’s stare and smiles beneath his big, luxurious beard. “A title most well-earned. Not easily, I know,” the older man’s eyes linger on Eren’s face, at the slash above his left eyebrow, then flickers to his right arm, at the puckered scar concealed by his tunic’s sleeve. “It seems we are both marked by that day.” The lord rubs at the rich amber sleeve of his robe distractedly, at the right forearm that bears the mark of the northman’s blade. “But yours were more nobly begotten. It is no small feat to save the life of the Majesty himself.”

“It was my duty.” They are his own words, it is his own tongue, yet Eren hears a stranger speaking.

“Duty.” Lord Alexander seems to ponder the word. The poppy twirls in his hand, red petals spinning left, right, and back again, unceasing. The older man gathers himself, and Eren finds that he has held his breath, bracing for what his future goodfather may say. “She is your duty.”

That… is most unexpected. “Sir?” Eren frowns a little, confused.

“Her. The Lady Rhyzkova to come. She will be your calling, the heart of your service. Oh, they make you swear, to defend, to be truthful, to be loyal. To serve. But such vows these are. Who shall you defend? The weak, the helpless. To whom should you be loyal? To her, your liege. Yet, in the end, it all comes back to the king, who is above all.”

The poppy drifts from the large and lordly hand, to land lightly on the basket atop the goldenglow. Red on gold. The Rhyzkov colors inversed. 

“Service is the very essence of a knight,” the lord continues his solemn speech, “but you are more than just her knight. Of knights she has aplenty, of husbands she will have only the one. Knights are loyal, obedient, dutiful, yet their vows would have them serve many, too many. A husband has only to serve one. A husband is bound only to one. For where she goes, will you go. From two now as one, your hearts forever bind.”

The words of the wedding rite. New and old both. 

Eren can feel his heart beat just that bit faster as his goodfather-to-be fixes him with the most imposing look. “The weak, the helpless, the king, you have a duty to them. But next to her, what are they? Remote and far away and not immediate. She is your everyday. Your duty, you will revolve around her. So be there for her. Be there for her, Eren, as her mother is for me.”

The smile the older man gives Eren softens the austere lines of the bearded face as he goes on, “It is a heavy burden, to rule. It is tiring and oppressive, so very oppressive. And it gets lonely, up there at the seat of power. She will need you to help her bear the chains of command. Carry her, protect her, love her. We do not oft come into it, love, not our sort, but I think…” Eren fights not to look away as Lord Alexander gazes at him with so much gravity as if to lay bare the very soul of him. Her eyes. You have the lord’s eyes. You are the very image of your mother, but for those eyes. The wicker of his basket digs into his palms. “Yes, I think love is not such a hard commission, not for you.”

Loving tenderness takes the lord’s face over once more as he bends to pluck more poppies. “I would have fallen beneath the weight of my own chains had Theresia not been there with me through it all,” says Lord Alexander, so very softly. “Love her, Eren. That is all I ask, as a father who loves his daughter. Keep to that duty and I will rest content.”

Duty. She can be such a poxy bitch at times. It had never been for her sake that Eren took up the call to arms. Duty had been far from his mind when he set out to become a warrior. They are not so much strangers nowadays. He had learned the way of duty over the years, she is not so exacting a mistress as he makes her out to be, granted. Yet he is slowly coming to find that she is easier to bear with some more than others.

He can bear duty to you. “I will, sir. There’s no one else I’d sooner serve than her,” Eren Jaeger avows, with his own words and his own tongue.

The lord bends to pick up his baskets, pleased and so very content. “Nothing could please me more.” He is a big man, Alexander Rhyzkov, a veritable bear of a lord, yet his countenance at present is more redolent of a child’s stuffed bear than a living, savage one. “Of all the candidates for the hand of my daughter, you are the best of them, I see that now. I could not have asked for a better goodson.”

Warmth blooms deep within Eren at the heartening words. “I-I’m glad you think so, my lord,” he forces out and stoops to retrieve his own basket - the better to look away from the older man, he is so flattered and so, so flustered - then hurriedly snatches his hand back as he spies a centipede crawling amidst his harvested greens.

“Ah, here.” Lord Alexander strides forward with a stick he had procured from the nearby bushes and proceeds to scoop the poisonous thing up. He flicks the stick and the creature away, into the blackberry bushes; the hundred-legged thing vanishes beneath the undergrowth. “Such nasty creatures, but so vital to life’s cycle. As are so many others… Come, lad, we have weeded as much as we can, let us leave them to repopulate the area in peace. You have much still to learn. Unless my girl has been a thorough teacher, in which case you must show me the fruits of her knowledge.”

“We both have a lot to learn, sir, but she was very thorough with what she knew. I only hope to have made her a good student.” He did, when all is said and done, which comes as a great relief. It will not do for him to make such a fool of himself, or to undermine his lady’s capabilities. You will find in him a good and able servant, which is just as well. You are as fine a mistress as he can ever hope to serve.

My lady, my mistress, my duty. It will seem that they all three are one and the same. If you are duty, though, you are not such a poxy bitch now, are you?

“A fountain such as this would work well, don’t you think?”

You consider Yelena’s fount, watching the water spray into air and trickle down stone. The skies above are not so gray as the pool, and don’t threaten rain. It is a good day for gardening. You had offered to replenish Healer Darya’s stores and had seized your chance when the day dawned fine and bright. You had not been long at your labors before Father happened upon you in the green (that was not so green), intending to do his own spot bit of gardening. The company is much welcome. You would’ve invited Eren had he not had the yen to spar the morning away. And it has been a while since you and your father have spoken in a more relaxed setting away from statecraft and policy.

A patch of stink bloom is flowering not a foot from you. You give the plant a wide berth, wrinkling your nose and thanking the gods that you have not stepped on those. They are the most horrid things in the garden by far; curiously (and most ironically), they also make up the stuff of the best perfumes in existence. Everything has its uses, even life’s dregs. You give your father answer at last, “Yes, a fine fountain would be a good idea. It’ll make it more the water gardens you envision, what with the river and all.”

Lord Alexander hums, though his pleasant mien is replaced almost at once with one more regretful. “Yes, I can see it now, the Sphere restored to its old glory, perhaps even better than before! Ah, I should have started years ago, when all was quieter and we could better afford to be extravagant. All those years staying at the place and not once did I see its worth. The gods only know why they sent the curse of yearning a score too late.” He sighs and picks up his pruning shears. “The Lady Zoya had the right of it. War makes misers of us all.”

“You think it will come to that?” 

You are staring back into your own eyes, all of a sudden. The Rhyzkov eyes. Men are wont to say you have your mother’s look, the Dietrich look, yet your eyes are all Rhyzkov.

The Rhyzkov eyes that behold you soften. “Once, there was the sweetest little girl of six tottering about the council chambers. The flagon she carried was half her height and weighed like bricks. She was barely tall enough to see over the table but she did her duty well and ably, never was a better cupbearer ever seen in those parts. That same little girl would bring us joy of a night when she would give her little speeches at dinner. A passage from some political treatise she was too young to understand, a short poem of legends past, whatever the Herald had her recite to ease her tongue and nerves to public speech, all brought us such delight.” Melancholy wistfulness fills those Rhyzkov eyes. “It seemed like such a short time ago, those years of bliss. Now, that little girl is a woman grown.”

“Not just yet,” you are compelled to point out, smiling slightly.

Lord Alexander huffs in amusement. “A year makes no difference, it will pass us by faster than we’d all like.”

“What was war like?”

Something seems to fracture behind those Rhyzkov eyes. The sight wrenches at your heart, but you must know.

“I see you are not to be put off. Admirable in a ruler, inconvenient for the father of that ruler, when she asks the most inconvenient questions.” Father heaves a deep breath, his massive shoulders rising and falling with the action. “I was your age when red war broke out, or near enough as makes no matter. Your lady grandmother was no novice of battle, she had seen her share of transgressors over the years. All of them foreign, as it happened, Cydamae in those days had been hellbent on conquest. We hit them hard enough to scare them off, thank the gods. For this lifetime, at least.

“You will never learn battle as I have, you have been blessed in that, child. It is no easy thing, to take a life with your own hands, to see the light leave their eyes as they enter the ether, to feel their bodies giving way beneath your steel… Or, should I say, it is too easy. People should die harder than that, I remember thinking then. What life you will take will be by your word. Some say that is easier by far, but sometimes, I put that into question. Their ghosts still haunt you all the same… But it is a necessity you have to bear, for the greater good.

“I wish I could tell you more about how it is to rule through such times, but I have never had that chance. Would that your lady grandmother was here with us now. I was only ever her warrior, her soldier, taught to obey commands first and foremost. The ruling came after all was at peace. All I can do is ease the way for you and pass on her wisdom.” The look of melancholy deepens. “With things the way they are these days… Outlanders are not our greatest enemies and never have been. For as long as she has been, Lovaya has contended with enemies from within more often than those from without.”

The skies seem grayer now up above, the wind brisker, chillier. It makes the green rustle louder than before and near muffles the sound of the fountain. “Know that I do not want to see you in such times, child,” Father says, so very softly. “I only hope that this is but a passing shadow, as it has always ever been. I hope I have done well by you, in any case, come what may.”

Come what may. Your fingers wrap about your gardening shears and hold fast. “I won’t fail you, Father.” In that, I have no choice. No choice but to thrive, and succeed, for too much hung in the balance. Your city, your State, your folk.

You stiffen with surprise as Father comes close, bends, and presses his forehead lightly upon yours. For a while, you stay thus, father and daughter taking comfort from the other in this their sacred sanctuary. You close your eyes briefly and take in the beloved scent of solace, of tea and leaves and green growing things, so full of life. You wrap yourself in it, as you had your favorite childhood blanket, the one you could not do without, for without its protection, the monsters in the dark would come and take you away to the deepest hell. You feel the scratchiest of kisses upon your forehead. “You are so very young, sweet child.” Father moves away, and you are a woman grown once more. Or near enough as makes no matter.

“I suppose we had best hurry, if it’s threatening rain. What else must you gather?” Father asks as he turns to his gardening once more.

You appraise your basket, running over the list of herbs in your mind, before replying, “Dittany.”

“Dittany…” Your father beckons you over to a hedge of shrubs lining the righthand parapet of the sanctum. The distinctive gray-green leaves of the healing herb stares up at you from beneath the hedgerows.

“I never thought to see that adage come alive in you,” Father remarks as you bend to cut yourself a clutch of greens.

“What adage?” you ask vaguely, distracted by the pressing task of choosing the best specimen for use.

“The hands of a ruler are the hands of a healer.” Father brushes a gentle hand over your head. “That you shall be, I know, in more ways than one. They will love you well, when you come into your own. The Light of the South, as your grandmother was and her mother before her and all the ruling ladies of Arsechkala there ever was, back to the Queens of Sand and Sea.”

You stand, cradling your basket. The Light of the South. You smile as Father wraps a huge arm around your shoulders and guides you back into the shelter of the palace. No choice but to thrive. No choice but to succeed.

“I hear you’ve been making a Healer out of your knight as well.”

“Well, I had to get him into your good graces somehow,” you laugh, but sober up at once. “He was a very attentive student, picked up things so quickly. He’ll make a fine gardening companion.”

“That he did.” Father herds you into his greenroom so you may start drying herbs. “You can make the sanctum bloom together someday, perhaps even the Sphere, restore it to its bygone glory. Wouldn’t that be pleasant?”

You take up a seat in front of the dark wooden counter and place your basket on the tabletop. “So very pleasant.” Perhaps the both of you can make more than a garden bloom, in time. Come what may, through light and dark, it will be pleasant to have Eren by your side. It won’t be so bad, to walk in darkness with him. You can bear the darkness with him.

---

Across the sea, the sail is growing with every passing minute. Up above, the skies are growing grayer still. The wind, already brisk, forever brisk by the seashore, blows ever more fiercely.

“My lady!” Troian calls from his post by the dunes. “We should go back! The sky will break any moment!”

The ship is so close, yet so far away from the safety of your port. You must see its journey through. “It’s all right, I want to stay. Just a bit longer.”

“You’ll catch a chill if you get soaked!”

It is astonishing how irritating an otherwise heartwarming sentiment can be. “We brought drying sheets this time, didn’t we? And you are well-equipped with that rainshade of yours. We go when I say we go, and not before.”

That brings the galling bleating to an end. “...my lady. Of course, my lady, I meant no offense. Was only doing my duty, beg pardon.”

Guilt makes the frost within melt some. “Pardon granted, no offense was taken. You are only doing your duty, as you said.”

The trepidation vanishes from your sworn sword’s voice. “My thanks, my lady. You need only call whenever you’re ready.”

“Of course.” The blustering wind and the crashing waves are the only sounds to be heard for some time after.

Irritating and galling he may be at times, yet it cannot be said that Troian is a man wanting for duty. And loyalty. And so the tail becomes the shield. Father had chosen your shield well, for all its worth.

“It’s about time you have a shield of your own, my lady, the Liege of Vascalin must always be well-protected,” Lord Alexander had said, a couple of days before he left. “And I know just the man you’ll be needing.” At least he had not needed to look far for the paragon. Childish grievances aside, you cannot have asked for a better shield than Troian. Better him than some cold, aloof sword you cannot talk to; you do not think you can stand another Yelena serving you in close quarters.

A beam of light cuts a trail of white across the pewter skies toward the horizon, from the sea lamp by the docks. Having it lit had been one of your first major commands as ruling Lady. The Lodge you have had opened as well to welcome this galleas to port. A stray ship is an uncommon sight during these times and poses no small amount of risk - were they pirates - but the sail is enough to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Black it is, with the distinctive sleek lines and geometric shapes so favored by the Gleaming Islanders, picked out in silver thread. Perhaps this is the vessel of the new Kayigar ambassador, Prior Ilya had told you, they had been due to arrive some weeks ago but had yet to put in an appearance. Most like they were caught in some storm and are lost, or worse, floating down to rest at the bottom of the sea; you have all but given them up as a lost cause. It is a relief, unexpected but a relief nevertheless, to see those sails appear on the horizon. It will be wise to open the port to receive this one, you all agree. And were they pirates masquerading as ones harmless, the garrison will be more than enough to throw them back to the depths.

Were they the genuine article, though… You roll the green tear around your palm, feeling the slightly pitted but otherwise smooth finish of the glass rubbing against your skin. It will seem the Lady Rhyzkova has guests to entertain. 

An eel slithers quick inside your stomach. Drumming your fingers against it brings it to heel. For the moment.

It is not a hard thing, to entertain guests. There are harder duties to be had than greeting foreign dignitaries. You are equal to the task. You must be equal to the task. You will not shame Father so.

He had left not five days past to answer the royal summons to court. At once, you were apprehensive. This is a first, a very concerning first. The Month of Resting has barely dawned yet already there are summons. Only for the Conclave, Father told you, as though that would reassure you (it does not). He had chosen not to bring the family along, citing your rest and well-being as his priority, he will have you enjoy what time you have away from the bedlam of court for as long as you can.

“Vascalin is yours, my lady,” he said during your leave-taking in the palace courtyard, looking down at you from his gray destrier huge as he was, before calling the march. And so the torch was passed.

You have gone to great lengths not to drop it. Now you find yourself juggling duty and anxiety, wondering what has happened that is so urgent that the king must needs summon his advisors to court a month early.

The Northern Matter, it must be the Northern Matter, nothing else in recent memory has plagued the realm as much as it has. The northern lords must have called their banners and are threatening war.

A cold drop of water splashes onto your forehead. From the sky, not the sea, you note, even through your distraction. You are by the surfline when next you register your surroundings. Seafoam brushes the tips of your toes, cool as ice. The sail has grown even larger.

No, that can’t be right, nothing is confirmed, there is no need to get ahead of yourself. To jump to conclusions so easily ill becomes a ruler. There is no war as yet, not until there is solid, hard evidence of the fact.

But why else would the king call the Conclave? He won’t summon them all just for anything, not for a matter that can keep until the court returns to session. And jumping to conclusions is not all bad - it is prematurely acting on them that ruins many a good liege. You are well within your rights to assume, and consider all your options for all the possibilities open to you. As Father will do.

Eren calls your name from further down the coast. He comes to you at half a walk and half a jog. “Let’s go back, the sky’s about to come down.” 

Come down it does no sooner have the words left his mouth. You shiver as the heavy drops patter against your skin like water made rock - not quite hail but close enough. Yet you make no move to return to your shield and the shelter of his rainshade. You simply watch as Eren draws closer, sodden and tousled.

The both of you had spoken of this political development in great detail the past few days. While he offered interesting insight, and no small amount of comfort, you cannot help but wish he is a bit more politically minded. Eren the Statesman is there, you can sense him, yet he lacks practice and experience in the realm of civic intrigues. While you can coax him further down that road, it will take time. You do not have time, you can’t wait for the reassurance - born of practical, pragmatic, and realistic thinking - that you need at present, much as you would love to receive it from him.

You had written Armin at once, this practical, pragmatic, and realistic friend of yours, and told him all. Well, not all. It is all well and good to speak of the Northern Matter - everyone and their mothers know of it by now. Not everyone is privy to the Conclave’s business, however. If news of their dealings are to be common knowledge, it will not come from you.

Armin had shared your concerns of further conflict yet, ultimately, you can do nothing but wait, wait and see how the tapestry will unfold, and react accordingly. That was his most practical, pragmatic, and realistic answer.

Wait. It seems that you must wait after all. The practical, pragmatic, and realistic answer, it transpired, did little to reassure you.

Eren is before you at last, soaked to the skin as you are. His dark hair is plastered to his head, fringe half-obscuring his eyes. “Look at you, you’re soaked! Why didn’t you run to Troian and his rainshade?” He stares down at you, equal parts fond and exasperated. You stare up at him, silent, merely observing. Half-obscured they may be but still you can see his eyes. They seem more gray than green, today. Gray as the skies above. Gray as the seas below. Such a drab color, you have always thought, yet in him, it isn’t so.

Slowly, the exasperation vanishes the longer he beholds you, until all there is left is soft fondness. He raises a hand and lightly presses his knuckles onto your forehead. “My lady’s in her head again,” he says, mild and quiet, before looking out to sea.

The ship is close to port, close enough for you to see each hoary line and stripe and bar that crisscross the ebon sail. It slips past the distant rocky bluffs soon after, and at last, you know they are safe.

“You’ll do fine, love.” You start as a rough and gentle hand cups your face to turn you away from the distance. “Come what may, the Lady of Vascalin will do what needs to be done. And she will do it well and perfectly.”

Thump, thump, thump.

What have you been thinking, looking to others for comfort? There he is, standing before you, as he has been all this time, saying the right things, as he has always done. What would statesmen know of giving comfort, true and honest, anyway? Eren as he is is enough. You need nothing else.

Rough and gentle fingers stroke your face, his calloused skin warm, warmer than it ought to be in this chill rain. You watch him, silent, so silent, hardly daring to breathe as he begins his tentative study of you. Rough and gentle fingers trace down your cheek, your chin. Your breath hitches in your throat as his thumb brushes the bottom of your lip, the touch light and so very faint, a wisp of a touch, hardly substantial.

More. Touch me more. I need more.

But he is moving on, lower, to your neck. What disappointment that rose within you vanishes as you feel his fingers curl about your neck, feel his thumb press against the hollow of your throat above your black pearl pendant, firm, firm as he had not been with your lips. Your heart lodges itself into your throat. You wonder if he can feel it beating, hammering, pounding beneath his hold.

It feathers across your collarbone, his thumb, in another mild caress. Watching him is the most fascinating thing. For he is as lost in you as you are in him. He runs his hand down your sodden skin as though entranced, caught in a spell of your own making. He seems detached, somehow, yet attentive at the same time as he drags his fingertips lower, lower, until they are stroking the soft swell of the tops of your breasts, partly bared by your red deep-necked vevda. The shiver that courses through you has nothing to do with rain’s chill.

Everything fades and ceases to be. The sea, the rain, the cold, they are as nothing. There is only Eren and his fingers, rough and gentle and sensual as they run down your chest, tracing the curves, sliding below the soft flesh to stroke the skin beneath.

The breath leaves your lungs entirely as he slips past the edge of your dipping neckline, stroking, caressing, feathering over the swell of your breast. The clinging fabric limits his movements and keeps his fingers firm against your flesh as he inches closer and yet closer to your nipple.

Thump, thump, thump.

Your soft intake of breath makes him stop. His eyes seek yours and hold fast, searching. Whatever he sees there makes him retreat, the heat of his fingers parting from your breast. Relief and regret contend within; you do not know which of them you want to win out.

He does not part from you entirely, that much brings you relief. His path continues down your front, across your stomach, until he comes to rest at last at your hip. His fingers curl about you and pull you close.

“We should go. We might catch a chill,” he says, in a voice so deep it sets shivers running through your body once more. But he makes no move to steer you away.

Which is just as well. The rain feels as warm and fresh as a spring shower. You aren't so cold, not anymore. What shivers wrack your frame come not from the weather. “I don’t feel cold.”

The eyes that stare down at you are so very black, those eyes that were once green. Green as the sea glass you had found earlier in the sand. Mermaid’s tears, they call them, and they come in all shades of dazzling colors. Luck brought you one to make a match for your betrothed.

Heaven’s tears cascade upon you in sheets devoid of any one particular hue. You watch as it soaks your betrothed’s face, droplets without count running down his fine features, threading through his hair and dripping, on his cheeks, his nose, his mouth.

A tear, jewel-bright, catches against his bottom lip, making the most mesmerizing sight. Your hands are moving before you quite know it. You pocket the sea’s jewel and raise your hand to give him your touch as well.

The tear slides down your forefinger to mix with the tears upon your skin. His breath is warm, his lips soft. You watch those lips purse and move to kiss your finger, slow and lingering.

You have always loved the way his eyes change color. From green, to blue, to gray, they are ever the colors of the sea. They are black now, black as the sea at midnight, filled with want and so much desire. It is with concerted effort that you draw yourself out of those depths. To drown in him will be the sweetest death yet you have a journey of your own to complete.

Your path continues past his lips, down his chin, to the hollow of his throat - the apple nestled within bobs a little as you pass, scraping your fingernail lightly against the prominence. You trace the crease of his strong chest, made visible by his vee-necked tunic, and lay a hand atop his heart.

Thump, thump, thump.

His cream tunic is near transparent now, the cloth clinging to every ridge and hard crest of his muscled torso and stressing the beauty of him. He is so warm, impossibly so, so very hale, and strong, and alive. Beneath your hand, his heart beats fast, drumming yet steady.

Black eyes draw you in once more, and this time you cannot look away. You are falling, drowning, lost in him. The lips that you had touched, so soft, so yielding, have parted. You can feel him down every inch of your body, he has pressed you up against him, his arms tight about your hips, your waist. His mouth is yielding yet the rest of him is not, you cannot break away even if you want to. And you do not. You do not, not when he is this close, and getting closer still, leaning down…

“My lady! Sir!”

The rain is icy cold again, and the wind is loud in your ears. So is your betrothed’s growl as he snaps his head up to look at the approaching guard. You swallow, your hand fisting against Eren’s shirt, and make to push away from him, despite yourself. The sane and rational within know he will not harm you (never, never), yet the deep and primal in you want to distance yourself from that terrifying visage of animal rage. If looks could kill… But he is iron and immovable, and so you have no choice but to remain within his embrace.

Eren’s mouth has closed and thinned in utter displeasure. “Fucking bloody bugger…” He squeezes your waist and sighs, the fight going out of him with the gesture. “Am I only allowed to kiss you in front of our wedding guests?” he grumbles, sounding so woebegone that your heart goes out to him even as you giggle.

You pat him gently on the chest. “Patience, love. You’ll have your taste soon or late.”

He gleams down at you, smirking a little. “I’ve never been known for my patience, love. I’ll have that taste, sooner rather than later.” He takes your hand from his chest and presses a kiss on the palm. A shock of heat spreads from your hand to the rest of you as you feel his tongue drag across your skin, wet and warm as the rain isn’t. “Sweet,” he murmurs, eyes smoldering up at you, then closes your hand around his kiss and frees you at last from his hold.

Troian comes up to you that very moment, holding the big crimson rainshade aloft and brandishing drying sheets, which you take graciously enough (Eren keeps his temper, at least, you are thankful for that much). You leave for home when you are as dry as you are like to get (which isn’t very dry at all).

The dunes are a trial to traverse with all this rain yet somehow you manage. This is where you had had your first kiss, you recall suddenly. It was yet another one of your customary trips to the beach. Mother was so occupied with the twins and the new babe, Darya, that it had been no difficult feat to stray away from your roost.

Roman had been with you, as he often was those days, being Father’s ward. What began as a simple stroll to collect shells somehow ended up becoming a game of Hawk and Chicken. It had been such a merry chase, made all the more merrier when you caught the chicken at last. Before either hawk or chicken knew it, though, they were tumbling down the dunes, you had been so enthusiastic in your role of raptor. When the world stopped spinning at last, you found that you had landed on the chicken with your mouth pressed firmly to his.

The days afterward had been nothing short of awkward yet the seeds of curiosity had taken root. You had not been able to take your mind off the kiss and the feel of a boy’s mouth on yours, so you had sought Roman out and kissed him again to see if you truly liked it some. You liked it more than some, it transpired, and so did he. The days of stolen kisses began not long after.

That is a tale you have yet to divulge to your jealous knight - you do not want Roman’s inevitable mauling to be on your conscience.

You have been writing each other as is your wont during the reprieve, as Eren will write Armin. That, too, you have not divulged, but Eren has never been interested in who you are corresponding with besides Armin; useless to give answers when no questions are asked. The Lady Meledina is getting worse, you learn from her worried yet resigned son, it is only a matter of time ‘til he ascends the Masquer’s Seat. That is the most dismal letter you have received this season.

You smile despite the gray turn of your thoughts as Eren drops his drying sheet over your head in a fit of gallantry and waves away your concerns about his well-being (what if he gets sick? He is too fit for that, apparently). The hand that holds his kiss, and a corner of your drying sheet, still burns. You flex the fingers within the damp linen. Yet another secret, stolen kiss. It seems that you are meant for stolen kisses.

Not for long. The thought buoys your steps onward and upward. You will have all the kisses you can possibly want, in full view of everyone. They cannot begrudge a young wife her husband’s kisses, after all.

Perhaps it isn’t so bad a thing, to miss that kiss. Another first had happened here, another memory is attached here, that of another kiss with another boy. You’ll have your kiss in a place all your own, a place free of another first, another memory, another boy. A place where you can have your own first and new memories with the one whom your soul…

“Oh, gods be damned.” Eren is tugging you hurriedly onward, away from the dunes as fast as he can while impatiently waving Troian over, urging him to pick up the pace so he can keep you shielded from the driving rain.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, worried and stumbling along in your knight’s trail. Should’ve worn a shorter vevda, you think for the hundredth time as you fight not to trip over your lengthy skirt. You did not come to the beach to go wading, yet you did not anticipate having to make a mad dash for home.

“Nasty buggers nearby.”

A bloom of them has manifested not too far from the dunes, sure enough, spectral sea jellies with huge pearly white caps and long deadly stingers, floating aimlessly across the sands. “They’re only deadly when crossed, and I have no intentions of doing so, I promise you,” you tell Eren. “There’s no need to rush, surely.”

He grunts non-committally, yet does not slow.

“Just how badly did it go for you the last time you ran afoul of the nasty buggers?” you query, remembering his words from the lakeside of Shimmerwood, weeks and weeks and weeks ago now. It is not something to laugh at, you know, yet you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

“Always wondered why Armin didn’t tell you that, it was the most entertaining thing. He couldn’t stop laughing at the time, anyway.” His face pinks such a pretty shade made more conspicuous by the gray dullness of the world. “You’ll have the tale from me… someday.”

“I can always write or ask him myself, you know.”

“Argh, my lady, just-” He sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. The quick succession of expressions flitting across his face is most amusing. “It’ll be better coming from me,” he says at last, resigned. “I’ll tell you. Tonight. I’ll be your dinnertime amusement.”

You giggle and hold on to him the tighter. “On your word as a knight?”

“On my word as a knight.” Behind his exasperated resignation is no small amount of mirth.

The rain seems to be letting up some, you notice as you approach the sea gate. The guards salute you and inform you that the Kayigar ship has just docked; the customs officer is, as of this very moment, determining its legitimacy as a true diplomatic ship.

Duty and reality set in once more, yet they are not so frightening, not this time. You feel Eren’s hand squeeze yours and your soul sings. You are equal to the task, there never was any doubt about that.

---

Footsteps echo through the chamber as the steward and your guests climb the steps to the audience hall. But for that, the place is silent.

Not so, you realize. Drums are pounding in the deep, thrashing, booming loud in your ears, boom, doom, boom, doom, yet somehow, no one seems to give it any heed. It is a long while before the dawn breaks. What drums there are in the hall come from inside your chest. Still, the silence is so complete it is a wonder to you that no one can hear your private symphony.

Boom, doom, boom, doom.

Your bejeweled fingers grip the wreath of welcome on your lap, your only anchor, the only thing close at hand to keep you steady. Your true anchor is off to the side of the chamber with the rest of your little court. For the thousandth time, you wish he is up here with you. Only consorts have the right to stand on the dais with their ruling spouses, however, and it will be some time still ‘til that happy day of nuptial bliss. You must needs face your guests alone.

You suppress a sigh, clutch at the wreath just that bit tighter, and allow your eyes to flicker over to your betrothed. Not once did you feel his gaze leave you, and for that you are grateful. He has a blazing look on his face, hard almost, and filled with pride, so much pride that you feel yourself become emboldened as though you have imbibed the most potent of tonics. No tonic would be as revitalizing as that gaze, though, that you know without a doubt.

It seems such a ludicrous thing now, your trepidation. They are only guests, and no one to fear. You are equal to this task.

“My lady.” Paul Kolas the steward strides to the foot of the Golden Chair’s high dais, his usually thin voice coming loud and strong. “The High Marked and High Honorable Ambassador of the Gleaming Isles of Kayigari, Onyankopon, son of Ata Panin, of the Shavelocks,” he announces in the Diplomats’ Tongue, stumbling a little at the foreign, unfamiliar name but otherwise delivering a perfect introduction.

The Lady of Vascalin smiles most graciously and stands from her seat. “Your Honor, my lords,” you begin, mirroring your steward and speaking in kind, “I give you welcome to fair Lovaya and her beloved daughter Vascalin. In the sight of gods and men, I offer you the hospitality of our halls.” You raise the wreath, and at once, a group of servants set forth to crown your most exalted guests and offer them fare - slices of lamb and wine - to strengthen their rights to krajü.

Each man of the delegation has his head shaved clean, as only those of the black-skinned clan of Shavelocks could be. Of the seven Kayigar clans, the Shavelocks are deemed the least opulent, the simplest of the Islanders. Compared to their brethren of Goldveins and Proudmarks and all the rest of them, they eschew finery; His Honor, Onyankopon, in his robes of black and silver satin, is the very picture of quiet elegance.

“My most gracious lady, I thank you kindly for this warmest of welcomes.” His Honor dips into a deep bow and rises, smiling, his voice smooth and made more liquid by the refined inflections of the tongue of diplomacy. “We were led to believe that we would be received by Vascalin’s illustrious lord but here I see the most beautiful of women come to honor us with her beloved presence instead. Manu be praised, I did not think to bathe in the Light of the South’s radiance so soon.”

You laugh, soft and mannerly. “I thank you kindly for those loveliest of words, Your Honor. You are a credit to your trade, indeed. My lord father has received a most urgent summons, one that he must needs answer, and so he left me to rule in his stead.” Once the initial pleasantries have been spent, you go on, “We are most glad to see you well and whole, my lords. I must confess, we were most worried. The autumn storms are not known for their mercy.”

“Manu has blessed our voyage, and blessed us with the most excellent captain.” Onyankopon ushers forward a green-robed man, who bows and smiles, proud and humble both.

“A more blessed lot I have never seen.” You gesture at Paul, who strides forward at once. “You are weary, I know, from such a hard and dangerous voyage. A suite of chambers awaits you in the guest wing, where you can rest and recuperate at last. I took the liberty of having a feast prepared. They are taxing things, especially after a strenuous journey, but I hope you will honor us with your presence at table tonight.”

“Of course, my lady, we look forward to doing your excellent Lovayan fare justice.”

That is not half-bad, you think as you watch Paul escort your guests to their chambers, exulting and allowing yourself to feel some measure of pride. By the steps of the high dais stands Eren, gazing up at you with the same proud, hard, blazing look on his face that he beheld you with earlier.

You descend to meet him with a smile more genuine than any you had yet made during the audience.

That was not half-bad at all.

---

“My lady.”

You glance toward the drawn red velvet hangings of your bedchamber, surprised to hear Troian’s muffled call. Yelena is standing in front of you, fastening your sheer emerald-studded podonza to your left shoulder with a brooch of emerald, round-cut and ornamented with silver wings.

“What is it?” you answer, as Yelena finishes and steps away with a bow.

“Sir Eren’s calling. Should I send him in?”

“Ah, yes, please.” The sheer strength of your joy at the prospect of seeing your dear knight once more would have surprised you, once. Not at present, never again.

“I have come to worship at the shrine of beauty,” Eren declares, bowing an exceedingly low bow when you emerge from your bedroom.

“Oh, hush, you,” you giggle, dismissing Yelena and watching her cross the privy chamber to take her leave. Troian is standing by the entry hall a respectable distance away, keeping a close watch. 

“You didn’t change,” you note, eyeing your betrothed’s ensemble, the very same he had worn for the ambassador’s audience: a gold-trimmed vevda of red-violet with sleeves that fall to his elbows, paired with a podonza of gold brocade, fastened to his left shoulder by a square-cut tourmaline brooch. The wreath that circles his dark head is plain gold. He looks very much a prince tonight, you think, dreamily.

He snorts at your words in the most un-prince-like manner. But you won’t have him any other way. “I didn’t run a cavalry charge, did I? Didn’t make a mess of myself all day, I promise you, my lady. These threads still serve.”

You lean in close and take a whiff of him. Wood, the faint scent of laundry soap and sweat, Eren. All good scents. “Still smell nice, at least.”

He smiles and looks about the room. His expression softens. “You put them up already.” He walks to a framed bunch of moon violets on the wall opposite and examines them, running a hand down the gilt mounting, lost in memory.

You move to stand next to him, sharing in his thoughts. “I can never thank you enough for these.”

“You are most welcome, my lady. You deserve every single one. The land’s beauties for the land’s beauty.”

“Perhaps you should hang up your sword and take up a pen instead. Are you sure you’re not a poet?” You laugh as he pinches your side.

“Truth, love, no poetry.” His head swings slowly about as he searches each frame. “I know that was a long time ago and we weren’t exactly… partial to each other then, but did you keep-”

“They’re in there,” you nod to your bedchamber.

Something flashes across his face, something more than memory. “I haven’t told you, have I? Zeke was the one who told me to get you flowers. Most useful bit of advice I’ve ever gotten from him,” he says with the immediate disrespect of a younger brother. You shake your head at him, cheeks hurting from smiling so much. “I wasn’t too enthusiastic about the idea,” he shoots you a contrite look, which you pardon, waving him on, “but I saw the sense of that. Girls like flowers, don’t they? Took a quick look at the gardens, but all the flowers in bloom seemed… boring? Inadequate? Not enough? Only the winter roses stood out to me. They’re supposed to be a winter bloom but they were still there in the spring, living, fighting on until the very last cold snap.”

Still so very Eren, even with his choice of flowers. His account warms you to the very core. He put thought into his offering, though he knew you not, though he liked you not. Most boys would make do. But not him. Thank the gods I did not neglect his gift. His first gift. You suppose you have much to thank your future brother by marriage for. “Your brother’s rather romantic for someone who hates his wife.”

“I would never.”

Eren sounds a deal more serious, then, graver. You blink up at him, puzzled. “Never what?”

“Hate you. Not like he does Elva. I could never.” He turns so he can face you properly. At once, your heart begins to drum.

Thump, thump, thump.

“You are so very beautiful, my lady,” he murmurs and brings up a hand to run long, slender fingers through a loose curl, escaped from your bun. “My Lady of Rhyzkov is a woman of emerald tonight.” His eyes alight on the emerald rose that holds your tresses in place, before running slowly down your body in its opulent trappings of silver and emerald satin.

You feel that stare as if he had run his hands all over you. He almost had, that selfsame day. When he takes up a hand to kiss, you feel his mouth on your lips, your neck, your breasts. 

Desire rises hot in you once more. Your bed is so close, you realize, it will be so easy to draw him in, lead him past those velvet curtains and let your lust take hold at last. Again, and again, and yet again. After all, that is what the marriage bed is for. Our marriage bed. The insight brings another shock of heat through you. You will never look at your kip the same way ever again.

“May I have the honor of leading you in tonight?” Winter sets in when he withdraws and offers you his arm. The temptation to let them all bugger themselves and eat without you and your betrothed is a strong one, yet duty’s voice is stronger still.

You sigh and take his arm. “Of course, good Sir. Back to the slog of pleasantries and politics we go.”

“You did wonderfully, love, didn’t I say? It was a good start. And a good start will lead to a good path.”

You certainly hope so.

As the feast proceeds underway, with your Eren on your left and His Honor to your right in the place of high honor, you can see the truth of your knight’s words. Everything goes smooth as glass. It isn’t a bad start at all, you feel. Not half-bad at all.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

---

A/N:

Duty, duty, duty. It starts for the little lady. What *is* going on in the court?

Eren hangs out with the future father-in-law (he's not so bad, heh) and reminded of his duties to you, anxiety sets in as duty starts to make itself known, and we start to see how YN will be as a lady ruling in her own right. So far, so good.

And things get that much hotter between the young lovers-not-lovers. Yet another kiss foiled, they really should stop taking it slow, yeah? And I would so love to see them kiss in the rain, nothing is more romantic...

Til next update!

Tagging: @princess-okkotsu @lukepattersin @tojis-discord-kitten @camilo-uwu

[kriz-fics]

The Sword's Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Eighteen: Paints and Seas

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters), Slow Burn

Length: 12.2K

CW: None for this chap

“Glaring at the thing won’t make it finish itself, you know.”

His spirits, already so low, plummet even further, if that is possible. Jean grits his teeth, forces a breath through his nose, and persists glaring at the half-filled canvas before him. “I told them I was not to be disturbed.”

A soft scoff answers those words, followed by soft footsteps, and the sound of things clinking and rattling against each other as she moves further into the room. The sound is familiar, but for the life of him, he can’t quite place it.

Not that he is particularly bothered to at the moment.

“Lord of Trost you may one day be, but your lady mother is not without her own power. My word has as much weight as yours, my son.” The rustle of paper resounds somewhere behind, which tells him his mother has stepped on his artist’s leavings. “How many times have I told you to pick up after yourself?” the Lady Eleanor Kirschtein tsks disapprovingly. She is always so disapproving. And, gods, does that always set his teeth on edge.

“If I’m to be Lord of Trost, I have every right to do as I please. Especially in my own rooms. And most especially in this room, where I am not to be disturbed at all times.”

His mother sighs. “Must it forever come to war between us? Since when did my sweet little Jean-boy become this war-like?”

It is all he can do not to physically recoil at that old pet name. “Boys such as me were meant for war, Mother. Best not forget that.”

“How could I, knowing what you are now? It was such an opulent ceremony, the one that made you, so contrived as to never be forgotten. And that cloak… I pray that is the last time I see you cloaked in red.”

The worry, sadness, and fear give him pause. And guilt. She always gives him that, it seems. You can be the most difficult boy, a voice within tells him, so matter-of-fact. Inwardly, he sighs, deflating. He is not angry at her, he reminds himself. He never truly is. It is just so easy to unload everything on her, especially his rage. She will never hate him for it, no matter how vile and disagreeable he becomes. Because that’s just how mothers are.

He hears the rattle and clink of something being placed on a table, and then his mother’s footsteps coming closer to his right. “Ah, of course. The Muse, as always.”

How can it be anything else? Only Mikasa Ackerman’s lovely visage can bring him out of the darkest pits of his mind. If he can only get it right.

“Those lessons are well worth it, I told your father, and I am right. You have gotten so good at this artist’s business.”

Not good enough. “Not nearly good enough.” He is angry again, just like that. “If I was any good, her fingers wouldn’t look so crooked, the sword wouldn’t be so lopsided, the red would be the right shade-”

“Jean.” His mother places a hand on his shoulder, and this time he does recoil. An unpleasant silence drapes over the art room like a heavy shroud. “I brought your favorite,” Lady Eleanor says, light and gentle. No amount of gentle lightness can conceal the hurt, however. That brings on more guilt, and guilt has never been known to lighten the mood. “Come, eat. Sometimes, it is best to step away for a while and not agonize overlong over one’s troubles. Unwind, let loose, and before you know it, clarity will come and all will fall into place.”

It is only then that Jean could bring himself to look at his mother. A smile lights up the plump, matronly face, deepening the lines around her eyes and mouth. The brown of her tightly knotted hair is streaked liberally with gray, though she is still shy of forty. Plump and aging and female she is, but her face is his all the same. He has more of her in him than he has his father, or his forefathers, for that matter. Only his height marks him as the heir of the horselords, they who have oft been described as golden-haired and gray-eyed and tall as lithe willows. They have been blessed to escape the long face of the Obsts, too, but then how many of them could claim to have Obst mothers, as his is? Not nearly enough.

The horse-faced horselord, how fitting, murmurs a voice nastily, and it sounds like Eren, like Porco, like all the spiteful little shits of a squire there are in the castle yard. He grits his teeth against the onslaught and looks away from Lady Eleanor. 

He is not angry at her.

Jean does not resist when his mother takes hold of his arm and steers him toward the nearby divan. Sun Day eggs, he sees sitting on the wooden table beside the divan. Lusin’s Day has long passed. Yet he is to have his treat. Guilt makes his stomach roil, but soft fondness throws the worst of it back, far enough away to let him eat, at least. There is even a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, a southron delicacy so rare in the North. The smell of it all sets his mouth to watering. He is hungrier than he thought.

“It is good to see such a healthy appetite,” his mother beams from her seat at the other divan on the other side of the table, watching as he wolfs down his meal. A more comfortable silence falls over them as he focuses on nothing more than his repast. Neeps and cheese and eggs take the place of portraiture, bodily structure, and composition in the forefront of his mind, and he is glad of it. “I wonder how it goes, with her and hers.”

That slows his ravenous gorging down considerably. Jean looks up at his mother to see her glancing over at his unfinished painting standing before one of the arched windows, face contemplative. She catches his eye and smiles. “I’m sure they haven’t experienced anything near as… exciting as we have so far this season, but I do wonder about those rumors.”

There are a lot of those flying left, right, and center certainly, brought on by all the excitement. We certainly saw that excitement, Jean thinks grimly, recalling that most memorable entrance into Egstatten all those months ago at the beginning of the season. They had been traveling for weeks, and home was mere days away. He was the only one of the immediate family not to be in the wheelhouse at the time and so had the full extent of the commons’ ire.

“Swords! To swords!”

“Call the banners! Vengeance for Zheletov!”

“Richard! To swords!”

Swords, swords, swords, they all screamed as cabbages, turnips, and tubers flew all about the Kirschtein convoy. The captain of the guards had led them through the gale of produce with all his might and main, his men keeping the boiling press back until the high, sturdy walls of the Barrow welcomed them into their protective hold. The ordeal shook Jean, more than he knew. Their reputation for hotbloodedness aside, he had never seen their folk this livid, much less had that rage directed at him and his. It was a most chilling encounter.

The Lord Dot Pixis had begged pardon of his folk most earnestly that very same night. “They are boiling but not yet boiled over, thank the gods. These are yet manageable, you have no cause to fear, my lord, but still…” The bald, aged lord gazed somberly at them all at table. “You cannot deny their rage has merit.”

As the closest of neighbors, Egstatten and Zheletov have ever been partners through thick and thin regardless of their differing States. Both oft provide brides to one or the other through time immemorial and are thus bound by blood as well as proximity. They had suffered through Tybur’s incursions together; it is only meet for one to avenge the other. How many of the slain Zhelevic were fathers and sons and husbands to Egstattian fathers and sons and wives?

Merit. Jean chews on that word as he chews on his eggs. The senseless slaughter of one’s blood is as good a reason as any to seek vengeance, he supposes. A man has a right to it, after all - it is the law of the gods themselves. The law of the land forbids any man to flout his own king, however. If the king is behind the senseless slaughter, what can anyone do but seethe in silence?

Perhaps the law of the land is worth more than the laws of gods, in the end.

“Kolozniki, isn’t it, the outlaws’ refuge?”

“That’s what’s being said, yes,” his mother confirms quietly.

The talk isn’t much of a surprise. He won’t be surprised if they’d fled to their own neck of the woods, to the Yuvichi border to the northeast. The far North has always been the haven of the most unsavory sorts. Wild it is and big - no Prior or learned man has ever mapped its true breadth. Up there, wolves and tigers and trees hold sway, and who knows what else. Up there, the laws of gods and men mean nothing. It is the end of the world.

“Lady Hareckaya has just arrived.”

“I know.” He had taken a respite from his paints and slipped out into the art room’s terrace not too long ago. Even from that distance, the Lady of Yuvichi’s convoy was not hard to miss. He had watched its slow trek through the city for some time, stomach churning, before returning to his muse. The dread hour that brought me here is nigh. Jean the Heir is always needed to be on hand to greet noble guests and play the proper lordling. Let Jean the Artist hold the reins just for now, just for a little while. Gods know the poor sap needs to see the light of day; being cooped up for extended periods of time does no one any good.

“Get dressed after you finish, your father expects you downstairs in a quarter hour.”

His shoulders slump down in resignation. “All right.” It is time for Jean the Heir to come out and play the proper lordling once again. Jean the Artist must needs be cooped up once more. Poor sap.

The sky has turned to lead, he sees as he glances out the window behind his divan. It is snowing; soft, delicate flakes drift across the capital city of Dübenrus and paint the buildings white. Above, the leaded glass dome of the art room is streaked with drops of snowmelt. The air had begun to grow chill, but the braziers they had lit all around the chamber keep the space comfortable.

It is only the Month of Storing yet snow there is this early, for them as live in the North. First to snow, last to thaw, as that jolly little quip notes. It never truly thaws up here, though. No northman has ever known true summer, or heat.

Jean finds his feet dragging as he follows his mother across the room. He does not want to face their gracious guest and have his misgivings given life. He does not want his father’s secret inquiry to bear fruit. He does not want to be a true knight in truth. Not yet. Not so soon. With the way things are, though…

Their reception in Egstatten and the people’s mood seemed like the first act to some sinister masque, the ending of which he does not know but dreads. Then, there is the matter of Ishvelune, brought up time and time again by their visiting vassals… a matter of which, no doubt, adds further fuel to the flickering northern flames.

Interesting, that. The North has never been known for its flames. What fires burn up here come within. Now that they are known - and hated - for.

Countless Mikasas, including the unfinished one that had vexed him so, are all about them to usher their way out. Mother and his aesthetic tutor had urged him time and time again to expand his range to something other than his muse, which he had, eventually. A true artist should have more in his arsenal than his constant, after all.

Hence the land became his muse. One side of the chamber is dedicated to Lovaya’s wonders, made by man and nature both. Lenberg’s many rivers and streams and falls aare displayed next to the Knight’s Rise, that magnificent seat of the Brauns, something his lord father will contest vehemently; as such, the very existence of this painting is kept a tightly guarded secret. 

A much more paternally palatable image is in front of the secret canvas, that of Inareom, Thunderwing, who stands forevermore atop this very city, turned to stone by Dübenrus’s defending mages as the dragon sought to bring death and destruction upon the horselords’ capital all those centuries ago. Now, he brings the city life through wealth - thousands come from all over the realm and all over the world to see the most perfectly preserved dragon in existence, and that great stream of curious hearts brings a great stream of income to their coffers.

Like most artists, not all his pieces are complete. One such stands near the stairway leading down to his private rooms. Jean had been looking to tales for inspiration of late, and what better inspiration is there than his own blood? No matter his feelings about the man, it cannot be denied that Gerald Kirschtein was the greatest knight of his time. There he is beneath the royal box, bold as brass as he holds out his lance for the favor of his lady love. His royally married lady love. She never discouraged the attention, in any case, as far as the histories and songs are concerned. Which is just as well. No woman - or man, Jean should think - in her right mind would want to be wed to her own brother and bring forth abominations cursed by the gods.

Without features, it is hard to tell the depth of the knight and the princess’s feelings for one another. Without color, their loving moment seems much depleted, and lifeless.

Without features, they could have been any knight and his lady.

Another Mikasa is displayed just a short distance from the drab work. She smiles at Jean so tenderly, dressed in cardinal red and crowned with sword lilies of every conceivable shade. Her Majesty, the Queen of Love and Beauty.

He will bring the knight and lady to life soon enough. He will leave the place as Jean the Heir, but Jean the Artist will return to finish what he started. He always does. And, gods willing, he always will. Whatever comes next.

“I hope my lady is pleased with the work?”

“Oh, I am, Master Dinu, this is all I could have asked for, and more.” You gaze around your privy chamber, watching as the master artisan’s apprentices hang the last couple of glass frames up on your gold and crimson walls. It is good work, indeed, you think, well-satisfied, as you stare up at a small bunch of pressed monk’s roses encased in the finest Rhoseine glass. Your knight’s summer gifts are in their rightful places at last, perfectly preserved and forever beautiful, each one a memory of the early summer when all was light and lively and fun. Each one a reminder of his affection, of him.

The very first of these, the most special of them all, you have displayed in your bedchamber, along with the goldenglow. Autumn is at its half-life, it will not be long ‘til winter sets in, and with it its beautiful roses. Lady Theresia had told you to press the ice-blue blooms between the pages of a book, to conserve the memory of your beginning. You obliged, more out of rote than sentimentality, really.

You are glad you did. The new trothed little lady had not the slightest inkling of how much that young man in front of the shrine would come to mean to her all this time later.

Speak of the young man… “Is that all of them, good master?”

“Yes, my lady, that should be all of them.” The glassblower sweeps you a deep bow, as do his apprentices. “This one is pleased to have pleased you, my lady. Should you have further need of fine glassware, do not hesitate to call upon Marcel Dinu’s services once more.”

“Of course, good master. The steward should be on hand, Paul will see to your payment.”

You hasten to your bedchamber and into your bath to change out of your formal vevda the moment the last of the men leaves. The dark red charovma you choose is as far away from formal as any garment can get, falling to just above your knees and dipping down low at the back to bare as much skin as possible. The day is so nice out, it will be pleasant to spend it by the coast. And coastal outings call for comfortable clothes.

Your fingers brush the side of your neck when you reach up to fasten the halter dress in place. The light touch of pain gives you pause and makes you take a good, long look at the silvered mirror in front of you. The halter straps slip from your hands, leaving your dress to pool around your waist.

It is a thing of great fortune that Yelena’s services as handmaid are reduced in the autumn. It had been no simple feat to hide the imprint this past week.

Eren’s mark had faded but the pain remains. You trace over the unmarred stretch of skin once more, and feel the sweet soreness. Feel his hands trace lines of fire up your legs, feel the hard, lean span of him pressing you down, feel his lips and tongue and breath sear your skin. Feel his teeth sink, hard, into your flesh and set you ablaze with desire, so much desire. 

He is fire made flesh, and his fires burn hot. So hot, so much hotter than you are primed for, and all-consuming. You have only ever been subject to a boy’s passion. Clumsy, eager, yet tentative for all that. The passion of a young man is another thing entirely. His passion stunned, and scalded, and hurt. But, gods, if you did not welcome the pain with all your being.

Already, he is overwhelming. He hadn’t even truly touched you. He hadn’t even kissed you. Not where it matters the most. You can only imagine what it will be like, what he will be like when you, at last, have him in full.

Your hand drops down to your side. On your neck, the dull ache of his now unseen seal fades away into nothing. But no power in this world will make you forget.

For a spell, you and the girl in the mirror stare at each other. Gooseflesh has risen all over the lass’s bare torso, and her nipples have begun to harden, though there is no hint of chill this fine autumn afternoon. Her breaths have quickened, coming from her slightly parted lips in soft pants.

Was this how you sounded to him then, gasping, panting as you poured your lust into his ears back there in the cave?

You avert your gaze from the mirror girl’s, from those dark eyes full of such desire, and resume dressing.

No, you will not be forgetting any time soon.

You finish dressing, go back to your desk to snatch up the token, and leave your rooms, light and happy and eager.

The object of your desire is nowhere to be found within the palace, though you scoure his haunts as thoroughly as you can. Not even your sister’s rooms yielded the young knight. He has been spending some time with the younger Rhyzkov girls of late, to their bemused amusement, always in Darya’s chambers under the watchful eye of her governess. It is nice, you suppose, and heartwarming to see him make the effort of further endearing himself to the family. 

Something tells you this is more than just an attempt at brotherly bonding. More than once, you had caught Lydia and Darya whispering and giggling pointedly at you when they thought you weren't looking. That was most baffling, indeed.

He must have gone out, Darya tells you when you come calling, once again bursting into poorly concealed titters. You raise an eyebrow at that but act on her counsel.

Your betrothed is by the crafts arcade, reclining behind old Taras’s stall, manned today by his son, Pietro. Otto, one of Eren’s menservants, is stationed not too far from the table, scanning the passing folk for any signs of trouble.

You find yourself just standing there at the edge of the path, keeping your distance for the nonce, lost in the splendor that is Eren Jaeger. Will there ever come a day when his beauty will diminish in your eyes? You scan over his fair features, taking in the fringe of dark hair falling over his eyes, the fine line of his nose, the sensual mouth, which is just now turned down at the corners in complete concentration as he focuses on his latest project. His large hands work the knife and the block of wood in his grip so very deftly.

When the skies turn green as summer grass. When the oceans boil and seethe and turn to flame. When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. Only then will he diminish in your eyes.

“Beg pardon, goodman, I would like to buy a carving, if you please.”

Eren freezes, eyes widening down at his featureless piece. He is whisking it away the next moment, hiding it in the table’s drawer before you can so much as blink. He stammers your name out a little and coughs into his fist, trying to salvage his composure. You smile. “Y-you found me.”

Your smile widens. “It seems I have.”

“Milady.” Pietro the woodcarver stands from his seat beside Eren and bows low.

“Goodman. Well met,” you answer, nodding at him, very much the proper lady. You shed the mask as soon as you put it on. “May I borrow your ‘prentice boy for the day? I promise to return him well and whole for work tomorrow.”

Pietro laughs, blue eyes twinkling on his sun-tanned face. Though his wavy hair is yet dark to his father’s white (and more plentiful), the likeness is uncanny. “Milady asks, this one answers, and he says, aye, ‘course you can take him. ‘M sad to see him go, though, business has never been more booming with him around. Boy of yours has a way of drawing in the womenfolk, eh?”

You laugh, light and polite, and not disposed to be either. Sometimes, it is good to have two faces. “I’m sure he does.” You turn to your betrothed, your smile warmer. For half a heartbeat. That knowing smile of his freezes you up again. He can be such a little shit sometimes. “Is that amenable to the ‘prentice boy? I’d be loath to take him away if he does not want to be,” you state, frostily.

“It’s very amenable to the ‘prentice boy, milady,” Eren repeats the new Rakivan words, slow and careful, and grins at your jerky nod - you have taken to speaking in the Old Tongue of late for his benefit, you had felt so remiss in not doing so earlier for his tuition. It has not been too much of a hard jump for him as Rakiva is part of the highborn curriculum; it is only a matter of getting him used to its usage. He is a fast learner, at any rate, and is improving at a prodigious scale, taking in new terms and making fewer grammatical mistakes. “Anyhow, I think I’m done for the day. Tomorrow again, the soonest,” Eren tells the older man, who bobs his head with a grin. “Give our regards to Povik Taras.”

“As you say, Sir. Have you a good day. And to you, milady.”

“Don’t,” you say sharply once you are well without earshot of the woodcarver.

Eren closes his mouth agreeably and snickers. “Only you, love,” he states simply, patting your lesos-covered head all gentle-like. You huff and look away, suddenly hard-pressed to suppress your smile. “Where to, my lady?”

“I thought a visit to the docks, and then the beach?” Your mood lightens when you see his eyes light up. They truly are terribly beautiful things. And made more beautiful today by the sea-blue vidnon jacket he is wearing. Blue has such a way with his eyes. Truly.

“Oh, the beach, hmm? I’d love that. But, before we go, I’d like to take a little excursion, if you will.” He tugs you along animatedly, toward another arcade.

The Arcade of Gold, you realize, puzzled and more than a little intrigued.

“I seem to have upset my lady earlier, so I thought to get her a trinket to get back into her good graces.” You approach the stairway to the most prosperous arcade in the city. While it is common for the more affluent merchants to hire swords to protect their wares, the case is doubly so for the goldsmiths. Here, rank upon rank of guards stand, to prevent light-fingered folk from making off with the valuables. They salute as you and Eren draw near, and immediately step aside to let you pass.

An elaborate fountain of naked figures splashes away halfway up the steps. A fine, cooling mist sprays over you as you pass, carried by the soft breeze that gusts lightly through the city. You blink at your betrothed, befuddled. “I don’t think it’s necessary-”

“But I insist.” He leads you through the almost empty marble hall once you step into the arcade proper, passing several stores - still guarded by heavily armed sentries - with the most interesting air of assuredness.

As though he had been planning for this occasion for some time now.

“Master Thabiso,” Eren greets the black-skinned proprietor of the shop you stop at at length. A Goldvein of Rabari, you recognize, noting the elaborate braids clipped with golden beads that fall down his back in long, heavy strands. Rabari custom dictates the sort of braids the Goldveins may wear, you recall from your studies. There are clan braids, family braids, braids for one’s vocation, and so on, all of these unique to each facet of life. Even the beads that hold them fast are special to their worldly status. You have never truly had a chance to examine such trappings before. What you see now is most fascinating; the whole custom is fascinating, truly. It is an astounding thought that one can immediately know intimate things about a stranger just by looking at his hair, if one knows what to look for.

“Sir Eren, it is good to see you returned to my premises,” answers the merchant, bowing low and coming up smiling amiably. “My Lady Rhyzkova, well met. It is an honor to have you grace my establishment with your esteemed presence.” He bows once more, lower than he had before, and straightens up. His eyes and his attention return to Eren as he inquires, “Has my lord come for-”

“Yes, if you still have it.” Eren gleams down at you but does not answer your silent query when you turn to look up at him, utterly stumped.

The master goldsmith smiles and leads you further into the shop, past glass cases full of the most exquisite work - the Goldveins are the best goldsmiths in the world, this is known - to the back of the room where stands his counter. He reaches behind the table and pulls out a green and silver filigree box, which he opens with a flourish. “Saved for you, Sir, as requested.”

Inside lies a hairpin, a most intricately wrought piece of silver and emerald that draws the eye. An expertly carved emerald rose is the heart of the piece. Atop it rests a silver bird, its silver wings spread wide as it braced itself for flight. Filigree chains drip down the rose, set with emerald beads and another smaller rose of silver, which dangles at the end of the longer chain.

You look at the pin, then Eren, and back again, starting as he reaches up to gently pull your lesos down to bare your head. You stare at him, questioning.

“Let down your hair,” is all he says, smiling and gentle, so very gentle.

You reach up to remove the simple bronze hairpin that keeps your hair up in its knot. Your tresses tumble down your back, heavy and curled from prolonged twisting at the back of your head.

For a while, Eren merely takes you in, as though spellbound. You fight the urge to fidget under his gaze. He had seen you with your hair loose a hundred times before, especially in your nightly jaunts. What is so different about you now?

“Tilt your head up for me,” he bids you. You comply, then bite back a gasp as he takes a hank of your hair and twists it up, nimbly, back into a knot, securing it in place with the new, more elaborate hairpiece. His hand slips slowly down, from your hair to your face, rough, calloused fingers feathering lightly over your cheek. He cups your face, rubs tender circles on your skin and leaves warm, tingling trails in his wake. “Yelestala.”

Beautiful.

His eyes have never been more beautiful than they are now. No emerald ever mined can ever compare. The way they behold you makes your throat close up.

He’s never looked at me that way. Never. Never.

It is then that you wonder. What does love look like?

Thump, thump, thump.

One last gentle caress, and he is turning away to ask the shopkeep for a looking glass. It is not long before you are once again staring back at the girl in the mirror. She is a great deal more astonished, and a great deal more elegant than she was earlier. You step forward before you have quite gathered your bearings. When did he learn to style hair? The young woman in front of you will not look out of place in some ball but for her common garb. Had you not known better, you would have attributed the look to Yelena’s skillful hands. The hairpin completes the ensemble.

You can feel your fingers trembling a little. You twine them together and rest your hands on your stomach, now besieged by a battalion of butterflies.

“A beautiful piece for a beautiful lady,” beams Master Thabiso, to which Eren murmurs agreement.

“Ten crowns, yes?” he says, handing the merchant a small money bag, which he hefts.

“I thank you kindly for the custom, Sir, my lady. And for that display. Ah, the romance of youth. There’s nothing quite like it, I do believe. It’s not every day I am treated to the sight of earnest, honest love.” He bows you out of his shop soon after with further thanks.

“You didn’t have to get this for me, you know,” you mutter as you cross through the arcade’s lavish hall and start down the stone steps. Eren’s hand in yours has never felt more comforting. Never have you felt this shy around him either. Which is passing funny. Not even his ravishing of you made you feel so timid in his presence. You had been as you always are with each other, afterward. Except, perhaps, for that added tension. As if our pool of tension needed more filling. A couple of drops more and it will be set to overflowing. The gods only know what will occur then. The prospect is most thrilling.

“But I want to,” Eren answers, smiling sweetly down at you. “I, uh, just remembered… since it’s near the end of the Month of Storing, we most likely missed the Day of… Lovers,” this he utters with the softest pink flush rising up his tanned cheeks, “being in the Old South and all. And I haven’t, you know, ever gotten you a gift for the day… we weren’t really all there during our first celebration, so…”

That reminds you. You reach into your pocket for the token and draw him to a stop beside the fountain. “I… was also thinking about the Day of Lovers lately,” you murmur, somehow finding your clasped hands much easier to look at than his face. “And I thought to make you a present.” You laugh and find the mettle to look him in the eye once more. The affection in his gaze makes you feel surer of yourself, so you continue, “I didn’t know you were getting me something that cost the earth. Now my token seems so paltry in comparison.” You hold out the shell-and-twine bracelet you had woven for him the past couple of days. “Should’ve bought you that set of gilt shortswords you were eyeing so keenly that last time.”

You had found the prettiest shell that day, the first you took him to the beach. You had never seen him so happy. The seawater woke echoes in his eyes and made them come to life so beautifully. You wove the memory of the sea and of that day into your token, to keep him company when he is far from his beloved coast. And his beloved lady.

He stares down at your gift for a good while, then back up at you. Your heart thrums at that look. Is this what love looks like?

“The gift was made with your own hands and laced with your affection. That alone makes it worth more than gold.” The corner of his lips kinks up. “But I wouldn’t say no to those shortswords, if you’re so minded to get them.”

You giggle. “I’ll keep that in mind.” You tie the bracelet around his right wrist. It is a good fit. The tan of his skin brings out the white of the shell in its black twine setting.

“Much thanks, my lady,” he says, taking up your hand in his and giving it a long, lingering kiss. His eyes bore into yours, green as the emeralds in your hair and twice as stunning. Behind you, the fountain splashes away. Below you, the silent sentries stand, keeping a watchful eye on the passing folk.

None of them exist. None of them matter. But he moves away and so the spell is broken. 

It makes no matter. He can always cast it again.

“I didn’t know you could style hair like this,” you remark as you proceed to the docks. The cool sea breeze blows strong about you as you cross one of the bridges to the pier and, from there, to the Lodge where the foreign ships are allowed to berth.

“Uh, I don’t, actually,” he laughs and scratches the back of his head. “I only learned recently. With loads of help from Madam Sonya and a little help from your sisters.” He makes a mock grimace. “I hate being indebted to a little brat like Lydia but I guess I do owe her some.”

So that’s why he’s been spending time with them. His confession makes you hearken back to the past week or so, wondering which of your sisters’ many hairstyles had been his work. You feel your heart melt into mush.

Eren turns to you with an anxious look. “Do you like it? The hair, I mean. I know it’s nowhere near Yelena’s best work but-”

“I love it, Eren. It’s simple but elegant. It suits the pin well,” you tell him and feel yourself swoon as he flashes you a relieved, and crooked, grin.

“I’m glad you like it. I’d hate to tarnish such beauty, after all,” he says, thereby sending the battalion in your stomach into the frenzy of battle. He has gotten so irresistibly romantic; it is a wonder your lines hold every time he goes on the offensive.

You are nearing the end of the bridge and thus the docks. You draw your lesos back up to cover your head and the pin. Leaving something so precious out in the open is only courting trouble, especially in a place as seedy as the port. It is the only time you will allow your guards’ proximity.

Not a couple of paces behind trail Otto and Troian, the latter of whom was also your guard that fateful day of the cave. He had been so terrified when he had come upon you at your… affections. For good reason, you suppose. Your father would have sacked the man had you lost your virtue during his watch, and Troian needs this post for the mouths he feeds and provides for. That was the only thing that drew out the guilt, and even then, not by much. Losing yourself to Eren even for the briefest of moments is never something you will ever rue.

You had come so close to allowing him further liberties with your body… That you would have crossed the line, you do not know, but the thought is terrifying in the way that terror often is: rousing and exhilarating. And there is a sweet irony in being deflowered in a field of flowers.

There are worse places to become a woman in truth.

Eren pulls you closer to him as you step foot on the docks’ streets. Behind you, Otto and Troian close ranks. Not that they will make much difference, Eren blustered, he is a better sword than either. “I could keep him safe better than he could me,” he claimed after his first solitary excursion into the city, when you had asked if he had protection. Otto keeps guard but he isn’t truly one, not in the sense that any of your tails are. “He’s more a manservant that has some skill with the blade. I only keep him around for both our fathers’ peace of mind. Your lot would never let me out otherwise.” You took his word for it. He is the anointed knight after all, and trained by the greatest knight in the realm. The more swords in seedy places, the better, in any event, no matter how little trained.

For all its seediness, though, the docks offer its own brand of delights. The noisier, dodgier Lodge is a seedbed of adventure and wonders in a way that the relatively safer, cleaner Cradle - the port where local ships moor - simply isn’t. The Arsechkalan ports are some of the greatest in the realm, filled with myriad sights and sounds and smells.

The sights and sounds and smells are a deal more exciting in the Lodge. Inns and taverns and pillow houses of every ilk line the streets. Here and there, the odd temple to foreign gods sits between the establishments, to cater to the myriad sailors’ prayers for a safe voyage. Captains and oarsmen and mates amble about amongst vendors and urchins and cutpurses, this last easily avoidable by hunching in, staying discreet, and keeping a sharp eye out.

You revisit the qaxan parlor, though this foray ends up an utter dud. It starts out well enough, with a few wins. Until Eren happens upon a most interesting conversation. It seems as nothing at first, until you see his face grow ever darker with every passing heartbeat, until his moves become more careless than the last, until he starts losing everything he has won. You hurriedly pluck him away before he can lose his whole purse.

“What is it, what’s wrong?” you ask once you have gone outside, standing in front of a baker’s cart. The harbor seems quiet to you that day, though it does not lack for bustle. Dimly, you note the far-off thunderheads all the way out to sea. The sea breeze gusts over you, bringing with it the scents of the docks: cooking meats and sweets, tar and spices and humanity, all bound by the pervasive smell of salt.

Eren is silent for a moment, glaring down at the ground, before finally answering. “My father… they were talking about Father.”

“Who?” You had not heard anyone speak of the Magister. Not in any of the Lovayan tongues, anyway.

“These sailors, foreigners, who know fuck all about our matters.” His hands clench into fists. “They were going on about how it’s so much better trading with us this year as opposed to last year with the port fees and all. Father got greedy, they said, all that about filling up the royal coffers was a big lie, he just wanted to line his own pockets by skimming off honest men’s gold. They know fuck all,” he growls, voice steadily rising. “Father would never do that, he’s never done that, we don’t need more gold, we have more than enough-”

“Eren.” You reach up to take his face in hand. His eyes flash up to yours, wide with surprise and indignation. You hold his gaze, and caress his cheek with your thumb. “What they say makes no matter. You’re right, they know fuck all.” You smile when he chuckles a little at that, and continue, “And it is enough that you know otherwise. It was not what he wanted, Lord Grisha. But even he cannot supersede the king.”

For all his promises to bring back port fees to their earlier rates, the king dragged his feet on enacting his policy. To make the contentious decree hit the tradesmen hard. The yearly spring opening of the ports had not been pleasant for those in the business. Even Father, a tradesman himself, had seethed, yet he did not complain to the king’s face. Though His Majesty often, and loudly, made it known to all and sundry that his Magister was to blame, Lord Alexander knew the way of it all too well. It was only at the start of summer that the fees were lifted and put to rights.

Eren deflates at the mention of His Majesty. “It all returns to him, doesn’t it?” He reaches up to wrap his large hands over your smaller ones, keeping your touch on him, caressing your skin as you had his. He brings both your hands down at length but laces his fingers through yours, holding on. “It all returns to cutthroat politics in the end.”

“His Majesty and your father… don’t always see eye to eye.”

“Because Father is the shadow king.” His voice has quieted. He looks almost thoughtful as he utters the words. “That’s what they all say. But it’s true, isn’t it? I don’t see His Royal Majesty getting off his fat arse to make this kingdom better for us all. It’s all fallen to Father all these years.” He snorts, derisive. “At least we know there’s one thing that royal belly can’t stomach. I suppose truth is an acquired taste to some more than others.”

You glance about reflexively for too-close ears. The baker, behind you by his cart, is making a new batch of honeycakes; Otto and Troian are talking nearby. Six years at court have taught you not to tread around such sentiments lightly. The Quaestor, Darius Zackly, has little tattling birds everywhere, as is his right as the master of espionage. One can never be too careful when it comes to airing treasonous thoughts.

“Truth it is but best have a care. There might be those around who will find it as unpalatable as His Majesty does, and you do not want them giving him fodder.” You smile to lighten the mood. “Here, a sweet to sweeten the bitter humors,” you say, turning to the baker for a couple of honeycakes, which you munch on as you continue your stroll through the docks.

You bring your betrothed around to the quays to explore what is to be had from the outside world, knowing well that this will bring the life back to him. So it does. Galleys, cogs, carracks, the most accommodating of these you visit. The cheapest place to buy goods is off the ship, and the sheer quantity and diversity of foreign wares are too much of a temptation. A cog or three later and your guards become pack mules, weighed down with a couple of kegs of Caerleine firewine, bolts of beautiful bronze lace and silver damask, and a book detailing the life and reign of Rhodora Braveheart, the most famed queen of Huanurian history.

News, too, you have in plenty. There is plague in the Countship of Mechiriya, south of Lakpathar. A dragon has been found in one of the mountains of the Gleaming Isles; this you dismiss as fanciful sailors’ talk - there are no more dragons, that is known, not since the Sundering. You are more apt to believe the news of a leviathan lurking beneath the Diamond Depths, and the holy schism occurring in southern Anderven seems even likelier.

“She’s older than my lady grandmother, and she’s dead,” Eren mutters, repulsed, as a whore, old as sin and twice as ugly, loudly propositions him from across the street. He lengthens his stride at once, hauling you along as you try not to laugh.

“Oh, you don’t want to tick these off,” you say, glancing back and catching the glare the ancient slattern shoots at your backs before looking off for likelier sport. “Dockside whores are vicious.” No local man with half his wits intact will touch them with a ten-foot lance. New-come sailors who don’t know any better are preyed upon most malignly. They are robbed as they are fucked, and those can count themselves fortunate. Better to be robbed and live to tell the tale. Once in a great while, they will find a bloated, naked corpse on the pier, all that is left of the sad sack unfortunate enough to run into a Killer Cunt.

Eren shudders, looking ill. “Well-”

You are stumbling behind a wall of young man the next moment as he abruptly pulls you out of the way. The suddenness of it all does not leave you time to ponder.

A child’s cry, the crash of a dropped crate, the soft thumps of falling fruit. A piping babble of a tongue most foreign to you, answered by the deeper, intimidating tones of your betrothed as he speaks in kind. The rough and rustic burr of the Traders’ Tongue makes him sound even more menacing.

You peer over Eren’s shoulder once your faculties return. A boy with deep brown skin is on the ground, thrown back on his rear from his collision with the older boy. Blood oranges are scattered all about him, spilling from the upturned crate at his side. A conical red hat has been knocked off his dark head. Wide green eyes stare fearfully up at infinitely more terrifying ones as Eren speaks to him once more, voice hard and pressing. His hand has gone to the dirk on his right hip, his other holding tight to your wrist as he shields you with his body.

The guards have come running up to flank you and Eren protectively, their loads dropped and forgotten on the ground behind them. The boy shrinks back even more as another lad, this one younger, brown-skinned and brown-haired, runs up to you and rattles frightened, pleading exclamations in the Traders’ Tongue.

How frightening they must seem to two young ones, you think, these tall, looming guards of yours, them with their naked steel, hard voices and equally hard gazes. Only Eren is privy to the conversation, and for a while, he and the boys trade foreign words. At last, the stream of talk ceases to flow.

Eren eases up, but only just. “Cabin boys,” he tells you all, switching back to the familiar Belin of your homeland, more for Otto’s benefit than anything. “Just having a little lark, a race to see who could get back onboard first.” He sighs, scratches his head. “I suppose we could take them at their word… purses still whole?” He pats his own person to check his purse and look for any tears in his garments, coming up short of tears and with his money bag intact. You and the guards do likewise and announce yourselves equally as untouched.

“We should help them,” you say, watching the boys scramble for the fallen oranges. It is the least you can do for giving them such a fright. You step forward with a smile for the lads. The elder’s eyes - green, like your knight’s, yet of a different shade - sparkles as he looks up at you and utters something in his tongue. Incomprehensible he may be yet you need no linguist to translate the sentiment behind the words. That sweet smile is enough.

Eren hesitates yet acquiesces in the end. “Just keep close to me. And keep a close watch.”

The lads are glad of the help, in any case. So much so that you and Eren find yourselves invited to the lads’ ship, As Samaditha, a big-bellied carrack off the coast of Qa’ihij, west of Agankaya, captained by the boys’ father, Qamar. Ramzi and Halil, the boys are called, and they had a grand time showing their guests around the vessel. Ramzi, in particular, had taken a shine to you and kept you close, with Eren trailing behind as linguist. The most miffed linguist you had yet seen, you thought, noting his increasing crossness as the hour passed. He lightened up considerably when the lads took him aside to play a game of knucklebones, a novel pastime not oft seen in your side of the world, as the boys and their ilk are not oft seen in Lovayan shores; Agankayan merchanters are rare in these parts, after all.

You left the ship laden with good memories and foreign tokens. Ramzi had given you a beautiful glass bottle of red sand from the Ruby Basin. It had healing properties, he claimed through Eren, and was good for burns and indigestion. The thought of edible sand astounded you, and you thanked the boy profusely; this would be good for your own budding stores of Healer’s supplies.

Eren had come away with his own set of knucklebones. “Nice of him to give me something. I thought he’d forgotten all about me, with the way he was hoarding you and all. You’d think no one else existed outside of you.”

“Hoarding?” you snort. “He wasn’t hoarding me. He played with you, didn’t he?” You direct your course to the beach at last; you have had your fill of the docks for the day. “I was meaning to ask you - he kept on repeating a certain phrase, ‘Gim-’”

“Gim verrhia.” The phrase seems to offend him, to judge from his expression.

At once, you are apprehensive. “What does it mean? Is it some kind of backhanded-”

“Pretty lady.”

You blink at his cross face. Being called pretty is hardly backhanded and is nothing to be offended by. It is most flattering. “Right. I’m glad it wasn’t anything offensive… but why are you so-” You break off abruptly, cast back to his steadily souring mood on the ship, and put two and two together. “Eren, are you jealous?”

“No,” he denies immediately with a scoff. The reddening tips of his ears give the lie to his denial, however.

“He’s a child, Eren.”

“I told you, I’m not-”

“He’s a child and a foreigner, that was probably the last we’ll see of him.”

“Good,” he rumbles under his breath.

His irritated jealousy is the most delightful thing. You giggle and hug his arm close. “Oh, love, don’t you worry. There’s only one green-eyed dark-haired boy for me.”

There is that crooked smile again, so sweet, so endearing. “What of brown-haired ones? Blonds, reds? Those with blue eyes, gray, brown, black? What of them?”

You smile, and nuzzle close. “There’s only one boy for me. Only ever one. And he’s here in his rightful place: by my side and in my arms.” As he should always ever be.

The smell of the sea comes strong, and the blue is calling. There is nothing for it but to answer, and so he does.

Eren drops the shell he is examining back into the foaming waters - it is no good for his collection, not with that unsightly hole - and looks over at the receding back of his betrothed. You make an enchanting figure, you with your driftwood wand tracing spells in the sand.

The enchanting maid is a sensual one as well today. It is not the first he has seen you in such garb but it is the first he can look his fill without fear of being accused of impropriety. It had been a beautiful autumn day, which the Rhyzkov women took advantage of by heading to the beach, bringing him along as your most esteemed guest. His eyes had near popped out of his skull when you dropped your lesos and exposed a great deal more than he bargained for. You had worn charovmaya before in his presence but never one so short. He spent the day in a silent frenzy of desire as he contended with not only your smooth, naked back but also those fine, shapely calves, so exposed by that knee-length garment - never mind that Lydia was similarly attired.

Without your mother and sisters and attendants, he is free to bask in your glory (there are your guards, but they do not matter). He cannot do so properly at this distance, though, hence he must needs come closer.

He stuffs his shells in his money bag and makes his way to you. The surf is cold around his bare shins, frothing against his skin. The brisk breeze blows fierce inland, chill and salty and fresh, tugging at his hair and clothes, insistent as a desperate lover (insistent as he hopes you’ll be as a lover). Overhead in the overcast sky, the sandpipers that give the bay its name fly in their scores, filling the air with their trilling cries. They are your only companions in this stretch of coast.

“How goes the casting?”

You turn to him with that smile that never fails to tug at his heartstrings. He had secured your hair well, he sees, pleased; only a few tendrils escape your bun to whip about your face. The emerald rose sparkles in your hair, a green distinct from the ocean waters, untouched by any hint of blue. “I just finished.”

He glances at the pale sand beneath your feet. ‘Happiness,’ ‘Luck,’ and ‘Safety,’ are writ large upon the shore in the ancient runes of Old Lovaya. Already, the waves are claiming the words - the bottom of the rune for luck has been wiped smooth. “The Old Man means to grant your wishes.”

“Or the old gods. But the sea isn’t usually their domain.” You turn toward the sea, Old Nyrdos’ domain, and stare out at the churning waters. “They make an exception.” Not far from the coast is a rocky outcrop, a tiny tidal island covered with sea-loving vegetation. Between two palms a godstone stands, worn and weathered by countless years of salt spray and salt wind. “Perhaps we can visit them, for a better chance of being heard.”

“We’ll get wet.”

“Is the Falcon Knight put off by a little seawater?” You raise your eyebrows at him.

That makes him bristle a little. “I was weaned from the stuff, love, no amount of seawater would be too much for me. By all means, let’s go, but we don’t have drying sheets. I’m not sure how well you’ll like dripping your way back home through the city.”

You smile in the face of his indignation. “We could use my lesos. Or the guards’ cloaks.”

His lips twitch upward. “Why don’t we use that fine damask you bought while we’re at it? You have yards of it, more than enough to rub us dry.”

Your smile vanishes like a snuffed candle. “Piss off, Jaeger, that thing cost a fortune.”

That makes him laugh out loud. “Now I know how to get your hackles raised. Threaten a good bolt of cloth.”

“A most expensive bolt of cloth.”

“We could always go naked.” His grin widens at your look.

You turn your head away, with all the appearance of a prim and proper lady turning away from bawdy humor. It is most convincing but for that smirk. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“If I told you how much, you’d never hear the end of it.”

“My lesos it is.”

You strike out across the heaving sea very much clothed.

Not that it matters. Eren lets his lady lead the way, if only for his visual pleasure. Southron fashions truly are the best, the charovma best of all. It is the most revealing garb you have yet worn. Never has he seen so much of you, short of you being naked. A long, ropey braid had served to, at least, partially obscure your bare back, before. Now, there isn’t even that; a large part of him wants to pat himself on the back for putting your hair up and out of the way of such perfection.

That day in the cave had brought you to that place where the line of tension and desire had stretched so taut between you that it had near snapped. He wonders how close you were to doing so, how far you would have gone had the gormless guard not come into the picture; Eren had hardly looked at the man all day, his sin is too fresh for forgiveness. He had sinned anew by balking your plans, and it was only through your silver tongue that you managed to wheedle the man into assent.

The waves roll toward Eren, slapping lightly against his stomach, though never higher, as he cuts his way through the gray-green crests in the wake of his lady. Your dark red charovma swirls about you like some gigantic nennymoan, those flowers of the deep.

His fae maid is in a new element. Vilas, that is what they are, the fae of the deep. He is fortunate, he feels, to have earned the favor of one. But he knows the tales. The fae are as lovely as they are lethal, just as like to kill him as to kiss him. For all he knows, this lovely vila means for him to drown. With one such as this, though… he will be more than happy to enter the Fields by your hand.

Eren watches the swells of water enfold the swell of your hips, eyes the play of movement beneath your skin as you wade through the waist-deep sea, traces the dip of your spine down that supple back. You are as smooth and faultless as you ever are. That only makes him want to mar you, mark you as his. His mark had vanished, he sees with a burst of displeasure. He can always leave more, he placates himself. It will be so gratifying to leave them all over that flawless back as he holds on to your hips, biting all over your silky skin as he ruts you hard into his mattress…

It is a good thing the seawater is cold.

The islet looms over you, deceptively large at this vantage. You haul yourself up the stone steps slick with sea lichen and seaweed. The action breaks his attention away from the cluster of barnacles that cling to the bottom of the rocky formation.

She might as well have gone naked, is his only thought. The weight of the water makes your dress cling to your body like a second skin. There is next to nothing left to his imagination at this point. Every curve and dip and line of you is limned by crimson. The sway of your hips as you climb the steps makes him want… His hands are twitching, itching to grab hold. You make him want. So badly, so madly, so desperately. He drags legs of lead up the steps, taking deep, calming breaths of the cool sea air. He is a man, not a beast, he won’t lose himself to lust in such a place.

The gleam of wet, naked thighs as you wring out your skirt makes him want to scream. Surreptitiously, he glares at the godstone; how dare they test his mettle in such a way.

“Here we are, you old gods,” you say, running a hand atop the worn monument reverently. “May my words and wishes reach you.” You look over at Eren and beckon him forward. Fast as that, worship is done. That is what he likes about the Old Faith.

He brushes the godstone himself, letting his pettish consternation vanish with the wind. May her words and wishes please enough, you old gods. He follows his lady deeper into the little island, striding past the palms into the back of the place.

The stretch of rock ends here. You sit down on the stony ground, unmindful of the dirt, and wrap your arms around your legs. Eren sits beside you, heedless of the sensation of his sodden pants sticking to his skin. The chill sea breeze does not bother him either; it never has, though his bottom half is soaked to the bone.

“A crown says Troian’s having a conniption back there,” you quip lightly.

“I’ll pass on this wager, I am in total agreement,” he rejoins, amused, fiddling with the hems of his rolled-up trousers. “This’ll be the last place anyone would want to play the pillow game in.”

“Oh, but they do.”

He stares at you, not quite sure if you are teasing or not, you have been so playful of late. You are, yet there is truth in your eyes all the same as you go on, “I’ve seen a couple long ago, fucking in full view of the coast, right in front of this godstone itself. Figured they were new-wed. It’s old custom, and it’s not oft practiced anymore, but it was tradition to consummate Old Lovayan marriages in the sanctum, right in front of the gods. I don’t know why they didn’t do it in the Great Sanctum… it’s roomier and all, but I guess doing it here has its thrills.” More of the memory seems to come back to you then; whatever you recall seems comic, to judge by your expression. “Mother, bless her fusty new blood, was scandalized, of course. Rushed us all out of here faster than the hare in his race.”

“I bet she did,” he chuckles, tickled by mothers’ general fustiness, new blood and otherwise.

“You new blood are such hidebound creatures,” you remark, pretending to derision. “It’s that sort of thrill that gives life such flavor. Imagine fucking in the Great Temple. It’ll be the grandest bedchamber to tumble someone in.”

He cackles, long and hard, at the statement. “Ah, the scandal of that, though. But who’s to say someone of our sort hasn’t done that already in some obscure village shrine?”

“Hmm, true enough.”

“What say we lend his fears legitimacy?” His heart begins to drum inside his chest as you turn to look at him. It is a jest, of course it is a jest, yet the ever-growing primal, irrational part of him is as serious as a stab wound. He grinds the beast down beneath his proverbial boot. You deserve better for your first than some rocky crag in the sea (no matter how holy, or traditional). And yet… The cave wasn’t any better but she was willing, you saw her.

His brazen lewdness makes the minx stick out her wanton head. Just a little. “I knew you were adventurous,” you murmur, and the heat of your gaze makes the beast stir beneath his abstract foot. He fights the harder to tamp it back down. “As much as the idea intrigues me, I’m afraid we’ll have to put it off.”

“Put it off, hmm? So, it’s a given for us somewhere down the line. I’ll hold you to that, my lady.” That should’ve been that, it should have ended there, yet his eyes fall on your lovely neck and he is lost. 

“It’s vanished,” he says, reaching up to brush gentle fingers across the terribly unmarked skin. You draw back, as though his touch scalded you, but not by much. The gooseflesh blooming beneath his fingertips gives the truth to your feelings. He has not crossed a line, he can see, relieved. Never will he have you balk at his advances.

You reach up to put your fingers on his, your touch so very light. “It still hurts, you know.”

“Oh?” He traces over your skin once more, the flesh so very soft yet pebbled. “You still feel me, here?” He presses down, lightly, and feels you shudder, hear your barely stifled gasp. Your fingers twitch above his. “My mouth, my tongue… me. Do you still feel me on you?”

You look away, dropping your hand and releasing his digits, but he knows better. Your face can lie, be covered by a mask, be concealed; the rest of you is there to bare your truths. And, truly, you are so very responsive to him.

His touch trails down your shoulder, your arm, down to your leg, bare to the knee and still slightly damp with seawater. He leaves a trail of goosebumps in his wake; he watches them rise, entranced. Eren lifts his eyes to catch yours. Those are pools he will never be able to swim.

The line of tension and desire stretches taut between you. One more move and it may just snap. One more move and one or the other of you may break. He wonders who will succumb first. He has to laugh at that; at this point, he won’t give a groat for his own chances.

“Is this where you got it, this scar?” he asks, following the thin raised line that slashes down your right calf. “Those stairs are slipperier than politicians.” Again, yet again, there comes a time for a change of topic. It will be better for you in the long term, he thinks, if you can dispel some of the tension now. You will always deserve better for something as dear as your first than a quick tumble born from rampant lust. You are more than that to each other, surely.

The old wound is lumpy and rough. Some may call it disfiguring, the only thing that ruins your perfection. Not to him, never to him. It is only proof of that fire, that spirit that so draws him to you. The scar is as fit a match for any of his own. It is further gratifying to know that he is not the only one willing to tough it out. You can keep up with him.

You stare down at the old lesion, drawn into memory and out of the heat of your preceding desire. “No, it was another sea mont from another stretch of this coast. It was the worst day of my eight-year-old life. I thought I’d never walk again.”

He is drawn into his own memory, too, of the day he first saw the mark. It was the Day of Sun and Youth, and you had worn simple garb such as a milkmaid or a shepherdess might wear in the country in summer (he had never seen peasants’ garb as clean and well-cared for, to be sure). Your short peasant skirt had fallen to just a bit above the knee. He would’ve lost himself to a silent fit of lusty excitement, but the sizable scar marking your right calf gave him pause. He had missed the scar all those times he had caught flashes of your bare legs. They were flashes, though, quick and swift and hurried, and they had not come often, not at your conservative court, certainly not with the cover of your long gowns. He had the tale from you much later in the day as you headed back to the Bulwark after your Sun Day frolics. It is one of his better memories of the summer.

“I’ve always thought it an ugly thing, this mark. I’ve learned to take it on the chin, though, over the years. But you… you don’t look at it with disgust. You make it seem as if it’s something I should be proud of.” The smile you favor him with seems almost shy, and so endearing.

“It is something to be proud of, love. It shows what you truly are beneath all the frills and decorum and propriety.” He leans in close, grins at the widening of your eyes, and flicks his nose lightly across yours. “It’s never an ugly thing to be a free spirit.”

“Are you going to make a habit of that?” you ask, sweetly, shyly discomfited, yet smiling all the same.

“Mm-hmm.” He does so like to tease you, after all, no matter how gently. Another remark - about outer appearances and what lay beneath and true selves - comes to mind, yet he dismisses it as being too ribald. He’ll make it some other time. When you are there.

Movement from far off across the horizon catches his attention. “Incoming traders,” he announces. He knows the origin of every one, of course.

“Caerleon, Mbokel, Ithasa,” you list off, giving his thoughts a voice. The merchanters and carracks and galleys make the slow trek toward Lovayan shores, each one distinct from the other. Nearer to your vantage is the sacred lagoon of the Great Sanctum; the towering godstone is silhouetted against the gray skies, as imposing as ever. “Have you ever thought of traveling? Just getting on some ship to see the Known World and its wonders?”

“Of course, but especially as a boy.” He smiles in wistful recollection. “Armin and I would often talk of stowing away when we were in the docks back in Lenberg. Never happened, as you can see, but it was the most exciting thought.” He fiddles with his new bracelet - she had such nimble hands, his lady - and notes, absently, the rising of the tide and the choppier waters slapping up against your little rock. “Nowadays, it’s not really too much of a thought… but it’s still there. We’re a lot more dutiful - and like to get more dutiful, lord that he is and knight that I am - but perhaps someday… when the poxy bitch permits.” He grimaces. “To be in thrall to such a mistress turns my stomach. I’d rather be in thrall to the one woman.” He gleams at you, filled with suggestive mischief, and you giggle, leaning into him and resting your pretty head on his shoulder. He feels his smile soften and presses a soft kiss on the cherished head.

The wind has grown stronger. Above and around you, the palms and the surrounding shrubs sway with the draft, rustling. “It would be nice, to get away.” Your voice is quiet, eyes fixed on the horizon and the far-off lands you have yet to see. “To see the world and live a little. Away from court, and the realm, and reality. The realm doesn’t matter when you’re elsewhere. It’s only one of many, after all.”

Realm and reality. Your realm and reality seem headed to stormy seas, if the news from the North is anything to go by. Even this far South, talk is rife. Of outlaws and dens and lost justice they all speak. Eren wonders what Father is making of all this. As the Magister, it is his duty to stick his nose into everyone’s business. Our shadow king.

“Storm coming,” you comment, lifting your head from Eren’s shoulder. A bolt of lightning turns the gray skies white for half a heartbeat, the thunderheads have come closer; the rumbling thunder comes not long after. Ships are coming in yet none are going out, he just now realizes. Your day at sea is at an end. “We had best get going. I think I hear the sound of Troian calling even above the waves.”

He is calling, Eren can hear. He would’ve admired the man’s devotion had he not found it so stifling. And amusing. “Right. We wouldn’t want him having a convulsion or something. I don’t think we’re doing his heart any favors. And the water’s getting rough,” he adds, looking down at the gray waters churning below you.

You chuckle and stand. “Don’t worry, I’ll tow you to shore if your legs give out.”

He scoffs and pinches your calf before standing himself. “I’ve been swimming before I was riding, my lady, I’m as good a swimmer as you southron eels.” He turns his head and looks back at you, smirking. “Do we have a race?”

“If you think a man can beat an eel in her own turf.”

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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A/N:

Relatively shorter chap this time but only just.

Jean the Artist is given more focus, and he's not as much of a mama's boy as Eren was. Eren is getting even more romantic sighs swoons that hairpin is such a precious thing. We see the docks, hear things said about Grisha that pisses Eren off, and meet Ramzi and Halil! They have a happier ending here, thankfully (unless the storms sink their ship on their way home… huehuehue, I kid, I kid). A visit to a holy sea shrine somehow makes Eren unendingly horny. And beneath it all the North is stirring. Storm coming indeed.

This isn't as frisky as last time but we'll get there, we'll get there.

Forever and always, thank you all for reading! Til next update!

Tagging: @princess-okkotsu @lukepattersin @tojis-discord-kitten

[kriz-fics]

The Sword's Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Eighteen: Paints and Seas

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters), Slow Burn

Length: 12.2K

CW: None for this chap

“Glaring at the thing won’t make it finish itself, you know.”

His spirits, already so low, plummet even further, if that is possible. Jean grits his teeth, forces a breath through his nose, and persists glaring at the half-filled canvas before him. “I told them I was not to be disturbed.”

A soft scoff answers those words, followed by soft footsteps, and the sound of things clinking and rattling against each other as she moves further into the room. The sound is familiar, but for the life of him, he can’t quite place it.

Not that he is particularly bothered to at the moment.

“Lord of Trost you may one day be, but your lady mother is not without her own power. My word has as much weight as yours, my son.” The rustle of paper resounds somewhere behind, which tells him his mother has stepped on his artist’s leavings. “How many times have I told you to pick up after yourself?” the Lady Eleanor Kirschtein tsks disapprovingly. She is always so disapproving. And, gods, does that always set his teeth on edge.

“If I’m to be Lord of Trost, I have every right to do as I please. Especially in my own rooms. And most especially in this room, where I am not to be disturbed at all times.”

His mother sighs. “Must it forever come to war between us? Since when did my sweet little Jean-boy become this war-like?”

It is all he can do not to physically recoil at that old pet name. “Boys such as me were meant for war, Mother. Best not forget that.”

“How could I, knowing what you are now? It was such an opulent ceremony, the one that made you, so contrived as to never be forgotten. And that cloak… I pray that is the last time I see you cloaked in red.”

The worry, sadness, and fear give him pause. And guilt. She always gives him that, it seems. You can be the most difficult boy, a voice within tells him, so matter-of-fact. Inwardly, he sighs, deflating. He is not angry at her, he reminds himself. He never truly is. It is just so easy to unload everything on her, especially his rage. She will never hate him for it, no matter how vile and disagreeable he becomes. Because that’s just how mothers are.

He hears the rattle and clink of something being placed on a table, and then his mother’s footsteps coming closer to his right. “Ah, of course. The Muse, as always.”

How can it be anything else? Only Mikasa Ackerman’s lovely visage can bring him out of the darkest pits of his mind. If he can only get it right.

“Those lessons are well worth it, I told your father, and I am right. You have gotten so good at this artist’s business.”

Not good enough. “Not nearly good enough.” He is angry again, just like that. “If I was any good, her fingers wouldn’t look so crooked, the sword wouldn’t be so lopsided, the red would be the right shade-”

“Jean.” His mother places a hand on his shoulder, and this time he does recoil. An unpleasant silence drapes over the art room like a heavy shroud. “I brought your favorite,” Lady Eleanor says, light and gentle. No amount of gentle lightness can conceal the hurt, however. That brings on more guilt, and guilt has never been known to lighten the mood. “Come, eat. Sometimes, it is best to step away for a while and not agonize overlong over one’s troubles. Unwind, let loose, and before you know it, clarity will come and all will fall into place.”

It is only then that Jean could bring himself to look at his mother. A smile lights up the plump, matronly face, deepening the lines around her eyes and mouth. The brown of her tightly knotted hair is streaked liberally with gray, though she is still shy of forty. Plump and aging and female she is, but her face is his all the same. He has more of her in him than he has his father, or his forefathers, for that matter. Only his height marks him as the heir of the horselords, they who have oft been described as golden-haired and gray-eyed and tall as lithe willows. They have been blessed to escape the long face of the Obsts, too, but then how many of them could claim to have Obst mothers, as his is? Not nearly enough.

The horse-faced horselord, how fitting, murmurs a voice nastily, and it sounds like Eren, like Porco, like all the spiteful little shits of a squire there are in the castle yard. He grits his teeth against the onslaught and looks away from Lady Eleanor. 

He is not angry at her.

Jean does not resist when his mother takes hold of his arm and steers him toward the nearby divan. Sun Day eggs, he sees sitting on the wooden table beside the divan. Lusin’s Day has long passed. Yet he is to have his treat. Guilt makes his stomach roil, but soft fondness throws the worst of it back, far enough away to let him eat, at least. There is even a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, a southron delicacy so rare in the North. The smell of it all sets his mouth to watering. He is hungrier than he thought.

“It is good to see such a healthy appetite,” his mother beams from her seat at the other divan on the other side of the table, watching as he wolfs down his meal. A more comfortable silence falls over them as he focuses on nothing more than his repast. Neeps and cheese and eggs take the place of portraiture, bodily structure, and composition in the forefront of his mind, and he is glad of it. “I wonder how it goes, with her and hers.”

That slows his ravenous gorging down considerably. Jean looks up at his mother to see her glancing over at his unfinished painting standing before one of the arched windows, face contemplative. She catches his eye and smiles. “I’m sure they haven’t experienced anything near as… exciting as we have so far this season, but I do wonder about those rumors.”

There are a lot of those flying left, right, and center certainly, brought on by all the excitement. We certainly saw that excitement, Jean thinks grimly, recalling that most memorable entrance into Egstatten all those months ago at the beginning of the season. They had been traveling for weeks, and home was mere days away. He was the only one of the immediate family not to be in the wheelhouse at the time and so had the full extent of the commons’ ire.

“Swords! To swords!”

“Call the banners! Vengeance for Zheletov!”

“Richard! To swords!”

Swords, swords, swords, they all screamed as cabbages, turnips, and tubers flew all about the Kirschtein convoy. The captain of the guards had led them through the gale of produce with all his might and main, his men keeping the boiling press back until the high, sturdy walls of the Barrow welcomed them into their protective hold. The ordeal shook Jean, more than he knew. Their reputation for hotbloodedness aside, he had never seen their folk this livid, much less had that rage directed at him and his. It was a most chilling encounter.

The Lord Dot Pixis had begged pardon of his folk most earnestly that very same night. “They are boiling but not yet boiled over, thank the gods. These are yet manageable, you have no cause to fear, my lord, but still…” The bald, aged lord gazed somberly at them all at table. “You cannot deny their rage has merit.”

As the closest of neighbors, Egstatten and Zheletov have ever been partners through thick and thin regardless of their differing States. Both oft provide brides to one or the other through time immemorial and are thus bound by blood as well as proximity. They had suffered through Tybur’s incursions together; it is only meet for one to avenge the other. How many of the slain Zhelevic were fathers and sons and husbands to Egstattian fathers and sons and wives?

Merit. Jean chews on that word as he chews on his eggs. The senseless slaughter of one’s blood is as good a reason as any to seek vengeance, he supposes. A man has a right to it, after all - it is the law of the gods themselves. The law of the land forbids any man to flout his own king, however. If the king is behind the senseless slaughter, what can anyone do but seethe in silence?

Perhaps the law of the land is worth more than the laws of gods, in the end.

“Kolozniki, isn’t it, the outlaws’ refuge?”

“That’s what’s being said, yes,” his mother confirms quietly.

The talk isn’t much of a surprise. He won’t be surprised if they’d fled to their own neck of the woods, to the Yuvichi border to the northeast. The far North has always been the haven of the most unsavory sorts. Wild it is and big - no Prior or learned man has ever mapped its true breadth. Up there, wolves and tigers and trees hold sway, and who knows what else. Up there, the laws of gods and men mean nothing. It is the end of the world.

“Lady Hareckaya has just arrived.”

“I know.” He had taken a respite from his paints and slipped out into the art room’s terrace not too long ago. Even from that distance, the Lady of Yuvichi’s convoy was not hard to miss. He had watched its slow trek through the city for some time, stomach churning, before returning to his muse. The dread hour that brought me here is nigh. Jean the Heir is always needed to be on hand to greet noble guests and play the proper lordling. Let Jean the Artist hold the reins just for now, just for a little while. Gods know the poor sap needs to see the light of day; being cooped up for extended periods of time does no one any good.

“Get dressed after you finish, your father expects you downstairs in a quarter hour.”

His shoulders slump down in resignation. “All right.” It is time for Jean the Heir to come out and play the proper lordling once again. Jean the Artist must needs be cooped up once more. Poor sap.

The sky has turned to lead, he sees as he glances out the window behind his divan. It is snowing; soft, delicate flakes drift across the capital city of Dübenrus and paint the buildings white. Above, the leaded glass dome of the art room is streaked with drops of snowmelt. The air had begun to grow chill, but the braziers they had lit all around the chamber keep the space comfortable.

It is only the Month of Storing yet snow there is this early, for them as live in the North. First to snow, last to thaw, as that jolly little quip notes. It never truly thaws up here, though. No northman has ever known true summer, or heat.

Jean finds his feet dragging as he follows his mother across the room. He does not want to face their gracious guest and have his misgivings given life. He does not want his father’s secret inquiry to bear fruit. He does not want to be a true knight in truth. Not yet. Not so soon. With the way things are, though…

Their reception in Egstatten and the people’s mood seemed like the first act to some sinister masque, the ending of which he does not know but dreads. Then, there is the matter of Ishvelune, brought up time and time again by their visiting vassals… a matter of which, no doubt, adds further fuel to the flickering northern flames.

Interesting, that. The North has never been known for its flames. What fires burn up here come within. Now that they are known - and hated - for.

Countless Mikasas, including the unfinished one that had vexed him so, are all about them to usher their way out. Mother and his aesthetic tutor had urged him time and time again to expand his range to something other than his muse, which he had, eventually. A true artist should have more in his arsenal than his constant, after all.

Hence the land became his muse. One side of the chamber is dedicated to Lovaya’s wonders, made by man and nature both. Lenberg’s many rivers and streams and falls aare displayed next to the Knight’s Rise, that magnificent seat of the Brauns, something his lord father will contest vehemently; as such, the very existence of this painting is kept a tightly guarded secret. 

A much more paternally palatable image is in front of the secret canvas, that of Inareom, Thunderwing, who stands forevermore atop this very city, turned to stone by Dübenrus’s defending mages as the dragon sought to bring death and destruction upon the horselords’ capital all those centuries ago. Now, he brings the city life through wealth - thousands come from all over the realm and all over the world to see the most perfectly preserved dragon in existence, and that great stream of curious hearts brings a great stream of income to their coffers.

Like most artists, not all his pieces are complete. One such stands near the stairway leading down to his private rooms. Jean had been looking to tales for inspiration of late, and what better inspiration is there than his own blood? No matter his feelings about the man, it cannot be denied that Gerald Kirschtein was the greatest knight of his time. There he is beneath the royal box, bold as brass as he holds out his lance for the favor of his lady love. His royally married lady love. She never discouraged the attention, in any case, as far as the histories and songs are concerned. Which is just as well. No woman - or man, Jean should think - in her right mind would want to be wed to her own brother and bring forth abominations cursed by the gods.

Without features, it is hard to tell the depth of the knight and the princess’s feelings for one another. Without color, their loving moment seems much depleted, and lifeless.

Without features, they could have been any knight and his lady.

Another Mikasa is displayed just a short distance from the drab work. She smiles at Jean so tenderly, dressed in cardinal red and crowned with sword lilies of every conceivable shade. Her Majesty, the Queen of Love and Beauty.

He will bring the knight and lady to life soon enough. He will leave the place as Jean the Heir, but Jean the Artist will return to finish what he started. He always does. And, gods willing, he always will. Whatever comes next.

“I hope my lady is pleased with the work?”

“Oh, I am, Master Dinu, this is all I could have asked for, and more.” You gaze around your privy chamber, watching as the master artisan’s apprentices hang the last couple of glass frames up on your gold and crimson walls. It is good work, indeed, you think, well-satisfied, as you stare up at a small bunch of pressed monk’s roses encased in the finest Rhoseine glass. Your knight’s summer gifts are in their rightful places at last, perfectly preserved and forever beautiful, each one a memory of the early summer when all was light and lively and fun. Each one a reminder of his affection, of him.

The very first of these, the most special of them all, you have displayed in your bedchamber, along with the goldenglow. Autumn is at its half-life, it will not be long ‘til winter sets in, and with it its beautiful roses. Lady Theresia had told you to press the ice-blue blooms between the pages of a book, to conserve the memory of your beginning. You obliged, more out of rote than sentimentality, really.

You are glad you did. The new trothed little lady had not the slightest inkling of how much that young man in front of the shrine would come to mean to her all this time later.

Speak of the young man… “Is that all of them, good master?”

“Yes, my lady, that should be all of them.” The glassblower sweeps you a deep bow, as do his apprentices. “This one is pleased to have pleased you, my lady. Should you have further need of fine glassware, do not hesitate to call upon Marcel Dinu’s services once more.”

“Of course, good master. The steward should be on hand, Paul will see to your payment.”

You hasten to your bedchamber and into your bath to change out of your formal vevda the moment the last of the men leaves. The dark red charovma you choose is as far away from formal as any garment can get, falling to just above your knees and dipping down low at the back to bare as much skin as possible. The day is so nice out, it will be pleasant to spend it by the coast. And coastal outings call for comfortable clothes.

Your fingers brush the side of your neck when you reach up to fasten the halter dress in place. The light touch of pain gives you pause and makes you take a good, long look at the silvered mirror in front of you. The halter straps slip from your hands, leaving your dress to pool around your waist.

It is a thing of great fortune that Yelena’s services as handmaid are reduced in the autumn. It had been no simple feat to hide the imprint this past week.

Eren’s mark had faded but the pain remains. You trace over the unmarred stretch of skin once more, and feel the sweet soreness. Feel his hands trace lines of fire up your legs, feel the hard, lean span of him pressing you down, feel his lips and tongue and breath sear your skin. Feel his teeth sink, hard, into your flesh and set you ablaze with desire, so much desire. 

He is fire made flesh, and his fires burn hot. So hot, so much hotter than you are primed for, and all-consuming. You have only ever been subject to a boy’s passion. Clumsy, eager, yet tentative for all that. The passion of a young man is another thing entirely. His passion stunned, and scalded, and hurt. But, gods, if you did not welcome the pain with all your being.

Already, he is overwhelming. He hadn’t even truly touched you. He hadn’t even kissed you. Not where it matters the most. You can only imagine what it will be like, what he will be like when you, at last, have him in full.

Your hand drops down to your side. On your neck, the dull ache of his now unseen seal fades away into nothing. But no power in this world will make you forget.

For a spell, you and the girl in the mirror stare at each other. Gooseflesh has risen all over the lass’s bare torso, and her nipples have begun to harden, though there is no hint of chill this fine autumn afternoon. Her breaths have quickened, coming from her slightly parted lips in soft pants.

Was this how you sounded to him then, gasping, panting as you poured your lust into his ears back there in the cave?

You avert your gaze from the mirror girl’s, from those dark eyes full of such desire, and resume dressing.

No, you will not be forgetting any time soon.

You finish dressing, go back to your desk to snatch up the token, and leave your rooms, light and happy and eager.

The object of your desire is nowhere to be found within the palace, though you scoure his haunts as thoroughly as you can. Not even your sister’s rooms yielded the young knight. He has been spending some time with the younger Rhyzkov girls of late, to their bemused amusement, always in Darya’s chambers under the watchful eye of her governess. It is nice, you suppose, and heartwarming to see him make the effort of further endearing himself to the family. 

Something tells you this is more than just an attempt at brotherly bonding. More than once, you had caught Lydia and Darya whispering and giggling pointedly at you when they thought you weren't looking. That was most baffling, indeed.

He must have gone out, Darya tells you when you come calling, once again bursting into poorly concealed titters. You raise an eyebrow at that but act on her counsel.

Your betrothed is by the crafts arcade, reclining behind old Taras’s stall, manned today by his son, Pietro. Otto, one of Eren’s menservants, is stationed not too far from the table, scanning the passing folk for any signs of trouble.

You find yourself just standing there at the edge of the path, keeping your distance for the nonce, lost in the splendor that is Eren Jaeger. Will there ever come a day when his beauty will diminish in your eyes? You scan over his fair features, taking in the fringe of dark hair falling over his eyes, the fine line of his nose, the sensual mouth, which is just now turned down at the corners in complete concentration as he focuses on his latest project. His large hands work the knife and the block of wood in his grip so very deftly.

When the skies turn green as summer grass. When the oceans boil and seethe and turn to flame. When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. Only then will he diminish in your eyes.

“Beg pardon, goodman, I would like to buy a carving, if you please.”

Eren freezes, eyes widening down at his featureless piece. He is whisking it away the next moment, hiding it in the table’s drawer before you can so much as blink. He stammers your name out a little and coughs into his fist, trying to salvage his composure. You smile. “Y-you found me.”

Your smile widens. “It seems I have.”

“Milady.” Pietro the woodcarver stands from his seat beside Eren and bows low.

“Goodman. Well met,” you answer, nodding at him, very much the proper lady. You shed the mask as soon as you put it on. “May I borrow your ‘prentice boy for the day? I promise to return him well and whole for work tomorrow.”

Pietro laughs, blue eyes twinkling on his sun-tanned face. Though his wavy hair is yet dark to his father’s white (and more plentiful), the likeness is uncanny. “Milady asks, this one answers, and he says, aye, ‘course you can take him. ‘M sad to see him go, though, business has never been more booming with him around. Boy of yours has a way of drawing in the womenfolk, eh?”

You laugh, light and polite, and not disposed to be either. Sometimes, it is good to have two faces. “I’m sure he does.” You turn to your betrothed, your smile warmer. For half a heartbeat. That knowing smile of his freezes you up again. He can be such a little shit sometimes. “Is that amenable to the ‘prentice boy? I’d be loath to take him away if he does not want to be,” you state, frostily.

“It’s very amenable to the ‘prentice boy, milady,” Eren repeats the new Rakivan words, slow and careful, and grins at your jerky nod - you have taken to speaking in the Old Tongue of late for his benefit, you had felt so remiss in not doing so earlier for his tuition. It has not been too much of a hard jump for him as Rakiva is part of the highborn curriculum; it is only a matter of getting him used to its usage. He is a fast learner, at any rate, and is improving at a prodigious scale, taking in new terms and making fewer grammatical mistakes. “Anyhow, I think I’m done for the day. Tomorrow again, the soonest,” Eren tells the older man, who bobs his head with a grin. “Give our regards to Povik Taras.”

“As you say, Sir. Have you a good day. And to you, milady.”

“Don’t,” you say sharply once you are well without earshot of the woodcarver.

Eren closes his mouth agreeably and snickers. “Only you, love,” he states simply, patting your lesos-covered head all gentle-like. You huff and look away, suddenly hard-pressed to suppress your smile. “Where to, my lady?”

“I thought a visit to the docks, and then the beach?” Your mood lightens when you see his eyes light up. They truly are terribly beautiful things. And made more beautiful today by the sea-blue vidnon jacket he is wearing. Blue has such a way with his eyes. Truly.

“Oh, the beach, hmm? I’d love that. But, before we go, I’d like to take a little excursion, if you will.” He tugs you along animatedly, toward another arcade.

The Arcade of Gold, you realize, puzzled and more than a little intrigued.

“I seem to have upset my lady earlier, so I thought to get her a trinket to get back into her good graces.” You approach the stairway to the most prosperous arcade in the city. While it is common for the more affluent merchants to hire swords to protect their wares, the case is doubly so for the goldsmiths. Here, rank upon rank of guards stand, to prevent light-fingered folk from making off with the valuables. They salute as you and Eren draw near, and immediately step aside to let you pass.

An elaborate fountain of naked figures splashes away halfway up the steps. A fine, cooling mist sprays over you as you pass, carried by the soft breeze that gusts lightly through the city. You blink at your betrothed, befuddled. “I don’t think it’s necessary-”

“But I insist.” He leads you through the almost empty marble hall once you step into the arcade proper, passing several stores - still guarded by heavily armed sentries - with the most interesting air of assuredness.

As though he had been planning for this occasion for some time now.

“Master Thabiso,” Eren greets the black-skinned proprietor of the shop you stop at at length. A Goldvein of Rabari, you recognize, noting the elaborate braids clipped with golden beads that fall down his back in long, heavy strands. Rabari custom dictates the sort of braids the Goldveins may wear, you recall from your studies. There are clan braids, family braids, braids for one’s vocation, and so on, all of these unique to each facet of life. Even the beads that hold them fast are special to their worldly status. You have never truly had a chance to examine such trappings before. What you see now is most fascinating; the whole custom is fascinating, truly. It is an astounding thought that one can immediately know intimate things about a stranger just by looking at his hair, if one knows what to look for.

“Sir Eren, it is good to see you returned to my premises,” answers the merchant, bowing low and coming up smiling amiably. “My Lady Rhyzkova, well met. It is an honor to have you grace my establishment with your esteemed presence.” He bows once more, lower than he had before, and straightens up. His eyes and his attention return to Eren as he inquires, “Has my lord come for-”

“Yes, if you still have it.” Eren gleams down at you but does not answer your silent query when you turn to look up at him, utterly stumped.

The master goldsmith smiles and leads you further into the shop, past glass cases full of the most exquisite work - the Goldveins are the best goldsmiths in the world, this is known - to the back of the room where stands his counter. He reaches behind the table and pulls out a green and silver filigree box, which he opens with a flourish. “Saved for you, Sir, as requested.”

Inside lies a hairpin, a most intricately wrought piece of silver and emerald that draws the eye. An expertly carved emerald rose is the heart of the piece. Atop it rests a silver bird, its silver wings spread wide as it braced itself for flight. Filigree chains drip down the rose, set with emerald beads and another smaller rose of silver, which dangles at the end of the longer chain.

You look at the pin, then Eren, and back again, starting as he reaches up to gently pull your lesos down to bare your head. You stare at him, questioning.

“Let down your hair,” is all he says, smiling and gentle, so very gentle.

You reach up to remove the simple bronze hairpin that keeps your hair up in its knot. Your tresses tumble down your back, heavy and curled from prolonged twisting at the back of your head.

For a while, Eren merely takes you in, as though spellbound. You fight the urge to fidget under his gaze. He had seen you with your hair loose a hundred times before, especially in your nightly jaunts. What is so different about you now?

“Tilt your head up for me,” he bids you. You comply, then bite back a gasp as he takes a hank of your hair and twists it up, nimbly, back into a knot, securing it in place with the new, more elaborate hairpiece. His hand slips slowly down, from your hair to your face, rough, calloused fingers feathering lightly over your cheek. He cups your face, rubs tender circles on your skin and leaves warm, tingling trails in his wake. “Yelestala.”

Beautiful.

His eyes have never been more beautiful than they are now. No emerald ever mined can ever compare. The way they behold you makes your throat close up.

He’s never looked at me that way. Never. Never.

It is then that you wonder. What does love look like?

Thump, thump, thump.

One last gentle caress, and he is turning away to ask the shopkeep for a looking glass. It is not long before you are once again staring back at the girl in the mirror. She is a great deal more astonished, and a great deal more elegant than she was earlier. You step forward before you have quite gathered your bearings. When did he learn to style hair? The young woman in front of you will not look out of place in some ball but for her common garb. Had you not known better, you would have attributed the look to Yelena’s skillful hands. The hairpin completes the ensemble.

You can feel your fingers trembling a little. You twine them together and rest your hands on your stomach, now besieged by a battalion of butterflies.

“A beautiful piece for a beautiful lady,” beams Master Thabiso, to which Eren murmurs agreement.

“Ten crowns, yes?” he says, handing the merchant a small money bag, which he hefts.

“I thank you kindly for the custom, Sir, my lady. And for that display. Ah, the romance of youth. There’s nothing quite like it, I do believe. It’s not every day I am treated to the sight of earnest, honest love.” He bows you out of his shop soon after with further thanks.

“You didn’t have to get this for me, you know,” you mutter as you cross through the arcade’s lavish hall and start down the stone steps. Eren’s hand in yours has never felt more comforting. Never have you felt this shy around him either. Which is passing funny. Not even his ravishing of you made you feel so timid in his presence. You had been as you always are with each other, afterward. Except, perhaps, for that added tension. As if our pool of tension needed more filling. A couple of drops more and it will be set to overflowing. The gods only know what will occur then. The prospect is most thrilling.

“But I want to,” Eren answers, smiling sweetly down at you. “I, uh, just remembered… since it’s near the end of the Month of Storing, we most likely missed the Day of… Lovers,” this he utters with the softest pink flush rising up his tanned cheeks, “being in the Old South and all. And I haven’t, you know, ever gotten you a gift for the day… we weren’t really all there during our first celebration, so…”

That reminds you. You reach into your pocket for the token and draw him to a stop beside the fountain. “I… was also thinking about the Day of Lovers lately,” you murmur, somehow finding your clasped hands much easier to look at than his face. “And I thought to make you a present.” You laugh and find the mettle to look him in the eye once more. The affection in his gaze makes you feel surer of yourself, so you continue, “I didn’t know you were getting me something that cost the earth. Now my token seems so paltry in comparison.” You hold out the shell-and-twine bracelet you had woven for him the past couple of days. “Should’ve bought you that set of gilt shortswords you were eyeing so keenly that last time.”

You had found the prettiest shell that day, the first you took him to the beach. You had never seen him so happy. The seawater woke echoes in his eyes and made them come to life so beautifully. You wove the memory of the sea and of that day into your token, to keep him company when he is far from his beloved coast. And his beloved lady.

He stares down at your gift for a good while, then back up at you. Your heart thrums at that look. Is this what love looks like?

“The gift was made with your own hands and laced with your affection. That alone makes it worth more than gold.” The corner of his lips kinks up. “But I wouldn’t say no to those shortswords, if you’re so minded to get them.”

You giggle. “I’ll keep that in mind.” You tie the bracelet around his right wrist. It is a good fit. The tan of his skin brings out the white of the shell in its black twine setting.

“Much thanks, my lady,” he says, taking up your hand in his and giving it a long, lingering kiss. His eyes bore into yours, green as the emeralds in your hair and twice as stunning. Behind you, the fountain splashes away. Below you, the silent sentries stand, keeping a watchful eye on the passing folk.

None of them exist. None of them matter. But he moves away and so the spell is broken. 

It makes no matter. He can always cast it again.

“I didn’t know you could style hair like this,” you remark as you proceed to the docks. The cool sea breeze blows strong about you as you cross one of the bridges to the pier and, from there, to the Lodge where the foreign ships are allowed to berth.

“Uh, I don’t, actually,” he laughs and scratches the back of his head. “I only learned recently. With loads of help from Madam Sonya and a little help from your sisters.” He makes a mock grimace. “I hate being indebted to a little brat like Lydia but I guess I do owe her some.”

So that’s why he’s been spending time with them. His confession makes you hearken back to the past week or so, wondering which of your sisters’ many hairstyles had been his work. You feel your heart melt into mush.

Eren turns to you with an anxious look. “Do you like it? The hair, I mean. I know it’s nowhere near Yelena’s best work but-”

“I love it, Eren. It’s simple but elegant. It suits the pin well,” you tell him and feel yourself swoon as he flashes you a relieved, and crooked, grin.

“I’m glad you like it. I’d hate to tarnish such beauty, after all,” he says, thereby sending the battalion in your stomach into the frenzy of battle. He has gotten so irresistibly romantic; it is a wonder your lines hold every time he goes on the offensive.

You are nearing the end of the bridge and thus the docks. You draw your lesos back up to cover your head and the pin. Leaving something so precious out in the open is only courting trouble, especially in a place as seedy as the port. It is the only time you will allow your guards’ proximity.

Not a couple of paces behind trail Otto and Troian, the latter of whom was also your guard that fateful day of the cave. He had been so terrified when he had come upon you at your… affections. For good reason, you suppose. Your father would have sacked the man had you lost your virtue during his watch, and Troian needs this post for the mouths he feeds and provides for. That was the only thing that drew out the guilt, and even then, not by much. Losing yourself to Eren even for the briefest of moments is never something you will ever rue.

You had come so close to allowing him further liberties with your body… That you would have crossed the line, you do not know, but the thought is terrifying in the way that terror often is: rousing and exhilarating. And there is a sweet irony in being deflowered in a field of flowers.

There are worse places to become a woman in truth.

Eren pulls you closer to him as you step foot on the docks’ streets. Behind you, Otto and Troian close ranks. Not that they will make much difference, Eren blustered, he is a better sword than either. “I could keep him safe better than he could me,” he claimed after his first solitary excursion into the city, when you had asked if he had protection. Otto keeps guard but he isn’t truly one, not in the sense that any of your tails are. “He’s more a manservant that has some skill with the blade. I only keep him around for both our fathers’ peace of mind. Your lot would never let me out otherwise.” You took his word for it. He is the anointed knight after all, and trained by the greatest knight in the realm. The more swords in seedy places, the better, in any event, no matter how little trained.

For all its seediness, though, the docks offer its own brand of delights. The noisier, dodgier Lodge is a seedbed of adventure and wonders in a way that the relatively safer, cleaner Cradle - the port where local ships moor - simply isn’t. The Arsechkalan ports are some of the greatest in the realm, filled with myriad sights and sounds and smells.

The sights and sounds and smells are a deal more exciting in the Lodge. Inns and taverns and pillow houses of every ilk line the streets. Here and there, the odd temple to foreign gods sits between the establishments, to cater to the myriad sailors’ prayers for a safe voyage. Captains and oarsmen and mates amble about amongst vendors and urchins and cutpurses, this last easily avoidable by hunching in, staying discreet, and keeping a sharp eye out.

You revisit the qaxan parlor, though this foray ends up an utter dud. It starts out well enough, with a few wins. Until Eren happens upon a most interesting conversation. It seems as nothing at first, until you see his face grow ever darker with every passing heartbeat, until his moves become more careless than the last, until he starts losing everything he has won. You hurriedly pluck him away before he can lose his whole purse.

“What is it, what’s wrong?” you ask once you have gone outside, standing in front of a baker’s cart. The harbor seems quiet to you that day, though it does not lack for bustle. Dimly, you note the far-off thunderheads all the way out to sea. The sea breeze gusts over you, bringing with it the scents of the docks: cooking meats and sweets, tar and spices and humanity, all bound by the pervasive smell of salt.

Eren is silent for a moment, glaring down at the ground, before finally answering. “My father… they were talking about Father.”

“Who?” You had not heard anyone speak of the Magister. Not in any of the Lovayan tongues, anyway.

“These sailors, foreigners, who know fuck all about our matters.” His hands clench into fists. “They were going on about how it’s so much better trading with us this year as opposed to last year with the port fees and all. Father got greedy, they said, all that about filling up the royal coffers was a big lie, he just wanted to line his own pockets by skimming off honest men’s gold. They know fuck all,” he growls, voice steadily rising. “Father would never do that, he’s never done that, we don’t need more gold, we have more than enough-”

“Eren.” You reach up to take his face in hand. His eyes flash up to yours, wide with surprise and indignation. You hold his gaze, and caress his cheek with your thumb. “What they say makes no matter. You’re right, they know fuck all.” You smile when he chuckles a little at that, and continue, “And it is enough that you know otherwise. It was not what he wanted, Lord Grisha. But even he cannot supersede the king.”

For all his promises to bring back port fees to their earlier rates, the king dragged his feet on enacting his policy. To make the contentious decree hit the tradesmen hard. The yearly spring opening of the ports had not been pleasant for those in the business. Even Father, a tradesman himself, had seethed, yet he did not complain to the king’s face. Though His Majesty often, and loudly, made it known to all and sundry that his Magister was to blame, Lord Alexander knew the way of it all too well. It was only at the start of summer that the fees were lifted and put to rights.

Eren deflates at the mention of His Majesty. “It all returns to him, doesn’t it?” He reaches up to wrap his large hands over your smaller ones, keeping your touch on him, caressing your skin as you had his. He brings both your hands down at length but laces his fingers through yours, holding on. “It all returns to cutthroat politics in the end.”

“His Majesty and your father… don’t always see eye to eye.”

“Because Father is the shadow king.” His voice has quieted. He looks almost thoughtful as he utters the words. “That’s what they all say. But it’s true, isn’t it? I don’t see His Royal Majesty getting off his fat arse to make this kingdom better for us all. It’s all fallen to Father all these years.” He snorts, derisive. “At least we know there’s one thing that royal belly can’t stomach. I suppose truth is an acquired taste to some more than others.”

You glance about reflexively for too-close ears. The baker, behind you by his cart, is making a new batch of honeycakes; Otto and Troian are talking nearby. Six years at court have taught you not to tread around such sentiments lightly. The Quaestor, Darius Zackly, has little tattling birds everywhere, as is his right as the master of espionage. One can never be too careful when it comes to airing treasonous thoughts.

“Truth it is but best have a care. There might be those around who will find it as unpalatable as His Majesty does, and you do not want them giving him fodder.” You smile to lighten the mood. “Here, a sweet to sweeten the bitter humors,” you say, turning to the baker for a couple of honeycakes, which you munch on as you continue your stroll through the docks.

You bring your betrothed around to the quays to explore what is to be had from the outside world, knowing well that this will bring the life back to him. So it does. Galleys, cogs, carracks, the most accommodating of these you visit. The cheapest place to buy goods is off the ship, and the sheer quantity and diversity of foreign wares are too much of a temptation. A cog or three later and your guards become pack mules, weighed down with a couple of kegs of Caerleine firewine, bolts of beautiful bronze lace and silver damask, and a book detailing the life and reign of Rhodora Braveheart, the most famed queen of Huanurian history.

News, too, you have in plenty. There is plague in the Countship of Mechiriya, south of Lakpathar. A dragon has been found in one of the mountains of the Gleaming Isles; this you dismiss as fanciful sailors’ talk - there are no more dragons, that is known, not since the Sundering. You are more apt to believe the news of a leviathan lurking beneath the Diamond Depths, and the holy schism occurring in southern Anderven seems even likelier.

“She’s older than my lady grandmother, and she’s dead,” Eren mutters, repulsed, as a whore, old as sin and twice as ugly, loudly propositions him from across the street. He lengthens his stride at once, hauling you along as you try not to laugh.

“Oh, you don’t want to tick these off,” you say, glancing back and catching the glare the ancient slattern shoots at your backs before looking off for likelier sport. “Dockside whores are vicious.” No local man with half his wits intact will touch them with a ten-foot lance. New-come sailors who don’t know any better are preyed upon most malignly. They are robbed as they are fucked, and those can count themselves fortunate. Better to be robbed and live to tell the tale. Once in a great while, they will find a bloated, naked corpse on the pier, all that is left of the sad sack unfortunate enough to run into a Killer Cunt.

Eren shudders, looking ill. “Well-”

You are stumbling behind a wall of young man the next moment as he abruptly pulls you out of the way. The suddenness of it all does not leave you time to ponder.

A child’s cry, the crash of a dropped crate, the soft thumps of falling fruit. A piping babble of a tongue most foreign to you, answered by the deeper, intimidating tones of your betrothed as he speaks in kind. The rough and rustic burr of the Traders’ Tongue makes him sound even more menacing.

You peer over Eren’s shoulder once your faculties return. A boy with deep brown skin is on the ground, thrown back on his rear from his collision with the older boy. Blood oranges are scattered all about him, spilling from the upturned crate at his side. A conical red hat has been knocked off his dark head. Wide green eyes stare fearfully up at infinitely more terrifying ones as Eren speaks to him once more, voice hard and pressing. His hand has gone to the dirk on his right hip, his other holding tight to your wrist as he shields you with his body.

The guards have come running up to flank you and Eren protectively, their loads dropped and forgotten on the ground behind them. The boy shrinks back even more as another lad, this one younger, brown-skinned and brown-haired, runs up to you and rattles frightened, pleading exclamations in the Traders’ Tongue.

How frightening they must seem to two young ones, you think, these tall, looming guards of yours, them with their naked steel, hard voices and equally hard gazes. Only Eren is privy to the conversation, and for a while, he and the boys trade foreign words. At last, the stream of talk ceases to flow.

Eren eases up, but only just. “Cabin boys,” he tells you all, switching back to the familiar Belin of your homeland, more for Otto’s benefit than anything. “Just having a little lark, a race to see who could get back onboard first.” He sighs, scratches his head. “I suppose we could take them at their word… purses still whole?” He pats his own person to check his purse and look for any tears in his garments, coming up short of tears and with his money bag intact. You and the guards do likewise and announce yourselves equally as untouched.

“We should help them,” you say, watching the boys scramble for the fallen oranges. It is the least you can do for giving them such a fright. You step forward with a smile for the lads. The elder’s eyes - green, like your knight’s, yet of a different shade - sparkles as he looks up at you and utters something in his tongue. Incomprehensible he may be yet you need no linguist to translate the sentiment behind the words. That sweet smile is enough.

Eren hesitates yet acquiesces in the end. “Just keep close to me. And keep a close watch.”

The lads are glad of the help, in any case. So much so that you and Eren find yourselves invited to the lads’ ship, As Samaditha, a big-bellied carrack off the coast of Qa’ihij, west of Agankaya, captained by the boys’ father, Qamar. Ramzi and Halil, the boys are called, and they had a grand time showing their guests around the vessel. Ramzi, in particular, had taken a shine to you and kept you close, with Eren trailing behind as linguist. The most miffed linguist you had yet seen, you thought, noting his increasing crossness as the hour passed. He lightened up considerably when the lads took him aside to play a game of knucklebones, a novel pastime not oft seen in your side of the world, as the boys and their ilk are not oft seen in Lovayan shores; Agankayan merchanters are rare in these parts, after all.

You left the ship laden with good memories and foreign tokens. Ramzi had given you a beautiful glass bottle of red sand from the Ruby Basin. It had healing properties, he claimed through Eren, and was good for burns and indigestion. The thought of edible sand astounded you, and you thanked the boy profusely; this would be good for your own budding stores of Healer’s supplies.

Eren had come away with his own set of knucklebones. “Nice of him to give me something. I thought he’d forgotten all about me, with the way he was hoarding you and all. You’d think no one else existed outside of you.”

“Hoarding?” you snort. “He wasn’t hoarding me. He played with you, didn’t he?” You direct your course to the beach at last; you have had your fill of the docks for the day. “I was meaning to ask you - he kept on repeating a certain phrase, ‘Gim-’”

“Gim verrhia.” The phrase seems to offend him, to judge from his expression.

At once, you are apprehensive. “What does it mean? Is it some kind of backhanded-”

“Pretty lady.”

You blink at his cross face. Being called pretty is hardly backhanded and is nothing to be offended by. It is most flattering. “Right. I’m glad it wasn’t anything offensive… but why are you so-” You break off abruptly, cast back to his steadily souring mood on the ship, and put two and two together. “Eren, are you jealous?”

“No,” he denies immediately with a scoff. The reddening tips of his ears give the lie to his denial, however.

“He’s a child, Eren.”

“I told you, I’m not-”

“He’s a child and a foreigner, that was probably the last we’ll see of him.”

“Good,” he rumbles under his breath.

His irritated jealousy is the most delightful thing. You giggle and hug his arm close. “Oh, love, don’t you worry. There’s only one green-eyed dark-haired boy for me.”

There is that crooked smile again, so sweet, so endearing. “What of brown-haired ones? Blonds, reds? Those with blue eyes, gray, brown, black? What of them?”

You smile, and nuzzle close. “There’s only one boy for me. Only ever one. And he’s here in his rightful place: by my side and in my arms.” As he should always ever be.

The smell of the sea comes strong, and the blue is calling. There is nothing for it but to answer, and so he does.

Eren drops the shell he is examining back into the foaming waters - it is no good for his collection, not with that unsightly hole - and looks over at the receding back of his betrothed. You make an enchanting figure, you with your driftwood wand tracing spells in the sand.

The enchanting maid is a sensual one as well today. It is not the first he has seen you in such garb but it is the first he can look his fill without fear of being accused of impropriety. It had been a beautiful autumn day, which the Rhyzkov women took advantage of by heading to the beach, bringing him along as your most esteemed guest. His eyes had near popped out of his skull when you dropped your lesos and exposed a great deal more than he bargained for. You had worn charovmaya before in his presence but never one so short. He spent the day in a silent frenzy of desire as he contended with not only your smooth, naked back but also those fine, shapely calves, so exposed by that knee-length garment - never mind that Lydia was similarly attired.

Without your mother and sisters and attendants, he is free to bask in your glory (there are your guards, but they do not matter). He cannot do so properly at this distance, though, hence he must needs come closer.

He stuffs his shells in his money bag and makes his way to you. The surf is cold around his bare shins, frothing against his skin. The brisk breeze blows fierce inland, chill and salty and fresh, tugging at his hair and clothes, insistent as a desperate lover (insistent as he hopes you’ll be as a lover). Overhead in the overcast sky, the sandpipers that give the bay its name fly in their scores, filling the air with their trilling cries. They are your only companions in this stretch of coast.

“How goes the casting?”

You turn to him with that smile that never fails to tug at his heartstrings. He had secured your hair well, he sees, pleased; only a few tendrils escape your bun to whip about your face. The emerald rose sparkles in your hair, a green distinct from the ocean waters, untouched by any hint of blue. “I just finished.”

He glances at the pale sand beneath your feet. ‘Happiness,’ ‘Luck,’ and ‘Safety,’ are writ large upon the shore in the ancient runes of Old Lovaya. Already, the waves are claiming the words - the bottom of the rune for luck has been wiped smooth. “The Old Man means to grant your wishes.”

“Or the old gods. But the sea isn’t usually their domain.” You turn toward the sea, Old Nyrdos’ domain, and stare out at the churning waters. “They make an exception.” Not far from the coast is a rocky outcrop, a tiny tidal island covered with sea-loving vegetation. Between two palms a godstone stands, worn and weathered by countless years of salt spray and salt wind. “Perhaps we can visit them, for a better chance of being heard.”

“We’ll get wet.”

“Is the Falcon Knight put off by a little seawater?” You raise your eyebrows at him.

That makes him bristle a little. “I was weaned from the stuff, love, no amount of seawater would be too much for me. By all means, let’s go, but we don’t have drying sheets. I’m not sure how well you’ll like dripping your way back home through the city.”

You smile in the face of his indignation. “We could use my lesos. Or the guards’ cloaks.”

His lips twitch upward. “Why don’t we use that fine damask you bought while we’re at it? You have yards of it, more than enough to rub us dry.”

Your smile vanishes like a snuffed candle. “Piss off, Jaeger, that thing cost a fortune.”

That makes him laugh out loud. “Now I know how to get your hackles raised. Threaten a good bolt of cloth.”

“A most expensive bolt of cloth.”

“We could always go naked.” His grin widens at your look.

You turn your head away, with all the appearance of a prim and proper lady turning away from bawdy humor. It is most convincing but for that smirk. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“If I told you how much, you’d never hear the end of it.”

“My lesos it is.”

You strike out across the heaving sea very much clothed.

Not that it matters. Eren lets his lady lead the way, if only for his visual pleasure. Southron fashions truly are the best, the charovma best of all. It is the most revealing garb you have yet worn. Never has he seen so much of you, short of you being naked. A long, ropey braid had served to, at least, partially obscure your bare back, before. Now, there isn’t even that; a large part of him wants to pat himself on the back for putting your hair up and out of the way of such perfection.

That day in the cave had brought you to that place where the line of tension and desire had stretched so taut between you that it had near snapped. He wonders how close you were to doing so, how far you would have gone had the gormless guard not come into the picture; Eren had hardly looked at the man all day, his sin is too fresh for forgiveness. He had sinned anew by balking your plans, and it was only through your silver tongue that you managed to wheedle the man into assent.

The waves roll toward Eren, slapping lightly against his stomach, though never higher, as he cuts his way through the gray-green crests in the wake of his lady. Your dark red charovma swirls about you like some gigantic nennymoan, those flowers of the deep.

His fae maid is in a new element. Vilas, that is what they are, the fae of the deep. He is fortunate, he feels, to have earned the favor of one. But he knows the tales. The fae are as lovely as they are lethal, just as like to kill him as to kiss him. For all he knows, this lovely vila means for him to drown. With one such as this, though… he will be more than happy to enter the Fields by your hand.

Eren watches the swells of water enfold the swell of your hips, eyes the play of movement beneath your skin as you wade through the waist-deep sea, traces the dip of your spine down that supple back. You are as smooth and faultless as you ever are. That only makes him want to mar you, mark you as his. His mark had vanished, he sees with a burst of displeasure. He can always leave more, he placates himself. It will be so gratifying to leave them all over that flawless back as he holds on to your hips, biting all over your silky skin as he ruts you hard into his mattress…

It is a good thing the seawater is cold.

The islet looms over you, deceptively large at this vantage. You haul yourself up the stone steps slick with sea lichen and seaweed. The action breaks his attention away from the cluster of barnacles that cling to the bottom of the rocky formation.

She might as well have gone naked, is his only thought. The weight of the water makes your dress cling to your body like a second skin. There is next to nothing left to his imagination at this point. Every curve and dip and line of you is limned by crimson. The sway of your hips as you climb the steps makes him want… His hands are twitching, itching to grab hold. You make him want. So badly, so madly, so desperately. He drags legs of lead up the steps, taking deep, calming breaths of the cool sea air. He is a man, not a beast, he won’t lose himself to lust in such a place.

The gleam of wet, naked thighs as you wring out your skirt makes him want to scream. Surreptitiously, he glares at the godstone; how dare they test his mettle in such a way.

“Here we are, you old gods,” you say, running a hand atop the worn monument reverently. “May my words and wishes reach you.” You look over at Eren and beckon him forward. Fast as that, worship is done. That is what he likes about the Old Faith.

He brushes the godstone himself, letting his pettish consternation vanish with the wind. May her words and wishes please enough, you old gods. He follows his lady deeper into the little island, striding past the palms into the back of the place.

The stretch of rock ends here. You sit down on the stony ground, unmindful of the dirt, and wrap your arms around your legs. Eren sits beside you, heedless of the sensation of his sodden pants sticking to his skin. The chill sea breeze does not bother him either; it never has, though his bottom half is soaked to the bone.

“A crown says Troian’s having a conniption back there,” you quip lightly.

“I’ll pass on this wager, I am in total agreement,” he rejoins, amused, fiddling with the hems of his rolled-up trousers. “This’ll be the last place anyone would want to play the pillow game in.”

“Oh, but they do.”

He stares at you, not quite sure if you are teasing or not, you have been so playful of late. You are, yet there is truth in your eyes all the same as you go on, “I’ve seen a couple long ago, fucking in full view of the coast, right in front of this godstone itself. Figured they were new-wed. It’s old custom, and it’s not oft practiced anymore, but it was tradition to consummate Old Lovayan marriages in the sanctum, right in front of the gods. I don’t know why they didn’t do it in the Great Sanctum… it’s roomier and all, but I guess doing it here has its thrills.” More of the memory seems to come back to you then; whatever you recall seems comic, to judge by your expression. “Mother, bless her fusty new blood, was scandalized, of course. Rushed us all out of here faster than the hare in his race.”

“I bet she did,” he chuckles, tickled by mothers’ general fustiness, new blood and otherwise.

“You new blood are such hidebound creatures,” you remark, pretending to derision. “It’s that sort of thrill that gives life such flavor. Imagine fucking in the Great Temple. It’ll be the grandest bedchamber to tumble someone in.”

He cackles, long and hard, at the statement. “Ah, the scandal of that, though. But who’s to say someone of our sort hasn’t done that already in some obscure village shrine?”

“Hmm, true enough.”

“What say we lend his fears legitimacy?” His heart begins to drum inside his chest as you turn to look at him. It is a jest, of course it is a jest, yet the ever-growing primal, irrational part of him is as serious as a stab wound. He grinds the beast down beneath his proverbial boot. You deserve better for your first than some rocky crag in the sea (no matter how holy, or traditional). And yet… The cave wasn’t any better but she was willing, you saw her.

His brazen lewdness makes the minx stick out her wanton head. Just a little. “I knew you were adventurous,” you murmur, and the heat of your gaze makes the beast stir beneath his abstract foot. He fights the harder to tamp it back down. “As much as the idea intrigues me, I’m afraid we’ll have to put it off.”

“Put it off, hmm? So, it’s a given for us somewhere down the line. I’ll hold you to that, my lady.” That should’ve been that, it should have ended there, yet his eyes fall on your lovely neck and he is lost. 

“It’s vanished,” he says, reaching up to brush gentle fingers across the terribly unmarked skin. You draw back, as though his touch scalded you, but not by much. The gooseflesh blooming beneath his fingertips gives the truth to your feelings. He has not crossed a line, he can see, relieved. Never will he have you balk at his advances.

You reach up to put your fingers on his, your touch so very light. “It still hurts, you know.”

“Oh?” He traces over your skin once more, the flesh so very soft yet pebbled. “You still feel me, here?” He presses down, lightly, and feels you shudder, hear your barely stifled gasp. Your fingers twitch above his. “My mouth, my tongue… me. Do you still feel me on you?”

You look away, dropping your hand and releasing his digits, but he knows better. Your face can lie, be covered by a mask, be concealed; the rest of you is there to bare your truths. And, truly, you are so very responsive to him.

His touch trails down your shoulder, your arm, down to your leg, bare to the knee and still slightly damp with seawater. He leaves a trail of goosebumps in his wake; he watches them rise, entranced. Eren lifts his eyes to catch yours. Those are pools he will never be able to swim.

The line of tension and desire stretches taut between you. One more move and it may just snap. One more move and one or the other of you may break. He wonders who will succumb first. He has to laugh at that; at this point, he won’t give a groat for his own chances.

“Is this where you got it, this scar?” he asks, following the thin raised line that slashes down your right calf. “Those stairs are slipperier than politicians.” Again, yet again, there comes a time for a change of topic. It will be better for you in the long term, he thinks, if you can dispel some of the tension now. You will always deserve better for something as dear as your first than a quick tumble born from rampant lust. You are more than that to each other, surely.

The old wound is lumpy and rough. Some may call it disfiguring, the only thing that ruins your perfection. Not to him, never to him. It is only proof of that fire, that spirit that so draws him to you. The scar is as fit a match for any of his own. It is further gratifying to know that he is not the only one willing to tough it out. You can keep up with him.

You stare down at the old lesion, drawn into memory and out of the heat of your preceding desire. “No, it was another sea mont from another stretch of this coast. It was the worst day of my eight-year-old life. I thought I’d never walk again.”

He is drawn into his own memory, too, of the day he first saw the mark. It was the Day of Sun and Youth, and you had worn simple garb such as a milkmaid or a shepherdess might wear in the country in summer (he had never seen peasants’ garb as clean and well-cared for, to be sure). Your short peasant skirt had fallen to just a bit above the knee. He would’ve lost himself to a silent fit of lusty excitement, but the sizable scar marking your right calf gave him pause. He had missed the scar all those times he had caught flashes of your bare legs. They were flashes, though, quick and swift and hurried, and they had not come often, not at your conservative court, certainly not with the cover of your long gowns. He had the tale from you much later in the day as you headed back to the Bulwark after your Sun Day frolics. It is one of his better memories of the summer.

“I’ve always thought it an ugly thing, this mark. I’ve learned to take it on the chin, though, over the years. But you… you don’t look at it with disgust. You make it seem as if it’s something I should be proud of.” The smile you favor him with seems almost shy, and so endearing.

“It is something to be proud of, love. It shows what you truly are beneath all the frills and decorum and propriety.” He leans in close, grins at the widening of your eyes, and flicks his nose lightly across yours. “It’s never an ugly thing to be a free spirit.”

“Are you going to make a habit of that?” you ask, sweetly, shyly discomfited, yet smiling all the same.

“Mm-hmm.” He does so like to tease you, after all, no matter how gently. Another remark - about outer appearances and what lay beneath and true selves - comes to mind, yet he dismisses it as being too ribald. He’ll make it some other time. When you are there.

Movement from far off across the horizon catches his attention. “Incoming traders,” he announces. He knows the origin of every one, of course.

“Caerleon, Mbokel, Ithasa,” you list off, giving his thoughts a voice. The merchanters and carracks and galleys make the slow trek toward Lovayan shores, each one distinct from the other. Nearer to your vantage is the sacred lagoon of the Great Sanctum; the towering godstone is silhouetted against the gray skies, as imposing as ever. “Have you ever thought of traveling? Just getting on some ship to see the Known World and its wonders?”

“Of course, but especially as a boy.” He smiles in wistful recollection. “Armin and I would often talk of stowing away when we were in the docks back in Lenberg. Never happened, as you can see, but it was the most exciting thought.” He fiddles with his new bracelet - she had such nimble hands, his lady - and notes, absently, the rising of the tide and the choppier waters slapping up against your little rock. “Nowadays, it’s not really too much of a thought… but it’s still there. We’re a lot more dutiful - and like to get more dutiful, lord that he is and knight that I am - but perhaps someday… when the poxy bitch permits.” He grimaces. “To be in thrall to such a mistress turns my stomach. I’d rather be in thrall to the one woman.” He gleams at you, filled with suggestive mischief, and you giggle, leaning into him and resting your pretty head on his shoulder. He feels his smile soften and presses a soft kiss on the cherished head.

The wind has grown stronger. Above and around you, the palms and the surrounding shrubs sway with the draft, rustling. “It would be nice, to get away.” Your voice is quiet, eyes fixed on the horizon and the far-off lands you have yet to see. “To see the world and live a little. Away from court, and the realm, and reality. The realm doesn’t matter when you’re elsewhere. It’s only one of many, after all.”

Realm and reality. Your realm and reality seem headed to stormy seas, if the news from the North is anything to go by. Even this far South, talk is rife. Of outlaws and dens and lost justice they all speak. Eren wonders what Father is making of all this. As the Magister, it is his duty to stick his nose into everyone’s business. Our shadow king.

“Storm coming,” you comment, lifting your head from Eren’s shoulder. A bolt of lightning turns the gray skies white for half a heartbeat, the thunderheads have come closer; the rumbling thunder comes not long after. Ships are coming in yet none are going out, he just now realizes. Your day at sea is at an end. “We had best get going. I think I hear the sound of Troian calling even above the waves.”

He is calling, Eren can hear. He would’ve admired the man’s devotion had he not found it so stifling. And amusing. “Right. We wouldn’t want him having a convulsion or something. I don’t think we’re doing his heart any favors. And the water’s getting rough,” he adds, looking down at the gray waters churning below you.

You chuckle and stand. “Don’t worry, I’ll tow you to shore if your legs give out.”

He scoffs and pinches your calf before standing himself. “I’ve been swimming before I was riding, my lady, I’m as good a swimmer as you southron eels.” He turns his head and looks back at you, smirking. “Do we have a race?”

“If you think a man can beat an eel in her own turf.”

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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A/N:

Relatively shorter chap this time but only just.

Jean the Artist is given more focus, and he's not as much of a mama's boy as Eren was. Eren is getting even more romantic sighs swoons that hairpin is such a precious thing. We see the docks, hear things said about Grisha that pisses Eren off, and meet Ramzi and Halil! They have a happier ending here, thankfully (unless the storms sink their ship on their way home… huehuehue, I kid, I kid). A visit to a holy sea shrine somehow makes Eren unendingly horny. And beneath it all the North is stirring. Storm coming indeed.

This isn't as frisky as last time but we'll get there, we'll get there.

Forever and always, thank you all for reading! Til next update!

Tagging: @princess-okkotsu @lukepattersin @tojis-discord-kitten

[kriz-fics]

The Sword's Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Eighteen: Paints and Seas

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters), Slow Burn

Length: 12.2K

CW: None for this chap

“Glaring at the thing won’t make it finish itself, you know.”

His spirits, already so low, plummet even further, if that is possible. Jean grits his teeth, forces a breath through his nose, and persists glaring at the half-filled canvas before him. “I told them I was not to be disturbed.”

A soft scoff answers those words, followed by soft footsteps, and the sound of things clinking and rattling against each other as she moves further into the room. The sound is familiar, but for the life of him, he can’t quite place it.

Not that he is particularly bothered to at the moment.

“Lord of Trost you may one day be, but your lady mother is not without her own power. My word has as much weight as yours, my son.” The rustle of paper resounds somewhere behind, which tells him his mother has stepped on his artist’s leavings. “How many times have I told you to pick up after yourself?” the Lady Eleanor Kirschtein tsks disapprovingly. She is always so disapproving. And, gods, does that always set his teeth on edge.

“If I’m to be Lord of Trost, I have every right to do as I please. Especially in my own rooms. And most especially in this room, where I am not to be disturbed at all times.”

His mother sighs. “Must it forever come to war between us? Since when did my sweet little Jean-boy become this war-like?”

It is all he can do not to physically recoil at that old pet name. “Boys such as me were meant for war, Mother. Best not forget that.”

“How could I, knowing what you are now? It was such an opulent ceremony, the one that made you, so contrived as to never be forgotten. And that cloak… I pray that is the last time I see you cloaked in red.”

The worry, sadness, and fear give him pause. And guilt. She always gives him that, it seems. You can be the most difficult boy, a voice within tells him, so matter-of-fact. Inwardly, he sighs, deflating. He is not angry at her, he reminds himself. He never truly is. It is just so easy to unload everything on her, especially his rage. She will never hate him for it, no matter how vile and disagreeable he becomes. Because that’s just how mothers are.

He hears the rattle and clink of something being placed on a table, and then his mother’s footsteps coming closer to his right. “Ah, of course. The Muse, as always.”

How can it be anything else? Only Mikasa Ackerman’s lovely visage can bring him out of the darkest pits of his mind. If he can only get it right.

“Those lessons are well worth it, I told your father, and I am right. You have gotten so good at this artist’s business.”

Not good enough. “Not nearly good enough.” He is angry again, just like that. “If I was any good, her fingers wouldn’t look so crooked, the sword wouldn’t be so lopsided, the red would be the right shade-”

“Jean.” His mother places a hand on his shoulder, and this time he does recoil. An unpleasant silence drapes over the art room like a heavy shroud. “I brought your favorite,” Lady Eleanor says, light and gentle. No amount of gentle lightness can conceal the hurt, however. That brings on more guilt, and guilt has never been known to lighten the mood. “Come, eat. Sometimes, it is best to step away for a while and not agonize overlong over one’s troubles. Unwind, let loose, and before you know it, clarity will come and all will fall into place.”

It is only then that Jean could bring himself to look at his mother. A smile lights up the plump, matronly face, deepening the lines around her eyes and mouth. The brown of her tightly knotted hair is streaked liberally with gray, though she is still shy of forty. Plump and aging and female she is, but her face is his all the same. He has more of her in him than he has his father, or his forefathers, for that matter. Only his height marks him as the heir of the horselords, they who have oft been described as golden-haired and gray-eyed and tall as lithe willows. They have been blessed to escape the long face of the Obsts, too, but then how many of them could claim to have Obst mothers, as his is? Not nearly enough.

The horse-faced horselord, how fitting, murmurs a voice nastily, and it sounds like Eren, like Porco, like all the spiteful little shits of a squire there are in the castle yard. He grits his teeth against the onslaught and looks away from Lady Eleanor. 

He is not angry at her.

Jean does not resist when his mother takes hold of his arm and steers him toward the nearby divan. Sun Day eggs, he sees sitting on the wooden table beside the divan. Lusin’s Day has long passed. Yet he is to have his treat. Guilt makes his stomach roil, but soft fondness throws the worst of it back, far enough away to let him eat, at least. There is even a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, a southron delicacy so rare in the North. The smell of it all sets his mouth to watering. He is hungrier than he thought.

“It is good to see such a healthy appetite,” his mother beams from her seat at the other divan on the other side of the table, watching as he wolfs down his meal. A more comfortable silence falls over them as he focuses on nothing more than his repast. Neeps and cheese and eggs take the place of portraiture, bodily structure, and composition in the forefront of his mind, and he is glad of it. “I wonder how it goes, with her and hers.”

That slows his ravenous gorging down considerably. Jean looks up at his mother to see her glancing over at his unfinished painting standing before one of the arched windows, face contemplative. She catches his eye and smiles. “I’m sure they haven’t experienced anything near as… exciting as we have so far this season, but I do wonder about those rumors.”

There are a lot of those flying left, right, and center certainly, brought on by all the excitement. We certainly saw that excitement, Jean thinks grimly, recalling that most memorable entrance into Egstatten all those months ago at the beginning of the season. They had been traveling for weeks, and home was mere days away. He was the only one of the immediate family not to be in the wheelhouse at the time and so had the full extent of the commons’ ire.

“Swords! To swords!”

“Call the banners! Vengeance for Zheletov!”

“Richard! To swords!”

Swords, swords, swords, they all screamed as cabbages, turnips, and tubers flew all about the Kirschtein convoy. The captain of the guards had led them through the gale of produce with all his might and main, his men keeping the boiling press back until the high, sturdy walls of the Barrow welcomed them into their protective hold. The ordeal shook Jean, more than he knew. Their reputation for hotbloodedness aside, he had never seen their folk this livid, much less had that rage directed at him and his. It was a most chilling encounter.

The Lord Dot Pixis had begged pardon of his folk most earnestly that very same night. “They are boiling but not yet boiled over, thank the gods. These are yet manageable, you have no cause to fear, my lord, but still…” The bald, aged lord gazed somberly at them all at table. “You cannot deny their rage has merit.”

As the closest of neighbors, Egstatten and Zheletov have ever been partners through thick and thin regardless of their differing States. Both oft provide brides to one or the other through time immemorial and are thus bound by blood as well as proximity. They had suffered through Tybur’s incursions together; it is only meet for one to avenge the other. How many of the slain Zhelevic were fathers and sons and husbands to Egstattian fathers and sons and wives?

Merit. Jean chews on that word as he chews on his eggs. The senseless slaughter of one’s blood is as good a reason as any to seek vengeance, he supposes. A man has a right to it, after all - it is the law of the gods themselves. The law of the land forbids any man to flout his own king, however. If the king is behind the senseless slaughter, what can anyone do but seethe in silence?

Perhaps the law of the land is worth more than the laws of gods, in the end.

“Kolozniki, isn’t it, the outlaws’ refuge?”

“That’s what’s being said, yes,” his mother confirms quietly.

The talk isn’t much of a surprise. He won’t be surprised if they’d fled to their own neck of the woods, to the Yuvichi border to the northeast. The far North has always been the haven of the most unsavory sorts. Wild it is and big - no Prior or learned man has ever mapped its true breadth. Up there, wolves and tigers and trees hold sway, and who knows what else. Up there, the laws of gods and men mean nothing. It is the end of the world.

“Lady Hareckaya has just arrived.”

“I know.” He had taken a respite from his paints and slipped out into the art room’s terrace not too long ago. Even from that distance, the Lady of Yuvichi’s convoy was not hard to miss. He had watched its slow trek through the city for some time, stomach churning, before returning to his muse. The dread hour that brought me here is nigh. Jean the Heir is always needed to be on hand to greet noble guests and play the proper lordling. Let Jean the Artist hold the reins just for now, just for a little while. Gods know the poor sap needs to see the light of day; being cooped up for extended periods of time does no one any good.

“Get dressed after you finish, your father expects you downstairs in a quarter hour.”

His shoulders slump down in resignation. “All right.” It is time for Jean the Heir to come out and play the proper lordling once again. Jean the Artist must needs be cooped up once more. Poor sap.

The sky has turned to lead, he sees as he glances out the window behind his divan. It is snowing; soft, delicate flakes drift across the capital city of Dübenrus and paint the buildings white. Above, the leaded glass dome of the art room is streaked with drops of snowmelt. The air had begun to grow chill, but the braziers they had lit all around the chamber keep the space comfortable.

It is only the Month of Storing yet snow there is this early, for them as live in the North. First to snow, last to thaw, as that jolly little quip notes. It never truly thaws up here, though. No northman has ever known true summer, or heat.

Jean finds his feet dragging as he follows his mother across the room. He does not want to face their gracious guest and have his misgivings given life. He does not want his father’s secret inquiry to bear fruit. He does not want to be a true knight in truth. Not yet. Not so soon. With the way things are, though…

Their reception in Egstatten and the people’s mood seemed like the first act to some sinister masque, the ending of which he does not know but dreads. Then, there is the matter of Ishvelune, brought up time and time again by their visiting vassals… a matter of which, no doubt, adds further fuel to the flickering northern flames.

Interesting, that. The North has never been known for its flames. What fires burn up here come within. Now that they are known - and hated - for.

Countless Mikasas, including the unfinished one that had vexed him so, are all about them to usher their way out. Mother and his aesthetic tutor had urged him time and time again to expand his range to something other than his muse, which he had, eventually. A true artist should have more in his arsenal than his constant, after all.

Hence the land became his muse. One side of the chamber is dedicated to Lovaya’s wonders, made by man and nature both. Lenberg’s many rivers and streams and falls aare displayed next to the Knight’s Rise, that magnificent seat of the Brauns, something his lord father will contest vehemently; as such, the very existence of this painting is kept a tightly guarded secret. 

A much more paternally palatable image is in front of the secret canvas, that of Inareom, Thunderwing, who stands forevermore atop this very city, turned to stone by Dübenrus’s defending mages as the dragon sought to bring death and destruction upon the horselords’ capital all those centuries ago. Now, he brings the city life through wealth - thousands come from all over the realm and all over the world to see the most perfectly preserved dragon in existence, and that great stream of curious hearts brings a great stream of income to their coffers.

Like most artists, not all his pieces are complete. One such stands near the stairway leading down to his private rooms. Jean had been looking to tales for inspiration of late, and what better inspiration is there than his own blood? No matter his feelings about the man, it cannot be denied that Gerald Kirschtein was the greatest knight of his time. There he is beneath the royal box, bold as brass as he holds out his lance for the favor of his lady love. His royally married lady love. She never discouraged the attention, in any case, as far as the histories and songs are concerned. Which is just as well. No woman - or man, Jean should think - in her right mind would want to be wed to her own brother and bring forth abominations cursed by the gods.

Without features, it is hard to tell the depth of the knight and the princess’s feelings for one another. Without color, their loving moment seems much depleted, and lifeless.

Without features, they could have been any knight and his lady.

Another Mikasa is displayed just a short distance from the drab work. She smiles at Jean so tenderly, dressed in cardinal red and crowned with sword lilies of every conceivable shade. Her Majesty, the Queen of Love and Beauty.

He will bring the knight and lady to life soon enough. He will leave the place as Jean the Heir, but Jean the Artist will return to finish what he started. He always does. And, gods willing, he always will. Whatever comes next.

“I hope my lady is pleased with the work?”

“Oh, I am, Master Dinu, this is all I could have asked for, and more.” You gaze around your privy chamber, watching as the master artisan’s apprentices hang the last couple of glass frames up on your gold and crimson walls. It is good work, indeed, you think, well-satisfied, as you stare up at a small bunch of pressed monk’s roses encased in the finest Rhoseine glass. Your knight’s summer gifts are in their rightful places at last, perfectly preserved and forever beautiful, each one a memory of the early summer when all was light and lively and fun. Each one a reminder of his affection, of him.

The very first of these, the most special of them all, you have displayed in your bedchamber, along with the goldenglow. Autumn is at its half-life, it will not be long ‘til winter sets in, and with it its beautiful roses. Lady Theresia had told you to press the ice-blue blooms between the pages of a book, to conserve the memory of your beginning. You obliged, more out of rote than sentimentality, really.

You are glad you did. The new trothed little lady had not the slightest inkling of how much that young man in front of the shrine would come to mean to her all this time later.

Speak of the young man… “Is that all of them, good master?”

“Yes, my lady, that should be all of them.” The glassblower sweeps you a deep bow, as do his apprentices. “This one is pleased to have pleased you, my lady. Should you have further need of fine glassware, do not hesitate to call upon Marcel Dinu’s services once more.”

“Of course, good master. The steward should be on hand, Paul will see to your payment.”

You hasten to your bedchamber and into your bath to change out of your formal vevda the moment the last of the men leaves. The dark red charovma you choose is as far away from formal as any garment can get, falling to just above your knees and dipping down low at the back to bare as much skin as possible. The day is so nice out, it will be pleasant to spend it by the coast. And coastal outings call for comfortable clothes.

Your fingers brush the side of your neck when you reach up to fasten the halter dress in place. The light touch of pain gives you pause and makes you take a good, long look at the silvered mirror in front of you. The halter straps slip from your hands, leaving your dress to pool around your waist.

It is a thing of great fortune that Yelena’s services as handmaid are reduced in the autumn. It had been no simple feat to hide the imprint this past week.

Eren’s mark had faded but the pain remains. You trace over the unmarred stretch of skin once more, and feel the sweet soreness. Feel his hands trace lines of fire up your legs, feel the hard, lean span of him pressing you down, feel his lips and tongue and breath sear your skin. Feel his teeth sink, hard, into your flesh and set you ablaze with desire, so much desire. 

He is fire made flesh, and his fires burn hot. So hot, so much hotter than you are primed for, and all-consuming. You have only ever been subject to a boy’s passion. Clumsy, eager, yet tentative for all that. The passion of a young man is another thing entirely. His passion stunned, and scalded, and hurt. But, gods, if you did not welcome the pain with all your being.

Already, he is overwhelming. He hadn’t even truly touched you. He hadn’t even kissed you. Not where it matters the most. You can only imagine what it will be like, what he will be like when you, at last, have him in full.

Your hand drops down to your side. On your neck, the dull ache of his now unseen seal fades away into nothing. But no power in this world will make you forget.

For a spell, you and the girl in the mirror stare at each other. Gooseflesh has risen all over the lass’s bare torso, and her nipples have begun to harden, though there is no hint of chill this fine autumn afternoon. Her breaths have quickened, coming from her slightly parted lips in soft pants.

Was this how you sounded to him then, gasping, panting as you poured your lust into his ears back there in the cave?

You avert your gaze from the mirror girl’s, from those dark eyes full of such desire, and resume dressing.

No, you will not be forgetting any time soon.

You finish dressing, go back to your desk to snatch up the token, and leave your rooms, light and happy and eager.

The object of your desire is nowhere to be found within the palace, though you scoure his haunts as thoroughly as you can. Not even your sister’s rooms yielded the young knight. He has been spending some time with the younger Rhyzkov girls of late, to their bemused amusement, always in Darya’s chambers under the watchful eye of her governess. It is nice, you suppose, and heartwarming to see him make the effort of further endearing himself to the family. 

Something tells you this is more than just an attempt at brotherly bonding. More than once, you had caught Lydia and Darya whispering and giggling pointedly at you when they thought you weren't looking. That was most baffling, indeed.

He must have gone out, Darya tells you when you come calling, once again bursting into poorly concealed titters. You raise an eyebrow at that but act on her counsel.

Your betrothed is by the crafts arcade, reclining behind old Taras’s stall, manned today by his son, Pietro. Otto, one of Eren’s menservants, is stationed not too far from the table, scanning the passing folk for any signs of trouble.

You find yourself just standing there at the edge of the path, keeping your distance for the nonce, lost in the splendor that is Eren Jaeger. Will there ever come a day when his beauty will diminish in your eyes? You scan over his fair features, taking in the fringe of dark hair falling over his eyes, the fine line of his nose, the sensual mouth, which is just now turned down at the corners in complete concentration as he focuses on his latest project. His large hands work the knife and the block of wood in his grip so very deftly.

When the skies turn green as summer grass. When the oceans boil and seethe and turn to flame. When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. Only then will he diminish in your eyes.

“Beg pardon, goodman, I would like to buy a carving, if you please.”

Eren freezes, eyes widening down at his featureless piece. He is whisking it away the next moment, hiding it in the table’s drawer before you can so much as blink. He stammers your name out a little and coughs into his fist, trying to salvage his composure. You smile. “Y-you found me.”

Your smile widens. “It seems I have.”

“Milady.” Pietro the woodcarver stands from his seat beside Eren and bows low.

“Goodman. Well met,” you answer, nodding at him, very much the proper lady. You shed the mask as soon as you put it on. “May I borrow your ‘prentice boy for the day? I promise to return him well and whole for work tomorrow.”

Pietro laughs, blue eyes twinkling on his sun-tanned face. Though his wavy hair is yet dark to his father’s white (and more plentiful), the likeness is uncanny. “Milady asks, this one answers, and he says, aye, ‘course you can take him. ‘M sad to see him go, though, business has never been more booming with him around. Boy of yours has a way of drawing in the womenfolk, eh?”

You laugh, light and polite, and not disposed to be either. Sometimes, it is good to have two faces. “I’m sure he does.” You turn to your betrothed, your smile warmer. For half a heartbeat. That knowing smile of his freezes you up again. He can be such a little shit sometimes. “Is that amenable to the ‘prentice boy? I’d be loath to take him away if he does not want to be,” you state, frostily.

“It’s very amenable to the ‘prentice boy, milady,” Eren repeats the new Rakivan words, slow and careful, and grins at your jerky nod - you have taken to speaking in the Old Tongue of late for his benefit, you had felt so remiss in not doing so earlier for his tuition. It has not been too much of a hard jump for him as Rakiva is part of the highborn curriculum; it is only a matter of getting him used to its usage. He is a fast learner, at any rate, and is improving at a prodigious scale, taking in new terms and making fewer grammatical mistakes. “Anyhow, I think I’m done for the day. Tomorrow again, the soonest,” Eren tells the older man, who bobs his head with a grin. “Give our regards to Povik Taras.”

“As you say, Sir. Have you a good day. And to you, milady.”

“Don’t,” you say sharply once you are well without earshot of the woodcarver.

Eren closes his mouth agreeably and snickers. “Only you, love,” he states simply, patting your lesos-covered head all gentle-like. You huff and look away, suddenly hard-pressed to suppress your smile. “Where to, my lady?”

“I thought a visit to the docks, and then the beach?” Your mood lightens when you see his eyes light up. They truly are terribly beautiful things. And made more beautiful today by the sea-blue vidnon jacket he is wearing. Blue has such a way with his eyes. Truly.

“Oh, the beach, hmm? I’d love that. But, before we go, I’d like to take a little excursion, if you will.” He tugs you along animatedly, toward another arcade.

The Arcade of Gold, you realize, puzzled and more than a little intrigued.

“I seem to have upset my lady earlier, so I thought to get her a trinket to get back into her good graces.” You approach the stairway to the most prosperous arcade in the city. While it is common for the more affluent merchants to hire swords to protect their wares, the case is doubly so for the goldsmiths. Here, rank upon rank of guards stand, to prevent light-fingered folk from making off with the valuables. They salute as you and Eren draw near, and immediately step aside to let you pass.

An elaborate fountain of naked figures splashes away halfway up the steps. A fine, cooling mist sprays over you as you pass, carried by the soft breeze that gusts lightly through the city. You blink at your betrothed, befuddled. “I don’t think it’s necessary-”

“But I insist.” He leads you through the almost empty marble hall once you step into the arcade proper, passing several stores - still guarded by heavily armed sentries - with the most interesting air of assuredness.

As though he had been planning for this occasion for some time now.

“Master Thabiso,” Eren greets the black-skinned proprietor of the shop you stop at at length. A Goldvein of Rabari, you recognize, noting the elaborate braids clipped with golden beads that fall down his back in long, heavy strands. Rabari custom dictates the sort of braids the Goldveins may wear, you recall from your studies. There are clan braids, family braids, braids for one’s vocation, and so on, all of these unique to each facet of life. Even the beads that hold them fast are special to their worldly status. You have never truly had a chance to examine such trappings before. What you see now is most fascinating; the whole custom is fascinating, truly. It is an astounding thought that one can immediately know intimate things about a stranger just by looking at his hair, if one knows what to look for.

“Sir Eren, it is good to see you returned to my premises,” answers the merchant, bowing low and coming up smiling amiably. “My Lady Rhyzkova, well met. It is an honor to have you grace my establishment with your esteemed presence.” He bows once more, lower than he had before, and straightens up. His eyes and his attention return to Eren as he inquires, “Has my lord come for-”

“Yes, if you still have it.” Eren gleams down at you but does not answer your silent query when you turn to look up at him, utterly stumped.

The master goldsmith smiles and leads you further into the shop, past glass cases full of the most exquisite work - the Goldveins are the best goldsmiths in the world, this is known - to the back of the room where stands his counter. He reaches behind the table and pulls out a green and silver filigree box, which he opens with a flourish. “Saved for you, Sir, as requested.”

Inside lies a hairpin, a most intricately wrought piece of silver and emerald that draws the eye. An expertly carved emerald rose is the heart of the piece. Atop it rests a silver bird, its silver wings spread wide as it braced itself for flight. Filigree chains drip down the rose, set with emerald beads and another smaller rose of silver, which dangles at the end of the longer chain.

You look at the pin, then Eren, and back again, starting as he reaches up to gently pull your lesos down to bare your head. You stare at him, questioning.

“Let down your hair,” is all he says, smiling and gentle, so very gentle.

You reach up to remove the simple bronze hairpin that keeps your hair up in its knot. Your tresses tumble down your back, heavy and curled from prolonged twisting at the back of your head.

For a while, Eren merely takes you in, as though spellbound. You fight the urge to fidget under his gaze. He had seen you with your hair loose a hundred times before, especially in your nightly jaunts. What is so different about you now?

“Tilt your head up for me,” he bids you. You comply, then bite back a gasp as he takes a hank of your hair and twists it up, nimbly, back into a knot, securing it in place with the new, more elaborate hairpiece. His hand slips slowly down, from your hair to your face, rough, calloused fingers feathering lightly over your cheek. He cups your face, rubs tender circles on your skin and leaves warm, tingling trails in his wake. “Yelestala.”

Beautiful.

His eyes have never been more beautiful than they are now. No emerald ever mined can ever compare. The way they behold you makes your throat close up.

He’s never looked at me that way. Never. Never.

It is then that you wonder. What does love look like?

Thump, thump, thump.

One last gentle caress, and he is turning away to ask the shopkeep for a looking glass. It is not long before you are once again staring back at the girl in the mirror. She is a great deal more astonished, and a great deal more elegant than she was earlier. You step forward before you have quite gathered your bearings. When did he learn to style hair? The young woman in front of you will not look out of place in some ball but for her common garb. Had you not known better, you would have attributed the look to Yelena’s skillful hands. The hairpin completes the ensemble.

You can feel your fingers trembling a little. You twine them together and rest your hands on your stomach, now besieged by a battalion of butterflies.

“A beautiful piece for a beautiful lady,” beams Master Thabiso, to which Eren murmurs agreement.

“Ten crowns, yes?” he says, handing the merchant a small money bag, which he hefts.

“I thank you kindly for the custom, Sir, my lady. And for that display. Ah, the romance of youth. There’s nothing quite like it, I do believe. It’s not every day I am treated to the sight of earnest, honest love.” He bows you out of his shop soon after with further thanks.

“You didn’t have to get this for me, you know,” you mutter as you cross through the arcade’s lavish hall and start down the stone steps. Eren’s hand in yours has never felt more comforting. Never have you felt this shy around him either. Which is passing funny. Not even his ravishing of you made you feel so timid in his presence. You had been as you always are with each other, afterward. Except, perhaps, for that added tension. As if our pool of tension needed more filling. A couple of drops more and it will be set to overflowing. The gods only know what will occur then. The prospect is most thrilling.

“But I want to,” Eren answers, smiling sweetly down at you. “I, uh, just remembered… since it’s near the end of the Month of Storing, we most likely missed the Day of… Lovers,” this he utters with the softest pink flush rising up his tanned cheeks, “being in the Old South and all. And I haven’t, you know, ever gotten you a gift for the day… we weren’t really all there during our first celebration, so…”

That reminds you. You reach into your pocket for the token and draw him to a stop beside the fountain. “I… was also thinking about the Day of Lovers lately,” you murmur, somehow finding your clasped hands much easier to look at than his face. “And I thought to make you a present.” You laugh and find the mettle to look him in the eye once more. The affection in his gaze makes you feel surer of yourself, so you continue, “I didn’t know you were getting me something that cost the earth. Now my token seems so paltry in comparison.” You hold out the shell-and-twine bracelet you had woven for him the past couple of days. “Should’ve bought you that set of gilt shortswords you were eyeing so keenly that last time.”

You had found the prettiest shell that day, the first you took him to the beach. You had never seen him so happy. The seawater woke echoes in his eyes and made them come to life so beautifully. You wove the memory of the sea and of that day into your token, to keep him company when he is far from his beloved coast. And his beloved lady.

He stares down at your gift for a good while, then back up at you. Your heart thrums at that look. Is this what love looks like?

“The gift was made with your own hands and laced with your affection. That alone makes it worth more than gold.” The corner of his lips kinks up. “But I wouldn’t say no to those shortswords, if you’re so minded to get them.”

You giggle. “I’ll keep that in mind.” You tie the bracelet around his right wrist. It is a good fit. The tan of his skin brings out the white of the shell in its black twine setting.

“Much thanks, my lady,” he says, taking up your hand in his and giving it a long, lingering kiss. His eyes bore into yours, green as the emeralds in your hair and twice as stunning. Behind you, the fountain splashes away. Below you, the silent sentries stand, keeping a watchful eye on the passing folk.

None of them exist. None of them matter. But he moves away and so the spell is broken. 

It makes no matter. He can always cast it again.

“I didn’t know you could style hair like this,” you remark as you proceed to the docks. The cool sea breeze blows strong about you as you cross one of the bridges to the pier and, from there, to the Lodge where the foreign ships are allowed to berth.

“Uh, I don’t, actually,” he laughs and scratches the back of his head. “I only learned recently. With loads of help from Madam Sonya and a little help from your sisters.” He makes a mock grimace. “I hate being indebted to a little brat like Lydia but I guess I do owe her some.”

So that’s why he’s been spending time with them. His confession makes you hearken back to the past week or so, wondering which of your sisters’ many hairstyles had been his work. You feel your heart melt into mush.

Eren turns to you with an anxious look. “Do you like it? The hair, I mean. I know it’s nowhere near Yelena’s best work but-”

“I love it, Eren. It’s simple but elegant. It suits the pin well,” you tell him and feel yourself swoon as he flashes you a relieved, and crooked, grin.

“I’m glad you like it. I’d hate to tarnish such beauty, after all,” he says, thereby sending the battalion in your stomach into the frenzy of battle. He has gotten so irresistibly romantic; it is a wonder your lines hold every time he goes on the offensive.

You are nearing the end of the bridge and thus the docks. You draw your lesos back up to cover your head and the pin. Leaving something so precious out in the open is only courting trouble, especially in a place as seedy as the port. It is the only time you will allow your guards’ proximity.

Not a couple of paces behind trail Otto and Troian, the latter of whom was also your guard that fateful day of the cave. He had been so terrified when he had come upon you at your… affections. For good reason, you suppose. Your father would have sacked the man had you lost your virtue during his watch, and Troian needs this post for the mouths he feeds and provides for. That was the only thing that drew out the guilt, and even then, not by much. Losing yourself to Eren even for the briefest of moments is never something you will ever rue.

You had come so close to allowing him further liberties with your body… That you would have crossed the line, you do not know, but the thought is terrifying in the way that terror often is: rousing and exhilarating. And there is a sweet irony in being deflowered in a field of flowers.

There are worse places to become a woman in truth.

Eren pulls you closer to him as you step foot on the docks’ streets. Behind you, Otto and Troian close ranks. Not that they will make much difference, Eren blustered, he is a better sword than either. “I could keep him safe better than he could me,” he claimed after his first solitary excursion into the city, when you had asked if he had protection. Otto keeps guard but he isn’t truly one, not in the sense that any of your tails are. “He’s more a manservant that has some skill with the blade. I only keep him around for both our fathers’ peace of mind. Your lot would never let me out otherwise.” You took his word for it. He is the anointed knight after all, and trained by the greatest knight in the realm. The more swords in seedy places, the better, in any event, no matter how little trained.

For all its seediness, though, the docks offer its own brand of delights. The noisier, dodgier Lodge is a seedbed of adventure and wonders in a way that the relatively safer, cleaner Cradle - the port where local ships moor - simply isn’t. The Arsechkalan ports are some of the greatest in the realm, filled with myriad sights and sounds and smells.

The sights and sounds and smells are a deal more exciting in the Lodge. Inns and taverns and pillow houses of every ilk line the streets. Here and there, the odd temple to foreign gods sits between the establishments, to cater to the myriad sailors’ prayers for a safe voyage. Captains and oarsmen and mates amble about amongst vendors and urchins and cutpurses, this last easily avoidable by hunching in, staying discreet, and keeping a sharp eye out.

You revisit the qaxan parlor, though this foray ends up an utter dud. It starts out well enough, with a few wins. Until Eren happens upon a most interesting conversation. It seems as nothing at first, until you see his face grow ever darker with every passing heartbeat, until his moves become more careless than the last, until he starts losing everything he has won. You hurriedly pluck him away before he can lose his whole purse.

“What is it, what’s wrong?” you ask once you have gone outside, standing in front of a baker’s cart. The harbor seems quiet to you that day, though it does not lack for bustle. Dimly, you note the far-off thunderheads all the way out to sea. The sea breeze gusts over you, bringing with it the scents of the docks: cooking meats and sweets, tar and spices and humanity, all bound by the pervasive smell of salt.

Eren is silent for a moment, glaring down at the ground, before finally answering. “My father… they were talking about Father.”

“Who?” You had not heard anyone speak of the Magister. Not in any of the Lovayan tongues, anyway.

“These sailors, foreigners, who know fuck all about our matters.” His hands clench into fists. “They were going on about how it’s so much better trading with us this year as opposed to last year with the port fees and all. Father got greedy, they said, all that about filling up the royal coffers was a big lie, he just wanted to line his own pockets by skimming off honest men’s gold. They know fuck all,” he growls, voice steadily rising. “Father would never do that, he’s never done that, we don’t need more gold, we have more than enough-”

“Eren.” You reach up to take his face in hand. His eyes flash up to yours, wide with surprise and indignation. You hold his gaze, and caress his cheek with your thumb. “What they say makes no matter. You’re right, they know fuck all.” You smile when he chuckles a little at that, and continue, “And it is enough that you know otherwise. It was not what he wanted, Lord Grisha. But even he cannot supersede the king.”

For all his promises to bring back port fees to their earlier rates, the king dragged his feet on enacting his policy. To make the contentious decree hit the tradesmen hard. The yearly spring opening of the ports had not been pleasant for those in the business. Even Father, a tradesman himself, had seethed, yet he did not complain to the king’s face. Though His Majesty often, and loudly, made it known to all and sundry that his Magister was to blame, Lord Alexander knew the way of it all too well. It was only at the start of summer that the fees were lifted and put to rights.

Eren deflates at the mention of His Majesty. “It all returns to him, doesn’t it?” He reaches up to wrap his large hands over your smaller ones, keeping your touch on him, caressing your skin as you had his. He brings both your hands down at length but laces his fingers through yours, holding on. “It all returns to cutthroat politics in the end.”

“His Majesty and your father… don’t always see eye to eye.”

“Because Father is the shadow king.” His voice has quieted. He looks almost thoughtful as he utters the words. “That’s what they all say. But it’s true, isn’t it? I don’t see His Royal Majesty getting off his fat arse to make this kingdom better for us all. It’s all fallen to Father all these years.” He snorts, derisive. “At least we know there’s one thing that royal belly can’t stomach. I suppose truth is an acquired taste to some more than others.”

You glance about reflexively for too-close ears. The baker, behind you by his cart, is making a new batch of honeycakes; Otto and Troian are talking nearby. Six years at court have taught you not to tread around such sentiments lightly. The Quaestor, Darius Zackly, has little tattling birds everywhere, as is his right as the master of espionage. One can never be too careful when it comes to airing treasonous thoughts.

“Truth it is but best have a care. There might be those around who will find it as unpalatable as His Majesty does, and you do not want them giving him fodder.” You smile to lighten the mood. “Here, a sweet to sweeten the bitter humors,” you say, turning to the baker for a couple of honeycakes, which you munch on as you continue your stroll through the docks.

You bring your betrothed around to the quays to explore what is to be had from the outside world, knowing well that this will bring the life back to him. So it does. Galleys, cogs, carracks, the most accommodating of these you visit. The cheapest place to buy goods is off the ship, and the sheer quantity and diversity of foreign wares are too much of a temptation. A cog or three later and your guards become pack mules, weighed down with a couple of kegs of Caerleine firewine, bolts of beautiful bronze lace and silver damask, and a book detailing the life and reign of Rhodora Braveheart, the most famed queen of Huanurian history.

News, too, you have in plenty. There is plague in the Countship of Mechiriya, south of Lakpathar. A dragon has been found in one of the mountains of the Gleaming Isles; this you dismiss as fanciful sailors’ talk - there are no more dragons, that is known, not since the Sundering. You are more apt to believe the news of a leviathan lurking beneath the Diamond Depths, and the holy schism occurring in southern Anderven seems even likelier.

“She’s older than my lady grandmother, and she’s dead,” Eren mutters, repulsed, as a whore, old as sin and twice as ugly, loudly propositions him from across the street. He lengthens his stride at once, hauling you along as you try not to laugh.

“Oh, you don’t want to tick these off,” you say, glancing back and catching the glare the ancient slattern shoots at your backs before looking off for likelier sport. “Dockside whores are vicious.” No local man with half his wits intact will touch them with a ten-foot lance. New-come sailors who don’t know any better are preyed upon most malignly. They are robbed as they are fucked, and those can count themselves fortunate. Better to be robbed and live to tell the tale. Once in a great while, they will find a bloated, naked corpse on the pier, all that is left of the sad sack unfortunate enough to run into a Killer Cunt.

Eren shudders, looking ill. “Well-”

You are stumbling behind a wall of young man the next moment as he abruptly pulls you out of the way. The suddenness of it all does not leave you time to ponder.

A child’s cry, the crash of a dropped crate, the soft thumps of falling fruit. A piping babble of a tongue most foreign to you, answered by the deeper, intimidating tones of your betrothed as he speaks in kind. The rough and rustic burr of the Traders’ Tongue makes him sound even more menacing.

You peer over Eren’s shoulder once your faculties return. A boy with deep brown skin is on the ground, thrown back on his rear from his collision with the older boy. Blood oranges are scattered all about him, spilling from the upturned crate at his side. A conical red hat has been knocked off his dark head. Wide green eyes stare fearfully up at infinitely more terrifying ones as Eren speaks to him once more, voice hard and pressing. His hand has gone to the dirk on his right hip, his other holding tight to your wrist as he shields you with his body.

The guards have come running up to flank you and Eren protectively, their loads dropped and forgotten on the ground behind them. The boy shrinks back even more as another lad, this one younger, brown-skinned and brown-haired, runs up to you and rattles frightened, pleading exclamations in the Traders’ Tongue.

How frightening they must seem to two young ones, you think, these tall, looming guards of yours, them with their naked steel, hard voices and equally hard gazes. Only Eren is privy to the conversation, and for a while, he and the boys trade foreign words. At last, the stream of talk ceases to flow.

Eren eases up, but only just. “Cabin boys,” he tells you all, switching back to the familiar Belin of your homeland, more for Otto’s benefit than anything. “Just having a little lark, a race to see who could get back onboard first.” He sighs, scratches his head. “I suppose we could take them at their word… purses still whole?” He pats his own person to check his purse and look for any tears in his garments, coming up short of tears and with his money bag intact. You and the guards do likewise and announce yourselves equally as untouched.

“We should help them,” you say, watching the boys scramble for the fallen oranges. It is the least you can do for giving them such a fright. You step forward with a smile for the lads. The elder’s eyes - green, like your knight’s, yet of a different shade - sparkles as he looks up at you and utters something in his tongue. Incomprehensible he may be yet you need no linguist to translate the sentiment behind the words. That sweet smile is enough.

Eren hesitates yet acquiesces in the end. “Just keep close to me. And keep a close watch.”

The lads are glad of the help, in any case. So much so that you and Eren find yourselves invited to the lads’ ship, As Samaditha, a big-bellied carrack off the coast of Qa’ihij, west of Agankaya, captained by the boys’ father, Qamar. Ramzi and Halil, the boys are called, and they had a grand time showing their guests around the vessel. Ramzi, in particular, had taken a shine to you and kept you close, with Eren trailing behind as linguist. The most miffed linguist you had yet seen, you thought, noting his increasing crossness as the hour passed. He lightened up considerably when the lads took him aside to play a game of knucklebones, a novel pastime not oft seen in your side of the world, as the boys and their ilk are not oft seen in Lovayan shores; Agankayan merchanters are rare in these parts, after all.

You left the ship laden with good memories and foreign tokens. Ramzi had given you a beautiful glass bottle of red sand from the Ruby Basin. It had healing properties, he claimed through Eren, and was good for burns and indigestion. The thought of edible sand astounded you, and you thanked the boy profusely; this would be good for your own budding stores of Healer’s supplies.

Eren had come away with his own set of knucklebones. “Nice of him to give me something. I thought he’d forgotten all about me, with the way he was hoarding you and all. You’d think no one else existed outside of you.”

“Hoarding?” you snort. “He wasn’t hoarding me. He played with you, didn’t he?” You direct your course to the beach at last; you have had your fill of the docks for the day. “I was meaning to ask you - he kept on repeating a certain phrase, ‘Gim-’”

“Gim verrhia.” The phrase seems to offend him, to judge from his expression.

At once, you are apprehensive. “What does it mean? Is it some kind of backhanded-”

“Pretty lady.”

You blink at his cross face. Being called pretty is hardly backhanded and is nothing to be offended by. It is most flattering. “Right. I’m glad it wasn’t anything offensive… but why are you so-” You break off abruptly, cast back to his steadily souring mood on the ship, and put two and two together. “Eren, are you jealous?”

“No,” he denies immediately with a scoff. The reddening tips of his ears give the lie to his denial, however.

“He’s a child, Eren.”

“I told you, I’m not-”

“He’s a child and a foreigner, that was probably the last we’ll see of him.”

“Good,” he rumbles under his breath.

His irritated jealousy is the most delightful thing. You giggle and hug his arm close. “Oh, love, don’t you worry. There’s only one green-eyed dark-haired boy for me.”

There is that crooked smile again, so sweet, so endearing. “What of brown-haired ones? Blonds, reds? Those with blue eyes, gray, brown, black? What of them?”

You smile, and nuzzle close. “There’s only one boy for me. Only ever one. And he’s here in his rightful place: by my side and in my arms.” As he should always ever be.

The smell of the sea comes strong, and the blue is calling. There is nothing for it but to answer, and so he does.

Eren drops the shell he is examining back into the foaming waters - it is no good for his collection, not with that unsightly hole - and looks over at the receding back of his betrothed. You make an enchanting figure, you with your driftwood wand tracing spells in the sand.

The enchanting maid is a sensual one as well today. It is not the first he has seen you in such garb but it is the first he can look his fill without fear of being accused of impropriety. It had been a beautiful autumn day, which the Rhyzkov women took advantage of by heading to the beach, bringing him along as your most esteemed guest. His eyes had near popped out of his skull when you dropped your lesos and exposed a great deal more than he bargained for. You had worn charovmaya before in his presence but never one so short. He spent the day in a silent frenzy of desire as he contended with not only your smooth, naked back but also those fine, shapely calves, so exposed by that knee-length garment - never mind that Lydia was similarly attired.

Without your mother and sisters and attendants, he is free to bask in your glory (there are your guards, but they do not matter). He cannot do so properly at this distance, though, hence he must needs come closer.

He stuffs his shells in his money bag and makes his way to you. The surf is cold around his bare shins, frothing against his skin. The brisk breeze blows fierce inland, chill and salty and fresh, tugging at his hair and clothes, insistent as a desperate lover (insistent as he hopes you’ll be as a lover). Overhead in the overcast sky, the sandpipers that give the bay its name fly in their scores, filling the air with their trilling cries. They are your only companions in this stretch of coast.

“How goes the casting?”

You turn to him with that smile that never fails to tug at his heartstrings. He had secured your hair well, he sees, pleased; only a few tendrils escape your bun to whip about your face. The emerald rose sparkles in your hair, a green distinct from the ocean waters, untouched by any hint of blue. “I just finished.”

He glances at the pale sand beneath your feet. ‘Happiness,’ ‘Luck,’ and ‘Safety,’ are writ large upon the shore in the ancient runes of Old Lovaya. Already, the waves are claiming the words - the bottom of the rune for luck has been wiped smooth. “The Old Man means to grant your wishes.”

“Or the old gods. But the sea isn’t usually their domain.” You turn toward the sea, Old Nyrdos’ domain, and stare out at the churning waters. “They make an exception.” Not far from the coast is a rocky outcrop, a tiny tidal island covered with sea-loving vegetation. Between two palms a godstone stands, worn and weathered by countless years of salt spray and salt wind. “Perhaps we can visit them, for a better chance of being heard.”

“We’ll get wet.”

“Is the Falcon Knight put off by a little seawater?” You raise your eyebrows at him.

That makes him bristle a little. “I was weaned from the stuff, love, no amount of seawater would be too much for me. By all means, let’s go, but we don’t have drying sheets. I’m not sure how well you’ll like dripping your way back home through the city.”

You smile in the face of his indignation. “We could use my lesos. Or the guards’ cloaks.”

His lips twitch upward. “Why don’t we use that fine damask you bought while we’re at it? You have yards of it, more than enough to rub us dry.”

Your smile vanishes like a snuffed candle. “Piss off, Jaeger, that thing cost a fortune.”

That makes him laugh out loud. “Now I know how to get your hackles raised. Threaten a good bolt of cloth.”

“A most expensive bolt of cloth.”

“We could always go naked.” His grin widens at your look.

You turn your head away, with all the appearance of a prim and proper lady turning away from bawdy humor. It is most convincing but for that smirk. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“If I told you how much, you’d never hear the end of it.”

“My lesos it is.”

You strike out across the heaving sea very much clothed.

Not that it matters. Eren lets his lady lead the way, if only for his visual pleasure. Southron fashions truly are the best, the charovma best of all. It is the most revealing garb you have yet worn. Never has he seen so much of you, short of you being naked. A long, ropey braid had served to, at least, partially obscure your bare back, before. Now, there isn’t even that; a large part of him wants to pat himself on the back for putting your hair up and out of the way of such perfection.

That day in the cave had brought you to that place where the line of tension and desire had stretched so taut between you that it had near snapped. He wonders how close you were to doing so, how far you would have gone had the gormless guard not come into the picture; Eren had hardly looked at the man all day, his sin is too fresh for forgiveness. He had sinned anew by balking your plans, and it was only through your silver tongue that you managed to wheedle the man into assent.

The waves roll toward Eren, slapping lightly against his stomach, though never higher, as he cuts his way through the gray-green crests in the wake of his lady. Your dark red charovma swirls about you like some gigantic nennymoan, those flowers of the deep.

His fae maid is in a new element. Vilas, that is what they are, the fae of the deep. He is fortunate, he feels, to have earned the favor of one. But he knows the tales. The fae are as lovely as they are lethal, just as like to kill him as to kiss him. For all he knows, this lovely vila means for him to drown. With one such as this, though… he will be more than happy to enter the Fields by your hand.

Eren watches the swells of water enfold the swell of your hips, eyes the play of movement beneath your skin as you wade through the waist-deep sea, traces the dip of your spine down that supple back. You are as smooth and faultless as you ever are. That only makes him want to mar you, mark you as his. His mark had vanished, he sees with a burst of displeasure. He can always leave more, he placates himself. It will be so gratifying to leave them all over that flawless back as he holds on to your hips, biting all over your silky skin as he ruts you hard into his mattress…

It is a good thing the seawater is cold.

The islet looms over you, deceptively large at this vantage. You haul yourself up the stone steps slick with sea lichen and seaweed. The action breaks his attention away from the cluster of barnacles that cling to the bottom of the rocky formation.

She might as well have gone naked, is his only thought. The weight of the water makes your dress cling to your body like a second skin. There is next to nothing left to his imagination at this point. Every curve and dip and line of you is limned by crimson. The sway of your hips as you climb the steps makes him want… His hands are twitching, itching to grab hold. You make him want. So badly, so madly, so desperately. He drags legs of lead up the steps, taking deep, calming breaths of the cool sea air. He is a man, not a beast, he won’t lose himself to lust in such a place.

The gleam of wet, naked thighs as you wring out your skirt makes him want to scream. Surreptitiously, he glares at the godstone; how dare they test his mettle in such a way.

“Here we are, you old gods,” you say, running a hand atop the worn monument reverently. “May my words and wishes reach you.” You look over at Eren and beckon him forward. Fast as that, worship is done. That is what he likes about the Old Faith.

He brushes the godstone himself, letting his pettish consternation vanish with the wind. May her words and wishes please enough, you old gods. He follows his lady deeper into the little island, striding past the palms into the back of the place.

The stretch of rock ends here. You sit down on the stony ground, unmindful of the dirt, and wrap your arms around your legs. Eren sits beside you, heedless of the sensation of his sodden pants sticking to his skin. The chill sea breeze does not bother him either; it never has, though his bottom half is soaked to the bone.

“A crown says Troian’s having a conniption back there,” you quip lightly.

“I’ll pass on this wager, I am in total agreement,” he rejoins, amused, fiddling with the hems of his rolled-up trousers. “This’ll be the last place anyone would want to play the pillow game in.”

“Oh, but they do.”

He stares at you, not quite sure if you are teasing or not, you have been so playful of late. You are, yet there is truth in your eyes all the same as you go on, “I’ve seen a couple long ago, fucking in full view of the coast, right in front of this godstone itself. Figured they were new-wed. It’s old custom, and it’s not oft practiced anymore, but it was tradition to consummate Old Lovayan marriages in the sanctum, right in front of the gods. I don’t know why they didn’t do it in the Great Sanctum… it’s roomier and all, but I guess doing it here has its thrills.” More of the memory seems to come back to you then; whatever you recall seems comic, to judge by your expression. “Mother, bless her fusty new blood, was scandalized, of course. Rushed us all out of here faster than the hare in his race.”

“I bet she did,” he chuckles, tickled by mothers’ general fustiness, new blood and otherwise.

“You new blood are such hidebound creatures,” you remark, pretending to derision. “It’s that sort of thrill that gives life such flavor. Imagine fucking in the Great Temple. It’ll be the grandest bedchamber to tumble someone in.”

He cackles, long and hard, at the statement. “Ah, the scandal of that, though. But who’s to say someone of our sort hasn’t done that already in some obscure village shrine?”

“Hmm, true enough.”

“What say we lend his fears legitimacy?” His heart begins to drum inside his chest as you turn to look at him. It is a jest, of course it is a jest, yet the ever-growing primal, irrational part of him is as serious as a stab wound. He grinds the beast down beneath his proverbial boot. You deserve better for your first than some rocky crag in the sea (no matter how holy, or traditional). And yet… The cave wasn’t any better but she was willing, you saw her.

His brazen lewdness makes the minx stick out her wanton head. Just a little. “I knew you were adventurous,” you murmur, and the heat of your gaze makes the beast stir beneath his abstract foot. He fights the harder to tamp it back down. “As much as the idea intrigues me, I’m afraid we’ll have to put it off.”

“Put it off, hmm? So, it’s a given for us somewhere down the line. I’ll hold you to that, my lady.” That should’ve been that, it should have ended there, yet his eyes fall on your lovely neck and he is lost. 

“It’s vanished,” he says, reaching up to brush gentle fingers across the terribly unmarked skin. You draw back, as though his touch scalded you, but not by much. The gooseflesh blooming beneath his fingertips gives the truth to your feelings. He has not crossed a line, he can see, relieved. Never will he have you balk at his advances.

You reach up to put your fingers on his, your touch so very light. “It still hurts, you know.”

“Oh?” He traces over your skin once more, the flesh so very soft yet pebbled. “You still feel me, here?” He presses down, lightly, and feels you shudder, hear your barely stifled gasp. Your fingers twitch above his. “My mouth, my tongue… me. Do you still feel me on you?”

You look away, dropping your hand and releasing his digits, but he knows better. Your face can lie, be covered by a mask, be concealed; the rest of you is there to bare your truths. And, truly, you are so very responsive to him.

His touch trails down your shoulder, your arm, down to your leg, bare to the knee and still slightly damp with seawater. He leaves a trail of goosebumps in his wake; he watches them rise, entranced. Eren lifts his eyes to catch yours. Those are pools he will never be able to swim.

The line of tension and desire stretches taut between you. One more move and it may just snap. One more move and one or the other of you may break. He wonders who will succumb first. He has to laugh at that; at this point, he won’t give a groat for his own chances.

“Is this where you got it, this scar?” he asks, following the thin raised line that slashes down your right calf. “Those stairs are slipperier than politicians.” Again, yet again, there comes a time for a change of topic. It will be better for you in the long term, he thinks, if you can dispel some of the tension now. You will always deserve better for something as dear as your first than a quick tumble born from rampant lust. You are more than that to each other, surely.

The old wound is lumpy and rough. Some may call it disfiguring, the only thing that ruins your perfection. Not to him, never to him. It is only proof of that fire, that spirit that so draws him to you. The scar is as fit a match for any of his own. It is further gratifying to know that he is not the only one willing to tough it out. You can keep up with him.

You stare down at the old lesion, drawn into memory and out of the heat of your preceding desire. “No, it was another sea mont from another stretch of this coast. It was the worst day of my eight-year-old life. I thought I’d never walk again.”

He is drawn into his own memory, too, of the day he first saw the mark. It was the Day of Sun and Youth, and you had worn simple garb such as a milkmaid or a shepherdess might wear in the country in summer (he had never seen peasants’ garb as clean and well-cared for, to be sure). Your short peasant skirt had fallen to just a bit above the knee. He would’ve lost himself to a silent fit of lusty excitement, but the sizable scar marking your right calf gave him pause. He had missed the scar all those times he had caught flashes of your bare legs. They were flashes, though, quick and swift and hurried, and they had not come often, not at your conservative court, certainly not with the cover of your long gowns. He had the tale from you much later in the day as you headed back to the Bulwark after your Sun Day frolics. It is one of his better memories of the summer.

“I’ve always thought it an ugly thing, this mark. I’ve learned to take it on the chin, though, over the years. But you… you don’t look at it with disgust. You make it seem as if it’s something I should be proud of.” The smile you favor him with seems almost shy, and so endearing.

“It is something to be proud of, love. It shows what you truly are beneath all the frills and decorum and propriety.” He leans in close, grins at the widening of your eyes, and flicks his nose lightly across yours. “It’s never an ugly thing to be a free spirit.”

“Are you going to make a habit of that?” you ask, sweetly, shyly discomfited, yet smiling all the same.

“Mm-hmm.” He does so like to tease you, after all, no matter how gently. Another remark - about outer appearances and what lay beneath and true selves - comes to mind, yet he dismisses it as being too ribald. He’ll make it some other time. When you are there.

Movement from far off across the horizon catches his attention. “Incoming traders,” he announces. He knows the origin of every one, of course.

“Caerleon, Mbokel, Ithasa,” you list off, giving his thoughts a voice. The merchanters and carracks and galleys make the slow trek toward Lovayan shores, each one distinct from the other. Nearer to your vantage is the sacred lagoon of the Great Sanctum; the towering godstone is silhouetted against the gray skies, as imposing as ever. “Have you ever thought of traveling? Just getting on some ship to see the Known World and its wonders?”

“Of course, but especially as a boy.” He smiles in wistful recollection. “Armin and I would often talk of stowing away when we were in the docks back in Lenberg. Never happened, as you can see, but it was the most exciting thought.” He fiddles with his new bracelet - she had such nimble hands, his lady - and notes, absently, the rising of the tide and the choppier waters slapping up against your little rock. “Nowadays, it’s not really too much of a thought… but it’s still there. We’re a lot more dutiful - and like to get more dutiful, lord that he is and knight that I am - but perhaps someday… when the poxy bitch permits.” He grimaces. “To be in thrall to such a mistress turns my stomach. I’d rather be in thrall to the one woman.” He gleams at you, filled with suggestive mischief, and you giggle, leaning into him and resting your pretty head on his shoulder. He feels his smile soften and presses a soft kiss on the cherished head.

The wind has grown stronger. Above and around you, the palms and the surrounding shrubs sway with the draft, rustling. “It would be nice, to get away.” Your voice is quiet, eyes fixed on the horizon and the far-off lands you have yet to see. “To see the world and live a little. Away from court, and the realm, and reality. The realm doesn’t matter when you’re elsewhere. It’s only one of many, after all.”

Realm and reality. Your realm and reality seem headed to stormy seas, if the news from the North is anything to go by. Even this far South, talk is rife. Of outlaws and dens and lost justice they all speak. Eren wonders what Father is making of all this. As the Magister, it is his duty to stick his nose into everyone’s business. Our shadow king.

“Storm coming,” you comment, lifting your head from Eren’s shoulder. A bolt of lightning turns the gray skies white for half a heartbeat, the thunderheads have come closer; the rumbling thunder comes not long after. Ships are coming in yet none are going out, he just now realizes. Your day at sea is at an end. “We had best get going. I think I hear the sound of Troian calling even above the waves.”

He is calling, Eren can hear. He would’ve admired the man’s devotion had he not found it so stifling. And amusing. “Right. We wouldn’t want him having a convulsion or something. I don’t think we’re doing his heart any favors. And the water’s getting rough,” he adds, looking down at the gray waters churning below you.

You chuckle and stand. “Don’t worry, I’ll tow you to shore if your legs give out.”

He scoffs and pinches your calf before standing himself. “I’ve been swimming before I was riding, my lady, I’m as good a swimmer as you southron eels.” He turns his head and looks back at you, smirking. “Do we have a race?”

“If you think a man can beat an eel in her own turf.”

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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A/N:

Relatively shorter chap this time but only just.

Jean the Artist is given more focus, and he's not as much of a mama's boy as Eren was. Eren is getting even more romantic sighs swoons that hairpin is such a precious thing. We see the docks, hear things said about Grisha that pisses Eren off, and meet Ramzi and Halil! They have a happier ending here, thankfully (unless the storms sink their ship on their way home… huehuehue, I kid, I kid). A visit to a holy sea shrine somehow makes Eren unendingly horny. And beneath it all the North is stirring. Storm coming indeed.

This isn't as frisky as last time but we'll get there, we'll get there.

Forever and always, thank you all for reading! Til next update!

Tagging: @princess-okkotsu @lukepattersin @tojis-discord-kitten

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↳ @animangacreators challenge #9 : Action Genre Challenge ⇾ first prompt : favorite action animanga

⋙ Shingeki no Kyojin + The Nine Titans

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Attack on Titan Brave Order

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Artist: 落音 | Source: ♡ | Twitter: cangseluoyin | Pixiv: id=1803013 Posted with permission. ※ Do not repost, edit, or delete the credits. Please visit the original source and support the artist there!

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Eren's obsession with cheeseburgers in AOT junior high will never not be hilariously adorable to me.😆 Like, look how happy this little cheeburg bastard is!

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Attack on Titan