last-true-knight

[last-true-knight]

Dame Fiora crosses the stable--straight-backed, like she might cross a battle line. Ably, she fends away the dread, marauding beast.

Levail returns her deft little bow. A dignified motion, somewhat dampened by the piteous flopping of Levail's wet hair.

He breathes tightly through the acerbic sting of his anxiety. Look at her, a vision of a knight-sister's grace... and look at Levail, sweating so thickly from the palms that the saddle nigh-slips in his hand.

"Y-yes," he says, because he must. Because knights do not back down, and because he has disgraced himself enough. He will get the saddle on this hell-born nag, and that will be that.

(He refuses to think about the riding part. He'll burn that bridge when he gets to it.)

"I'm ready," he tells her, quite breathless. He hefts the saddle in his hands, and hoists it over Miriam's drooping back. These slots are obviously for the wings, so they must...

Right. It makes a certain amount of sense, once he's forced himself to do it. All that's left now is to--to get the strap across the belly without getting kicked in the vitals.

He spares a glance for Dame Fiora, who is looking perfectly serene. Perfectly decorous and knightly.

Levail cannot foul this up again.

Bravely, he dives for the saddle-strap, shifting it under Miriam's belly as quick as the thrust of the spear. And then--buckles--and then--!

"There we have it," he says, strident.

It's only as he's reaching for the pommel that he sees it--blazes.

His face falls at terminal velocity, like a rider shaken from a skyborne pegasus.

His brazen soldier's voice goes weak.

"I've forgotten the saddle pad, haven't I?"

hell is empty and all the horses are here

pegapony nightmare with fiora!!

[last-true-knight]

starter call 2.0   feel free to combine prompts !

for  a  happy  starter .

for  a  melancholy  starter .

for  an  excited  starter .

for  an  angry  starter .

for  a  soft  starter .

for  a  silly  starter .

for  an  angsty  starter .

for  a  violent  starter .

for  a  romantic  starter .

for  a  sexual  starter .

for  a  comforting  starter .

for  a  threatening  starter .

for  an  argumentative  starter .

for  an  action / adventure  starter .

for  a  flirtatious  starter .

for  a  loving  starter .

for  a  hostile  starter .

for  an  envious  starter .

for  a  fearful  starter .

for  an  injured / sick  starter .

for  an  urgent  starter .

for  a  celebratory  starter .

for  a  reunion  starter .

for  a  lazy  starter .

for  a  protective  starter .

for  a  domestic  starter .

for  an  intimate  starter .

for  a  weather - based  starter .

for  a  surprised  starter .

for  a  malicious  starter .

for  an  illegal  starter .

for  a  concerned  starter .

for  a  tense  starter .

for  a  sentimental  starter .

for  a  hopeful  starter .

for  a  hopeless  starter .

for  a  guilty  starter .

for  an  embarrassed  starter .

for  an  anxious  starter .

for  a  desperate  starter .

for  a  disappointed  starter .

for  an  aggressive  starter .

for  a  cautious  starter .

for  an  impulsive  starter .

for  a  resentful  starter .

for  a  suspicious  starter .

for  a  conflicted  starter .

for  a  provoked  starter .

for  an  awkward  starter .

for  a  dishonest  starter .

for  a  fatigued  starter .

for  a  grateful  starter .

for  a  flustered  starter .

for  a  vulnerable  starter .

for  a  manipulative  starter .

for  a  professional  starter .

for  a  mischievous  starter .

for  a  relieved  starter .

for  a  cooperative  starter .

for  an  uncooperative  starter .

for  a  moody  starter .

for  an  impatient  starter .

for  a  competitive  starter .

for  an  encouraging  starter .

for  a  sensual  starter .

for  an  interrupted  starter .

for  a  clumsy  starter .

for  a  tearful  starter .

for  an  affectionate  starter .

for  a  cozy  starter .

[last-true-knight]

Levail clings to every word of Zelkov's musings--fish flying in clouds? he'd have never thought of it--and then, to every second of his silence. Levail knits and tangles his fingers, taut with anxiety, watching every flicker on Zelkov's face.

With every spilled drop of emotion, with every gentle shuffling of the pages, Levail wracks. He is carved open, his hopeless, wicked heart put on display.

(But it can't be wicked, can it? To love?)

(Not everything Levail's been taught is true.)

He reminds himself to breathe. He waits, worrying the odd-mended hem of his shirt, and is almost patient.

(Almost. That's what he's always been. Never quite enough.)

Marvelous, sighs Zelkov.

Again, Levail reminds himself to breathe. But this time, he can't do it. He simply cannot wrest a breath--Zelkov's praise, Zelkov's inimitable focus...

For the first time in his life, Levail is known.

His next breath, when he finds it, is a ragged sob. It bleeds and twists into the setting of his jaw, the clearing of his throat. He mustn't weep.

"I am sorry," he mumbles. "I..."

I love him.

I loved him.

This is the thing that I am.

"This is new to me."

this curse my whole life; won't let me shake the shadow

[last-true-knight]

It is a cheap cliche to liken this encounter to a dream. An aged turn of phrase, the like of which mars Levail's poetry.

But in all honesty... it really does beggar belief. That such a person--a gem of a man--might exist, and that he might have happened on Levail's most intimate writings...

That he might like them, and wish to hear more; and that Levail might be leading him across the road to the boarding-house, where he will tell him of a love that's never dared to speak its name.

In Begnion, they'd have court-martialed him for less.

He cringes with the thought, and then again with the realization that he's meant to have been speaking.

"Z-Zelkov," he murmurs, tongue tracing the unfamiliar contours of the name. "A pleasure to meet you. I am Levail, and I'm... getting by."

He indicates, with his taut shoulder, the door of the boarding-house, and passes through with Zelkov's aid. Then down a hallway, to the left, and...

It is embarrassing, isn't it; the squalor Levail inhabits, that he overpays for. The dim and damp, and the wretched symphony of floorboards.

(But oughtn't he have pride? He has made his own way here.)

Levail smiles tightly. With a shuffle of groceries, he frees one hand and opens the shrieking door. At the very least, he can preserve this scrap of decorum.

"Welcome to my home," he says, "hah, such as it is."

There is only one chair, so Levail seats himself on the edge of the bed. Reaches underneath his pillow, produces a small folio.

"T-these are the rest," he mumbles, and tentatively offers them up. "Although I don't think you'll... find much variety in the subject matter."

Indeed, every last one treats of Zelgius: darling, dearest, dead.

this curse my whole life; won't let me shake the shadow

[last-true-knight]

The stranger--eep!--has thoughts on Levail's word choice. As is his right, as would anybody half-literate, and still, still it puts a jack-knife twist in Levail's gut.

The black-velvet purr of the stranger's voice isn't helping matters, either. Levail once read a tale of a knot so intricate that it could never be unfurled. He thinks he's got one of those, just now, right below his ribcage.

And still, the stranger has offered him a smile--a little joke, even! Levail laughs, rather belatedly, when he finally parses the pun.

It tapers off into the unbecoming clicking of his throat, the maladroit absence of words, because this is not all that the stranger has offered.

Because--because this man has chanced upon the aperture of Levail's soul. He's seen the strange shape of it, and has sounded the depth of Levail's deepest misbegotten love.

And he said it was nothing short of incredible.

It is a thing beyond Levail's poetic imagination--that his love might be worthy of praise.

And even beyond this, by invoking the point-of-view character, the stranger has given Levail an out. Plausible deniability. No, this poem is not about me. Yes, I've made it all up--how clever am I?

But Levail--standing here, knock-kneed at the margin of the marketplace--Levail feels made new.

If there is an out, he will not take it.

"You... are too kind," he murmurs, absolutely breathless. "But if you--if you truly desire to read more of my work... I..."

He screws shut his eyes, and is brave for just one second.

"Certainly!"

His lopsided heart beats fast.

"Will you... come break bread with me?" He gestures, with his chin, to the groceries in his arms. "There's much more I could show you. If you really want."

this curse my whole life; won't let me shake the shadow

[last-true-knight]

The lady--the lady knight; Levail sees now her shining cuirass, her intrepid bearing--sallies forth. Her voice is cold and firm, her fury cloaked in consummate righteousness.

Her admonition pierces Levail like an arrow. He cannot recall the last time someone was moved to anger on his behalf.

No, he cannot say, I've never worked with pegasi before. I don't even know how the saddle goes on, and I'm not much better with your ordinary horse.

A thousand times, thank you.

But shame is twisting his throat shut, and the lady knight is on crusade, and it would be a sin to interrupt her.

She strides into the box, gentles the great dire beast with a handful of sweet words. Her hand dives into her pack--a deft, practiced motion--and Miriam whuffs solicitously.

Of course. Sugar cubes, and--and how to use them without having your fingers chewed off.

Levail takes up the little bribe, offers it to Miriam with his hand held out just so.

She takes it with bright-eyed avarice, and the velvet feeling of her mouth on Levail's palm... is really not so terrible.

He bows down to the creature, deeply. "I am Levail," he says, tremulously sweet. It has been strange, introducing himself without his former rank. I am Levail, General Gaddos. The name all by itself feels naked.

Which is ridiculous, because Levail is talking to a horse.

"P-pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Miriam."

He rises, then--or tries to, but Miriam is chewing on his hair--!

His eyes turn helplessly to the lady knight. Trepidation wells in them--but now, it is just slightly tempered with humor, with the sheer absurdity of this.

His breath curls into anxious laughter. "I am also... pleased to have met you, my lady. You saved me--can you save me from this, as well?"

hell is empty and all the horses are here

pegapony nightmare with fiora!!

[last-true-knight]

Levail trudges toward the boarding-house, half-dazed with the amount that he just spent on bread and cheese. He carries his spoils close to his chest, and vows, with chivalric resolve, to learn well the martial art of haggling.

Just then--born from some unguarded blind spot, a stranger. Faultlessly polite, friendship in his feline eyes, and still, Levail jumps half out of his boots.

He marshals himself. He does not yelp. He keeps hold of his bread and cheese.

He smiles. The stranger--he is... comely, and he speaks with some strange captivating zeal, and...

Levail's dropped something? Drat. A handkerchief? A coin? Levail tears his gaze from the stranger's, spares a glance at his extended hand ohdamn.

Ohdamnandblastandhellfire.

There, suspended guiltily between the stranger's adroit fingers, is a tear-stained scrap of parchment.

There, by some diabolic twist of fate, is Levail's poem.

And it's... it's not like other poems. Other poems have rhythm, and--and word choice, and rhymes that do not cause vague nausea.

Most damning, other poems have knights-and-princesses.

Levail's poem only has knights.

An inhuman sound issues from Levail's open throat, like grinding glass.

A stranger--this comely, comely stranger--has read Levail's poem.

What's worse, he says he liked it.

For a moment, Levail hangs. He could catch flies in his slack mouth.

He marshals himself.

"Y-you did?" he squeaks. His free hand flutters upward, shielding the nape of his neck.

"I... thank you. I've--haha--never shown my poetry to anyone."

His heart shudders. His voice goes low, conspiratorial, and very, very small. "You really liked it?"

this curse my whole life; won't let me shake the shadow

[last-true-knight]

🎲

#15 | a kiss along the hips

i swear to god this is the one i rolled. under the cut for safety

Soren's body is lean, wind-whipped like the dunes of a desert. Warm, like that, and fine--see here the crests of his hips, the soft-sloped lull between them.

And here is Levail, dry-throated, knelt at this altar. He bends, and his tawny curls brush at thin skin.

He is gentle, though his fingers scrabble at the sheets. He is empty of breath.

Levail is repentant; he prays penance with the sweet drag of his lips.

[last-true-knight]

🎲 hey knightguy

#11 | a kiss to the neck

Levail's fingers tremble to touch him, to light upon the body-warm steel of his breastplate. The proud outward curve of it, lacquered in boldest crimson--the same shade that suffuses Levail's cheeks, that trails all down his neck...

He breathes, unsteady; his eyes fix on the regal point of Lukas' jaw. Strong, he is, and stalwart; still, in his sorrel eyes there is such patience.

Levail sighs, gentle, hopeless... and lays a reverential kiss on Lukas' throat.

[last-true-knight]

🎲 rattling you around

#30 | a kiss to the palm of the hand

risque below cut. better safe than sorry.

Levail sighs, reverent, into Sin's cupped palm; his lips love each thin scar that marks the skin. He nuzzles in, helpless, mewling with the scrape of bowman's calluses against his cheek.

The strength, the staunch stability of Sin's warm hands... oh, Levail's body burns. Here is the sanctuary that his heart has always craved, bound up in steady wrists, the heady scent of a good man.

Levail's lips are slackening, slickening; he mouths into the center of that palm. Laves over the heart-line, and shivers.

Below, his thighs rub forlornly together; above, his wet eyelashes flutter. He needs; and cannot halt himself--he whimpers, half-wails, takes the whole of Sin's two fingers in his mouth.

And--and the weight of them, that ballast against his vainly barking tongue... the taste of skin, the warm-blooded nearness of Sin...

There is safety, here, and fullness, and contentment.

[last-true-knight]

A voice--deliverance? Or mere humiliation? The words themselves are kind, but the tone carries a thick-woven thread of disbelief.

Levail cannot so much as glance at the bystander. He must keep his eye trained, like a lancepoint, on the treacherous beast, who is in every position to pummel him to death with her sharp hooves.

There are words that he might use in this situation, but most of them are very unbecoming. Instead, he just harrumphs, draws his smarting, trembling body up. His fingernails cut deep into the leather of the saddle.

The old pegasus gives an exasperated whuffle. Levail flinches, pressing himself against the cold stone wall, and finally regards his... savior?

At the very least, she looks as though she knows what she is doing.

She looks as though she does not know what he is doing.

"Ah," mumbles Levail. "I am." His gaze slips anxiously back to the old nag, refusing to meet her great rheumy eye.

"I am preparing for skywatch," he says, with every ounce of his defeated dignity. "No... no wyverns are available at present."

His teeth go tight. His chest curls in upon itself. He is acutely aware of every bit of straw that clings to him.

His voice is small when he speaks again.

"May I... beg your assistance, madam?"

hell is empty and all the horses are here

pegapony nightmare with fiora!!

[last-true-knight]

Today, she's allowed herself the luxury of taking her papers to the pegasus stables. Squatting on a crate, frowning at the report, occasionally tearing her eyes away to feed an apple slice to the neighboring mount.

The pegasus nudges at her eagerly, expression all begging. Sanaki snickers in delight, then relents and offers him another treat. Even in this foreign land, pegasi never fail to lift her spirits. Small joys like these, Sanaki would argue, are necessary motivators for the most unpleasant of work - though her more straitlaced advisors would surely disagree.

She spares a glance at the sound of passing footsteps, expecting just a knight or stablehand checking on their mount. When she sees the man, though, she freezes in recognition. "Levail!? General Gaddos!?" she exclaims in shock, immediately hopping off the crate and standing at her full height. "What are you doing here?" she demands. "How... how are you even alive?"

She inches her free hand towards her bookbag, which always, always holds Cymbeline if the need arises. The pegasus whinnies unhappily, at the apple slice entirely forgotten.

He imagines the work to be dignified--pegasi, after all, are elegant mounts, and their riders... surely quite brave, to be all the way up there, trusting one's life to the whim of a flighty, fickle beast...

Levail feels a bit ill. Still. It is necessary work, and it is, for the moment, his duty. He sets his jaw tight as he mixes the feed.

It is a laborious task. Finicky creatures, they are, with refined palates... but in time, Levail is done. He takes up the bucket (this is what his soldier's strength is used for, now) and steps into the stable proper.

He edges toward the first stall--and hears his own name like a peal of lightning.

Levail startles at the sudden sound... and doubly because it's familiar. He turns on quaking heels, and there she is, regal and small as a faceted gem, the Apostle herself.

Decorum deserts him. He stands, dumbly, against her interrogation. The feed-bucket hangs from his hand.

It is only when the Apostle falls silent that he remembers himself.

Slow, tremulous, Levail bends the knee. He inclines his head low; he prostrates himself as he always, always should have.

"Your Grace," he murmurs, voice strained. His body wracks with adrenaline, with the hammer of his heart. "I..."

He swallows. Sets his jaw tight.

"I would not dare ask for forgiveness now. But please, be assured... that my time in Duke Gaddos' service is done. M-my time in General Zelgius' service... is done."

His old bleeding heart swells, the wounds tearing open once more.

"I can only attribute my survival to the Goddess. There must be something I am... still meant to do."

A great pointed stone rises in Levail's labored throat. He fights it down.

"If that is to accept the punishment due to a traitor... so be it."

[last-true-knight]

♡!

first impressions with levail! | closed

●●○○○ | ATTRACTION (platonic) ●○○○○ | AFFECTION ●●●●○ | INTEREST ●○○○○ | LOYALTY ●○○○○ | TRUST

LOW | ●●●●● | HIGH

Levail is totally intimidated. Self-possessed ice queen (ha) with truckloads of savoir-faire? Terrifying. Additionally, I think Levail grew up with domestic servants in his home, and now doesn't really know how to relate to someone in that position on a personal level. Or maybe he just feels some guilt for being upper-class? I think he'd be really awkward around Flora--whether she finds that endearing or annoying is up to her.

[last-true-knight]

kiss roulette

inspired by the infamous "i want the k" meme by deactivated tumblr user tastcful. send 🎲 to generate a kiss! potential suggestive/nsf.w themes may appear

A kiss on the cheek

A kiss on the nose

A kiss on the forehead

A kiss to the top of the head

A firm kiss

A gentle peck

A romantic kiss

A platonic kiss

A kiss to the eyelid

A kiss along the jawline

A kiss to the neck

A kiss along the collar bone

A kiss on the chest

A kiss to the stomach

A kiss along the hips

A kiss in the rain

An upside-down "Spider-Man" kiss

A kiss while laughing

A kiss underwater

A rough kiss

WILDCARD! Dealer's choice :)

A french kiss/kiss with tongue

A kiss influenced by alcohol/other substances

A sleepy kiss

A kiss that's an accident

A kiss while one or both parties are crying

A kiss in greeting

A kiss in parting

A kiss to the back of the hand

A kiss to the palm of the hand

A kiss to the inner thigh

A kiss while someone watches

A kiss to a scar, birthmark, injury, or other marking

A kiss after a bite

A kiss against a wall

A kiss to the shoulder

A kiss to the back of the neck

A kiss while one party is carried

A tentative kiss

An impulsive kiss

A kiss out of spite

A clumsy kiss

A bloody kiss

[last-true-knight]

♡

first impressions with levail! | closed

●●●○○ | ATTRACTION (platonic) ●●●○○ | AFFECTION ●●●○○ | INTEREST ●●●○○ | LOYALTY ●●●○○ | TRUST

LOW | ●●●●● | HIGH

I think Ninian and Levail are more alike than different--kind souls caught up in the endless complications of the world around them. (That's my interpretation, anyway.) I think they could be good friends, and I think they should be.

I also think that Levail--chauvinistically--feels a bit responsible for Ninian, because of her delicate outward appearance. That's on him, and on the society that he grew up in; what he was taught about the roles of men and women.

[last-true-knight]

♡

first impressions with levail! | closed

●●●○○ | ATTRACTION ●●○○○ | AFFECTION ●●●●● | INTEREST ●○○○○ | LOYALTY ●●○○○ | TRUST

LOW | ●●●●● | HIGH

Elffin carries himself modestly, but with an astonishing grace. There's a mystique there that Levail finds somewhat captivating. He'd really like to get to know him--though he can't help but feel somewhat inferior, knowing that a man of his station ought to have developed such grace by now...

[last-true-knight]

Send me hc + a word of your choosing and I’ll write a headcanon relating to that word!

Or send hc + two words and I’ll try and come up with one that links those two things together!