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XAVIER | Feverish Attempts

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Duty's Cruel Embrace, 2

Chapter Two: The Long Road Ahead

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18+ MINORS DNI

pairing ; prince!xavier x princess!reader

synopsis ; prince xavier picks you up from the palace. you embark on your journey towards philos.

word count ; 11k words

author's note ; hi everyone! please read the warnings before proceeding! so sorry about the delay, but here's chapter 2!

trigger warning ; talks of death, grief, a hint of spice if you squint, angst, a gentle sprinkle of sexism, let me know if i missed anything!

my ladies in waiting ♛ °˖✧ @velaenam , @schwnapps , @massivenutkid , @celestialforce , @exitingmusic , @zeskyzed , @eve-ishu , @underfcvcked , @duffyinwonderland , @hiqhkey , @dooopiee , @awkward-stierle , @justpassingdontworry , @queenkymmie , @miffysoo , @kazbrkker , @applepi405 , @flamedancer13 , @prplbunny , @loreleis-world , @animecrazy76 , @emo4r , @crazygirl3001 , @creator-freak , @spacenott , @luckypup0506 , @wltneko9006 , @clothespintal

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please go check out @velaenam 's story domina of the east!

“Are the gods playing a sick joke on me?”

You stare at the painted statue of your ancestor, her dark hair and golden crown lit by a candle you hold in your hands. The dawn’s wind is surprisingly cool as it gently passes by, picking up your hair into the wind. Her eyes look down at you, unflinching and unfeeling. Yet, there is a source of comfort within her gaze. It reminds you that there are other battles that require your attention rather than blaming the gods for you being a victim of circumstance.

“Is this truly what is to be expected of me?” you continue, eyes flickering to the statue who kneels at her feet.

Your father had you stories of his victories and battles when you were a child. You adored him, adored his mind and intellect. His strategies surpassed the other generals and world leaders at the time. His victories were always quick and decisive with the least amount of casualties as possible. It is admirable. You always wished to have a mind as blessed as his.

“Am I to play the role of a wife — a fool — for the rest of my days? I do not wish to play such a part,” you say, tearing your gaze away from him, moving it back to her. “How did you do it? How did you live in a world where they did not wish to see you succeed?”

Silence.

No answer, no comfort, no advice that they can gift to you before your long journey.

Just the soft howl of the wind before it does down, leaving you stranded in the dawn’s rising temperature.

You scoff, arm dropping. The candle’s wax drips onto your fingers. You release it from your grip, the candle falling into the sand, the flame instantly being extinguished as soon as it touches the earth. You can see the outline of her likeness through the darkness of the morning. The sun begins to slowly rise and the black night turns softer, lighter shades of blues and purples coating the sky.

“Domina!” one of your maids calls out for you from across the distance. The title that was bestowed to you from the moment you left your mother’s womb sends chills down your spine.

No longer will you be the domina of Nabira. As soon as you leave the kingdom’s walls, you will be known as Xavier’s, his bride to be, a princess of Philos and the soon to be queen.

“Domina! We must make haste!”

You close your eyes. A single tear rolls down your cheek, yours fists balled at your sides. The scent of incense fills your nose, its smoke tainting the fresh air from around you. You drop to your knees and dip your hands into the sand, a ritual that you must complete for yourself before you leave this place. You steady your breathing and your tears fall onto the silk skirt of your dress.

“Ancestors,” you breathe out, your lungs burning from the inside of your chest, “give me strength. Guide me along the path that lies ahead. Be with me until my last dying breath.”

A faint hum vibrates the inside of your throat, trickling down into your heart. It soothes you and yet you still feel restless, your nerves on edge, muscles tense and unable to relax. Conflict arises from your consciousness. Two sides of your mind fighting against each other.

A piece of your wishes to leave Nabira and to find purpose in your new kingdom while the other half desperately clings to the hope that your father with remedy his mistake, to keep you home behind the castle walls. It will never happen, though, and this thought is just another fragmented piece of your vivid imagination, one that you must kill before you step into your new life in Philos.

You turn in the sand, feet sinking into the warmth of the sand dunes. Slowly, you walk through the desert, approaching your final moments in the kingdom.

The smell of incense and smoke lingers from within the strands of your dark hair. The servants try their best to cover the scent up, to extinguish the smell so you do not carry the memories of your brother’s death and the war with you on your journey to the kingdom of Philos. The servants work in silence as their nimble fingers weave your hair together into tight braids, pinning the dark strands of hair to your scalp, holding it in place.

Silk dresses, veils, and gold jewelry are being placed into trunks. Pieces of your life in Nabira slowly being packed away while you are given one last goodbye, a ritual that is given to every noble woman who leaves Nabira’s golden walls for a life outside of the kingdom’s borders, whether the move is forced or not. They drag fragrant oils down your arms, rosemary and saffron, anointing your skin as the oil seeps into your skin.

Nobody speaks from around you. Silence hangs in the air — both comfortable and ugly.

They work at a slow pace while you keep your eyes closed, the women placing a thin veil over your head, one that your father had requested you wear while on your journey. It is made of gold, the piece of clothing having been passed down through the generations.

You know that it is his parting gift to you. A way to remember him, Nabira, and the world and customs you are leaving behind.

The journey that lies before you will be long and hard. It will take weeks to get to the kingdom of Philos. Your father showed you its place on a map the night before. He explained to you the journey, mentioning that you will be riding by horseback until you reach the port of Tartus. From there, you will sail with the Lemurians and will reach their kingdom’s borders just to be thrown back onto a horse all over again. Philos is across the world, at the edge of your ancestor’s once great empire. 

You read that Philos was the first kingdom who fought back against Rome’s rule. They described their independence through bloody battles, pushing the Roman soldiers out of its borders before securing the land for themselves. Gauls, they were once called, now turning into Philosians, a brand new kingdom in the west alongside other territories.

Dozens of kings have ruled the nation, many of which having only served for a year or two before being disposed of while Pilos’ power hung in the balance. It was only when Xavier’s ancestor, King Hugh Capet, took the throne three hundred years ago that his family obtained control of the kingdom and monarchy.

In the books your kingdom’s palace held spoke tales of the land Philos was founded on. Rolling hills of green grass, dense forests, and a shoreline that glitters like diamonds shining beneath the sunny sky. Their castles are built using stone and rock with the king’s own castle being built atop a mountain, overlooking his people while remaining close to the Heavens. It is a sign of their divine bloodline, chosen from their god to rule. They reign in the clouds as a symbolic gesture of being the chosen family.

You open your eyes when a pair of footsteps find themselves inside your bed chambers. It is your father, a sorrowful expression on his face, the wrinkles of his skin deepening as he looks down at you on the floor while your ladies complete their ritual.

“You look…beautiful, daughter,” he says with a trembling sigh. He grips the hilt of his sword, holding onto it for the strength he needs to send you away.

You rise from your spot on the ground. Your skirt is long and black, stopping right above your ankles to show off a pair of tan boots that were made for your journey. The top of your dress clings to your body, wrapped in black cotton. The only thing extravagant about your outfit and appearance is the golden veil that sits atop your head. Everything else looks ordinary, like you are not the domina of Nabira but a simple common person.

“He will be here soon, my daughter,” your father continues to speak. He does not wear his crown on his head nor does he wear any jewels. His outfit is plain and drab, the same colors of mourning he wore from the previous day. He will be mourning the loss of his precious daughter’s presence, forever alone behind the palace walls.

He extends his hand to you. You take it and allow him to guide you out of your bed chambers, the veil flowing with every step you take, moving with your body. It feels like water against your skin and remains cool beneath the heat of the sun.

The two of you walk in complete silence. You listen to the gentle breeze of the wind, the force of nature picking up the ends of the veil before dropping it. Each step becomes heavier. Neither of you wish to part for what has been done is done, the marriage contract between you and the prince of Philos, the famed Lumiere, having been signed with the golden ink of a kingdom that refuses to fall. Even the Roman Empire has fallen and Nabira remains. It will not let a new kingdom such as Philos tear its walls down, just the family that holds its throne together.

“I wish I could send you away in elegance like your ancestors were, domina,” he breaks the silence just as you reach the front of the palace. The wall’s gates open, the large wooden doors creaking and vibrating the world and floor beneath your feet. “You understand why you must depart like this.”

You look to the right of you. The sun begins to break past the horizon, the new day upon the kingdom. You draw in a breath before releasing it, turning back to face the gate.

“I do, father.”

“You must appear as a servant,” he continues to explain, “the criminals on the road must not know that our domina is among them.”

“I know,” you cannot bring yourself to look him in the eyes, your throat feeling sore.

The gates, now fully open, show a single rider on a white horse. Blue and purple decorates the horse’s caparison, its colors draped along the horse’s bodice. The man who sits on its back is your future husband, wearing his silver armor from the previous day. He wears no helmet, his silver locks of hair illuminated underneath the sun’s rays. The horse whinnies before slowly trotting forward.

From behind him stands the people of your great kingdom. They look inside the palace walls, flowers in their hands. Their eyes watch as the knight slowly approaches the sandstone steps where you wait for him. Your father’s grip on yours tightens.

“You must remarry,” you begin to speak, squishing the shakiness from within your voice, “with me gone, succession will hang in the balance. You must produce another heir.”

Your father turns to look at you. Bewilderment is etched into his face. Your expression remains neutral, strong, anchoring the two of you down as your heart trembles inside of your chest.

“Do not speak of succession, not at a time like this,” your father whispers.

“If thou does not wish to marry, know my brother bore a bastard son. Legitimize him and you will have your heir,” you continue, finally bringing yourself to look at your father, to meet his sorrowful gaze. “Allow my last actions in Nabira to aid you, father. Do not wallow in your sorrow. Thou shall drown.”

You turn away and look at Xavier who sits at the bottom of the steps. He swings his legs over and his metal scrapes against each other. Your mouth and throat go dry. He passes off the reigns to a servant. His blue eyes never leave yours. Xavier slowly ascends the steps, closing the distance.

“I love you, father,” you tremble, “please take care of Nabira while I am gone. Remember me.”

Is it a plea to become one of the many statues that litter the halls of the palace? To be remembered like the great domina who came before you, the woman who gained the love and affection of an even greater Roman emperor?

Will your laughter be remembered in the halls just like your brothers? Will flowers bloom in the absence of your presence? You do not wish for statues nor do you wish for your name to be etched into the walls of stone, depicting your departure from the kingdom and to never be heard from again.

You wish to be preserved in the kingdom’s memory. To be fondly spoken of as a kind woman, a woman who the people adore and miss, a woman they mourned when she was forced away from the castle.

“I love you too, daughter,” he sucks in a breath and drops your hand. He gestures to a servant, who rushes over with your bow and a quiver filled with arrows. He takes them from his hands and turns to you, slipping the weapon around your body while attaching the arrows onto your hip. “To protect yourself,” he shudders.

Another piece of home, you think, feeling the bow’s drawstring push into your chest. It brings you comfort.

“You will have a small bag of clothes and perfumes with you. When you reach the Lemurian port, you will be the one to find Rafayel for passage. He waits for you. Once you reach land, they will give you one of their horses for travel to Philos,” your father continues. He steps in front of you, looking down at the small diary in his hands. 

It is a beautiful cover, bound from darkened leather and is covered in painted gold. The pages have aged from the centuries since its original use but remain in perfectly good shape.

“For you,” he breathes out, his eyes trained on the diary instead of you, “to guide you. Thou’s ancestors shall be at your side but she…she was the best of them. She will know how to guide you more than I ever will.”

He places the diary into your hands, the delicate material light in your palms. You do not open it, not now, and tilt your chin. His face contorts from sadness, his muscles twitching underneath his skin as he contemplates saying another sentence. He doesn’t, though, and the crown prince of Philos sits two steps below the top where you and your father stand.

“Good morrow,” Xavier speaks in his tongue, one that you will be forced to speak for the rest of your life. You wonder when you will ever get the chance to speak in your mother tongue again. Your father steps to the side and faces the prince, looking down upon him. You simply bow your head in response. “Are you ready?”

Now that is a question. Will you be ready for this next step in your life? Or will you fade into the nothingness of Philos’ future, a name to be forgotten and to be known simply as Xavier’s wife.

You nod. Xavier extends his hand to you and you take it, fingers curling around the warm metal of his glove. His eyes flit to your father, who slips the diary from your hand into a handwoven satchel, placing it over your shoulder.

“I’ll keep her safe, Your Grace,” he says with a hint of gentleness in his voice. It catches your attention. Xavier’s eyes move back to yours and he gently squeezes your hand. “Come. We have a long day ahead of us.”

You turn and look at your father while Xavier begins to guide you down the steps. Your father gives you one final wave, the wind warm against your skin as his head leaves your vision, disappearing behind the sandstone steps. The specks of gold in the sand glitter beneath the morning sun and you turn back around to look at Xavier, who stares straight ahead.

The gold veil that covers your face flows with the wind. The breeze picks up. It swirls around your ankles, kicking up your skirt as you and Xavier reach the bottom of the stairs. Your hand does not leave his but your eyes wander to the open gate. Servants rush around you, slipping the bag off of your back and attaching it besides Xavier’s on the horse. They bring out a step stool and Xavier turns to look at you, blocking the morning sun just as it comes up from the horizon.

“We’ll ride and meet up with my father and the troops,” Xavier places his hands on your waist. The metal of his gloves are warm to the touch. His thumbs graze over your hips, eyes wandering across your body before he hoists you up into the air, placing you towards the front of the horse with ease. Your perfume wafts in the air, the scent of rosemary and saffron filling his nose, luring the prince closer and closer to you. The servant nearby hands you the reins but they keep a hold of the chanfron, keeping the horse in place.

Your breath gets caught in your throat. Your cheeks heat up, your anger at Xavier still deeply rooted in the back of your mind.

He’s the reason you are being forced across the country, the reason why your brother’s body will be buried beneath the sand while being covered in riches, gold jewelry lining his arms, red ochre spread across his skin. Has he been administered his burial rites? You already have to miss his funeral, so all you can do is think about it while staring at the golden covered palace from at the bottom of the steps.

An outsider. That is what you are slowly becoming. Someone foreign to your kingdom if you are to ever return from Philos no matter how far in the future that hypothetical situation may be. You do not even know if you will be back to mourn the loss of your father when the time comes.

Xavier places his hand on yours, grabbing the reins and swings his leg over the back of the horse. He situates himself behind you. The warm metal of his armor presses into your back, a gasp leaving your mouth. A slight smirk spreads across his lips.

He reaches for your chin and tilts your head to look at him. His lips are dangerously close to yours. You shudder. Xavier’s blue gaze meets yours through the thin veil that covers your face. He silently memorizes the features of your expression, your knitted brow, the way your lips turn downward from his sudden closeness.

You don’t move. A silent challenge. It amuses him.

His blue eyes drop down to your lips, hovering there for a brief moment, before he drops his hand and draws his head away, gripping the reins.

“Let’s go,” Xavier murmurs.

You swallow the lump that formed in your throat and turn around, the man gently yanking the leather reins. The horse begins to trot forward, your bodies rocking with one another. He guides the horse out of the castle gates, exposing you and your image to the common people who line the streets.

Their eyes are big and reflect the gentle morning light. You look down upon them and can feel their gazes burn into the veil that covers your face. The horse slowly trots through the empty road, the people of Nabira spreading to the sides so you may pass.

The roses in their hands are gently placed onto the street. They watch you with a close eye and when you pass, they bow their heads in reverence. Pinks and reds turn the sandy stone into a vibrant painting. The people of Nabira watch as their next domina leaves the heart of the kingdom.

Xavier looks around, one hand on the reins while the other rests on his armor-clad thigh. His eyes float to the back of your head. He wishes to remove his hand from the metal glove and to feel the fabric of the veil. He does not question why you had it on, thinking that it has something to do with the flowers for your departure. Respectful and quiet, the man knowing that you will need the time for yourself in the first few hours — days, even — of the journey towards his home. A place that a small sliver of his heart wishes that it will be for you…home.

“They…they will miss you, domina,” Xavier leans forward and whispers into your ear. His words float over the sound of his chainmail. Shivers crawl down your spine and you slowly rest your hands on the pommel that he is pushing you into.

You cannot respond. There is no witty remark or serious reflection you can speak into existence. Your heart is slowly torn in half, a piece of your soul forever belonging to Nabira and the golden that sparkles from inside the sand.

“Will you miss them?” Xavier asks.

“Of course,” you breathe out and close your eyes, “but…their tears will run dry and life will move on without me here. They will have a new heir to love. They will forget me.”

You can only hope that there will be traces of your soul from behind the golden walls and in the people who live within it.

Xavier stares at the back of your head. You turn your head from side to side, bowing it at the people who lay roses at the horse’s feet. His face remains still, a slow nod coming from him as the horse walks through the silent streets.

Earlier, not even a few minutes ago, people began to build the marketplace for the day. Their wooden stalls were abandoned once the palace gates opened. Now, they sit and stare, watching as the prince of Philos enters to snatch his new bride away from them. Their lives frozen in place.

Xavier wondered how you treated the people of Nabira. He wonders even now as they decorate the streets of your farwell if choosing you to be his bride is the right choice. Will whisking you to a far away land deprive Nabira of its rightful ruler? The people of Philos deserve a queen as kind and beautiful as you, so perhaps the choice he has made was one out of his own selfishness, a sudden urge of possessiveness that came over him as soon as he laid eyes on you.

His blue eyes move to the golden accents of your veil. They are expertly sewn into the thin black material. It shimmers under the morning sunlight, flowing with the wind. He reaches up, the metal tips of his gloves gently brushing the stuck piece of veil from your shoulder.

Maybe he should turn the horse around and race you back to the golden palace on top of the golden steps, placing you by your father’s side. He’ll apologize, of course, to both him and you. He will get down on his knees and take your hand, pressing light and gentle kisses to your knuckles and ask for your forgiveness, to show him the same mercy and kindness that you do to your people.

You deserve better than being forced across the continent, to move from one edge of the world to the other. Xavier knows this. He traveled the world with his father in the hopes of conquering Nabira, the mysterious city dressed in gold, but after seeing you…Xavier convinced himself that Nabira was not for the taking. He also knows that he must play the role of villain in your story. He must be seen as the man who chose you, who forced you to move away from everything that you love and from the place you call home.

It doesn’t help that you drive him crazy with the way you talked back to him, your voice and words as sharp as the dagger he used against your brother. You are blunt and your mind is fast. Xavier does not know if he can truly keep up with you, having to resort to asserting his newfound dominance over you as your husband instead of listening and being respectful like a crown prince should be.

You are everything that he was taught a princess should not be. You are outspoken and speak your mind. He remembers the way you spoke to him, how quick you were to defend your kingdom with no regard for your status or rank in life. You were Nabira’s defender in that moment and he was just another man who wished to pillage and purge the kingdom of its beauty and resources.

The horse reaches the edge of the kingdom’s borders. The rest of the Philos army sits just outside the burnt walls where Nabiran men begin to fix the wall, sealing the cracks in the stone and rebuilding the places where the tan stones and rocks fell. You swallow the lump in your throat at the sight. Xavier’s grip tightens on the reins. It sends chills throughout your body to see just how easily it was for a new kingdom like Philos to break through.

Didn’t an emperor from along ago vow to protect your kingdom? Surely there is something he can do from behind the grave, to help your kingdom in its time of need and provide aid.

A sigh leaves your lips. Xavier leans forward, his lips bushing the shell of your ear. His breath is hot against your skin and yet you have never felt colder in your life. You tilt your face back to him ever so slightly, your eyes meeting his as the tips of your noses and lips dare to brush against each other. Your grip on the pommel tightens. Your nails dig into the leather, marking it with crescents.

“Are you nervous?” Xavier whispers, his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the cheers of the Philos soldiers and the angry clanging of metal against metal.

Your response isn’t immediate. His eyes burn into yours, making you feel small compared to him. Your eyes sting but no tears fall. Xavier slowly moves one of his hand from the reins of the horse. Your heart pounds inside your chest. He places his hand on top of your chest, a bold move that he can hide among the chaos of the environment, and somehow it roots you back into the earth.

“Steady,” Xavier breathes out, your heart pounding against the arm metal of his armor, “I got you.”

From the corner of your eye, you watch as soldiers mount their horses while others remain on the ground, hands resting on the hilt of their swords. They’re smiling. It makes you nauseous to see just how happy they are while your kingdom burns from around you. They laugh and converse as if they did not slaughter a plethora of your father’s men, nor are they sad at the fact that many of their own man, their brothers in arms, have perished on the battlefield as well.

“Will they remain?” you ask, nodding your head in the direction of tents that are still constructed. It actually pains you to know that those men — men who are undeserving of reaping Nabira’s resources and beauty — will be the ones to stay behind while you are taken away.

“Yes,” Xavier says, “they will stay behind and help protect the kingdom as written in our marriage contract.”

You slowly nod, going over his words in your head. You look around at the men. Most of them are on the younger side, perhaps they are unmarried and hold no major attachment back in Philos. The men on the horses are much older with scars traveling up their necks and arms, poking through the exposed cracks and spaces of their armor and undergarments. 

“I can assure you that they are the best of the best—”

“No,” you cut Xavier off, the horse picking up speed once the area clears. “They’re the disposable ones. Ones that have no wives nor children who wait for them in Philos.”

“The same could be said about you, domina,” Xavier’s tone turns sharp. He pushes forward, his hips connecting with yours as the horse’s trot evolves into a light gallop. “Is that not what your father has done to you?”

“You and your army forced his hand,” you bite back the bitter taste that forms across your tongue. “I am not disposable. I am merely a pawn in the game between kings.”

His metal armor is rough against your back, connecting with your spine and bones. Xavier moves the reins into one hand, the other one moving to rest on your stomach. He pulls your back into his chest. Your breath gets caught in your throat. Xavier holds back on moving his hand upwards, to feel your heartbeat like he did a few minutes ago. The wood of your bow digs into your flesh, pressing against Xavier’s armor.

Of course, he is protected while you are left to deal with the pain.

“Disposable? No…” Xavier murmurs into your ear. “Leverage? Yes.”

Chills run down your spine. Butterflies erupt in the lower places of your stomach while your skin runs cold. You let out a quiet gasp, one that you hope to the gods and your ancestors that Xavier does not hear. His touch on you tightens. The edges of his armor poke into your body. Breathless, you place your hand on top of his, your skin absorbing the heat that has been in contact with the shining silver armor. You gnaw at the inside of your cheek, fighting back the tears that well in your eyes as your emotions overtake your body.

Xavier feels the tension in your body. The once strong domina has come to realize her new position in life. His heart aches for you, wishing for him to reach out and hold you close, to soak in all of the angst and turmoil that crashes throughout your body. He can’t, though, knowing that you will reject him at any and every turn that may occur, any chance to come together as one instead of being forced together.

The ends of your veil flick in the wind, gently tapping against his armor. In the distance, his father sits on his horse, overlooking the part of the land where the sand dunes turn into spaced out green shrubbery with the sand intermixed with the landscape.

Xavier’s white horse moves across the land, quickly approaching his father up on the hill. Their army begins to fall in line from behind, an informal procession out of the kingdom and into the wilds of the rest of the world. You hold on to Xavier’s arm, steadying yourself against his body before he tugs on the reins, the horse slowing down.

“Father,” Xavier speaks, his voice carrying from over your shoulder, “the troops are ready to move on your mark.”

The King of Philos turns his torso to stare at his son and his future bride. Together, they are Philos’ future. You and Xavier will be the ones who carry on the tradition of the kingdom, upholding its values as well as producing heirs to strengthen his family’s bloodline. His eyes fall onto you and he gives you a small bow of the head before turning his attention back to his son, a small smirk, one that is not hard to catch, spreading across his face.

“You two may ride ahead, if you please,” his words cause you discomfort, forcing you lean back into Xavier. His grip on you tightens before loosening, a reassuring squeeze of his promise from before.

Steady…I got you.

“You know the way. My army and I will catch up soon enough,” he continues. His eyes take their liberties and roam your body. He licks his chapped lips and gestures to the land that lies before the two of you.

You draw in a breath and feel Xavier move from behind. You turn around, your eyes meeting his. He closes some of the distance and lowers his head as if he is about to listen to your command. You hesitate, fingers digging into the silver that coats his body, and you let out a shaky sigh.

“I wish…to get one last look,” you breathe out. Xavier pulls away with a small nod.

Your eyes never leave each other and you’re suddenly thankful for the veil that covers your face as the sun continues to rise in the sky, no longer hidden beneath the horizon. You nod your head to a large sand dune not too far away. Xavier glances at it and nods, giving the reins a squeeze and tug in the direction to guide the horse.

The ride over is silent except for the sounds of the horse’s breathing and the wood of your bow meeting the chest plate of his armor. You have become accustomed to Xavier’s body against yours now. Well, you’ve become accustomed to his armor rather than his own body. He has only ever worn it in your presence, not that you are surprised by the idea seeing how he is living in what he perceives to be a war zone. It is not comfortable by any means but it definitely helps out your back and hinders any future pain from seeping into your muscles and bones.

 If only you knew that Xavier does not mind your weight being pressed against him.

“Is this spot okay?” Xavier asks.

You nod and look around as the heels of your feet tap against the side of the horse. The animal comes to a slow beside the ruins of what was once a great Roman outpost, a place where their scouts could see invaders from far away. The stone walls have fallen and what is left is the remnants of the past. Cracks spread across the rocks, fractured from time.

Xavier swings his leg over the horse. He drops to the ground, his grasp on your body releasing. You watch him and slide back into his spot, holding the reins in your hands now. His blue eyes meet yours then his hands follow. You slip the reins into his hands. He walks the horse over to the ruins and ties the reins to the almost disintegrated column. Once he is done, he turns his attention back to you.

Xavier slips the metal gloves off of his hands. He opens the satchel that hangs off the horse’s side and tucks them away, his hands connecting with your legs. You shiver, the air in your lungs slipping away. His calloused hands slide from your knees and up your thighs, the warmth of his touch seeping through the material of your skirt. Goosebumps form across your skin. You look down at him as he helps move your leg over the horse’s neck. His hands slip to your waist, his fingers digging into your body. 

The prince lifts you from the horse, slowly lowering you to the ground. You are trapped between his chest and the animal, your eyes never leaving each other. Once your feet touch the ground, you go to move but Xavier keeps you in place. He moves one hand away from your waist. It travels up your body, sparks flying between your bodies.

“Xavier,” you whisper his name, unsure if his sudden closeness is a threat or something more.

Xavier leans down, the tip of his nose grazing against yours. You shudder, your breaths mixing together into one. He leans forward but you draw away, removing his hands from your body, and moving around him and into the light of the morning sun. He lets out a quiet sigh, turning on his heel.

You move to the edge of the dune, your feet kicking up the sand. Nabira sits in the distance. Its walls shimmer and glisten under the light, signaling an oasis in a place where the earth can be so cruel. You already miss the distinct floral smell the closer you get towards the palace, the freshly cooked foods in the marketplace, and you miss the way the people smiled as you pass in the street. You’re going to miss the safe haven out in the small stretch of desert by the palace where the statues of your ancestors sit.

Xavier moves behind you. He looks at the back of your head, quietly watching as you remove the veil from your head. You wrap it around the top of your bow. The thin and shimmery fabric floats in the wind, tethered to the tip of the wooden bow. He watches you with a close eye, noticing your trembling hands.

He closes the distance, his chest just a small space away from your back. The tips of his fingers tap your waist. You don’t flinch, already used to the feeling of his hands on your body, and he presses further, the palms of his hands flattening against your sides. His chest plate follows, the warm metal pressed up against your back. You shudder and keep your gaze fixated on the glimmering sight of your home.

“Tell me of Philos,” your voice breaks through the silence, “what does it look like?”

Xavier pauses for a moment. Your pairs of eyes look upon Nabira, the way it blends into the desert while sticking out at the same time. It will be hard to imagine what his kingdom looks like by deciphering his words. You have only ever known the desert and the surrounding areas, seeing green and yellow shrubbery let alone san entire sea of green. Your father’s garden was the closest thing you got to exploring the world and seeing exotic plants and flowers.

“Philos…Philos is different than Nabira,” Xavier begins, “there are many hills like the dunes, but they are covered in green grass and flowers, sometimes even orchards. Water is plentiful with lakes and rivers near the castle. There are beaches, too, if you wish for me to take you there. Our home lays on the top of a mountain. The castle touches the clouds.”

“The clouds?” you whisper in disbelief. Xavier hums in response.

“There is a forest by the castle as well, with many animals in it. Deer, bears, wolves, squirrels…” Xavier murmurs.

The wind picks up from around you. Tiny specks of sand collide with your body, the gentle stinging sensation tingling your exposed skin. Xavier leans down, his mouth hovering beside your ear. You continue to gaze at Nabira, a pang of sadness pouring through your body but it slowly disappears as you begin to accept your destiny and the life your ancestors have laid out for you.

“Why did you remove the veil, domina?” Xavier asks. You tilt your face to the side, capturing his gaze with yours.

“Nabira will never see my face,” you respond in a quiet voice, “there is no need for the veil out here.”

The first day of travel is hard. Xavier’s father and the army that will return home caught up with the two of you as soon as you returned to the road. Xavier sat behind you again, his grip on the reins tight while you rested your weight into his body. When he grew weary, you would take the reins and allowed him to rest upon you, closing his eyes while the army of people crossed through the desert and towards the port.

It is only a few days of travel to get to the port. It sits on a sea that connects a bounty of kingdoms and was a vital tool for your ancestor’s reach during his time as the Roman emperor. You learned about it from books just how useful having a port on this sea is. You are grateful that your father has provided you the decency of traveling by boat to cut down your travel time, using his alliance with the Lemurians to provide this grace.

The journey to the port, though, was proving to be tiresome.

The sun is high in the sky, scorching rays of heat hitting the Philos army. Xavier has shed himself of his outer layers of armor, the metal being taken away as a single layer of chainmail remained. His sword remained at his wide, attached to his hip. You remained in front of him, hands attached to the pommel of his saddle.

Unlike Xavier, you are used to the heat of the desert. His face is a slight red color. Your veil helped protect him from the sun, providing shade for his eyes while the horse trotted along. Soldiers poked fun at him while your shared horse slowed down, the men passing you by. Their laughs died, though, when Xavier shot them a glare, demanding respect for their future king.

The heat reminds you of sweet memories of your childhood where you and your brother would accompany your parents to political events outside of the kingdom with allies who would never betray Nabira. The two of you sat with your parents on their horses, pretending that you were on the run from the mad king. Your parents played along, even getting the soldiers to join in when you made camp, wooden swords in your hands as you and your brother ran around camp.

The horse trots along and with Xavier preoccupied in a conversation with another high ranking solider, speaking about previous battles and what they plan to do once they get back home. You reach your hand into the satchel you father gave you. A small assortment of bread, hard cheeses, dried fruits, dried meat, and nuts. Each piece of food individually wrapped up, protecting the silks in your bags as well as the diary. You slip the diary free from the bag, holding it out into the open afternoon light.

The gold of the diary sparkles, the leather strap keeping the pages together. You tilt it around and inspect every corner and crevice. You lick your dry lips and feel Xavier’s chest move from laughter. His hand rests on his thigh, the white colors of his pants reflecting as much heat as possible. Your gaze flickers to his knees, waiting for a brief moment before opening up the dairy. The horse picks up speed as Xavier moves you two through the pack, growing closer and closer to the front where the king rides.

It is written in your mother tongue, the familiar curves and script of the letters filling your vision. Each entry is delicately written into the tan and worn pages. You graze your fingers over the words. A gust of wind picks up your hair as your scan the words of the pages with widened and attentive eyes.

“What’s that?” Xavier’s voice fills your ear, sending chills down your spine. You snap the book shut, turning to look at the light haired man. His blue eyes are so soft and there is a dustiness to the colors of his irises that pull you in, making you want to lower your defenses while around him.

“It’s nothing,” you respond, speaking in his native language.

You haven’t spoken a single word of your mother tongue since you left the castle walls. That part of your life has officially come to an end, hasn’t it? The first stage of your assimilation into a new kingdom requiring you to adopt their language. Next will be you forced into their clothes, adjusting to their food and table manners, learning all of their customs and traditions while yours becomes nonexistent in your life.

“It is something my father gave me…advice and tales of Nabira…do I don’t forget where I came from,” you say, looking up at a Xavier from over your shoulder.

He tilts his head to the side then nods, turning his attention elsewhere. You let out a silent breath of relief and turn back to the diary, opening up its pages. You don’t touch anything else, simply the edges of the diary as if it is a precious artifact that you must protect from the rest of the world.

The wind moves the pages, one page sticking out as the others remain flat. You tilt your head to the side, eyes trained on the first few words of the page. The entry is about the author’s first time in a new place, all of her thoughts and feelings sprawled out on the bound piece of parchment.

She speaks of her journey to Rome, how long the traveling took to go from Nabira to Rome. Unlike you, the emperor did not come to pick her up himself…perhaps it was a power move to assert his dominance over her. You can’t even begin to think about what Xavier may have planned for you on the way back to Philos.

Her words give you comfort. Her inked fingerprints stain the pages, causing you to smile. She knows what it is like to be shipped away from Nabira, her life uprooted and in turmoil with her new setting. She is lucky that she was sent to Rome instead of being pushed farther away to the other side of the world. Her story is tragic, just like yours, and she was married off to an emperor instead of a king. Which one is worse, you do not know. She was subjected to the public light and scrutiny from the nobles of Rome. It makes you feel uneasy to think about.

Will your life be a constant game of strategy? Will you have to navigate gossip and rumors about your person? Will your status and legitimacy for the role as future queen be called into question?

Xavier has reassured you that you will be loved by the people of Philos, but they are not the ones you are weary of. You are nervous to encounter the nobles of his kingdom, to interact with Dukes and Lords who wished for their daughter to ascend to the throne instead of a woman who comes from a far away land.

To them, you are an enemy. Someone to take out without the king or prince knowing, a silent assassination so that their daughters may thrive. Will Xavier be there to save you? To shield you from their senseless attacks?

Or will he be the one to guide you to your inevitable end just like he did with your brother?

You continue to read her words, soaking in the wisdom that she has to offer. You skip through the pages, catching glimpses of her life one bit at a time. The entries speak to you, offering you wisdom for the future that lies ahead. She is clearly smart, seeing how she was able to evade her future husband’s mistress and her attempts to destroy her reputation. 

You close the book, taking a quick peek inside the cover. That’s when you see it.

Her name.

The same name as the woman your kingdom adores, the woman whose statue you speak to during your times of need. It is like fate itself has granted you medicine in the form of her diary to provide you the comfort you need when stepping into this new world.

She speaks of adopting a new culture while remaining loyal to Nabira, a lot of her actions and appearances influenced by the glamor of your kingdom.

Your unsteady heart calms. The diary closes and your fingers graze over the smooth metal accents, metal that has been worn down through the years. Even the leather is beginning to dry up after hundreds of years, slightly crunchy and cracked in between your fingers. A bit of oil or some type of grease will help mend the fresh cracks, to keep the diary alive for the daughters that will come from you and Xavier, if you have any, that is.

You turn the page, gently rolling your bottom lip between your teeth. Her journey was long and she travelled by carriage, much more comfortable than being on horseback with your future husband. She was alone, though, while you have the company of the man you will lay beside. Her words are strong and they reassure you, validating your turbulent emotions.

The pages are crisp and dry between your fingers. You flick the page, revealing the next chapter in her life. She speaks of the emperor and their first encounter alone with one another.

He looked at me like I was made of something holy. Not silk. Not gold. Not treaties or thrones. Just… me. I have never been seen like that before. And gods help me, it terrified me more than war ever could.

You think back to your first encounter with Xavier, the way the two of you observed each other in silence before you inevitably grew tired of his disrespect for your kingdom. You remember the glare in his eyes, the hint of danger that laid underneath his blue irises, a fire that you wanted to snuff out.

Xavier looked at you as if you were any other woman. There was no warmth from behind his eyes and yet when he took your hand in his, his touch was gentle. The kiss he placed along your knuckles was light and reverent, respectful of your title as domina. He is a prince, after all, so you brush it off as him being trained to be gentle towards women, especially those he may marry.

“What does the book speak of?” Xavier’s voice draws you from your thoughts. When you don’t respond, Xavier clears his throat and looks to the side, staring at the soldiers that begin to make camp in the open clearing. “You haven’t spoken since you opened it.”

You close the diary and turn to look at him, the horse coming to a slow halt. The sun has begun to set and the time to make camp has come upon the army. Xavier slips off of the horse and passes the reins off to a soldier who runs towards the two of you. He bows his head to Xavier first before bowing to you. Xavier’s hands find themselves at your waist, helping you off of the horse once again.

“It is a diary from a previous domina,” you say, speaking a censored version of the truth, not wanting to let him in just yet, “my father thought it would help me.”

“Your father is a smart man,” Xavier comments. He flattens out the wrinkles of your skirt, his touch burning into the skin of your hip. He turns his attention to the bow that is wrapped around your body. He reaches up and grabs the sinew drawstring between his fingers, giving it a feel. “You shoot?”

“A hobby, your Highness,” you can feel your cheeks heat up due to his close proximity to you but you force the feeling away. “I hope to never have to use it against a man.”

“You won’t,” Xavier’s response is quick and determined. His eyes flicker to yours, slightly darkening, his expression softening ever so slightly. “Thou will never use a weapon to protect herself…I will do the fighting for you.”

Butterflies erupt in your stomach. You gulp and tear your gaze away from his, gnawing at the inside of your cheek as you try to get your mind off of his words. They reassure you of your place by his side, one that he had a hand in choosing. Xavier chose you. He chose you out of a plethora of ladies that were sure to have been presented to him and yet here is he pledging his silent allegiance to you.

You know that you should feel safe, perhaps even a little flattered for him to come to arms for your honor so quick, but every piece of new information that you receive from this point on will forever be tainted by his hands, by the world he lives in and the people he interacts with. You must always look twice and take your time when responding. For the rest of your days, you will never know if people truly mean what they say or if it is a facade, a room filled with smoke and mirrors, to take the crown from your head.

It is a life of damnation and manipulation. You’ll adjust to it soon enough.

“One of the men will set up a tent for you to sleep in, domina,” Xavier says. He grabs your chin, moving your head to look back at him. His eyes move to a dark spot on your cheek. The pad of his thumb creeps up, wiping away the dust and dirt that formed on your face. “There will be a man stationed outside your tent for your protection.”

“And you?” you speak before you can even think. “Where will you be?”

A hint of a smile flashes across Xavier’s face before it disappears. He retracts his hand and tilts his head to the side. It’s quiet. You listen to the sound of hammers securing metal nails into the ground, the construction of tents beginning. His hands rest on the hilt of his sword before his eyes lower to the quiver that sits at your waist. He plucks an arrow and raises it in the air, eyes focused on the metallic arrowhead instead of you. He runs the pad of his thumb along the sharp edge, drawing a light amount of blood from his finger.

“Where would you like me to be?” Xavier asks, eyes fluttering back to you.

“Far,” you narrow your gaze at him, “far, far away.”

Xavier chuckles and slips the arrow back into the quiver at your side. The black crow feathers reflect the dusk’s sunlight. You cross your arms over your chest. He simply nods his head in response, taking a step backward as the Philos soldiers work around him. He slightly bows down, lowering his head with his hands fitted at his sides. When he straightens his posture, your eyes meet, the corner of his lips tugging upwards.

“As you wish, princess,” Xavier’s voice is low and husky.

Your lips part and you are forced to watch as he turns away, disappearing into the crowd and blur of working soldiers. A breath leaves your lips, one made out of pure relief for the space that grows between you and Xavier. You grab your bag, the one filled with Nabiran goods and a change of clothes, and look around the camp that quickly comes together.

You are alone. Completely and utterly alone. You are the only woman at camp too, which makes things worse for you. The temperament of men has always scared you. They choose to do what they wish, an air of superiority always following them around. They think that they can come and go as they please, that they are allowed to take what they want without consequence. Well, that’s what the noble men have acted like in your life.

You have heard the stories of peasant men in Nabira through your brother. Your father always tried to keep your ears away from the stories of men who kill for fun and pleasure, those who take whatever woman they want and discard them once they are done. Nabiran law has protected these women and the men who have been caught were always thrown into prison, left to rot, but it still leaves you feeling uneasy to know that your supposed protector, Xavier, is of the same kind as the men who slaughtered hundreds.

He is a man who was killed. You do not know if he takes pleasure in it or if he kills because he feels worthy enough to take life. The crown and title of prince can do that to people, corrupt them into thinking that their reign must be one of fear and terror, to rule with an iron fist and beat their people into submission.

From what you have seen, though, Xavier does not seem to be that way. You listened to his conversations with his father and the higher ranking generals that accompanied him on the conquest east to Nabira. He is smart and his choices are decisive. He shares a lot of the same qualities that she spoke of in her diary, of the man she was forced to marry. They are both level headed but can be easily swayed if convinced hard enough. Both men are great military leaders with great victories and achievements under their name and it is all for the glory of their homeland.

You slip through the crowd of soldiers, eyes scanning the waves of men who laugh and cheer with one another. They do not look in your direction. When they notice you, though, they go quiet and bow their heads or raise their cups in your direction before moving back to their own conversations.

Xavier is nowhere to be seen. Many of the soldiers do not share the same shade of dusty silver hair nor do they hold the same eye color as him. Among them, Xavier looks divine, a god amongst mortals. You wonder if he shares the same talent as the men in your family do, the ability to wield a force of nature and command it.

The crown prince remains on your mind as you mind refuge with the men who begin to cook. They welcome you with open arms and even let you decide what meat to cook for the shared dinner, promising to give you the best bits. They allowed you to place your belongings with them until your tent was made ready.

You caught glimpses of Xavier as soon as you distracted your mind, eating a piece of bread that the cooks gave you. He bowed his head before leaving your sight. It was a silent game of cat and mouse that you have found yourself with him. Only in this instance, you are the cat trying to find him, the mouse.

His touch still burns against your skin. You can feel the heat from his fingers when he helped you off of the horse, the covered patches where his hand grazed your body. The thought of it sends chills down your spine. You quickly come to the understanding that you need to distance yourself with him while you travel to Philos. A talk with his father, the King, should do, yes? You can only hope.

The satchel bumps against your hip, gently colliding with your quiver. Men move all around you, parting like the tale about the Red Sea, leading you straight towards the King’s tent.

The cloth is white with blue and purple designs etched throughout the material. It is large and two men stand at the entrance with their swords hanging from their sides. When you approach, they bow their heads and hold open one of the tent’s flaps, the entrance opening and revealing warm candlelight on the inside of the tent. You step inside and look to the side, noticing Xavier standing inside, all of his armor and chainmail finally off of his body. He wears a simple oversized shirt, the white cotton revealing the top portion of his chest and the sleeves rolled up his arms, and it is matched with brown leather pants.

No words leave your mouth, stunned by the sight of his toned arms. Your complaint about him disappears. You can barely even make a sound until he turns to look at you, his blue gaze traveling across your body, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“I thought you wished to be rid of me,” Xavier muses with a small smile. He places a sword on the cot and turns his attention back towards you, his blue eyes as soft as ever.

“I wished to be away from you,” you hold back an eye roll while you correct him, “not to be rid of you. Where is your father? I must speak with him.”

“If you have anything to say, princess,” the change of title irks you, making you feel like his prey, “you may speak to me.”

“Is that because you are to be my husband?” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest.

“No, it is because I am the future of his kingdom and will be king one day,” Xavier’s words slice through your comment, killing any of the humor and negative emotions that were hidden behind it. He approaches you but turns at the last second, moving towards a wooden table that holds silver plates and goblets. He turns to you and leans against the table, hands folded in front of him. “Tell me what is on your mind.”

“I wish to have my own horse,” you finally break your silence and your hands fall to your sides.

“A horse?” Xavier questions. “Are you already tired of me?”

“I do not see how sharing one with you is advantageous to either of us,” you huff, “I am more than capable of riding on my own.”

“I know you are more than capable,” Xavier pushes off of the wooden table and crosses the distance between you and him. You tilt your chin up, eyes meeting his. You take a step backwards, the back of your legs hitting the King’s cot. He leans down, forcing his way into your space. “We cannot spare one.”

“You cannot?”

“No,” Xavier reaches up and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, “we cannot.”

“Shame,” you whisper.

“Indeed,” Xavier whispers. He reaches up and grabs your chin, moving your face back and forth. A compliment hangs on the tip of his tongue, ready to be released into the world, to show you that he means no harm, just to protect you while you journey to Philos. A gesture to show his goodwill during a time where you undoubtedly feel isolated and scared.

“If I did not know better, one would think that you wish to be near me,” you speak boldly.

“Is that a bad thing, princess?” Xavier quickly counters. “We are to be wed…you will be my wife and I, your husband. Should we not know each other?”

“One would think that you are trying to taint my honor,” you respond, matching the low volume of his voice, “to damage me before the time comes.”

“Is that what you think of me? A man who wishes to ruin you?” Xavier questions, tilting his head to the side.

Xavier’s gaze drops to your lips. They’re so perfect, recently coated in a familiar oil that got rid of any cracks or chapped skin. Your perfume is intoxicating, the floral scent captivating him. He slowly leans his head further down. You do not push him away, remaining frozen in place as your once wide eyes slowly close.

A compliment of your beauty, the way your presence has made him reevaluate his priorities in life while you rode a great distance. He noticed the specks of gold in your eyes, a signature of the Nabiran royalty just like his own pale hair and light colored eyes.

The prince cups your cheek. The pad of his thumb traces over your bottom lip, a quiet sigh fleeing from your lips.

“Are you afraid of me?” Xavier quietly asks.

“No,” you answer, “I am afraid of my circumstance.”

“No, you do not fear that,” he whispers, “you detest it and in turn…you detest me.”

His words cause you to reach up and place your hand over his, trapping it against the side of your face. Your fingers curl around the palm of his hand. He takes a step forward, his chest a minuscule distance from your own, and he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Forgive me,” Xavier sighs, breathing in your scent, memorizing the hints of spice in your perfume. “Forgive me for the sins I have committed against you.”

Unsure of what to say to him, unable to procure forgiveness that he desperately seeks, you remain frozen in time, his skin burning against yours.

How do you forgive a murder? A man who once wished to take your family’s kingdom — your kingdom — as his own. Do you give him penance? Will there be a habitual routine he must complete in order to gain your favor?

None of which will bring your brother back. Xavier’s punishment will not reverse the contract that has been signed, the odyssey that you are taking across the world to step into a queen’s shoes, to help run a kingdom you heard of in fairytales and stories your mother read to you.

Anger remains inside your body. It festers in the crevices of your stomach, nausea taking over your body as your body is pressed against his. Xavier’s hands attach to your waist, dragging you towards him as his nose rubs against yours. Your grip on his hand moves to his wrist, gripping it tightly. Your nails dig into his skin, crescents forming in his pale skin.

Your silence worries him but he knows that it is a battle that will only make the war between the two of you more destructive than it needs to be.

Xavier releases your waist and takes a step back. His hand moves up your side, trailing along the lines of your shoulder as he traces down your arm, his hand finding yours. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your fragrant skin. Your eyes meet his.

“My apologies, your highness,” Xavier clears his throat, his voice still gentle and quiet. He stares at your hand, memorizing the golden rings that grace your fingers. “I do not know what came over me.”

He drops your hand and bows. The prince grabs his sword from the cot, fastening the belt around his waist, before he heads towards the exit, his silver locks reflecting the moonlight. You remain in place before you will your feet to follow him. You exit the tent seconds after him.

You scan the crowd for his silver hair but it is of no use, the crown prince disappearing in the night.

as always, likes, comments, & reblogs are greatly appreciated <3

[m00nchildwrites]

this memory !!

I watch it every morning 😭

[m00nchildwrites]

[Translated Comic] Feverish Attempts

Original artist: norelle-n

Source ll Permission

❀ Please do not repost! ❀

Caption: When Xavon is being cheeky, discipline him with your mouth!

[m00nchildwrites]

i drew rhiz for my friend ⭐️ goodluck to da xavier mainz tomorrow

[m00nchildwrites]

fem! reader x rafayel. royal! au. sea horror! au. heavy angst. minor and major character death. slow burn. romance. fluff. explicit smut. trauma. religious themes. gore; hinted torture, cannibalism, decapitation, self-cannibalism. violence. wc: 4.8k

masterlist | playlist | taglist | prev. | next.

a/n: now that lemurian rafayel is out (I GOT HIM SUCKAS) and i was basically right...about a lot...especially stuff for this story...i hope yall enjoy! Thanks for the patience and for reading! Also, we hit 600!! how cool is that?!

VIII: CAPITOL, NOT CAPITAL

The siren winced. The gills along his neck flexed uselessly, aching with every breath. Each gust of salty wind that slipped through the seams of the ship was a cruel tease—mocking his body with what it craved but couldn’t reach. The burning was constant now, a low simmering pain that curled deep into his muscles.

The fin on his tail throbbed with a pulsing sting, swollen and darkening at the edges where the harpoon had torn through. Infection had surely begun its slow crawl. He didn’t bother looking at it; he could feel the damage well enough. What was once a perfect crescent of shimmering membrane now hung in ragged tatters.

With a sharp inhale through his mouth—lungs again, still unfamiliar and too dry—he sat up straighter. His back cracked from disuse. The air didn’t hurt as much anymore. His lungs had adjusted quicker than he liked. That was unsettling.

His hair, long and tangled with brine and debris, clung to his face in heavy strands. He pushed it away with a trembling hand, his fingers twitching with restraint. The sharp tips of his nails clicked against his teeth as he bit them down—he didn’t want to, but it was a habit borne of pain and worry. The act calmed him, somehow. Or maybe it just made him feel something he could control.

The room stank of mildew and old metal. It was quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood or the distant thud of boots above. He closed his eyes and listened—counted every step, every sound, every wave that splashed against the hull. A rot wafted through the wood, moist and appalling—sharp enough to sting the nostrils. It crawled down into the brig like a warning. The scent was too fresh, too wet, not like the usual staleness of brine and old blood. The men upstairs had likely exposed a new hunt. Something freshly dead. Or dying.

The boards above groaned under hurried boots, followed by the drag of something heavy. He could hear the muffled grunts, the slosh of water spilling from some overturned basin, and then—laughter. Harsh and breathless. Unsettling.

He didn’t move. Just opened his eyes slowly, slits narrowing, and let the rot settle in his lungs like smoke. There was death above. He could taste it. And though his own wounds throbbed and his body screamed from confinement, a darker thought rippled under his skin—

The deck above lay swathed in darkness and fog, the sea groaning at its side. Before them, the crew hauled a heavy shape from the black water into the lantern’s trembling light. At first it looked like driftwood entwined with seaweed; then a murmur rippled through the sailors as the outline resolved into something horrifyingly human. 

The body hit the deck with a heavy thump, soaked limbs slapping the planks like dead fish. A few of the crew barely looked up. They'd seen worse—dragging things from the water was part of the job, and dead girls weren’t as rare as anyone liked to pretend.

"Another one," grunted Ryder, stepping aside so the water pooling from her hair wouldn’t soak into his boots. "Guess she didn’t make the cut."

“Drowned or thrown?” Kieran asked as he leaned over the rail and peered at the pale form. He didn’t sound particularly concerned, just mildly curious. His arms were crossed, one foot tapping against a coil of rope.

“Both,” muttered Marlon. “Smell that? That’s rot mixed with regret, that is.”

Luke crouched near the body and inspected her without flinching. “She’s fresher than the last one,” he said, poking gently at the bruised side. His finger brushed over a massive bite mark—deep, curved, too wide for any ordinary animal. “See that? Took a chunk outta her ribs. Shit’s jagged. Ain’t no clean kill.”

"Shuveyr's teeth," muttered one of the younger sailors, nudging the jaw shut with his boot. “She got torn. Whatever it was went through her like she was nothing but seaweed.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Kieran said with a yawn. “There’s worse down there. At least this one still has her face.”

“She’s still wearing one of those offering dresses,” Luke pointed out, squinting. The lace was stiff with salt, its edges tangled in seaweed, pearls clinging to the tatters like barnacles. “Fancy stitching, see? That’s government work. She was meant to be seen when she went in.”

“Guess someone saw her alright,” Kieran muttered, glancing at the bite wound again. “But not in the way they intended.”

The crew chuckled dryly. Gallows humor had long since become survival.

“Should we toss her?” Ryder asked, already wiping his hands off on a rag. “Or hang her up till port?”

“Keep her till we dock,” Luke said, standing. “If she’s from a noble house, there might be a bounty. They like to know how their daughters died—keeps ‘em paying for protection.”

“Gods,” Kieran muttered, cracking his neck. “Imagine paying coin just to hear your girl got shredded like crab meat.”

“Better than not knowing,” Luke replied flatly.

One of the older men whistled low, shaking his head as he began dragging a tarp over her. “Still. No screamers. That’s what’s strange to me. Always figured the sea’d at least let ‘em beg before it takes 'em.”

"Not if they go unconscious first," another offered. "Or if it’s quick."

Luke raised a brow. “That bite doesn’t look quick.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Kieran agreed. “But maybe she was lucky. Maybe she was already gone.”

They all stood in silence for a beat, the tarp settling over the girl like a shroud. Somewhere below, the captured siren thrashed faintly in his chains, as if he sensed the dead nearby.

Luke stretched, adjusting his gloves. “All right, enough of that. Let’s get back to work. If there’s one, there’s bound to be more.”

“Great,” Ryder groaned. “Can’t wait to meet her sisters.”

The sailors grunted as they hoisted the soaked bundle over their shoulders, a limp shape wrapped in half-frozen nets and trailing seaweed like funeral ribbons. Her limbs flopped, ungraceful and stiff. They didn’t flinch, didn’t even wrinkle their noses—too many years of hauling worse things from the ocean had long since hardened their stomachs.

“She’s fresh-ish,” one of them muttered, boots clunking against the wooden stairs as they descended below deck. “Goddess only knows how she floated back up.”

Another snorted. “Floatin’? Looks more like she walked up herself. Still got meat on her bones.”

“Thought yall thought it was old.”

“Who the hell knows? The sea ages everything.”

Kieran leaned over the rail above, eyeing the body with casual detachment. “What’s the damage?”

“Aside from the rot? Left thigh,” said the first man. “Bit clean through. Somethin’ big. Shark, maybe.”

The men didn’t lower her gently—they threw her. Her body hit the floor with a wet thud, the side of her shoulder crashing against the iron bars of the siren’s cage with a hollow clang.

The siren flinched. His eyes snapped down.

Her skin was pale—too pale—bloated in places, peeling in others, and her hair, once brown or red, floated like ribbons of dried seaweed. The wound on her thigh was jagged, half-healed then re-opened, tendons exposed beneath grey flesh. The nets still tangled around her middle had barnacles growing on them. 

He knew this pet. 

He’d eaten that thigh. 

His jaw clenched as the scent hit him—sharp, mineral-rich, copper laced with salt and decay. His stomach cramped. His nostrils flared. His mouth watered.

One hand slid through the bars before he realized what he was doing. He tore a strip from her arm. Just a shred—skin, fat, muscle—still cold. It melted on his tongue like old memory.

But then—he stopped.

The piece fell from his hand, wet and soft as it hit the floor. He shook his head hard, breath stuttering.

No.

Not like this. Not like a beast, cornered and pathetic.

One of the sailors above leaned over the railing with a smirk, watching the siren slink back into the corner like a dog caught stealing.

“Go’on and take a lil snack, fishie,” he drawled, voice dripping with mockery. A few of the other men chuckled, their boots thudding lazily against the planks.

“Ain’t like you didn’t already start,” another chimed in, jabbing his elbow into his mate’s side. “Did ya want us to warm her up for you too?”

The siren didn’t move. He just stared back—eyes slitted, glowing faintly in the dim light, unblinking. His lips were parted slightly, breath slow and ragged. He could still taste her. The copper tang clung to the back of his throat like rust.

Luke descended halfway down the stairs, wiping his hands on his coat. “He’s not touching the rest,” he noted aloud. “Either he’s full, or he’s got a conscience. Don’t know which is funnier.” Kieran leaned lazily on the post beside him. “What’s it matter? It’s not like we’re gonna actually feed it one of the poor girls on purpose.”

That earned a louder laugh, but the siren didn’t flinch at the joke. Instead, he dragged his nails down the wooden wall behind him with a slow, splintering scrape. The sound cut through the room like a warning—low, guttural. Animal.

The laughter died down.

“Yeah,” Luke muttered, backing up the stairs again. “I’ll be upstairs. Let me know if he starts trying to chew through the bars.”

Kieran lingered a second longer, eyes flicking between the dead girl and the siren. Then he shrugged, and followed.

The body lay still, unmoving, her one half-torn eye catching the flicker of a lantern.

The siren stared at it.

He hadn’t eaten her. 

But Gods above, did he want to.

***

Inside the dark, stuffy carriage, the air was thick with sweat, perfume, and impatience. The windows had been shuttered since they passed through the city gates, blocking out the daylight and whatever bustling grandeur New Anbusas had to offer. The girls sat shoulder to shoulder, the clatter of the wheels against cobblestone making conversation awkward and broken.

“You’d think for such a special delivery, they’d let us breathe,” You muttered, adjusting the fabric of your dress, which had twisted and bunched during the ride. “I’m sweating through silk.”

“They probably don’t want the commoners seeing us,” Harlow replied, voice flat. “Would ruin the illusion. ‘Look at these poor, sticky sacrifices wearing yesterday’s makeup.’”

“I still smell like road piss,” another girl added bitterly. “They made us piss in buckets.”

A light round of tired snickering went around, though it was more from exhaustion than humor.

Lindsey sniffled loudly. Again. “Oh for—what is it now?” You snapped, fed up. “I just… don’t like small spaces…” Lindsey murmured. “And it smells weird.” “It smells like you,” Harlow muttered.

It’s quiet for a moment. Lindsey shifts, adjusting her dress. “Ya know, ever since we past the last stop, my stomach’s been feelin’ funny.”

Groaning, you pressed the heel of your palm to your forehead. “You’re not gonna puke, are you?” 

Lindsey shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “No! I mean—I don’t think so. It’s not like sick-sick. Just… weird. Like something’s twisting.”

“Well, maybe your nerves finally caught up to your appetite,” Harlow drawled. “Or maybe it’s guilt from eating your rations and mine.” “I offered to trade!” Lindsey defended weakly.

You still don’t bother to hide your glare.  “You also cried when I didn’t accept the trade.”

The carriage rattled over another rough patch of street, jostling them all. Outside, horns still echoed in intervals—welcoming trumpets meant to sound grand, but only added to the tension pulsing in the girls’ ears. "Honestly though, Lindsey, what did your family do back in Linkon?" You asked, nudging the quiet with something simple. "I know my gran had a farm, Harlow’s folks had a bakery—pretty sure Theresa’s got..."

"My dad’s a cobbler," Theresa piped up from across the carriage without looking up. She was halfway through braiding her own hair to kill the time. “Right,” You nod, looking back at Lindsey. “So…what do your folks do?”

The question hung in the air longer than expected. Lindsey blinked, her brows twitching as if the words had landed heavier than they should’ve. She scratched her arm absentmindedly. “My family?”

“Yeah,” You said, tone still teasing but softer now, gentled by the shift she felt in Lindsey’s posture. “The people who made you, fed you, scolded you. What do they do for coin?”

Lindsey hesitated, eyes on her lap. Her voice came quieter this time. “My mum worked in the dye house. She did colors for cloth. Mostly saffron and plum when the pigments were cheap enough. She always came home with stained fingers, even when she washed 'em three times.”

There was something in her voice that sounded like pride, but also something older. Threadbare.

"And your dad?" Harlow asked gently. Not poking—just asking. Lindsey’s hand curled tighter around the edge of her dress. “He’s gone. Left when I was five or six. Don't really remember him.”

The wood of the carriage creaked beneath them, and no one spoke right away. Outside, hooves clacked over uneven stone, muffled by the thick velvet covering the windows. Just movement, just darkness, just the smell of sweat and dust and perfume from the soaps they'd been scrubbed with earlier that week.

“Oh...uh..sorry.” Lindsey shook her head, eyes still low. “No, it’s okay. We managed. My older brothers helped when they were around, but conscription took 'em. It's been me and my mum for a while.”

“...Makes sense,” Harlow offered. “About why you... eat fast, sometimes. You’re used to guarding your plate, yeah?” Lindsey let out a weak laugh. “Okay, that’s fair.” Theresa perked up from the corner. “You’re not the only one. I watched you scarf three rolls earlier, Harlow. What’s your excuse?” Harlow blinked at her. Then, in a flat, unbothered tone, she replied, “I was hungry.” There was a pause. “…Fair,” Theresa admitted. “I had to beat Lindsey to it,” Harlow muttered, arms crossed. “She looked like she was eyein’ my last one.” A heavy bang bang bang rattled the wooden wall of the carriage, jolting half the girls out of their slouched positions. Someone even let out a soft yelp—probably Lindsey. The muffled voice of a guard followed immediately after. “Settle down in there! You’re almost to the castle—start acting like it!”

Letting out an exhausted sigh. You lean back against the carriage wall, eyes rolling skyward. “Stars above, it’s not like we’re dancing on the roof- what exactly are we doing that’s so offensive? Talking?”

“They’ll probably line us up and judge who looks the most obedient,” Theresa added with a scoff, tugging her sleeves down over her hands. “It’s like a parade of prized hens.” Lindsey, sitting closest to the window flap, had gone stiff—spine straight, hands neatly clasped in her lap like she was preparing for a sermon. “Do you think they can hear everything we say?” she asked quietly. “No?” it comes out flatly. “They’re not eavesdropping demons. And if they are, then let them be horrified.”

Another knock—quieter this time—landed against the wood. “Sit up. Fix your hair. Make yourselves presentable.”

The carriage creaked as the wheels hit a patch of uneven cobblestone, jostling them again. Outside, they could hear faint horns in the distance—signals of arrival, no doubt—along with the sound of footsteps and distant market chatter bleeding into the capital’s heart.

You don’t answer. Already glancing towards the covered window again, your fingers twitch. You hated not being able to see where they were going—hated even more that, after everything, you were still being taken somewhere you didn’t choose. The carriages finally groaned to a halt, their wheels catching against the mountain stone like bones snapping into place. Dust hung in the air like incense, trailing behind the convoy as horns echoed through the capital city of New Anbusas once again—not as greeting, but as proclamation.

The Collection was complete. 

Somewhere far beyond the thick velvet curtains that wrapped around each carriage window, crowds cheered—or perhaps they didn’t. Perhaps it was just the nobles applauding from their balconies above, performative and shallow, wine sloshing in their cups as they clapped with the tempo of tradition. Either way, the girls couldn’t see them. Not yet. Not ever, really.

The doors of the lead carriage creaked open. Metal steps were brought down with a heavy clang, and the guards’ voices were curt. “On your feet. Let’s keep it tidy.”

Inside, the girls stretched and shifted, wincing from stiff limbs and aching spines. They blinked as light filtered in—but not sunlight. They had emerged into a cloistered walkway, enclosed on all sides. The structure was made of draped silk and narrow wood-beamed canopies, ornately painted and well-oiled to gleam under the lanterns that hung from every beam. Heavy purple-and-gold cloth flanked the path, hanging like regal theater curtains, ensuring no one could see in—or out. The air was perfumed, dense with the cloying scent of rose water, sandalwood, and something strangely metallic underneath it all. 

“What’s with the drapes?” one of the girls murmured. “It’s so the people don’t see us,” Harlow said, her voice softer than usual. “Or maybe so we don’t see them.” You tilt your head. “Seems a little excessive.”

They stepped forward slowly, the polished marble floor beneath them cool as it soaked through their worn soles. The guards on either side of the procession wore pristine white uniforms with crimson sashes, gold-threaded epaulettes shining in the low lantern glow. They never made eye contact. They never answered questions. They never had to. Their job wasn’t to protect the girls—only to guide them, like livestock through a velvet-covered chute. As they moved forward, the procession took on a slow, ritualistic pace. Every ten steps, a bell chimed softly from some unseen hand. Every twenty, priests standing behind grilles of golden lattice whispered chants in low, sonorous voices. 

"In service to the Brother, we give. In honor of the Crown, we preserve. In light of the Sea, we endure."

They passed under towering archways, through flower-strewn corridors that smelled of crushed lilies and drying blood. Far above them—hidden behind carved balconies and stained glass windows—the nobles watched. Women in layered lace dresses held parasols as they tilted their heads, examining the procession like they might a tray of sweets. Lords leaned against balustrades, laughing behind gloved hands, wagering in whispers which girl would go where, and what family would bid highest. None of them saw individuals. They saw investments. Legacies. Insurance policies. 

Even higher still, mounted into the mountainside, loomed the castle itself.

It was not a thing of gentle beauty. It was monumental—gothic in the purest sense. The towers spiraled like spears meant to pierce heaven, and the central spire rose from the mountain like it had erupted from it in a moment of divine fury. The walls were layered in obsidian stone veined with silver and carved with centuries of reliefs—saints, sinners, warriors, martyrs. All kneeling to the same divine figure again: Creceter, the Brother.

The stained-glass windows stretched impossibly tall, like cathedral organs turned into light. Each one depicted a myth: Creceter calming the sea with his voice; Creceter splitting the earth with a raised hand; Creceter blessing the first king of Chronosia. The colors bled red and violet and sharp cerulean into the stone below, casting the girls in divine light as they passed beneath. 

Still they walked.

The path narrowed near the castle gates, funneling them closer together. Their arms brushed. Their dresses tangled. The walkway became a throat, swallowing them into the mountain’s belly. 

The massive doors stood already open—not swung, but recessed into the stone. Carved in deep relief, the doors displayed Creceter once again, arms outstretched. Welcoming. Beckoning. But his smile was wrong, almost mocking. His eyes were made of opal, glinting even in the dim light.

Once inside, the temperature dropped. The light dimmed. Everything smelled of old stone and colder power.

None of the girls could see the clerics who knelt in hidden alcoves, tallying names. None of them saw the hidden scribes with ink-stained fingers noting height, hair color, and lineage. None of them heard the doors slowly grind shut behind them, locking out the last trace of the outside world. 

“This way, ladies. Single file,” came the sharp command.

The voice belonged to an older woman standing just past the threshold of the castle, where the covered walkway funneled the girls inward like livestock into a chute. She was dressed plainly—dull grey skirts, heavy wool, with the kind of apron that had seen decades of spilled ink and salt. Her silver hair was pinned tightly into a no-nonsense knot, and her face was lined with the weary permanence of someone who had done this job too many times to count.

What caught most of the girls’ attention, however, was the cane.

It wasn’t decorative.

It was thick. Heavy. Iron-tipped. And the way the woman gripped it—knuckles white and poised near her hip—made it very clear that hesitation or disobedience would be met with more than just a scolding. “Move along. You can cry later, and don’t think I won’t know if you're sniffling just to get attention.” She turned briskly, cane tapping the stone with each purposeful step. “Some of you may think you’re clever. Some of you might be. I don’t care. You belong to the castle now. That means you belong to me until you’re told otherwise.”

Exchanging a look with Harlow, her brows raised. 

“Charming.” The old maid stopped mid-step and turned, sharp eyes like chipped flint.

“Who said that?”

Silence.

“That’s what I thought.” She tapped the cane once—crack—on the floor. “Line up. Shoulders back. We are not animals. We are not peasants.” 

A sharp thud cracked through the echoing marble hall. One of the girls—skinny, nervous, and near the back—had caught the edge of her boot on the hem of her dress and gone sprawling face-first onto the polished stone. Her palms slapped the floor hard, a dull grunt of embarrassment escaping her.

The line paused. Harlow glanced over her shoulder. You don’t bother hiding your wince. The old maid stopped walking and pivoted slowly, like a storm turning direction.

Her cane struck the floor once. Click.

“You,” she snapped. “Up.”

The girl scrambled awkwardly, brushing her skirts and avoiding every gaze but the one boring into her from the front. The maid didn’t shout. She didn’t raise her voice.

She didn’t need to.

“What are you? A fawn with broken legs? A sack of flour tied too loosely?” Her voice was cold. “If you fall again, you’ll walk the rest barefoot, girl. Understand?” “Yes, ma’am,” the girl mumbled.

The maid’s eyes narrowed. “Speak like you’ve got a spine.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

"Without the attitude," the old maid said coolly, her expression unchanging, but her eyes sharp enough to draw blood.

The girl who had tripped flinched, stiff as a board now. Her cheeks flushed with heat, and her lips trembled before she forced out a softer, more respectful: “...yes, ma’am.”

The maid gave a slow nod, not of approval, but acknowledgment. A warning delivered. No further lashes needed—yet.

The procession continued under the covered walkway, every heelstep echoing louder than before, as if the castle itself listened for weakness.

*** Everything gleamed. The halls were hewn into the mountain itself, marble veined with gold and violet streaks climbing the walls like frozen lightning. Above them, stained glass windows refracted the filtered sun into dappled patterns of Creceter, The Brother, his many arms raised in triumph or burden, depending on how one looked. The windows sang in silence—beauty laced with restraint. This place was not meant to comfort. It was meant to awe.

“Eyes forward, backs straight,” snapped the maid, her voice a precise thing, clipped with nobility and age. She stood barely five feet, draped in a deep plum gown with an apron stark as judgment, a rust-red cane tapping a steady rhythm against the tile. Her name, they were told, was Madame Corritha. No one dared shorten it.

Madame Corritha did not smile. Her hair was pulled back so tightly it looked carved, her every gesture calculated for efficiency. Her cane was not for walking—it was an extension of her will.

The line of girls wound through corridors flanked with silver inlays and muted frescoes of long-dead royals in ceremonial garb. Though each corner they turned looked finer than the last, there was an oppressive sameness to it all—intentional, confusing, controlling. None of them could’ve found their way out if they tried.

Eventually, they were herded into a high-vaulted chamber of pale pink stone and pearlescent light. Steam rose gently from basins of warm, herbal water. Attendants in gray uniforms appeared without a word, guiding each girl toward a basin or stool.

“You will be washed. Stripped of filth, common perfume, and attitude,” Madame Corritha announced, pacing in front of them with sharp eyes. “Then, you will be dressed. Do not mistake ceremony for kindness. This is not for you. This is for the ones who will look at you.”

Murmurs passed between the girls.

The sharp crack of Madame Corritha’s cane striking the stone floor echoed through the chamber like a warning shot.

Once.

Twice.

“Strip yourselves, ladies!” Her voice was neither cruel nor kind—it was simply final, imperious in a way that could not be argued with. She didn’t raise her voice; she didn’t have to.

The girls hesitated—just for a heartbeat. Their eyes darted to one another, waiting for someone else to move first. Then, quietly, deliberately, fingers went to laces, to buttons, to hems.

The linen wraps fell to the floor like wilted petals.

The room was silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the quiet bubbling of the herbal basins. Steam clung to the air, curling around their skin as they stood exposed, pale and flushed and humiliated under the vaulted ceiling.

Madame Corritha’s eyes swept over them like a blade, pausing on each girl only long enough to judge. She took note of every scar, every bruise, every sunburned shoulder and farmer’s tan. The scars didn’t bother her. It was the posture that did.

“Back straight, head high. You are not children. You are selections. And selections are not bashful.”

She tapped her cane once, and the attendants moved forward like clockwork.

Hands began scrubbing—not gently. Warm water sluiced over skin. Oils were poured, rosemary and bergamot pressed into flesh as if scent could wash away history. Brushes scraped scalps. Fingernails were cleaned. Elbows were scoured.

One girl—Theresa, maybe—quietly turned her face to the side, a single tear slipping out as her hair was combed too roughly. Madame Corritha did not acknowledge it. The maid working on you was older, with knotted fingers and a scowl so deep it looked like that was just how her skull was set. Her hands were rough and calloused, her grip like iron as she guided Inyx to sit on the low wooden stool beside the basin. The herbal steam swirled up around them, thick with lavender, citrus peel, and something sharp—rosemary, maybe, or sage. She clucked her tongue as she inspected your legs and arms.

“Someone had shaved you?” Her voice was gravel—flat and unimpressed. “My mother,” you answered, barely above a whisper. The woman snorted, grabbing a cloth and scrubbing one of your arms with such force it made your shoulder jolt. “Hmph. Left half the job undone, by the looks of it. Too many patches.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. 

The maid didn’t stop. She scrubbed your knees, your calves, lifting one leg and holding it up, almost exposing yourself even more. The cloth turned a pale brown as it soaked up dust and whatever oils your mother had rubbed in earlier. Her movements weren’t cruel exactly—just indifferent. Efficient. She had done this a hundred times. A thousand. She didn’t care who the girl was—only that she came out clean and uniform.

"Farmer's daughter, aren't you?" the woman asked, dipping the cloth again. "Yes." The maid sniffed. "Callused hands. Crooked pinky. Always the farmer girls."

She rubbed harder at a freckle on your shoulder, as if it might come off. 

The maid’s hands were clinical, practiced—unapologetically thorough. She’d done this before, far too many times, and to her, you were just another body in a long line of girls being cleaned, prodded, polished.

“Your breasts seem all right, I suppose,” the older woman muttered, lifting and appraising with a cold detachment. “I always get the farmer girls. I know these things. The nipples, however, will need to be stained. They’re not pink enough for the match-maker’s liking.”

Your jaw tightened, but you said nothing. You felt stripped of more than just your clothes—your  skin prickled with a quiet humiliation, but you kept your eyes on the far wall, willing herself to stay still. There was no lewdness in the woman’s touch, but it was still invasive. Still wrong.

“You’ve got good hips, too,” the woman added, moving down to inspect the angles of her waist and thighs. “You’ll catch some eyes, don’t you worry.”

Her words were meant to reassure, but they landed heavy and sour.

copyright © 2025 Hellinistical all rights reserved. no part of this story may be reposted, edited, or reproduced without the author’s permission.

[m00nchildwrites]

I need more clingy Xavi [♡]

[m00nchildwrites]

And suddenly she never had to face it alone again

[m00nchildwrites]

*puts his hand between the claws*

"Looks like you caught me"

[m00nchildwrites]

It's cold outside, so why not bring the heat here

a lovechild of this photo (THE BOYZ's Eric) and "Heat Stroke" photoshoot for GQ

[m00nchildwrites]

A bond everlasting

[m00nchildwrites]

Marry Me, Your Highness!

Pairing: non-MC x Prince-in-Disguise!Rafayel, non-MC x Prince!Sylus, Word Count: 2.5K (is it really a drabble at this point?) Warnings: None, slight OOC for some characters, mentions of violence Summary: Rafayel arrives demanding compensation, while you plot to escape your engagement to Sylus at any cost.

Note: I guess I'm starting a "Your Highness" drabble series. I need to stop tho because I have too many wips/drafts and I'm supposed to be on a semi-hiatus right now

Part 1: Absolutely Not, Your Highness!

You quietly scale the side of the garden wall leading to your estate, fingers aching from the climb and your skirts snagged on every thorn bush in the vicinity. With a grunt, you land in the courtyard, the moon casting long silver shadows across the stone path. For a blissful moment, it seems like you’ve made it undetected.

You tiptoe across the courtyard, praying that under the still hush of night, no one will catch you. 

No such luck.

“Nice landing,” comes a voice from the shadows. “I’m usually the one sneaking back into the house in the middle of the night. You're stealing my thing.”

“You can have it back,” you mutter, brushing dust off your sleeves. “I was only trying to get away from the imperial guards.”

Your brother, Xavier steps into the moonlight, one brow lifted. “What did you do exactly?”

“I turned down a proposal from the crown prince.”

He stares at you. Then blinks. “You… said no. To the crown prince of Linkon.”

“Yes, Xavier. I didn’t stutter.”

He lets out a low whistle. “You really did it.”

“I really did it.”

He drags a hand down his face, then laughs—like this is the best thing that’s happened to him all week. “You absolute menace. I mean… I’m proud. Deeply horrified, but proud.”

“I’m glad someone is enjoying this,” you snap. “Because Aunt Elizabeth’s guards are probably about to storm the mansion on account of me punching the crown prince in the throat.”

The laughter dies instantly. Xavier goes completely still. 

“You what!?”

“He startled me! I was already being chased by the guards, I ran into Sylus, and my reflexes kicked in. I punched him in the throat!”

“You assaulted the future king!”

“I didn’t even hit him that hard!”

Your brother exhales through his teeth, thinking. “If they come for you, we can fend them off.”

“We!? And what army?”

“Fair point. Instead, we redirect the narrative. You can’t accept Sylus because your heart belongs to another.”

You stare at him. “Another who, exactly?”

“I don’t know yet! Someone useful. Charming. Disposable, if it goes wrong.”

“Xavier.”

“You need to be married,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Or at least engaged. That way it’ll get mother and Aunt Elizabeth off your back.”

“I’m not marrying someone just to avoid prison!”

“You might not have a choice! They’ll be at the gates by morning!”

You both fall silent, racking your brain for options. Xavier’s wife had a few eligible acquaintances: the devastatingly attractive doctor, the charismatic colonel…

But none of them feel like a real solution.

“...I did fall on a man earlier,” you say slowly.

Xavier gives you a slow, skeptical look. “You want to track down the mysterious stranger you fell on and ask him to marry you.”

“I may have given him a hairpin…”

“And?”

“…And I may have told him to seek you out for compensation.”

Xavier lets out a long, pained breath and turns back into the house. 

“I’m going to bed.”

“I’m sure your wife will be thrilled,” you call sweetly after him. “I would like to be an aunt some day!”

He doesn’t even look back. You wait until he disappears inside, then glance up at the stars. 

“Gods, help me,” you whisper, hoping that this time your fate would take a different turn. 

⟡ ݁₊ .

Rafayel rubs his ribs where you landed on him. One moment he’s wandering the streets outside the imperial palace, the next, a woman quite literally falls from the heavens, vaulting over the palace wall and crashing directly on top of him.

Now, cold, tired, and entirely out of patience, he fiddles with the hairpin you left behind, its silver length delicately wrought with tiny moons and stars. Rafayel scowls down at it. 

“Compensation,” he scoffs. “I could buy her entire household if I wanted!”

His stomach growls. Loudly.

“I thought someone wanted to blend in with the common folk,” Thomas reminds him dryly.

“That was before I was crushed by a madwoman,” the prince pouts.

Another grumble from Rafayel’s stomach. He frowns at it like it’s personally betrayed him.

“Did you at least bring your coin purse?”

Rafayel stiffens. “...No.”

Thomas exhales slowly through his nose. “Of course not.”

Then Rafayel’s eyes light up.

“She said I could get compensation from her brother! Xavier! She said that! I could find him. Demand...food. And repayment. For emotional damages.”

Thomas blinks. “You’re going to track down a nobleman you’ve never met, in a country you snuck off to and ask him to buy you dinner because his sister fell on you?”

“Yes,” Rafayel says. “This is diplomacy, Thomas.”

“This is blackmail.”

Rafayel lifts his chin, regal even in suffering. “This is for emotional distress. And bruised ribs. And because I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

Thomas sighs. “You could’ve just said you were hungry.”

“I am hungry. And injured. And slighted. Wandering the streets at night is no way for me to live!”

By the time Rafayel finds the mansion, his feet are caked in dust and his patience is worn. Navigating Linkon with just Thomas and a map had proven...challenging.  

He rounds a corner and slows, eyes narrowing at the iron gates ahead. Ornate stars curl in elegant arcs across the gates. He glances down at the hairpin in his hand. 

Moons and stars, silver and delicate. 

“Found you.”

He steps up to the guards stationed at the gate and thrusts the pin forward. “Your lady of the house gave this to me,” he announces. “And I am here to collect my compensation.”

The guard blinks. “The only lady of this house is married to Lord Xavier.”

Rafayel frowns. “No. Not her. The other one. She fell on me. From the palace wall.”

Thomas makes a small sound, halfway between a groan and a wheeze.

“She was rather dramatic,” Rafayel insists. “She said her name was… actually, she didn’t say her name. But she did say I could come here for compensation!”

“She fell from the palace wall and landed on you?” a guard asks, deeply skeptical.

“Yes! And left me with this!” Rafayel exclaims, waving the hairpin around. 

The guards exchange looks, clearly questioning their sanity. Then they whisper to each other and one sets off to find Jeremiah, the head butler. 

You’re on your way to breakfast after having dreamt of it all night, particularly the egg souffle with scallion pancakes. But you barely make it to the end of the hall before you overhear a scuffle at the gates. 

“Unhand me! I’m Rafayel Qi, prince–”

“Please forgive my master, he is delirious having gone without food!” Thomas interjected, placing himself between Rafayel and the guards. 

Why do I recognize that voice?

You rack your brain. Where have you—?

Then it hits you. The man from yesterday.

You bolt for the gates, still in your sleeping robes. You’re halfway there when you see him, disheveled, waving your hairpin around.

Beneath the tilt of his ridiculous straw hat, with his tunic wrinkled and dirt clinging to his sandals, he’s...annoyingly handsome. All sharp cheekbones and charm, mauve eyes glinting with fire. The kind of face sculpted by the gods that could topple an empire.

The kind of man any mother would take one look at and declare perfect marriage material.

You shake your head quickly as he spots you. Before he can say anything else, you grab his arm, plastering on a bright smile for the guards.

“There you are!” you exclaim, slipping your arm around his like you’ve done it a hundred times.

The guards blink, visibly confused.

You lean in, hissing under your breath, “Play along.”

His eyes flick between your expression and the guards. Then, to your surprise, he smirks. 

“Of course, darling,” he says, a little too loudly, wrapping his arm around your waist with dramatic flair. “Missed me already?”

The guards exchange bewildered glances, clearly unsure of what to make of this display. One of them even flushes. 

“A-Apologies, my lady,” he stammers, bowing slightly. 

“We didn’t realize—”

“That he was mine?”

Rafayel snorts under his breath, thoroughly enjoying himself as you hauled him into the mansion. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually show up!”

“Well, I’m emotionally damaged from being body slammed out of nowhere, starving, and slightly winded, so yes, I showed up!”

“Great,” you mutter, giving him a once-over and imagining what he’d look like after a proper bath and a set of robes. 

As much of a disaster as this stranger…what was his name? Rafayel was it? This disaster might be your ticket out of marrying Sylus. And if nothing else, he’ll certainly make things interesting.

“You’re perfect.”

“Obviously!” 

You ignore him, turning the corner and calling down the hall, “Charlie! Have the maids bring me my breakfast to my quarters. I’m not feeling particularly well.”

Charlie appears in seconds, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Miss Y/N is everything alright?”

Y/N? So that’s her name, Rafayel thinks, casually running his gaze over you, though it lingers a little longer than it should. You were no princess, but there was a certain wildness about you. A feral, untamed charm that made him want to learn more. You’re not bad on the eyes, though you’re certainly not up to Lemurian standards when it comes to beauty.  

“Shall I call for the doctor?”

“No! Just…food. Double my portions, please!”

You don’t wait for Charlie to respond before yanking Rafayel into the closest room. You slam the door shut behind you, then whirl around to face him with your arms crossed.

“Here’s the deal,” you say, voice firm. “You can eat…under one condition.”

Rafayel blinks. Once. Twice. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Marry me.”

“Marry you?”

You shrug. “Aren’t you a starving artist seeking inspiration with no coin to your name? Consider it a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“This is exploitation.”

“It’s practical,” you reply, unbothered by his disbelief. “You get to eat and I get to avoid a life trapped in a loveless, political marriage. Everyone wins.”

Rafayel eyes you for a moment, processing the logic or lack thereof. “What’s so awful about the crown prince?”

“He’s a selfish, pompous ass who puts his own ambitions above everyone else! It’s all about what he wants, without caring for anyone else in the process. He doesn’t deserve to be king, let alone have me as his wife!”

He falls silent, your tirade stirring something uncomfortable within him. Was this how his people saw him too? A selfish ruler unfit for the crown? His expression falters for a fleeting moment, but he masks it quickly, avoiding your gaze.

You, however, are too busy thinking about the practicality of your agreement to notice his inner turmoil. 

“Do you want your payment up front?”

Rafayel’s mouth hangs open in disbelief. “Am I just a whore to you? I’ll have you know that I’m the prince—”

“Yes! Yes, we will accept the payment up front! Forgive us, my lady!” Thomas bursts into the room and slaps a hand over Rafayel’s mouth. 

“Please excuse us,” he says, quickly bowing. He drags Rafayel into the hall, muttering apologies as the door slams shut behind them.

“Have you lost your mind?” Thomas hisses, releasing Rafayel and pacing the length of the hallway. 

“We’re in Linkon, your Highness. Yes, relations with Lemuria are friendly, but you’ve vanished without a word! If anyone here finds out who you really are—”

“They won’t.”

“Someone will recognize you eventually,” Thomas lowers his voice even further, casting a nervous glance at the door. 

“The palace must be in chaos. The guard is probably searching every port. And Solana…gods, Solana is going to kill me.”

“Your wife says that all the time.”

“I’m sure she means it this time.”

Rafayel raises both hands lazily. “What’s wrong with pretending to be someone else for a few weeks? There’s food, a warm bed, no council meetings, and zero talk of arranged marriages. Sounds like a vacation to me.”

Thomas stares at him. “You’re still the prince of Lemuria.”

“Not if no one here knows it,” Rafayel shrugs. “Let me live a little. When this fake marriage falls apart, I’ll disappear.”

Still mulling over his decision, he turns and heads back to your quarters. As he pushes the door open, he comes to an abrupt halt. Before him a feast is laid out in the center of the room–steamed meat buns, slices of crispy duck, and root vegetables. 

He pauses, taking in the sight, the corner of his mouth lifting into a slow, lazy smile. It’s as if the universe itself had conspired to tempt him further into this bizarre arrangement.

“Alright, Miss Y/N. I’ll marry you.”

⟡ ݁₊ .

Sylus hadn’t expected to be punched in the throat yesterday.

He’d faced assassination attempts, ambushes, and battlefield skirmishes, but none of them had made his heart race quite like the woman who glared at him with righteous fury.

It was, against all odds, love at first punch.

He replays the moment a dozen times in his mind. The fire in your eyes. The absolute, scorching contempt. The way you vault over the garden wall without a second glance.

He sighs, running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. “She hates me,” he murmurs aloud, almost in awe.

He rehearsed what he planned to say, a thousand times over, upon hearing that you had been chosen by his father to be his bride, the next princess consort.

“Do you remember me?” No, it was too direct.

“I missed you.” True. But useless.

Because the last time he’d seen you, you were dying in his arms. 

He hadn’t wanted to marry the Northern Princess.

It had been a match for power, nothing more. No love. No affection. When you’d found out, you hadn’t argued. Hadn’t cried. You had simply bowed, offered a polite farewell and disappeared into your chambers.

He hadn’t realized how the new concubine had overstepped, encroaching on your position as princess consort. From the outside, it seemed as though he favored her, ignoring the life you had built together.

In truth, Sylus wasn’t indifferent. He was quietly scheming to end the marriage to the concubine without risking you or triggering political fallout. But by the morning of the ceremony, you were gone, having left for your brother’s estate while the imperial palace drowned itself in festivities.

It was Charlie who came staggering into the great hall hours later, bloodied, trembling and barely alive.

“Bandits. She stayed behind. Fought them off.”

Sylus left the ceremony mid-vow and rode until his horse collapsed.

By the time he found you, it was too late. You lay on your side, unmoving. Blood pooled beneath your ribs as your sword lay just out of reach.

Sylus dropped to his knees and pulled you into his arms. He begged you to wake, promised you anything. Everything. That he’d fix it. That he didn’t forget about you and that he’d tell you everything.

But you were already gone.

He lit your funeral pyre himself. And when the flames rose high, he didn’t wait for the ashes to settle. He walked into the fire, praying quietly, desperately, to the gods that he’d find you again.

“Your Highness.”

A voice broke through the memory. Sylus didn’t look up from the scrolls on his desk.

“Speak.”

The advisor steps inside, shifting awkwardly.

“I’ve come to inform you…that Miss Shen is engaged.”

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[m00nchildwrites]

I’m about to be emotionally destroyed 💔

[m00nchildwrites]

His voice is definitely something🥺

I can't wait to listen in cn and japanese🤤

[m00nchildwrites]

IM SO NOT READY FOR IT

[m00nchildwrites]

NO.

Rafayel girlies, are we okay?