#;missive sent (answered)

[lionheartedscout]

There's a ghostly neigh behind him as a large black horse with a long ebony wavy mane came trotting over, booping his nose to Gav's back. The large horse would sparkle with a glowing blue light and suddenly give way to a very naked Slep who'd just casually brush back his hair and wave. "Miss me~"

@steed-of-waloed

Gav's mind seemed to wander as his eye gazed out at the horizon, not quite registering the sounds behind him at first. Then the sweet, familiar scent hit his nostrils before he felt the slight pressure on his back. He turned just as the horse was transforming, his expression softening as realization struck him.

"Oh, I think it's you who missed me..."

And then it hit him that Sleipnir was naked. A blush quickly rose on Gav's cheeks as he quickly shifted his gaze. "Uh...any reason why you have no clothes on?"

[eikonsiren]

Marcel comes up to her carefully, quietly, in hopes he does not disturb her in any way. In his hands is a small tray with food, which he offers with a nod of his head and the barest, faint hint of a smile. "Are you faring well, my lady? Should you want for anything, please do not hesitate to ask."

@valiisthea || Marcel

Being on the run for so long meant that Amelia had to become keenly aware of her surroundings. Even when she knew she was safe, she was always extra cautious. So she was hardly surprised when she turned to see Marcel approaching, but what did surprise her was the tray of food in his hands. Her expression softened as she met his gaze, feeling her heart flutter in response to the gesture.

"I am, thank you," she replied, offering a smile in return. "You have done more than enough for me, kind sir, and your kindness is deeply appreciated."

She pursed her lips slightly. "And please...just call me Amelia."

[endlessdreamworld]

Rejected xx Rejection

Yandere! Ayato X Noble! GN Reader

TW: Gaslighting, imprisonment, death, threats of suicide

Another proposal. Yet another hand written missive that was dripping with honeyed words, and flowery metaphors about everything that made you perfect, graced your desk. Tragically, you were used to navigating the exhausting political landscape of Inazuma’s nobility, and had to be, especially given the social standing of your family. The amount of clans that could rival yours in power, wealth, and influence could be counted on one hand. Presently, the head of one such clan, Kamisato Ayato, had been relentless in his pursuit of your hand the moment you were of age to be married. Of course, he wasn’t the only one, but he was the one you had the hardest time rejecting.

From the outside looking in, it didn’t make any sense. You were childhood friends, equal in social standing, and your families could gain much from the union. Your excuse of “I’m not ready yet” has carried you for the past couple of years, but it’s starting to run its course. The social circumstances didn’t allow you to turn him down in favor of a lower house without terrible implications and issues for your family, and the Kamisato head has made it apparent that he wouldn’t be backing down.

Before you could even begin to mentally unpack how you would piece together another cordial rejection to his most recent proposal, a servant approached you. “Beg your pardon, but your father wishes to have a word with you in the study.” You acknowledged your servant and then sent them away before they had the chance to hear you groan. It’s always something lately, some gala that needed attending, some dignitaries that needed entertaining, and all other manner of nonsense. It was enough to make you want to roll your eyes so far back in your head you could swallow them. And damn that Kamisato and his never-ending proposals. Doesn’t he have anything better to do? If anything he should be more busy as he is the current family head, and not just the primary heir like you.

Before long you had arrived in the study, and a servant opened the door for you to enter. Much to your horror, you found the person who you wanted to see least of all warmly smiling and elegantly laughing with your father who was as pleased as can be. On the table next to him was a large loosely wrapped bouquet. All attention was on you the moment you entered the room. Ayato stood to attention and gave you a deep self humbling bow without a moment of hesitation – something that was nearly socially inconceivable. Your father nudged him with his elbow, “Oh come on now, everyone knows you might as well be family.” Ayato gave a small amused laugh. Your father stood up and excused himself so the two of you could talk. “I’ll leave you to it.”

The door closed behind him, and the air grew thick enough to drown in. “It’s been a while,” Ayato gave you a half-lidded gaze, a soft smile tugging at his lips. He was immaculately dressed in formal attire that screamed ‘not your usual visit’ and you hated how good he looked. Ayato unwrapped the decorative paper of the ‘bouquet’ to reveal that it was not a bouquet at all but about a dozen assorted individual flowers.

“Why are you here?” You spat out. All decorum has left you save for being quiet enough to not alert the servants. Acting irrationally would reflect poorly on your father. The servants had made themselves scarce and you hated how they were all eager for your relationship to progress, so they wouldn’t dare interrupt.

“Isn’t it obvious?” It was obvious, but you weren’t going to dignify that question with an answer just to give him more work. You wanted to give him a hard time. Ayato gave a soft hum of happiness not at all discouraged by your silence. “I stopped by to see you, and to drop this off.:” He motioned towards a well wrapped decorative box that you’ve seen many times. It’s a special sesame candy that’s only available this time of year. “I know just how much you love it, and luckily for me, it was in season.” It was in fact your favorite, and he’s done this many years in a row without fail, and you never grew to hate the taste though you wish you had.

“Please have a seat, we have much to discuss.” You silently complied. The faster you can reject him, the faster he can get the hell out of your family home. Ayato paced behind you, grabbed something, and then set it in front of you – a heavy square tan ceramic vase. “I made the time to take some lessons in flower arrangement. You inspired me to.” Ayato picked up a flower with an overly long stem then stood behind you, thinking of which way it should lean against the lip of the inside of the vase. You could feel his chest brush against your hair, and some hanging decorative silk of his upper garment brush against the bare skin of the back of your wrists while you watch him assess then reassess. You stewed and silently watched his arrangement come together.

You began to feel sick as you watched him work. He was good at arranging flowers, just like he is at everything else. The way he arranged the flowers, and the order he arranged them in, told the story of your friendship, when it began and where you are now, though you wouldn’t call it friendship now. He even chose a flower for himself, and a flower that depicted you, and his choices were spot on. Until this point, you had no idea someone could depict any inside joke with flower arrangements, but you sure wish you didn’t find out – not like this. And of course it ended up with another proposal. It was an absolute tragedy that someone who knew you so well disregarded your most important feelings. There was certainly an alternate reality where you fell for Ayato for all of the reasons people on the outside were assuming. How did it all go so wrong?

It would be just easier to give in, and you’re sure you could find happiness in it all, but it’d be a warped sense of happiness, so you’d rather say no for the sake of saying no. “How many times do I have to tell you no, Kamisato?” You spat the words out, and used his last name as an act of defiance.

“It’ll never be enough. You know that.” He lifted his hands from the arrangement, then placed them on your shoulders. Ayato gave them a soft squeeze. This shocked you, and despite your best efforts your breath hitched in your throat. Archons that felt incredible. You didn’t realize how stiff you had become from the day in day out stress of your social obligations. The Kamisato head didn’t fail to pick up on your body’s betrayal despite how hard you tried to hide it. “What’s wrong?” He laughed as quiet as a whisper right next to your ear. His hair brushed against your neck and you shivered. Ayato wasted no time and began to give your shoulders a proper massage. Your skin couldn’t decide if it wanted to grow hot or to crawl, and it settled for needles anywhere he wasn’t touching you.

You could feel hot angry tears pool in the corner of your eyes. “Why?”

“Why?” He stops everything, breathing included. You’ve never asked him why, only given him a No. You swore you could feel his long elegant fingers shake against the muscles of your shoulders as if he suddenly became unsure with the way he was touching you. And then, just as suddenly as he stopped, he started up again as if nothing had happened.

“Because no one in this world deserves you.”

“Except for you?” you scoff.

“Including me. Though luckily for us I’m second to no one.” Oh for fuck’s sake. How does he manage to be so delusional while still being lucid? “Do you ever wonder why you’ve gotten so busy all of a sudden?” You didn’t like the sound of that question. “You look stressed – you feel stressed,” he made sure to squeeze your shoulders harder this time. “Do you want it all to end?” Of course he’s behind this recent influx of responsibilities.

You’ve had enough. You clench your jaw and dig your fingernails into the palms of your hands as sharply as you can, hoping the pain will help you find the willpower to wrench yourself free from his grasp. You rip free and spin to face him. You weren’t sure what kind of expression you were expecting to see on Ayato’s face, but a soft composed smile wasn’t one of them. Normally he would look at you like a cat before it’d catch its prey, like you were playing some game of cat and mouse, but seeing proper happiness was eerie. Other times he’d look at you with a smug smile like he knew something you didn’t, and worst of all he would do this openly if you ever had the misfortune to encounter him at social gatherings. You hated it. You hated him.

“Get out.”

He pulls away from you, his expression more warm than before. “Of course. Until next time.”

That was the last time you saw Ayato before your life was turned into a living hell. By the end of the month, the Tenryou commission raided your estate, and dragged you from your home. You could still remember your father’s infuriated yelling as they dragged you outside by your shoulders.

The next time you saw Ayato, you had been imprisoned for over a month. You were hungry, filthy, and angrier than you had ever been before. The charges weighed against you were false, that you were in possession of a delusion, and had plans to overthrow the shogunate. It’s been ages since you saw your father, and every few days a member of the commission came into your cell to “teach you a lesson.” 

The sound of the cell door creaking up startles you. Not again. You curl yourself into a ball on the ground and cover your head with your arms preemptively. 

“Oh my.” It’s been so long since you heard his voice. Ayato walks through the cell and stops, standing before you. You don’t move to acknowledge him, since this was clearly his fault. His scheme. How dare he do this to you!? He framed you, though it’s anyone’s guess how he got his hands on a delusion. “You look like a mess.”

You don’t yield, or give into his taunt. Ayato kneels down, now much closer to your level, “They finally decided what’s to be done with you.” He’s almost whispering when he says, “You’ve been sentenced to death.”

You try your best not to cry, but your best didn’t stop a pained sob from leaving your chest. Before long, you’ve fallen apart completely. Ayato is silent through your open sobs, maybe he’s waiting for you to beg him to get you out of the mess he put you in, but you don’t.

He leans closer to you, and tilts your chin up to look him in the eye. It’s that same expression as before, but sharper. “I can save you though. The execution date is two weeks from today.” He’s close enough that you could feel his breath tickle your dry, cracked lips.

You give a dry laugh. “I’d rather die.” You tell him coldly. If you couldn't be free to live your life as you wanted, then you would rather die. Finally, all of his hard work would be undone, and you’d take it to your grave. But, why does he look like that? You figured he would look indignant, frustrated, or unhappy that you would choose to be defiant until your last breath. So why does he look like you said exactly what you wanted him to? You felt sick.

Ayato stood up wordlessly, and headed towards the door. He smiled back at you over his shoulder. “I’ll see you in two weeks.” The gate slammed shut.

After that, no one came into your cell anymore. No more beatings, no more news whatsoever, just your scheduled meals. Then the day had finally arrived. Your cell door was thrust open, and it wasn’t Ayato who greeted you this time, but his sister Ayaka. She rushed towards you and then embraced you. “Thank goodness you’re okay.” Ayaka pats your grime covered face. What in the world could possibly be happening? “My brother worked so hard to prove your innocence in time. I’m so sorry for everything that happened to you, but everything will be okay now.” Ayaka helped pull you upright, and headed towards the cell door, effectively carrying you out.

“Where are we going?” You croak out.

“The Kamisato estate. I’m so sorry about everything that happened to you. Thank goodness my brother cleared your name in time” She sounded like she was about to cry. “I’m so sorry about what your father did to you.” “My father?”

“Yes, everyone now knows that the delusion found in your family estate was his, and he was using it to manipulate you and keep you away from my brother. He said you might not be okay mentally for a while, some kind of emotional damage caused by the delusion, but it’s okay because you’ll be with us now. We’ll take care of you.” She breathed out a sigh of relief, as if the words were heavy in her mind, and she could finally unburden herself. “Everyone thought it was peculiar why the two of you didn���t just get married already, and it finally made sense.”

“Where’s my dad?”

“Oh, him? You don’t need to worry about him anymore. He was put to death earlier today so you wouldn’t have to see it.” Ayaka held you the entire way out. She was genuinely happy for the freedom and salvation she believed you were granted – that you deserved. Your mouth was dry. You couldn’t say anything. All you could do was accept that no one would believe a word that would come out of your mouth given these new circumstances.

Some Kamisato family servants and Ayaka escorted you outside. It was the first time you saw the sun in who knows how long. You looked up to see Ayato standing next to a carriage waiting for you. He rushed towards you the moment he saw you, and all but pried you from Ayaka and the rest. “I'm so glad you’re okay. I was worried sick about you. No one’s ever going to hurt you ever again, I’ll make sure of it. And we can finally be together, just like we’ve always wanted.”

There’d probably be people around you at all times since they’d be afraid you’d be a risk to yourself. You were outmaneuvered and overpowered. Now, you had no one, and you didn’t even have the freedom to die anymore.

Just what kind of monster is Kamisato Ayato?

[feyres-divorce-lawyer]

warmth

For @praetorqueenreyna

AO3

   Tamlin stumbles slightly as he winnows into the clearing. His magic was still a wild thing that he fought to reign but he’d mustered up enough strength to achieve a stable winnow. His drab tunic and dirt stained boots were a far cry from the finery befitting a High Lord, but he wasn’t befitting High Lord at the moment.

   The dust pink envelope had emerged from thin air, landing smack dab on his face while he’d been taking stock of the Manor’s repairs. He’d been apprehensive at first, awaiting a night-silk voice coming to taunt him yet again; he’d waited two nights before opening it, still expecting someone to come along, but the envelope had arrived, and remained, alone.

   It contained a wine dark card with the same dust pink lettering reading: Arrive at Tolos’ Clearing by the full moon.

   Tamlin didn’t know why he’d listened, but there had been something urging him to come anyway.

   So here he was, in the frigid night. The air was cold, due to the Clearing’s proximity to Winter, and nipped at his face. Tamlin resolved to wait only an hour more before returning to the warmth of Spring. Whoever had demanded his presence here would have to learn punctuality.

   He paced around to fight the cold, boots sinking into the moss covered ground, a moss that was quickly growing since he could not be bothered to contain his magic.

   The air swiftly changed, the scent of spiced acorns and crisp apples filling the air. Finally, he thought.

   “You realize when you invite a guest, you should be here to greet them,” he said, turning around to meet whoever had arrived. Tamlin stood shock still, as brown and red filled his vision.

   “Beron?”

   For that was Beron Vanserra in front of him, tall and staunch, his signature I-Am-Better-Than You sneer fixed on his face.

   “Was it you that sent the ridiculous missive?” he demanded.

   “No, it was me,” a voice called out.

   Tamlin whirled again to see the newcomer. A figure emerged from the trees, cloaked and unfamiliar. “I am glad you chose to respond,” they said.

   “And who are you?” Tamlin quickly asked. Beron looked inclined to accompany his next inquiry with a fireball.

   “That matters not, it is my message that’s important,” they said, pulling out a scroll from somewhere in their cloak, and unrolling it.

   “An Ode to the Lady Elain Archeron is to be held. It shall commence on the Day of Labor and shall end on the seventh day of the ninth month. You, Tamlin, High Lord of Spring, and Beron Vanserra, High Lord of Autumn, are henceforth banned from any involvement with this Ode in any way. You shant do so yourselves, or deceive another party to include you.”

   Tamlin stood in confusion. “What would I have to do with Elain Archeron?” He’d never thought about any of Feyre’s sisters beyond their financial safety when they’d still been human. He didn’t  think much of any Archeron at all, lately. He looked at Beron who looked well on his way to send the fireball without asking a question.

   “I would not associate with that filth,” Beron hissed.

   The figure rolled their scroll back up, smoothly placing it back in their cloak with a tilt of their wrist. “You’d better not,” they said, “both of you.”

   Tamlin tensed. Or else? “What would happen if we did?”

   The figure shifted, almost fidgeting. Were they nervous? “That’s not important.”

   Beron finally released that fireball. “No, it is quite important if you think yourself strong enough to threaten me,” he said through gritted teeth.

   The figure had jumped back just in time to avoid being cremated, though the same couldn’t be said for the hem of their cloak which was now nothing more than ash.

   “Just don’t get involved,” they said, a slight panic in their tone.

   That was strange. No one confident in a plan would react this way, but why- Wait.

   “You,” Tamlin started, “You’re not going to do anything, are you?”

   Quiet, but the scent of the nervous sweat the figure just broke out in was answer enough.

   “Just stay away,” they snapped and leaped back into the shadows.

   Tamlin shook his head, how ridiculous, he’d come here for nothing. He turned to Beron whose sneer had upgraded to his patented Stare-At-Me-Wrong-And-You’re-Dead glare. “Why did you come anyway?” Tamlin asked. For Beron to have even considered leaving his Court for a reason he would, should, have considered trivial was… peculiar to say the list.

   “No one commands me.”

   But you were commanded to come here. Tamlin sighed. He should’ve just winnowed back. Why wasn’t he winnowing back?

   Beron’s warm, his mind supplied, practically a furnace. Yes, yes that’s why he was still here.

   He stared at Beron again, taking him in. There was a new gleam in those mahogany eyes. “You’re going to get involved out of spite, aren’t you?”

   Beron’s glare morphed to his Yes-I-Am-Planning-Your-Downfall smirk. “That’s no business of yours, beast. Go hunt for your dinner,” he said and left in a whirlwind of that addicting acorn and apple scent.

   Addicting? Tamlin shook his head. The cold had gotten to his senses. Warmth, that was all.

   He looked to the Clearing once more, and winnowed back to Spring.

[josefavomjaaga]

Duroc the mediator

Which, I believe, Duroc often was. This particular occasion however took place in 1809, and he acted as a go-between with Napoleon and Eugène, in April and May 1809, after Eugène’s defeat in his very first attempt as commander-in-chief, on April 16, at Sacile. Eugène was heartbroken over it and very afraid of Napoleon’s reaction to the news. Napoleon – full credit to him for once – originally kept his cool and in his first answer was not even very severe. He only became angry when Eugène’s reports, in his opinion, did not give him enough information on the situation.

And as usual, when he was really angry, he deemed the culprit unworthy of receiving a direct message. Or perhaps Duroc intervened voluntarily, in order to soften the blow? In any case, it was he who wrote the following missive:

Duroc to Eugène, Landshut, 26 April 1809 My Lord, the Emperor, who is extremely busy, is unable to reply at the moment to the two letters from Your Imperial Highness. - These two letters have not satisfied His Majesty, in that they do not give him any details of what has happened to your army, of its position, of its losses, so that he cannot give you any advice on the best course of action for Your Highness to take. The Emperor says: It is nothing but a lost battle, and there is a remedy for that; but he cannot tell you what that remedy is, because he does not know where you are or what forces you have. His Majesty knows Italy and all the positions so well that from here he could tell you the best position you could take for your army.

I am not entirely sure if Eugène really did not know how to write a proper battle/situation report, or if he was being evasive on purpose. I kinda suspect the latter, and so do apparently most historians, assuming that Eugène did not want to admit what mistakes he had made. That may very well be the case, but, Eugène being Eugène, I could also imagine two more reasons: a) he wanted to protect his subordinates and not give Napoleon the opportunity to look for somebody to put the blame on (as Napoleon later would start to do with general Sahuc) and b) he on pupose gave away as few details as possible because he did not want Napoleon to start micromanaging the Army of Italy from his headquarters in Germany. After all, it was he, Eugène, who had created this mess. It was up to him now to sort things out.

In a circumstance such as the one in which you find yourself, and in general in all circumstances of war, it would have been preferable if you had sent an officer who had seen everything clearly and who could have given an account of everything to His Majesty. A courier says nothing, not even the little he is told. His Majesty would therefore have liked a detailed report, he would have liked Your Imperial Highness to have had General Caffarelli write at the same time. His Majesty sees with sorrow that you are concerned with the Tyrol, where there are only a few troops who have fomented insurrections; but all these insurrections will subside, and the troops who have entered there are turned and taken, if they do not evacuate, as soon as the Emperor's army arrives in Salzburg, which cannot be far off. Here, matters are still going well. [...]

Followed by lots of reports about Napoleon beating the Austrians at every occasion. Thanks for rubbing it in, Duroc! - So, just to summarize, Eugène’s greatest fault in Napoleon’s eyes was not the fact that he had lost the battle but that he was sending his reports about it via courrier or by the army post office, instead of sending one of the officers.

As to Tyrol, that part of the letter will not age well…

With no better information incoming over the next days, or rather, as a matter of fact, with pretty much no information reaching Napoleon, despite Eugène writing every second or third day – which may in part very well be because the insurrection in Tyrol had interrupted communications – His Imperial Impatience was fuming. And it showed in his letters. In the last (that luckily only reached Eugène when it didn’t matter anymore), he openly praised both Masséna (whom Eugène despised) and Murat (whom he possibly despised even more) to the skies, going so far as to order Eugène to call Murat from Naples and to cede supreme command to Murat. The ultimate humiliation!

At that time, however, the situation in Italy had already changed completely. After Napoleon had beaten the Austrians in Germany, the Austrian archduke Johann had been recalled by his brother. The Austrians were retreating from Italy rather hastily, and the Army of Italy was pursuing them. In this situation, Napoleon’s brutal missives were not helpful at all.

At least that was what the above mentioned general Caffarelli thought, the minister of war of the Kingdom of Italy. And because he thought so, he wrote to … nah, not to Napoleon, of course. You can’t just write to a monarch, after all. He wrote to - Duroc. And after a short description of the situation and the difficulties they had overcome, he states:

Caffarelli to Duroc, Venice, 7 May 1809 […] His Imperial Highness appeared to me to be greatly affected by the Emperor's discontent; he is extremely worried about it, the Prince suffers from it, and I could see that his grief comes more from his heart than from regret at having experienced an ill-fated affair. He needs to be reassured, because if he continues to believe that the Emperor is dissatisfied, he will suffer even more, he will torment himself and, despite the fine state in which His Majesty's victories have put matters, he might not be able to benefit as much as he could from the fine prospects open to him. He is in a position to repair, with interest, the harm he has suffered. […]

Ey! Can you not get him to back off a little? We’re in a good position and we need the boy functional, okay?

(Just to bring the story to an end: by the time Eugène had led his army through the Alps and reached Napoleon, his stepfather had already lost the battle of Aspern-Essling and had seen Lannes mortally wounded. Morale in his army was extremely low, and Napoleon’s tone when welcoming the Army of Italy was much different from that of his letters to Eugène.)

[pepsiiwho]

okay well what if apollo knew hypnos before his eternal sleep (all the stuff we went over) but wasnt able to tell him how he felt. are you with me

Lord Apollo's spacial awareness was something to be in awe of, truly. The attendant had just walked into his room to refill his many chalices and restock his fruit bowls when she took note of the god. Basked in light, as he ought to be, Apollo sat at his massive window sill and stared into the distance, captivated by whatever was looking back at him. From behind he seemed almost peaceful but as she got closer a distinct boredom radiated off his person. A bored god, she learned, was a displeased one.

without looking at her, Apollo called out in a dismissive tone. The same one he used when calling for his less favorable hounds "you."

"Sire?"

The god stares out of his window, leaning on a open palm and glaring at the soft light streaming onto his perfect face. He looked like something out of a painting, something beyond even godhood. He looked like whatever came after divinity. The servant, still new to the whole 'attending to gods' thing, found herself unable to find a fitting word to describe his silhouette past— Apollo. "The last missive I sent down to that wretched place, what happened to it?"

He'd been asking about that message over and over for the last hour, unable to rest with a simple "we don't yet know". The last person to give such a blase answer was thrown from the window, the sun bleaching their skin as they fell from the heavens. "uh, it goes unopened sire."

".... unopened..." his glare hardens, going from mild distaste to something more sour. His lip puckers, as if trying to will a bad taste out of his mouth and he sneers at whatever he's looking at. "When did you last check?"

"8 minutes ago, my lord"

With the flick of his wrist he dismisses the aid, refusing to look from his view. "Check again. Leave me unattended until it's opened"

she leaves, nodding and Apollo is alone. Miraculously.

That miserable god stuck in that miserable domain forced to do miserable work below his station instead of what matters-- responding to Apollos letters. To imagine a god or mortal too busy to respond to Apollo when he's calling for them specifically is almost too much for his imagination. He might very well wring the incarnate's neck next time they speak, if he doesn't kiss it first. Damn it all. Apollo had half a mind to shine his divine light down into those hellish depths and blind everything in his path, just to prove a point. Perhaps he'll sear his image in sleep's eyelid, willing himself to be seen even when all else is black under that childish mask.

The thought does bring a smile to his face. Just barely.

FIC SOON

[crazyfoxfur16]

In Love with a Criminal

I found this story on Twitter and had to share. Credit goes to @black_targloyal on twitter. 

#Lucemond modern au where Aemond is in jail for murder and Luke, at his cousin’s insistence, enters a penitentiary pen pal program. Serial killer Aemond finds himself desperately wanting the sweet boy who writes to him every week to the point that letters are no longer enough.

Luke was just helping Rhaena with her new college project. He was definitely not charmed by that dangerous man (or at least, that’s what he tells himself).

Until the news began to announce Aemond Targaryen’s escape from Oldtown’s maximum security prison.

Luke is fucked.

No, take that back. Lucerys Velaryon is dead.

He knew the moment Rhaena came to him with those puppy eyes and a pamphlet in hand, that nothing that came after would be good. But damn, who would have thought it would be this bad?

His heart echoes in his ears as the voice of the morning news anchor continues to announce the disaster right in front of his eyes.

“Aemond Targaryen is a convict with over 30 kills to his name and an unprecedented escape record,”

“Authorities managed to catch him early last year, after the perpetrator was found breaking into the Kingsland’s mental hospital, where sources say his mother is held...” 

Luke tries not to remember all the paragraphs where Aemond talks about his mother and how much he misses her.

He tries to bury the wave of pity he felt when he read all the stories of Aemond’s not-so-happy childhood that came with tear stains on the pages.

“Targaryen managed to escape from the maximum security area of the Oldtown prison in the early hours of yesterday,”

“His escape was followed by the death of most of the jailers and even an inmate who shared the same area.” The reporter remains unmoved by Lucerys’ internal conflict, “The few belongings in his cell were left mostly intact, according to the police.”

“The only objects taken were a packet of letters and a book to which the fugitive had a great emotional attachment to.” 

Yep, that’s it, Lucerys is dead.

The letters he’d sent, the book he’d given him for his birthday after Aemond had complained about how much he missed reading. If that wasn’t a sign of imminent death, Luke didn’t know what was.

What if Luke had offended him? What if he had said something wrong? They’d been writing to each other for six months, how much shit could Luke have said without realizing it? What if the photo he sent in his letter was the last string of Aemond’s patience?

His head kept spinning as Luke paced nervously up and down his living room. He kept turning in his mind over each letter he had sent, trying to find his sin. Maybe it was that time he wrote about how handsome Aemond looked in his mug shot?

When suddenly three strong knocks echoed in his small apartment, almost knocking a small painting from the wall. Someone was at the door.

If you asked anyone about Lucerys you would get the same answer: Luke was always a good boy. Kind, studious, he was never much for parties or any trouble. His reputation was as clean as could be, so it must have come as a shock to his neighbors to see the police on his doorstep.

Apparently they were looking for any sign of Aemond everywhere that he had ties. As Luke had been exchanging letters and gifts with him for six months and his letters and book were the only things Aemond took. He was one of the first to be interrogated.

His house was also searched from top to bottom, but of course they found nothing. Yet they seemed reluctant to leave. Luke was ready to give them anything as long as they would go away, until the investigator asked for the letters Aemond had sent him.

Even though Luke was 87% sure Aemond was coming for his head, those letters were his. In them, just as Luke had put in his own missives, Aemond put his heart. And then he decided to bestow on Lucerys. 

Each tear stain, each small doodle and origami made of candy wrappers, even the declarations and impossible promises. Every secret and confession, laughter and pain, all of it was just for him. Aemond wrote only for him. Nobody else.

So he lied. He looked into the investigator’s ugly, bearded face and lied with a sweet smile and innocent eyes.

“I don’t keep them, sir,” His lie sound so genuine he could feel how proud Daemon would be if he saw him at that moment, “I burn them that moment they arrive. Why would I keep a murderer’s letters?”

The officer didn’t even dream to doubt his word, they’d already searched the house and there is not a single sheet of paper in Aemond’s pretty handwriting in sight. It was easy to convince him that they all turned to ashes.

But then again, he would have failed his stepfather if he hadn’t known how to hide a couple of incriminating evidence from the police. What can he say? Being Velaryon or Strong never changed the fact that after all he was also a Targaryen.

Aemond would never feel anything better than the euphoria and satisfaction of killing his own father, but he had to admit that watching Lucerys sleep is really fucking close. 

His pretty, round face completely relaxed and soft was a sight he couldn’t see himself getting tired of any time soon.

And by the photo he received, Luke’s awake, smiling face wouldn’t be something he’d take his eye off either. And that face, awake or not, was why he escaped.

It still feels a little unreal to be there. Kneeling on the floor of Lucerys’s room, in the low glow of his little night light, gazing at such perfection. He dreamed, of course, of the day he could finally see firsthand. 

He spent nights thinking about touching that rosy skin of his cheeks, hearing the soft breathing of his lungs, feeling the strong beat of his heart. And now he was there. With his sweet boy just a touch away.

Slowly, avoiding any unwanted noise, he takes of his latex gloves. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to have the whole experience.

His hands are calloused, of course, after so much time washing toilets in that prison hell they couldn’t be any other way.

Mentally he apologized to Lucerys for the harsh touch, but if he holds back a second longer, Aemond might as well explode. As gently as possible he reached out for the long awaited contact. Aemond was slightly shivering, but it all made sense when his fingertips found the silky skin. His world made sense there. 

He felt grounded, like he hadn’t in a long time. As if that single contact was the only thing holding him back in the real world. The letters did a good job for a while. Reading every clumsy word and energetic thought of Lucerys while imagining him sitting in his room writing words only he could read was wonderful. But not enough.

Now he was there with the boy at his fingertips, feeling his warmth, hearing his breath and it was heaven. But it still wasn’t enough. He wanted everything. Everything Lucerys had and more. Every hour of every day from morning to dawn. He wanted from his kind eyes to his red lips, from his velvety skin to his sweet taste. From his head to his toes. And only the gods above knew what he would do to get it.

For the first time since get into college, it wasn’t the unwanted sun hitting his face that woke Lucerys in the morning, but someone making breakfast in the kitchen. The clatter of pots and the smell of coffee brought back memories. He remembers waking up to his father Laenor frying eggs and singing the most generic song with the radio. It was good. 

In a persistent drowsy bliss, he turned over and snuggled deeper into the pillow. His bed smelled of burnt wood and cinnamon, it was divine. What else could he ask for? He was warm and comfortable, his bed smells like heaven and someone is making his coffee! A second passes before he realizes it.

Startled, Lucerys sits up in bed at the speed of light. Wide-eyed and frantic as all the sleep rushes out of his body in one fell swoop. His turbulent mind lists all the errors it can find.

First: He doesn’t remember going to sleep, his last memory is being on the porch ready to call his mother. So how did he end up in bed?

Second, his hands grip the sheets, no one in Lucerys’s life smells like burnt wood and cinnamon. How did that smell get on his pillow?

Third, and most important, Lucerys lives alone. His family lives 12 hours away, Rhaena is on an internship in another city and none of his colleagues have a key. Who was making coffee?

Trying not to make a sound, Lucerys got out of the bed with light steps. Only then did he remember to check on himself. He was wearing only a giant green T-shirt and boxers, barefoot and smelling that unfamiliar perfume. Fucking suspicious considering the last thing he remembers wearing were jeans and sweaters, and that he didn’t have a single green piece of clothing in his wardrobe.

Putting that information to the back of his mind, Lucerys returned to his quest. The house was small and compact, it didn’t take more than a few steps to reach the small kitchen. He crept into the doorway waiting for anything. And for a moment he thought he was still asleep. 

It was a guy. A very hot guy with long hair and no shirt, was in his kitchen making pancakes. Chocolate chip pancakes, Lucerys’s favorites. 

Was it abstinence? Okay, it’s been a while since he’s had anything but his own hand and the bottom drawer of his nightstand, but getting to the point of hallucination? The vision looked so much like something straight out of one of his teenage wet dreams, that he pinched himself just to confirm. 

The small pain in his arm confirmed it: it wasn’t a dream. And now he had good news and bad news for himself. The bad news is that he had an unknown intruder in his kitchen. The good news was that the invader is a Greek god with blonde hair and very pleasant back muscles. 

Aemond stood as still as he could when he heard footsteps approaching the kitchen. Lucerys was clearly doing his best to be unnoticed. A mocking smile formed on his lips at the feeble attempt. His little boy has so much to learn. 

Aemond flipped another pancake and headed for the counter where the coffee machine had finished. His lips shaped around a happy whistle waiting for Lucerys to snap out of his poor investigative skills and speak up.  

When five, ten, fifteen minutes had passed and nothing had happened, Aemond decided he would have to take the course of their first meeting into his own hands. “Maple syrup or whipped cream?” His voice was soft, as if he were talking to a small, frightened kitten. With his back still turned, he tried to make his posture as open and inoffensive as possible. But even with his best efforts his words were still met with a reaction of alarm.

Luke’s little feet skid across the uncarpeted floor and his body made a loud bang as it hit the wall. Worried, he turned around to check that everything was okay and end up drowned into puddle of caramel.

Those bright, living eyes looking at him made a shiver go up his spine. It was as if every new part of that wonderful boy he discovered gave him another reason to live. He needed to see those eyes every morning to be human once more.

“Aemond...?” Lucerys’s cautious, trembling voice, instead of pulling him out of the whirlpool his beautiful had eyes sent him into, only caused a bigger fall into an even greater abyss. His voice. Gods, his voice was, for lack of a better word, perfect. That silky, childlike tone, as if an angel had come down to earth to whisper in his ears. He didn’t see himself saying no to that voice, he didn’t even see himself denying those eyes. He was trapped, bewitched, an eternal captive to his nephew’s charms.

“Yes, Lucerys” He forced himself to answer, when he saw that his silence was  making the poor thing uncomfortable “If you prefer something else on your pancakes, I can try to find some chocolate sauce...”

Aemond turned to the counter again, trying to give Lucerys some room to compose himself. He couldn’t do anything crazy like run away or call the police, Aemond made sure of that. A part of him was expecting that once the stupor of seeing a convicted murderer in his kitchen wore off, Lucerys would start screaming from the rooftops. He had contingency plans for that, of course, but things would get a lot more complicated.

Discreetly, Aemond reached for the sedative he had prepared in advance. If the gentle facade didn’t work, he could go for the tougher approach and beg for forgiveness once Lucerys could rebel no longer. 

“Your hair..!” Aemond couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped his mouth. “My hair?” “It’s long!” Not holding back any longer, he turned around and leaned against the counter to face his boy again. “Ah yes, in the only photo that was available to you it was still quite short” Aemond raised his hand to his face to hide his playful smile “A photo that, as I recall, according to you I was “hot as fuck:

It was with satisfaction that he watched that lovely face turn as red as an apple. Aemond should be trying to be gentle and inviting, but with that reaction he couldn’t help but tease a little more. Leaving the counter, he approached the boy with a slow pace. Smile increasing with each step to see Lucerys melting more and more against the wall. “I hope I didn’t disappoint.”

When he was close enough to feel Lucerys’s uneven breaths he stopped to lean a hand against the wall. “Tell me, did I do the picture justice?”

[catofadifferentcolor]

Terrible Fic Idea #52: Targaryen Restoration, but make it magical

I have approximately a thousand and one thoughts about Brynden Rivers. This is less to do with his position as The Three-Eyed Raven and more to do with all he accomplished before becoming part of a tree - becoming Hand of the King, playing a key role in defeating three Blackfyre Rebellions; becoming Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. In addition to being a master of realpolitik, he is an example of everything Jon Snow could have become in a world where Rhaegar won.

So, naturally, my mind took all the things I love about Bloodraven, mixed in a little TH White, and came up with: What if Brynden Rivers got to be House Targaryen's Merlin - and its King Arthur?

Aka: The Shiera Snowbird Fic

Just imagine it:

Everything in Robert's Rebellion happens as per canon - save Rhaegar gets his Visenya. Or, more accurately, his Shiera, as Lyanna's daughter is born with all of her mother's beauty and a pair of mismatched eyes: one lilac, one dove grey.

Shiera Snow, as she is called, is raised as Ned Stark's bastard in Winterfell. Like her namesake, she becomes a great reader, found more often in the company of the Maester than any of her half-siblings, and by the time of Jon Arryn's death there are rumors she has become a sorceress of the blackest arts.

These rumors are fueled in part by Lady Catelyn, who sees Shiera's great beauty and fears she will use it to seduce her way into Robb's inheritance, and in part because of Shiera herself, who seeks out the Witches of the Wolfswood and keeps no gods.

The truth is rather different - Shiera is a budding greenseer, haunted by dreams she can't explain - dreams of the Long Night and an albino man with a red birthmark crying out to her for help. In her search for explanations, she's dived further into the esoteric than any in the North have in years but found none of the answers she seeks.

When Ned goes south, Shiera heads north, eventually crossing the Wall and reaching the cave of the three-eyed raven. She rescues a surprisingly youthful Brynden Rivers from the roots of weirwood trees and destroys the Children of the Forest who were keeping him hostage, using the magic of his Blackwood and Targaryen blood to hasten the return of the Others and the destruction of mankind.

While canon proceeds elsewhere - Ned is executed, the War of Five Kings rages, Daenerys becomes the Mother of Dragons - Brynden teaches Shiera the secrets of sorcery and reveals her Targaryen ancestry. Together they work to ensure the success of Dany and Young Griff's actions in Essos - and the downfall of their enemies in Westeros.

Dany and Young Griff - who truly is Aegon VI - join forces, wed, and reconquer most of Westeros, which is too divided to stand against them.

Eventually Dany and Aegon make their way North to determine why no word has been heard from the Kingdom since a single bloodied missive was sent to King's Landing by the Boltons some years before - and why no messengers who pass The Neck return alive. They and their armies learn that the Wall has fallen and the Others have overrun most The North.

They're almost equally surprised to find Bloodraven and Shiera - by this point called Snowbird for the snow buntings she wargs into - leading a group of survivors in the ruins of Winterfell.

An extended War for the Dawn sequence follows, with Aegon VI proving to be Azor Ahai reborn, Dany agreeing to die so that Lightbringer can be reforged, and Aegon dying in battle with the Night's King.

Brynden and Shiera, whose magic was instrumental in defeating the Others, are now the last of Targaryen blood left alive. Only they can control the dragons Dany brought into the world. They are crowned King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms somewhat against their own desires, but well aware that the civil war that would follow if they refused would decimate an already destroyed realm.

What follows shouldn't quite be a golden age, but should be an age of great renewal and rebirth - a Renaissance, if the Renaissance included the return of magic.

Bonuses include: 1) Everything about Shiera Snowbird echoing Shiera Seastar, intentionally or unintentionally, with at least half the accusations of sorcery against her in her youth coming more from male fear of an educated woman and female jealousy of her beauty; 2) Unlike everyone else, Bloodraven should find only surface similarities between his half-sister and great-niece, and be repeatedly heard to say they are very different people; 3) Brynden and Shiera's relationship starting very much on mentor-mentee footing, which slowly evolves into friendship and true respect. The romance between them should be very late to the game and only come after Brynden realizes that the relationship he had with Shiera Seastar was deeply unhealthy; 4) As much magic as can be shoehorned into the world, with more magic being capable the more people believe - and the stronger Dany's dragons become; and 5) The triumph of practical, pragmatic politics over all else.

And that's all I have for this plot bunny. As always, feel free to adopt this bun, just link back if you ever do anything with it.

Other Jon Snow Headcanons: Aelor the Accursed | Aegon the Adopted | Aegon the Undying | Aegon the Unyielding | Aemon the Adventurous | Baelor the Brave | Daemon the Destroyer | Daena the Dreamer | Daeron the Desired | Dyanna the Defiant | Jon Whitefyre | King of the Ashes | Lady Arryn | Lady Baratheon | Lady Lannister | Lady Stark | Lord of the Dance | Prince Consort | Prince of Summerhall | Queen Mother | Rhaegar the Righteous | River Queen | Shiera Snowbird

More Terrible Fic Ideas

[lionheartedscout]

Honestly I ship Gav with Byron. There were some quirks that Gav displayed when Clive first joined the hideaway that to me made it seem like he was crushing on our favorite pretty-boy puppy himbo, and after the second time skip, I noticed him displaying that same behavior around Byron. And honestly, Gav having an eccentric theatre-loving sugar daddy? Love that for him.

On anon or not, tell me who you ship my character with.

//That is honestly so valid! XD The Rosfields must be on something because phew even Gav knows that the men look fine.

[eikonsiren]

“ the world is changing. and if we don’t get ahead of it, then they’ll be the ones to decide what it changes into. ”

“𝙎𝙃𝘼𝘿𝙊𝙒 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝘽𝙊𝙉𝙀” - 𝙄𝙉𝙎𝙋𝙄𝙍𝙀𝘿 𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙈𝙋𝙏𝙎. @gcldfanged

Amelia barely shifted her gaze as she looked out to the horizon, the sunset painting the sky with hues of orange and pink. She knew that the man had a point - the never-ending wars between different nations and factions was reshaping the world, and with the Blight threatening to consume everything, their time was suddenly limited.

"Then how do you plan to stay ahead?" she finally asked, turning to Jae with a small smirk. "Hopefully not just by standing around."

[stalwart-spirit]

9. Dolce Far Niente: A feeling of pleasure from doing absolutely nothing. For Soleil!

It's time to answer more of these! Thank you for the ask!

Blackberry, sweet and a hint tart. Aroma of toasty oak, vanilla, and mint. The last drops of the rich red wine is tipped lazily into its glass, a brief moment of appreciation, a swirl, before being drank in one go.

How much had he had this evening... ?

For a time the young lord could feel the heat in his cheeks and that comforting haze across his mind, content to melt into the plush chaise lounge before the roaring fire, clad in nothing more than a thin silken robe, long hair draped in dark curtains over his shoulders.

No worries, no disturbances. .. This is what he deserved.

Of course there was the matter of setting affairs in order in regards to House Delacroix's trades, several documents to sign, missives to be sent... But why rush? The money was still steady and it wasn't like their little weapons distribution empire was going to crumble overnight.

That could be tomorrow's job. Or the next day. Or the day after that. Or perhaps not even his job?

Yes, Soleil could easily get someone else to do it for him, no? Why go and spend time slouched over a desk signing and sealing letter after letter when he could be doing this?

Blissful, absolute nothing.

[baldwinivmybeloved]

— Charper Twenty Four #♡‌ Xica x Baldwin IV

The rising sun cast a golden glow over the desert, creating a scene of both austerity and magnificence. On the vast horizon, two figures stood out against the sand: Baldwin IV and Salahaddin. Both leaders met in a kind of truce, hoping to resolve the uncertainty surrounding Xica's disappearance.

Baldwin, though weakened by leprosy and exhaustion, maintained his regal posture. In front of him, Salahaddin, with his penetrating gaze and imposing bearing, radiated a dangerous serenity.

“Salahaddin,” Baldwin began, his voice firm, “I have come seeking answers. My wife, Queen Xica, has been kidnapped, and there are rumors pointing to your men.”

Salahaddin observed him intently before responding. “King Baldwin, I assure you my men are not involved in this. However, I will investigate within my kingdom to ensure no faction has acted without my knowledge. The peace between us must not be marred by such acts.”

Baldwin nodded, but worry still marked his face. “I appreciate your willingness, Salahaddin. But every moment that passes, Xica could be in greater danger.”

Salahaddin paused before continuing. “I understand your anguish, Baldwin. I promise I will do everything possible to assist in this search.”

As Baldwin withdrew, his body trembled with the burden of stress and illness. Tiberias quickly approached, supporting him.

“Baldwin, you must rest,” he said with concern. “If you continue like this, you could succumb to leprosy and fatigue. Xica needs you alive for when we find her.”

Baldwin looked at him with a mix of determination and despair. “I cannot rest while she is in danger. I cannot fail her.”

In Jerusalem, Genoveva and Tobiah worked tirelessly to find evidence that would exonerate the Saracens and reveal the true culprits. Genoveva devised a risky plan: to seduce Reynald de Chatillon through letters, hoping that in his arrogance, he would reveal something incriminating.

One night, Reynald, confused and excited by Genoveva’s letters, made a fatal mistake. In his response, he mixed up his missives and sent a letter intended for Inés to Genoveva. In it, he detailed the plan and its true purpose.

When Tobiah received the letter from Genoveva, he read it with incredulous eyes. “We have what we need. This proves everything.”

Quickly, Tobiah called Godfrey, and together they freed Genoveva, taking her directly to Baldwin IV.

“King Baldwin, we have found irrefutable proof of the betrayal,” Tobiah announced, handing over the letter.

As Baldwin read it, a wave of fury and pain washed over him. “Inés!” he shouted, calling for his mother.

Inés entered with an expression of feigned concern, but seeing the fury in her son's eyes, she knew her charade was over.

“What is this, mother?” Baldwin demanded, showing the letter. “How could you betray me like this?”

Inés tried to defend herself. “Son, I only wanted to protect you and our kingdom. I thought this was the best course of action.”

“The best?” Baldwin shouted, his voice filled with anger and disappointment. “Kidnapping my wife and using her as a pawn in your power games? Where is Xica?”

Inés hesitated, but the pressure was too great. “I don’t know exactly. Reynald…”

Reynald was brought before Baldwin, his face pale with fear. “Tell us where Xica is, now,” Baldwin demanded.

Reynald, trembling, confessed. “She is in a slave camp on the outskirts of the city, in the direction of Portugal. We never intended for this to go so far.”

The confession unleashed a storm of emotions in Baldwin. “Prepare yourselves! We leave immediately.”

In the slave camp, Xica was growing weaker by the day. The illness and stress of the kidnapping were severely affecting her. Despite the efforts of the other slaves, her condition worsened.

Sira, the soothsayer, had become her confidante and protector. “You must endure, Xica. Not just for yourself, but for the little ones you carry.”

Xica nodded weakly. “I’m doing everything I can, Sira. But every day is harder.”

Sira gently stroked Xica’s hair. “I am a lady-in-waiting, doing this to survive. But you are a queen. Your strength and dignity inspire all of us. Don’t lose hope.”

Xica tried to smile, though fatigue and pain were evident. “Thank you, Sira. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

The days passed slowly in the camp, and more slaves joined in to protect and care for Xica. The news of her pregnancy had spread, and everyone knew they had to keep her safe.

One night, while they rested, Sira once again whispered words of encouragement to Xica. “Your king will come for you. I know it in my heart. You just have to hold on a little longer.”

Xica closed her eyes, clinging to that hope. She knew Baldwin would not give up, and that certainty was the only thing keeping her going.

Meanwhile, in Jerusalem, Baldwin organized the expedition to rescue Xica. His body was at its limit, but his determination was unwavering.

Tiberias approached him once more. “Baldwin, you must take care of yourself. You won’t be able to rescue Xica if you can’t stand.”

Baldwin nodded, knowing his friend was right. “I know, Tiberias. But I cannot afford to rest while she is in danger.”

Genoveva, free from her imprisonment, joined the conversation. “King Baldwin, we must act quickly. Xica needs our help now more than ever.”

Baldwin looked at his allies, his gaze filled with resolve. “We leave at dawn. And we will not rest until Xica is back home.”

In the camp, Xica woke up startled by a disturbing dream. Her condition was delicate, and each day became more challenging. Sira was by her side, caring for her diligently.

“What’s wrong, my queen?” Sira asked, concerned.

“I had a dream… a bad omen,” Xica murmured. “But I must stay strong. Baldwin will come for us. I know it.”

Sira nodded, taking Xica’s hand. “We must remain steadfast, Xica. Your strength inspires us all.”

The night advanced slowly, and the desert filled with whispers of hope and despair. Xica, surrounded by those who protected her, prepared to face another day with the hope that her beloved Baldwin would rescue her.

The sun rose slowly over the horizon as Baldwin IV and his group of knights departed towards the slave camp where Xica was held captive. Xavier, Godfrey, and Tiberias accompanied the king, each determined to rescue their queen.

The journey was arduous and fraught with tension. Baldwin, despite his physical weakness, led his men with determination. Every step brought him closer to Xica, and his heart beat with renewed hope.

In the camp, Xica and Sira watched the horizon, hoping for any sign of help. The news of their rescue's arrival spread quickly among the slaves, who prepared for the inevitable confrontation.

Finally, the rescue group arrived at the camp. Baldwin, mounted on his horse with the banner of Jerusalem waving above him, burst in forcefully alongside his men.

Xica, seeing her beloved among the knights, felt a rush of emotions. She hurried towards him, tears of relief and joy streaming down her face.

"Baldwin!" she exclaimed, running into his arms.

Baldwin embraced her firmly and lovingly, feeling the weight of worry and relief as he saw her safe and sound. He held her tightly, as if afraid she might disappear again.

"Xica, my love…" Baldwin murmured, unable to contain his emotions.

Xica looked into his eyes, feeling love and gratitude overflow in her heart. "Baldwin, I thought I would never see you again."

Baldwin tenderly caressed her face. "I promised I would come for you. No matter what happened, I will always find you."

Among the rescued slaves, Sira approached Xica with a smile. "We did it, my queen. You are safe now."

Xica hugged Sira gratefully. "Thank you for taking care of me, Sira. I will never forget your bravery and compassion."

Meanwhile, the kidnappers were captured and faced punishment for their actions. Baldwin, in his controlled fury, ensured that justice was served firmly.

Back in Jerusalem, Xica and Baldwin finally had a moment of peace in their chambers. Weariness and relief filled the room as they lay down together.

"Baldwin, there's something I must tell you," Xica began, taking his hands in hers.

Baldwin looked at her with curiosity and love. "Tell me, my love. What is troubling you?"

Xica took a deep breath, preparing for what was to come. "I am pregnant, Baldwin. Not with one, but with two little lives."

Baldwin looked at her with surprise and joy. "Two… twins," he whispered, feeling excitement flood his being.

Xica nodded with a radiant smile. "Yes, Baldwin. Two little miracles that we carry in our hearts."

Baldwin embraced her tenderly, feeling renewed hope and gratitude. "You are incredible, Xica. My queen, my beloved wife, and now the mother of our children."

They kissed with the promise of a future filled with love and family. Through all adversities, they had found the strength to move forward, together.

Baldwin and Xica lay together, enjoying the peace and intimacy after the turbulence they had faced. The news of Xica's pregnancy had filled the room with an air of anticipation and happiness, but also with a shadow of concern.

"Two children… twins," Baldwin murmured, gently caressing Xica's belly where the new lives were growing.

Xica nodded tenderly. "Yes, Baldwin. Two little miracles we will carry together."

Baldwin looked at her with love and concern. "Xica, my love… the leprosy. What if either of our children…"

Xica placed her hand over his. "Baldwin, I know what you're thinking. But we have to trust that God will guide us. Our children will be strong and healthy."

Baldwin hugged her tightly, feeling a mix of joy and fear. "I don't want them to face what I have."

Xica gently stroked his cheek. "We are strong, Baldwin. Together we can overcome any obstacle. And we will care for our children with all our love and strength."

Baldwin looked at her with determination. "Yes, Xica. We will. Together."

They embraced with the certainty that, no matter the challenges they faced, their love and family would be their greatest strength.

In the days that followed, Baldwin and Xica prepared for the future with renewed hope. Every shared moment was filled with love and dedication as they anticipated welcoming their twins.

Through all the trials and tribulations, their love grew stronger, and their determination to build a bright future for their family became even firmer.

And so, amidst the newly found peace and the promise of a new beginning, Baldwin and Xica faced the future with courage and love, knowing that together they could overcome any challenge life presented them.

[sniperjade]

Let Me Take Your Order

Draco arrived at the ministry at approximately a quarter past nine in the morning. Granger had sent a missive with instructions on what to do and where to go when he arrived. He estimated by the time he got down to level nine, it would be twenty past, which meant she had been waiting for him for just as long. He smiled to himself, and pressed the button in the lift that sent it down.

Perhaps she’d be so livid she’d push him up against a wall or something. His breath caught at the thought of it. There was nothing quite so satisfying as teasing Hermione Granger. He could watch her ball her fists and clench her jaw all day. It made something inside his stomach titter and filled him with a vindictive sense of glee.

When the doors of the lift opened on the ninth floor , he could see Hermione standing with her arms crossed in front of her and an expression like thunder. He lifted his nose and sauntered out, a wry smile tugging up the corner of his mouth.

“Good morning, Granger.”

“What time do you think this is!?” she screeched, throwing her arms wide. “I said nine o’clock sharp. I realise that you’ve never had to work a day in your life, but surely you’ve learnt to tell the time. Don’t you need it to get to galas and fundraisers? Or were you always fashionably late?”

He let his eyes travel down her body. Today she was wearing a dark blue robe that showed off her considerable cleavage. Especially with her arms crossed like that. Instead of the twist she’d had in her hair last week, it was braided into a heavy rope, caught over her shoulder. Her eyes were ablaze, and his stomach turned when she caught his gaze.

Lifting his nose higher, he answered with a flippant wave of his hand. “I had trouble with the… peacocks. Yes, a peacock got stuck in the hedge maze. Astoria was beside herself. Surely you understand.”

He watched her eyes narrow even more as she shifted her weight onto one foot and stuck her tongue into the side of her mouth. “Right. The peacocks.”

She rolled her eyes with a huge sigh and gestured for him to follow. They were in a long narrow corridor covered in shiny black tiles that reflected everything back at him. Dark doorways led off in every direction with no description as to what lay on the other side. When they had travelled about halfway, she opened a door on the left and they entered yet another long dark hallway.

Without a word, she set off across the tile, her heels clicking behind her. He hurried along, trying to look into every door and nook. He had heard so many stories about the Department of Mysteries. As a child, he had even wanted to work there, before he realised jobs were things Malfoys didn’t do. He saw a particularly warped doorway and was about to ask what it was when he realised Hermione was almost a speck in the distance.

In a panic, he tried to catch up, sprinting after her, but though the pathway underneath his feet moved at a swift pace, the walls and doors did not.

“Granger!” he called out –

Suddenly, the entire hallway snapped into focus, and he was barrelling into her back. They both tripped and fell onto a huddle on the floor. His hand fell on something soft and warm, and she grunted as he frantically struggled to get off her. He tried not to think about what it possibly was he had been holding.

“What the fuck, Malfoy?” Hermione cursed as she stood, rubbing her elbows and knees.

He opened and closed his mouth dumbly before exclaiming, “The hallway – I was moving – going nowhere – then suddenly.” He mimed two objects crashing together with his hands.

Hermione sighed, “The time room must have moved again. I know this place is interesting and weird, but if you gawk, you’re going to keep getting stuck. The rooms know when you’re perceiving them and if you’re unlucky they’ll pull you in.” She ran a hand over her hair. “Look, if you do well today, I’ll take you to one of the tamer ones. Does that suffice? You’ll stop rubbernecking?”

He felt his cheeks heat as he objected. “Granger, whilst you may have sufficiently managed to tame that wild beast growing on your head to the point where you are passably attractive, I can assure you that necking was not my intention.”

Her face went bright red as she spluttered, “Rubber necking refers to the act of staring at something Malfoy! I was not implying anything else of the sort.”

“Good,” he said, raising his nose again, “because I’m married, and that sort of thing is right out of the question.”

Granger released a strangled sound of frustration as she turned on her heels and walked away again. This time, he followed closely and tried not to look around. He found himself concentrating on the way her braid moved as she walked, swinging from side to side. From there it was only a hop, skip, and a gaze down to look at her arse. It was moving pertly back and forth, and he suddenly had the urge to reach out and…

She stopped suddenly, turning to open a door on the right. He barely avoided slamming into her back and walked through as she held it open for him. The room was bigger than he had expected and covered in indiscriminate burn marks. The surfaces were covered with books, or knickknacks and at the very centre lay a large table with a bowl sitting squarely in the middle. Read more on Ao3.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

A wretched fate

Day 1 prompts: Daily life

For: @silmarillionepistolary

Rating: E

Character: Finrod

Epistolary format: Journal entries

Themes: Dead dove | Dark | Care/Comfort | Thrall! Finrod AU

Warnings: Captivity | Thralldom | Some violence | Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent | Major character death prior to the beginning of the story | Mentions of torture | Trauma | Werewolf feedings

Wordcount: 2.1K words

Summary: Finrod learns Edrahil is alive, and is able to have him placed in his care

A/n: This is part of an AU where Finrod falls to Sauron after their great duel of song, and his true identity is discovered.

Minors DNI | 18+

This is also available on AO3

Ingoldo Findaráto’s journal

3rd day of Hithui, Firith, year 375 of the First Age.— After much fear and indecision, I mustered my courage and decided to learn for myself what became of those who followed me. My captor revealed to me the fates of those loyal few who agreed to aid Beren and me on our quest to retrieve a Silmaril, and his words were more than my soul could bear.

Lord Mairon lied to us all. None of my companions were allowed to leave the isle. Beren had perished. He was used as food for the great beasts that I have not yet seen, beasts who are only spoken of in whispers. Of my own people, Edrahil was all who remained. I dare not reveal what became of the others; their ends were darker than that which befell the mortal who called on us for aid, and it grieves me deeply to think of how much they would have suffered until the great judge called them into his embrace. Still, I am no longer ignorant of what took place. 

I will not lie when I say that Lord Mairon—for that is how we must all address him—did not relent to my entreaties so easily. My pleas, more often than not, were answered with sharp barbs and backhanded blows whenever he came to my chambers of a night, and I asked, yet again, what became of my companions. Nevertheless, I persevered, determined to learn the truth.

“You are relentless, my pet,” he observed one night after sating his needs. It took much flattery and—as much as it disgusts me to admit it—a great many pillow tricks before he finally loosened his tongue. “And your incessant pleading exhausts me greatly. Very well! I will tell you. But you must never ask such things from me again.”

He claimed he was weary, but the wicked gleam in his eyes said otherwise. I believe this was a ploy of his to weaken my spirit and make me more willing to please him. Perhaps his efforts were fruitful, and I was indeed slowly losing my resolve to defy him. Still, he told me all, and he told me Edrahil was still alive. He had been saving him for last, though why he did so, I cannot say. Despite my grief over hearing what became of the others, I still pleaded Edrahil’s case, using the flattery and tricks from before, and he acquiesced to placing my servant into my care.

“Consider this the first and only boon that you will receive from me,” said the missive that was sent to me along with Edrahil. “Do not ask for more from me, my pet, or else life on this isle will go far worse for both you and your servant if you do. 

M”

A victory, no matter how small, is a victory all the same. And now Edrahil is abed, resting peacefully. I will tend to him as diligently as I can manage, for it is the least I could do after leading him and the others to such peril.

5th day of Hithui, Firith, year 465 of the First Age.—Lord Mairon is abroad, tending to the many tasks his master has set for him. I have some respite for once, for which I am most grateful. 

Edrahil rarely stirs, save for when he is plagued with terrible visions of his time in the pits. He cries out in agony, and he cries out for the others, calling out their names and begging for them to be freed. I go to him, take his hand into mine, and comfort him. I sing to him ancient songs of healing. They soothe him a little, but I can see that they are not powerful enough to drive away the torment that has him in its grip. When he opens his eyes again, I will not press him to speak to me on such matters; Edrahil must tell such tales only when he feels he is strong enough to do so. And I pray that he will grow stronger, for he is near skin and bone. His fair hair, which oft reminded me of obsidian polished to a high sheen under starlight, is now brittle and turning bone-white. The soups and water I feed him keep him alive, but I fear that even I do not have the power to restore the luster to his hair or make strength return to his sinews. All I can do is hope that he can find in his heart to forgive me for all he has endured because of my own folly. 

8th day of Hithui, Firith, year 465 of the First Age.— Lord Mairon has not yet returned, much to my relief. Tending to one such as him is a most terrible burden, and words cannot describe the true extent of what I must undergo each and every day. I will still write down some of my day-to-day life and what I have observed here in the isle that has now been renamed Tol-in-Gaurhoth, or Isle of Werewolves. They may prove useful someday. 

A meal is brought to me just before dawn. It is always good, much like the rest of the meals sent to me. They may not be a king’s meals, but they fortify me all the same, and they are far superior to the thin gruel and unclean water often provided to the other thralls. I, too, am a lowly thrall despite whom I must serve; the golden collar with its brilliant jewel and chain are a visible sign of this. A poor substitute to the Nauglamír, it no longer chafes at me like it once did, but I digress; I will return to what I was writing before. 

After my meal, I must bathe and dress in the simple white robes Lord Mairon gave me. The water they bring me is fresh and warm, and my robes are always washed. This is in accordance with Lord Mairon’s commands, as I, the one who must serve him in every way, must be clean, for I do more than fetch him his meals and serve him wine and garb him in his robes and jewels; I must satisfy his appetites for pleasures of the flesh as well. Before I fell to my new master, I had only ever envisioned indulging in such acts with the one I would someday come to love and call my own. Alas, such delights are lost to me now; they will be forever tainted by the memory of his embraces, how they oft left bruises on my skin whenever he touched me, and how he found delight in my tears. I must not dwell on such thoughts. To do so is to deprive myself of all hope. This, in turn, will sweeten Lord Mairon’s victory over me, and that is something I cannot allow. 

I will admit that despite my station as a thrall, I have been given freedom to explore the fortress that I, and later, my beloved brother, once ruled as its lords. Additions have been made. Tol-in-Gaurhoth is a true stronghold now, with a thick curtain wall shielding it from attack. The trees along the shore have been cut down, and nothing but grass and stone and soil remain. The gardens are a shadow of what they used to be, and they are confined around the library and tower Lord Mairon uses for his own purposes. The werewolf pits adjoin the barracks, and the howls I hear of a night are like mournful dirges. The screams that follow are bloodcurdling, and they frighten Edrahil, making him shiver violently even while he sleeps. I close the windows and drape pelts over the shutters to dampen the sound; it is successful to some small degree, and Edrahil rests all the easier for it. 

Orcs make up the chief of the warriors present, and they are the only ones allowed to tend to the wolf-like monsters Lord Mairon breeds on behalf of his lord. They feed these beasts flesh, and from the screams I hear at night, I fear this flesh does not come from bird or deer or boar. These orcs also spar every day at dawn and dusk, and their blades are dark, crude things, poorer imitations of the elegant blades their lord and those whom he trusts most explicitly wield. Still, they are doughty fighters, taking vicious cuts and blows from their challengers with little to no complaint. Or perhaps they do not complain because they are afraid. Lord Mairon does not take kindly to weakness in them, and those who do not pass muster are, for lack of a better term, culled in a brutal fashion before the others. His method is clever. Uncommonly cruel for even one such as him, but it is clever. It compels the others to learn faster and not falter. With each passing day, the number of those who fall grow less and less, and the numbers of those willing to fight and die for Lord Melkor’s cause grow more and more. I fear for the future, of the darkness that will follow in their footsteps. Unless the Valar intervenes on behalf of the peoples of Endórë, Lord Melkor will reign supreme over us all. 

9th day of Hithui, Firith, year 465 of the First Age.— There is still no sighting of Lord Mairon, but his herald made it known that he was returning even as she spoke, and that a great feast was to be held on the night of his arrival. I shudder to think of what this could all entail, but I dare not seek Lady Thuringwethil out. She is a vampire—a mercurial one at that—and I am an elf who once drank from the dews of Telperion. Lord Mairon’s collar may keep me safe, but I must not vex her in any way. Blood from one such as myself is like an exceedingly rare, intoxicating wine for those such as her, and the frenzy she whips herself into while she is caught in the grip of satisfying her thirst is a most terrifying thing to behold. 

“The master is returning,” the others cried, running to and fro. Hunters rode abroad for fresh game, and I set myself to the task of setting Lord Mairon’s chambers to rights. I laid fresh coal in the brazier, and I kept my eyes closed while I placed new pelts on his featherbed. It is something I have become quite skilled at, and it helps greatly not to gaze upon one of the many reminders of his treatment of me. 

There was also some joy to be found, a sliver of light that pierced the darkness. Edrahil opened his eyes at last, which pleased me greatly. He did not speak, or even smile. It was a good sign still, and I grasped it with eager hands. 

“You are awake,” I declared, and moved to his side, relieved. I sat by the edge of the featherbed and brushed my hand over his hair. “Are you hungry? They have not brought me my meal yet; I will share it with you when they do. Or would you like some water to drink first?” 

Edrahil remained silent. He moved to rest his hand over mine, his eyes bloodshot and already wet with his tears. When I brushed my hand over his hair again, those tears fell freely.  

“How could this have happened to us?” He cried, hiding his countenance from me. Was he ashamed? I prayed that he was not. “How were we so easily defeated? Forgive me, my lord, for not doing more to keep the others safe! I tried! Truly, I tried!” 

All I could do was draw him into my embrace and comfort him. “Do not blame yourself for what happened to the others,” I said softly while he wept without restraint. “The fault is not yours. It was never yours. The fault lies with me, my lord, for leading you all to such a wretched fate.” 

He wept still, and I did what I could to ease his agony: a tender word whispered here, a warm squeeze of the hand there, a sob that mirrored his own. He clutched desperately at my back while he wept, and I remained with him until he wept himself free of his tears. 

“What will become of us, my lord?” He asked and looked around. My chambers were a shock to him; they were an immense improvement from the dark pits he once found himself in. I will have to explain what has become of me, the collar I must wear, and the master I must serve. I must also caution him to guard both his tongue and his thoughts. Lord Mairon sees and hears much, and his patience must never be tested.   

“I do not know,” I confessed, “but I give you my word, I will find a way out for us.” 

His worn, starlit eyes held neither anger nor malice. “I will have faith, my lord. I know you will find a way out for us both.”

[josefavomjaaga]

Letter from Laure Junot to her husband (1812)

This is for @impetuous-impulse and @snowv88: As promised, here’s the letter Laure Junot wrote to her husband in September 1812, when Junot was with the Grande Armée in Russia. It’s taken from the book "Lettres interceptées par les Russes", edited by Frédéric Masson (and of which I only own one of those Indian "reprints" that come down to a really bad scan and that I had rightfully be warned of before I bought it 😋. However, these pages are perfectly legible.)

For context: While the publication contains letters that normally did not reach their destination, as they were intercepted during the second half of the Russian campaign, this missive actually had been written during the first months of the invasion and had gotten to Junot safely. However, in his answer, Junot sent it back to Laure, and this answer then fell into the hands of the Russians. (I do not know what they were thinking. Because it’s rather private, and not pretty.)

Laure Junot, at the time when she wrote this letter, happened to be at a spa, at the same time as several other ladies of the court, off-duty empress Joséphine, Julie more-or-less-queen of Spain, Pauline Borghese and the crown princess of Sweden, Julie’s sister Désirée.

The Duchess L. of Abrantès to Junot, Duke of Abrantès. Aix [en Savoie], 7 September 1812 Your last letter caused me to feel both pain and pity. It comes from a fool, and from a fool all the more guilty for being so, as it depends on him to recover his reason and as he refuses to do so as stubbornly as if it meant his eternal misfortune. People dominated by an unfortunate passion are, in the beginning, like sick people who do not want to submit to the vigorous treatment that would cure them. And you want me to feel sorry for you! You want me to pity you! But do you deserve it? Yes, perhaps, but of this pity stripped of all esteem, for you are not the one to whom I promised to offer mine along with all my friendship as the prize for his noble efforts to deserve the name of man, by removing from his heart a feeling that he knows can never be happy. In this respect, you know my way of thinking. It is invariable, and nothing can change it. For many months I have spoken in the same terms to you, and I always will, because it is the language of both my heart and my reason. Perhaps it seems too harsh to you and you find me too frank. A more flirtatious person would no doubt be less so, but is it not better for me to refuse you a poison that would only aggravate your wound and to apply to it a balm that should, according to my desire, remove even the scar and only leave behind of its memory that which could, in the future, spread more charm over our friendship?

Whoa. Now that's a handfull. Please don't hold back, Madame! I have no clue (but would love to speculate!) what kind of "unfortunate passion" she refers to.

For a long time I had this ambition that almost all women have, this unbridled desire to attract attention and admiration, to inspire passionate feelings, to be a kind of divinity for everything around me. I paid for all these adulations with a look or a smile that often troubled the soul of the person to whom they were addressed, without stirring mine. Well, it is with bitterness that I remember this time in my life, and it would seem criminal to me now to encourage or give rise to a feeling that I could not share.

Is this a hint at her own wrongdoings, the affair with Metternich?

I am very happy to think that you are now close to your mother and your son. Give the latter all the time you can spare from your business and the duties you are obliged to fulfil. You have, you told me, great confidence in his tutor. But could strangers ever match a father's eye? Your abilities and your wit put you in a position to watch over his studies very closely yourself. May your loving attention also be focused on his young heart and his feelings. May he one day be able to return to you all the good things he possesses. Believe me, his virtues will be much dearer to him.

This passage confuses me deeply. How can she assume Junot is with his mother and his son in September 1812, when Junot is with the Grande Armée, and the Grande Armée in Russia since June? She must have known that, right? We'll see in the postscript that the ladies were informed of what was going on at the front. Also, the need she feels to interest Junot in his own child is so sad.

I'm leaving for Geneva the day after tomorrow, no matter how much the princesses insist that I stay. I haven't seen my children for three months now, and the need to be closer to them is becoming more pressing every day. I promised to go to Changrenon. I have to spend two days there, and from there I'll go straight to Paris, where I'll be very happy to see and embrace my children, the joy and glory of my life! Ah, when I look back on such moments, I no longer say that it is deprived of any happy future!

Which apparently otherwise she had said. - Also, as she says she will go to Paris to see her children, does that not imply that the son (who was five at the time, according to a footnote) was also there? Does that mean that in the passage above she supposed Junot to be in Paris as well? For that matter, was Junot's mother in Paris, or did she live elsewhere?

I hope that the first letter I receive from you will be good and reasonable, just as I want it to be. Many people take great pride in never changing their feelings. Do the opposite and put your pride in driving away from you those who now dominate you. It is only through weakness, believe me, that we retain an unreasonable inclination, and the word consistency is profaned when applied to madness. Farewell, believe in my sincere friendship; nothing can diminish it, and one thing can increase it greatly: the certainty of being able to give it to you without fear.

This sounds more like a mother trying to reign in an adolescent. The use of the word "crainte" is also interesting. What precisely does she fear?

You ask me about my health. In truth, I don't know what to tell you, as I am still too ill to go and distress my friends by telling them about my sufferings. I'm still coughing up blood, and in the last six days I've had three new bouts of vomiting. There you have my bulletin. P.S.: I am reopening my letter to tell you that I am no longer going to Geneva. Yesterday, after writing my letter, I received the bulletin of the 25th [August, of the Grande Armée in Russia, mentioning her husband]. You have probably read it, and you know me well enough to be convinced that this is not the moment I would choose for a pleasure trip. I'm also in a lot of pain; two hours ago, on my way back to the Empress's, I vomited so much blood that it could only be stopped by putting ice on my chest, so now I'm in so much pain that I can't breathe.

Does she try to imply that the army bulletin they received made her feel worse? I think it's the one mentioning Junot not quite being up to the job.

Also interesting: She adresses her husband by the formal "vous" throughout the letter. Which I believe was slowly going out of use but still not unusual in France, especially between spouses of high nobility. Still, this letter makes me feel as if Laure and her Andoche at this point already lived seperate lives. It sounds like one you would write to a husband you had recently divorced.

[climbthemountain2020]

Hope of Spring - Chapter 17

Also on Ao3! Find Ch. 16 here :)

The missive came two days later, summoning the High Lords and their chosen parties to the Dawn Court in a week’s time. It arrived at lunch, and Tamlin gave her the letter to read over once he realized what it was. They held hands as they read and ate, rarely apart for any period of time anymore. They still enjoyed that companionable silence, but every second was charged now with the most beautiful energy between them.

A week’s time. Hopefully enough.

The Night Court had decided to postpone any additional training for Penny while she rested and fully regained her powers. They would encourage her to continue training with Tamlin this week in the interim as she saw fit, but would resume normal lessons and their routine of visits once the meeting had passed. There had been no word yet on capturing anyone’s powers for her to touch or the tools to help her focus the power on the battlefield, but she assumed there would be answers at the meeting. In the meantime, Penny had a plan.

Tamlin needed to go out to the small town nearby to get a few things. He’d invited her along, but she declined, reasoning that her energy levels were still incredibly low, so she’d feel better taking one more afternoon to rest. He’d fussed over her endlessly, but ultimately relented and rode into town that afternoon after she’d called him “a hovering mother hen”. As soon as she watched his horse crest the final hill, she took off out of their bedroom, running straight to the kitchens and scaring the staff half to death.

“I need to make apple tarts! Can someone help me?” A mischievous smile of understanding dawned on Ira’s face.

“Of course, Miss Penny. Let’s get you started.” The rest of the kitchen kicked into action, getting all the necessary materials ready. They instructed her on the best practices, how much spice, the best pressure for the rolling pin, and the perfect width for the apples. They encouraged her, all knowing what reason she had for such a hasty treat. News of the mating bond had traveled fast through the manor after the battle, and she knew that they were all as eager to see their High Lord happy as she was.

When it was all done and cooking and the timer set, she thanked the staff profusely and sent them all on their way early. Ira had left some additional provisions in the kitchen available for a late night dinner, should they require it, and she left last with a final wink to Penny.

Penny raced back up the stairs as the sunset painted the windows in beautiful shades of blues and pinks, sprinting to the bath to remove all the flour from her hair as the tarts cooled in the kitchen. She knew he wouldn’t care what she looked like, but for this, she wanted to feel her best. She bathed more quickly than she ever had before, throwing various oils over her skin and hair and dunking herself below the water. She toweled her skin so quickly and thoroughly that it turned a bright pink from the friction. She braided her hair into a soft coronet with a few twisted tendrils to the side, and, for once, put on one of the beautiful dresses that Tally had purchased for her so long ago. It was a mix of deep greens, the embroidery of golden leaves twisting around the low collar and down the edges of the light cap sleeves. When she was finished, she turned to see herself in the mirror, looking every bit a Spring lady. She nodded once, took a deep breath, and vaulted back down to the kitchens.

____________________

When Tamlin arrived home not much later, Penny was sitting in the dining room, trying to calm her heartbeat in the candlelight. It’s not like you have anything to worry about. Calm down. She tried to take deep, steadying breaths as she sat in his seat at the head of the table, eyeing the doors and counting the footsteps until he reached her.

Realizing the lack of staff and dark house, he called out “Penny?”

“I’m in here!” She hated the way her voice cracked. Stupid.

He rounded the corner through the doors. “There you are. It’s dark as the—Penny,” he gasped out, immediately aware of what this was. She cleared her throat and stood, brushing her hands nervously over her skirts and grabbing the plate of tarts in front of her.

“Surprise?” She whispered, holding the platter up. He all but ran to her, stumbling on the last few steps and righting himself with a huff in front of her. He grabbed the plate, set it down, and grabbed her face in his hands.

“Truly? This is truly what you want?” The desperation and hope in his voice nearly brought her to her knees. He bent to press his forehead into hers.

“I have never wanted anything the way I want to be yours. I want all of Prythian to know. Let there be no doubt in their minds that I am yours, and you are mine.” She pressed a kiss to his lips as he laughed in relief and joy.

“This doesn’t feel real.” He turned and grabbed a tart, shoving the entire pastry into his mouth as she laughed. “I’m going to eat the whole plate before you change your mind.” She threw her head back laughing. Gods, but she loved him. Before he could make good on his promise and grab the whole plate, she gently gripped his wrist and brought it to her face, kissing lightly over his pulse and looking up into his eyes.

“I love you, Tam. Now take me to bed.” He didn’t need to be asked twice, picking her up at the waist and throwing her over his shoulder. He practically sprinted up the stairs, their laughter and joy filling the halls as they went.

They didn’t make it to the room. Halfway up the stairs, Penny began untucking his shirt and skirting her fingers around his waist to his abdomen, nearly causing Tamlin to trip up the final two steps. He laughed, getting a few more steps down the hall before setting her on her feet and immediately moving in to press her against the wall to kiss her, cupping his large hand against her jaw to tilt her head up.

She’d never tire of kissing him, her tongue dipping into his mouth to taste the remnants of the apple tarts within. Every kiss between them was always enmeshed with the busy hum and spark of their magic, but there was an urgency this time in the way their lips met, their hands gripping each other. She reached between them, pulling his shirt up over his head, barely breaking their kiss to breathe as she did. Their hands roamed hotly across each other as his settled on the laces of her dress, tugging them strategically and loosening the dress in two quick pulls as she smiled against his lips.

With a quick motion, he’d hoisted her up against him, her legs wrapping by instinct around his body as he mouth found his neck and he sighed into her hair. She placed hot, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw and beneath his ear as he walked further down the hall, finding a recessed shelf and carelessly tossing the vase residing on it back into the hall with a crash, settling Penny down onto it instead. He pulled the dress down off her shoulders, bunching it around her waist and leaning down to kiss her collarbones.

Penny tossed her head back as he took a nipple into his mouth, sucking gently and letting his hands fall to her waist to pull her forward. She ran her hands through his hair, not bothering to stifle the contented hums that passed through her lips since she’d sent everyone away. He was hers, and this was theirs.

Tamlin continued his steady descent down her body, pressing kisses to her ribs, stomach, then hips. He looked up to her, eyes ablaze, as he told her to lift her hips, pulling the layers of dress between them down and tossing the whole thing over his shoulder as she giggled. He slid his hands up her thighs, pausing to grip and squeeze as he went. There was no prelude as he pressed his mouth to her, licking a stripe up her underwear as he reached into the waistband to tug those down her legs, too, never breaking eye contact with her as he did.

Her breathing was heavy, and the urge to tip her head back and close her eyes nearly overwhelmed her, but she stayed focused on him. Her mate, looking up at her with adoration and reverence in his eyes, not even forty feet from where she’d come barreling through the ceiling and into his life months ago. He pressed a brief kiss to her, causing her to shudder, but he didn’t let her recover before he dove back in, devouring her with firm flat licks and making her give up the last of her resolve to keep her eyes open. She leaned back on her left hand, her right winding through his hair as he pressed against her, driving her mad with the sensation of it.

She was climbing that high fast, so fast she could barely hang on as the pleasure soared through her, robbing her of all cognitive thought. He was equally enthusiastic, grabbing beneath her thighs and tossing her legs over his shoulders as he gripped her ass and pulled her closer to the ledge, her moans ringing out through the empty hallway. She could feel his emotions mingling with hers down the bond, every thought and pleasure ripping through her like an echo chamber. It was enough to brutally push her over the edge, grinding against his mouth as she gasped and came.

He didn’t give her a second to breathe and she didn’t want one. The urgency inside her, the need to claim him, had her shuffling down off the shelf immediately, already grabbing for him to pull him closer. But Tamlin was already there, his hands over her hips, turning her body around and tipping her forward. He ran his mouth up her neck as he pulled her back against him.

She was so out of control, so insanely wet and thrumming with desire that it took only a single push to sheath himself within her. She arched back, her hands seeking the ledge in front of her, as she accommodated the sudden change. He was there, hands stroking up and down her sides, lips finding the spot below her ear she so enjoyed. She couldn’t take it anymore–couldn’t wait.

“Please, I need–” But he was already moving, already reading the direction of her thoughts and giving her exactly what her body asked for–grasping her hips tightly and thrusting into her wildly as she hung on for dear life. “Gods, yes. Please, don’t stop,” she begged as he placed kisses along her neck and shoulder, causing her to gasp as he bit into her, her head falling back against him as she arched up. The sounds she made were unintelligible, his moans into her neck spurring her on, grinding back to meet his thrusts in time.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his hand crawling up her body to grip her neck as his pace grew frantic. “My mate.”

“Yes! Oh, yes. I’m yours.” She screamed into the hallway. His other hand released her hip to stroke sharp circles against her clit and that was all it took to have her exploding into stars. She couldn’t see, couldn’t feel, couldn’t tell anything happening around her–was only aware of the meeting of their bodies, the magic coiling together sharply and the bond thrashing widely between them, bursting with golden light as he came inside her and moved his arms to hold her close to him as they came down.

When their breathing calmed, he picked her up gently, forsaking their clothes and carrying her to their room, placing the gentlest of kisses along her neck as they went. He set her down softly in the bed, leaving to walk to the bathroom and get a soft cloth to clean them up. He took great time and care with Penny, her eyes half lidded and dreamy as she made room in the bed for him. He crawled in, tucking them both in and pulling her to his chest. They fit together like they always had, a lock and key, two halves of one whole.

As they lay in the bed together, Tamlin spoke into the dark. “Come with me to this meeting. Help me make the right choices this time. My mistakes in the past came from a lack of trust, but I trust you.”

She took a deep breath of him, savoring his smell, now intrinsically mixed with hers. “Of course I’ll come. I’d go anywhere you asked.”

___________________

The next week passed in a blur. Occasionally, they would surface to find some food or even venture outdoors for a bit to claim they’d spent at least some time training. But most of their attempts dissolved fairly quickly and moved back to the house once they got within a few inches of each other.

Though magical training had been put at somewhat of a standstill, with the return of her ability to wield, Penny was noticing that some things had changed.

“Tam, are you able to wield fire?” She asked one day, leaning backward off the side of their bed as he tended to the fireplace.

“No, it’s an Autumn trait, so unless there’s a mixing of familiar lines, almost no one in Spring can.” He watched her as she flicked her wrist, producing a small flame that danced between her fingers before she tossed it into the open fireplace. She rolled to look at him.

“It’s been days since I’ve seen Lucien. I think I am beginning to retain some powers even after the fact somehow. Come touch me.” Amusement and intent filled the smile he shot her.

“Gladly, my lady.” He spoke, as he rose to come to the bed. She scoffed, sitting up and holding her hand out.

“Incorrigible. Can’t you go an hour without bedding me?” She said, teasingly. He leaned in to grab her hand and lightly kiss her on each cheek.

“No. I cannot.” He murmured lowly. She sighed, leaning into him.

“Good, me neither. Let me just try something first.” He pulled back and she lifted her hand, shifting so that scales covered it, then feathers. She shifted back into her normal form, then produced the fire again.

“We should bring this up to Rhys at the meeting.” She stated, pulling the flame back in. “I wonder who else this extends to.” She looked at him, sighing, then leaned in for another kiss. “Now, it does seem we’re reaching the end of that hour.” She spoke against his mouth. He grinned against her lips.

__________________

As the High Lord’s meeting grew closer, the two spent their time planning how to present a cohesive front. Tamlin explained the last meeting there left the remaining High Lord’s wary of him. He wanted to start fresh, put forward that he truly was working for the greater good and that he was ashamed of who he’d been the last time. He wanted them to believe how hard he was trying.

Penny reassured him that she would be there for him each step of the way, and they came up with a number of signals in the form of hand squeezes should things start to veer out of control.

“I am so lucky to have you with me.” He murmured into her lips long after the sun had set as they sat together in the bath. They had one more day to prepare before their departure to Dawn, and they planned to go into the village tomorrow to see how repairs were going and offer any help as needed. They’d had the kitchens prepare extra food the past two days so that they might bring some food to the families in the village working hard to rebuild after the attack from Autumn.

“The feeling goes both ways. Are you nervous for the meeting?”

“Incredibly so. But I am relieved that you’ll be with me. I would have been ashamed to go alone again after the last time.” She turned and pressed a kiss to his chest, looking up through wet lashes into his eyes. “But more so, I am glad to have you with me. It’s been centuries too long of me being in charge of the decisions on Spring’s behalf. I need someone smart to do that for me.” She splashed him with water, but then leaned in and kissed the drops off his face.

“As long as I am here, you’ll never have to do it alone again.” And he knew she meant it.

____________________

Penny and Tamlin ventured into the town with horses carrying loads of food for the people at mid morning. The town was better off than she had imagined it would be. She’d been so singularly focused during the battle that she hadn’t seen how far Autumn had breached into the village itself, but fortunately, the damage seemed to have been mostly on the fields and hills.

A few buildings had already been fixed, new wood and stone standing out among the buildings. It seemed the last place to fix was the community hall in the town square, where many had already congregated in the morning sun to fix the roof and the upper side. They tied their horses, and Tamlin went to offer his help while Penny went to let some of the townspeople know that there was food for them if they’d like to come to the square. When she returned, a line had formed and Tamlin was helping to haul stones to complete the center.

He, of course, was shirtless in the heat, as was every other man helping, but she decided to busy herself distributing the food lest she let the newly-accepted mating bond cause her to do something in public she’d regret. Instead, she focused on the people coming to get food. She spoke to everyone who approached, remembering some she’d met before and learning the names of others. She talked with women and held babies and discussed how conditions had been in the town. She took mental notes of some items to discuss with Tamlin when they arrived back at the manor, and, towards the late afternoon when the building was finishing up, she sat with a group of children and helped them weave flower crowns on the edge of the community garden.

Tamlin came back over to her, gulping water and looking every inch a High Lord, much to her self-restraint’s chagrin. He placed his hands on her shoulders and squeezed as the young children looked up to him in reverence. A small girl with a missing tooth and a boy, only slightly older, looking similar enough to be her elder brother, came up to them. The boy spoke excitedly to them.

“We saw you holding the line against Autumn.” The boy spoke to Tamlin. “You didn’t even have the right armor, but you held the line and you kept my family safe.” Tamlin looked surprised as he crouched to the boy’s eye level. “Thank you for coming to fight for us.”

“I am your High Lord, I will always come to fight for you.” He inclined his head toward the boy, whose eyes widened in shock. The little girl pushed forward and shoved a flower crown into Penny’s hands.

“You burned the High Lord of Autumn alive!” She rasped with enthusiasm through missing baby teeth. “With his own fire. AND you saved the High Lord. I want to be just like you when I grow up.” Penny laughed with amusement, but she could feel her eyes begin to water as she took in the children all looking at them–at Tamlin looking at her with such pride and love. “My Papa called you the Savior of Spring!”

Another small voice chimed in. “Mine, too!” Our Savior of Spring!” Penny’s heart could have exploded, and as Tamlin took her hand they both stood. He pressed it to his mouth with a kiss as he declared. “That’s right. Our Savior of Spring.”