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transtundras-fr-archive · 2 years

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Why did Skamöld kill the Icewarden?

Many presumed hubris, a desire to become divine, maybe some misplaced ambition. After all, that’s what drove Auros to slay the Lightweaver and Shadowbinder. It’s only fair to assume the same for any other Godkiller. That was not the motivation for Skamöld, however.

Skamöld was an old tundra by the time he took up arms. A retired knight for hire, he had traveled much of Sornieth before settling down in his homeland. He had successfully raised several hatchlings, all whom were exalted to the service of the Icewarden. He did not complain or fight back when they were chosen for service, simply bowing his head and allowing the course of politics and service to run. When his children’s bodies were returned, he buried them quietly on the family’s plot of land, and carried on. A seed of resentment was planted in his heart, but what more could he do? He was only a tundra, and an aging tundra at that. At least, at the time, he had his beloved, Kvartr.

Kvartr was a nature dragon, and while they never raised any children, their love was as strong as the Behemoth’s trunk. Kvartr was a nature mage, and a powerful one at that, who used their magic to help grow crops during the brief summer months in the Snowsquall Tundra. Also known for their beauty, they caught the eye of many fellow residents, but remained faithful to Skamöld.

One such suitor was a Gaoler named Ordim, who belonged to the prestigious Sentinel Order. Many times she offered her hand to Kvartr, but each time she was rejected, as Kvartr had no more room in their heart for any other. Ordim could not comprehend why they would choose Skamöld, a retired knight with a blind eye, over herself, who had the Icewarden’s favor.

Beyond embarrassed after being rejected, Ordim hatched a plan to keep Kvartr to herself. Knowing the tundra was a powerful mage, she falsely reported that they were shadetouched. In the middle of the night, Skamöld was rudely awakened by a trio of gaolers led by Ordim who came to arrest Kvartr. Once again, Skamöld bowed his head, believing that Kvartr would be rightly released soon after. He did not fight as they were taken away, and encouraged his beloved to comply.

That was the last time he saw them alive.

The Fortress of Ends is not kind to non-native dragons, especially those from the tropical North. Without warmth and proper insulation, Kvartr wilted like a plucked rose. They died in a month’s time. Ordim made up a lie that a Shade infection took their life, but Skamöld could smell the truth.

Now he was entirely alone, in an empty house with his children buried just a few yards away. It finally hit him, what the Icewarden and his rule had taken from him. His family was gone, and all that was left was his frozen heart. Taking up arms, he left his home with no intention to return, and set off across the Reclaimer’s Glacier.

Word of his quest spread, and soon he found himself in the company of several others who had lost loved ones to the icy walls of the Fortress. Skamöld at first was skeptical, but could not deny that it was more comforting to match towards death with a friend or two. At first his only goal was to challenge Ordim, as while his disdain for the Icewarden grew, he thought it impossible to take him down. Then came word of the unthinkable. The Lightweaver was dead, only furthering the resolve of the company. If one god could die, surely any could.

However, scouts had reported the company’s approach long before they arrived. When they finally reached the grand gates of the Fortress, a horde of Sentinels were waiting, led by Ordim. Stepping in front of his company, Skamöld spoke,

“Great Order of the Sentinels, we have come from afar to reclaim our honor and to fight for the lost souls of this Fortress. We wish no harm upon your ancient kind, for our business lies beyond your hold. Step aside, and we shall have no further quarrel.”

Ordim replied with a scoff, “Oh petulant knight, old age has skewed your sense of reason, but then again tundras have never been known for their intellect. We have our orders to eliminate you all, any survivors to be locked forever next to our most dastardly horrorbeasts. Turn back, lest you face the might of the Sentinel Order!”

Skamöld’s company shifted with unease, as most of them were smaller than the gaolers standing in their way. However, the old knight was not deterred. He took another step, drawing his ancient sword that had been forged by master smiths of the Magmablood Rebellion.

“Ordim, grand sentinel, if you are so sure of my weakness, then agree to this— a duel between us to the death. Should you win, my company will retreat with no intention to return. Should I win, your Order will step aside and allow us to pass to the Icewarden’s frozen chambers. What say you?”

Ordim laughed, a cold laugh as the frostbitten winds whipped her fur. She bared her claws, her horns gnarled and teeth savagely sharp, though even sharper was her pride.

“Very well then! Step forth, whelp!”

Unbeknownst to the gaoler however, this was precisely what Skamöld planned. Like a bull moose Ordim charged, gnarled antlers aimed to impale the tundra and swiftly end the duel. Clamping his sword in his mouth, he stood his ground, and at the last minute before she rammed him, he stepped aside, using his blade to cleanly slice off one of her hefty antlers. She screamed, less in pain and more in dignity as her antler fell to the barren ground. Snorting, she aimed her icy breath at him, sending a hail of sharped shards raining down on him. One sliced his horn, breaking it in half and piercing his ear, but this did not deter him, hiding behind his shield. When the barrage ended, he used the window to charge close, knowing she was out of breath. She swiped at him with her massive claws, this time slicing his shoulder, but still he did not fall back, using this to distract her as he slid under her and embedded his sword deep in her gut.

Her wails were piercing as he twisted his sword, deep crimson pouring down on him. He removed his sword and backed away as she fell on her side, her eyes darting around with fear. Skamöld approached once more, sword aimed.

“You fought well, but it seems this half blind, dumb tundra bested you. May the afterlife greet you fairly.”

With those words, he plunged his sword precisely into her neck, death instantaneous. A hush fell over both sides, neither quite knowing what to do. Skamöld panted, catching his breath, his silver fur stained crimson. He turned his gaze to the remaining gaolers, as if silently challenging them to step forth if they dare. From his company, a pearlcatcher stepped forth, pacing up to the line of Sentinels. She regarded them all, small and armed only with a crossbow. Slowly, like melting glaciers, the gaolers moved aside, creating a path to the front door…

#I’ll write the second half eventually #but I’m pretty happy with this!#flight rising #fr #my lore #skamold #tw death #tw blood

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dreamwritesimagines · 2 years

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OH I LOVED THIS CHAPTER!! and i might love monsieur allard even more i cannot wait so see more of him!! probably the important suitor you had mentioned before?? i love just being able to like and trust him without worrying that i'm accidentally wholeheartedly supporting a murderer- i also loved lucie's support at the beginning we love an unproblematic queen!!

You had woken up with a gasp before his lips could touch yours but either way, it was completely unacceptable. oh cherie my darling innocent love i can PROMISE you this is nothing yet <33

You couldn’t even begin to imagine how disappointed he would be if he knew, he would probably never want to see you again. oh cherie my darling innocent love i can PROMISE you that he has dreamed of far worse than this <33

“What is going through your mind? Besides, you know…” you motioned at him. “The usual nothing whatsoever.” okay i love the accurate representation of siblings here you're doing wonders for the sibling banter community

“I think I already have found the most gorgeous sight in the city,” he said with a smile, making your cheeks burn YES GO YOU MONSIEUR ALLARD I LOVE YOU YOU DESERVE HER MORE THAN ANTHONY AT LEAST YOU KNOW HOW TO COMPLIMENT A LADY!! but no fr i love this for her she probably misses her home sm she deserves a little reminder of home!!

Anthony acknowledged him with a nod before his dark gaze focused on you. oh i see he has his eyes on the prize 👀👀

His eyes studied your face as if he wanted to see what you were really thinking before he took a deep breath. “Did you like him then?” this reminds me of the dinner scene!! bestie anthony is probably just trying to judge if she fell in love those few seconds of talking to monsieur allard before so rudely interrupting them to STOP her from falling in love

“Ah that’s the reason?” he asked with a small chuckle. “You want compliments?” yes omg anthony WHAT is so hard to understand about that?? the fact that you won't do it doesn't mean others won't 🙄🙄 should have been earlier if you wanted to be original

“The same reason as you I’m afraid,” he taunted. “He complimented you.” oh anthony just PROPOSE to her already you're once again not fooling anyone!! you don't get to be jealous because someone else was nice to her in your place!! allard was just picking up YOUR slack!!

“Yes you are,” you insisted. “Teasing me is one thing but making fun of me—” oh honey if there's one thing he ISN'T doing it's that-

“I’m not,” he repeated. “I’m not making fun of you. I was merely surprised.” ANTHONY ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? this man is just as non-proficient in matters of love as elias i can definitely see why they're friends 🙄🙄

“Not bad for a rake,” you commented. “At least I suppose it isn’t. For a moment you almost had me believe you meant it.” cherie honey no- for once he IS being clear about his intentions and you react like THIS

“Y/N, of course I—” EXACTLY WHAT I SAID!! anyway anthony can't possibly be surprised about this reaction after his previous conversations about love with her

“I wish you a more pleasant mood for the rest of the evening,” you cut him off and dropped a curtsy, then made your way to the crowd without so much as sparing him a glance. YESS GO OFF QUEEN SLAY PUT HIM IN HIS PLACE!! also please forgive him soon i cannot stand the pining even though anthony definitely deserves at the time

“Yes,” you said. “I am. I will just step outside for some fresh air.” and then monsieur allard will join her?? 👀👀 yes i am already obsessed with him and want to see more of him!! let him call on her and bring her flowers!! cherie deserves to be properly wooed and anthony should see what he's doing wrong and missing out on!!

also the conversation with the duke was perfectly timed- not only because of her reminding of her mother and france and then monsieur allard but also the fact that she is so much like her (stubborn!!) mother, like she refuses to change the views of love that she has set in her mind but also she refuses to believe that anthony could possibly want to love and compliment her after his earlier comments!! like bestie please people CAN change- maybe this is another parallel between anthony/cherie and the duke/duchess?? either way i cannot WAIT to see what will happen next!! have a wonderful day <33

OMG MEREL LOVE AAAA-

I LOVE THIS SO MUCH?! 😱😍❤

He's definitely the important suitor I was talking about😏 He will be around, much to Anthony's displeasure 😈 He took one look at him and decided he didn't like him 😂

Lucie totally knows how to handle Cherie's moods and endless questions😂

oh cherie my darling innocent love i can PROMISE you that he has dreamed of far worse than this <33 Oh for sure, ONE HUNDRED PERCENT HE DID😈 Cherie is clueless but Anthony had some...interesting dreams 😈

I LOVE SIBLING BANTER 😂😍

Monsieur Allard has paid her more compliments in minutes than Anthony has in a month 😂

bestie anthony is probably just trying to judge if she fell in love those few seconds of talking to monsieur allard exactlyyyy! Anthony is so sure that it will take her like a minute to fall in love, he already decided she's a loose cannon when it comes to love 😂

you don't get to be jealous because someone else was nice to her in your place! YES!❤

Cherie and Anthony have a huge communication problem, and it will actually cause so many problems lol😂

Oh Cherie totally danced with Monsieur Allard, that wasn't their last conversation for the night and Anthony could only watch 😈 And he will be veery flirty with her 😈

maybe this is another parallel between anthony/cherie and the duke/duchess? I love this idea so much and yes! The second generations love story and partners have so many parallels between the duke and the duchess's marriage/relationship and we will see that a lot! ❤❤

Honey you've made my day with this, thank you so much! ❤❤❤

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ladyhearthkeeper · 3 years

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Courtship as a initiation rite

In our modern societies, we have mostly lost the concept of initiation rite. Those key transformative and highly symbolic moments were doorways for inner growth.

Today I was thinking about courtship. It sounds such an old fashioned word. So passé, so slow. Why not just dive into the relationship and get on with the show?

But if we forego real committed courtship we lose an opportunity to grow. And our feminine or masculine principle might not be activated and we will not grow and we might not find our nobility.

Facing our fears, facing real intimacy and vulnerability without being blinded by sex and all its blinding intensity, is so important in preparing us for our marriage. Sure, all the flirting and physical seduction is fun but it shouldn’t overshadow our getting to know and our reaching the heart of the person we want to share our life with.

The effort that we make in seeking the other is what changes us from a carefree single person to a committed and righteous spouse. Take the shortcut and you might find a happy marriage but there are huge risks that you tackle it unprepared and have to learn the hard way about living a loving relationship,

Each spouse, the wife and the husband, has a different lesson and a different stage to reach. There’s much to be learned in fairytales (and I mean the real thing, not the cute ones from Disney) about this initiation rite.

Nowadays we joke about the knight in shining armour and the damsel in distress. But what is love if not a path of inner battle and of patience? Seeking and being sought?

Of course each couple has a different challenge to go through. But I wonder if there’s a wisdom In letting our chivalrous suitor fight his dragon and learning how to be a treasure to be sought rather than being the dragon itself?

I don’t know enough on the subject but it’s just a thought I was having. As I’ve mentioned on my blog I am single. So I am talking from my failed attempts at getting married and from what I’ve observed in couples around me.

Many people take years to get through this initiation rite because they get caught in all the magic and fun of the relationship, instead of seeking a soulful and heartfelt connection. It’s ok, they can still find their way.

In the couples around me, I’ve seen men changing from a carefree self centred creature into a noble and righteous husband. Sometimes it happens as they are getting married but many times it takes having a child if not two children. Because they never took the time to slay their dragon.

So perhaps, as we are pursuing or courting our love interest, let’s do it soulfully and not just with fun and magic in mind.

#courtship #traditional romance #true love

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faean · 4 years

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Prince Sidon x Male Reader (Part 1/2)

Rating: T; Mentions of Blood/Death

Word Length: 1,960 words

Title: The Prince’s Folly

-----

“What’s a Hylian doing in Zora’s Domain?”

“Isn’t he the one who used to live in Hyrule Castle teaching magic?”

“Didn’t he travel the world? Why’d he choose to stay here after the Calamity?”

“Did you hear? King Dorephan tasked him with slaying the Lynel since it’s been resurrected. I hope he survives...”

“The council is hoping he doesn’t make it. They’re still so angry at the Hylians and their Champion, even after Mipha’s spirit told us not to be remorseful.”

“I can’t believe it! He actually slew the beast! The Prince even saw him deliver the finishing blow. He’s been telling everyone about it.”

“For a Hylian, he sure ages like a Zora. It’s been over 50 years and he doesn’t look a day older. He’s even taller than the average Hylian. I wonder if it’s because of his magic.”

“Do you think the rumors are true? They say he isn’t interested in women. There have been a few female Hylians, Gerudo, even female Zora and Gorons approach him and he’s politely declined them all.”

“I think the rumors might be true. He acts differently when around the Prince, and the Prince has been spending more time with him, too.”

It’s been almost 75 years, and every day still brings something new. Sometimes it’s the council coming up with some asinine task for you to complete to get you to leave the domain, even if you always complete them with little difficulty. Sometimes it’s patrolling the borders and the dam. Sometimes it’s going out for more supplies. And, after every blood moon, you leave to confront the Lynel that terrorizes the Zora atop Ploymus Mountain. After so many decades, the fights end swiftly and without incident.

Until recently.

The Zora Prince, Sidon, has been spending every bit of free time with you. He joins you on patrols, short trading journeys, and the tasks the council sends you on, much to their dismay. Unfortunately, their hatred against Hylians seems to overrule their worry about the sole heir of the Zora. Either they are resentful he holds no grudges against Hylians like they do, or they actually recognize your skill and don’t fear for his safety. Hopefully, it was the latter.

You didn’t mind his company, of course. For a while, most of the Zora were wary of you, though the younger generations, including Sidon’s, were much less discriminatory and more friendly, even going so far as to argue against some of the council’s decisions. There was one thing about Sidon’s presence that bothered you, though.

You were hopelessly in love with him, and you had the sensation that he knew, considering the rumors surrounding your interactions with female suitors. It wasn’t until your most recent excursion to slay the revived Lynel once more that everything was brought to light…

Many decades ago, back when I first moved to the Zora’s Domain after the Calamity, King Dorephan asked me to fight a Lynel atop a nearby mountain that had been terrorizing the Zora after the power of Calamity Ganon brought it back on a Blood Moon.

As a Hylian, the shock arrows it fired would not be immediately fatal to me, and my prowess with magic was renowned, having granted me longevity and the opportunity to teach Princess Zelda (though, her obsession with ancient Sheikah technology limited my involvement). For me, (Y/N) (L/N), the Master of Magic, it would have been easy.

Would have been.

During the battle, I managed to avoid every one of the beast’s attacks, and had dealt several serious blows; however, the Lynel’s natural resistance to all the elements drained me of my energy as I used stronger and more costly spells to counter it. I had received some training with spears, bows, and blades, but not enough to rival that of a savage and cunning Lynel. Near the end of the battle, a certain young Prince had become entranced and stepped out further from his hiding place where he was watching.

The Lynel did not hesitate to take aim, and the young Prince was frozen in fear. He didn’t see what happened next, too afraid to open his eyes until he heard my voice softly comforting him.

There was no sign of the Lynel, just a jagged pillar of earth and the spoils of the slain beast. The Prince completely forgot his fear and was gushing over me and the battle, unaware of the cost of my victory. I escorted him back, presenting the spoils to the King as proof before leaving to my own home. Once alone, I uttered a few cryptic words and my clothing turned a deep crimson red.

Now, he joined you again, but with your knowledge and the intent to fight. You instructed him on the beast’s tactics and abilities, as well as your usual strategy. You would wait until it put away its sword and shield to charge at you, and you would proceed to meet it head on by sliding underneath it to slay it in a single blow. Expending most of your magical energy, you focused it in between your hands before expending it all in a single devastating strike, piercing through its underside and disintegrating most of its body.

With the Prince at your side, and with his skill with a bow, he’d get the beast’s attention before you struck it from behind. A simple diversion, yet wholly effective in theory. Even if the Lynel charged him, the Prince was more than capable with a spear.

At least, that was the idea.

The Lynel, in its cruel intelligence, was aligned perfectly with the Prince, preventing you from delivering the final blow. It cocked its shock arrows, ignoring the Prince’s own shots. Without hesitation and further thought, you dashed in front of the of the Prince and took the hit, just like you did all those years ago.

Sidon’s eyes went wide with fear and realization as he saw the electricity course through your body, three arrows embedded across your chest. He watched as you shakily stood and proceeded to take a deep breath, blood pouring from your wounds as you raised your hands. He shielded his eyes from the bright light that followed, and when he could finally see again, all that was left were the creature’s weapons, parts, and a sizable crater in the ground from your attack. He meant to congratulate you, but you staggered and fell before he could, staining the grass blood red.

-----

“You have scars on your thighs… This isn’t the first time you took a Lynel’s arrows for me, is it?”

The Prince was sitting at the foot of the large bed you were in, having brought you back to receive medical attention. He wouldn’t meet your gaze as you sat up, wincing at the pain and holding back a string of swears. You looked over at the Prince, saddened by how hurt he looked. He always wore a smile on his face, bringing cheer to the Zora people and working to keep the peace. He was treasured among his people, and even Lurelin Village and beyond, having saved them from a massive Octorok.

But now? He had no smile; his eyes were dull, and his shoulders slumped.

“My Prince … do not blame yourself. I made my choice that day, just as I made my choice today. It’ll take a lot more than a few arrows to take me down, and I would gladly take another if it meant keeping you safe.”

Sidon was silent for a few moments before he wiped the tears from his face, turning to you with a bright smile and saying, “Have I told you just how much I appreciate everything you do? Because I really do appreciate all you do!”

Admittedly, it was a little forced, but you still thought it admirable.

“All right, now that that’s out of the way, I need a nap. I’m exhausted, and this isn’t my bed.” You breathed out as you rolled your shoulders.

There was a brief pause before Sidon sheepishly told you that it was actually his bed you’ve been resting in for the past few days, since the healers thought it wasn’t a good idea to carry you all the way to your house while injured.

“Wait, if I’ve been out for several days, then where have you been sleeping?” You asked, more worried about the Prince’s sleep than your own self.

“… I’ve been here. I couldn’t bring myself to leave your side. The healers said you might not pull through, and I prayed to Mipha’s spirit to watch over you… The King … My father says it was survivor’s guilt, but I… (Y/N) … It was much more than that…” Sidon made his way around the bed to sit beside you.

A massive blush spread across your face with how close he was, fortunately, he was looking down at the bed and not at you, though you would rather he met your gaze.

“(Y/N), for an awfully long time now, I have been wishing to spend every day by your side. It’s why I join you on your assignments and invite you to every event I must attend. It’s why I convinced you and my father to let me fight beside you, but…” Sidon, without realizing it, took your hand in his, holding on to it as he spoke.

“When you protected me, I remembered … I remembered when I was young and watched your fight with the Lynel for the first time, much like my sister had with the Hylian Champion. You had protected me back then, and you hid your injuries from me and even walked me all the way back home…” You felt him squeeze your hand as he continued, and you instinctively moved closer to him, coming to lean against him.

“In that moment of realization, I knew exactly why I wished to be with you.”

He turned to face you, taking your other hand is his own and leaning down, his eyes closed by the time his lips connected with yours. You melted into him, happily kissing back.

-----

Several (more) years went by, and you could not be happier. You and Sidon were officially a couple, and although the King was hesitant about your relationship at first, he saw how much joy you brought to Sidon, and that showed in everything he did. He accepted it, much to the further dismay of the council. Also a few of the female Zora who were huge fans of the Prince, but most were simply happy that he was happy. Sort of…

-----

“(Y/N), my beloved! You’ve returned! How was your trip?” The Prince asked when he reunited with you, sweeping you off your feet as he enveloped you in a hug.

“Hot. Cold. I always forget the extremes of the Gerudo Desert until I inevitably return for some supplies. I’m just glad my contact is still willing to trade on my behalf. Anyway, let me drop off some things and I’ll meet you back in your room.” You punctuated this with a quick kiss to Sidon’s hand as he let you go.

He was more than excited that you were back, not because you’ve been gone for a couple of weeks, but because he had been planning something special to mark your next anniversary, which takes place just a few days from today. The two of you have been through a lot since you got together, you more than him with how the council acts, but it bothered him more than you, funnily enough. Especially when they tried to convince him that conceiving a future heir was more important than love and happiness.

Which got him thinking…

-----

Part 2: TBD

#The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild #LoZ #BotW #Prince Sidon #BotW Prince Sidon #Male Reader #Prince Sidon x Male Reader #Angst #Fluff #Original Works #enjoy you heathens

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fuckyeahzevranarainai · 3 years

Conversation

Zevran: Mmm... what? I... oh.

Zevran: I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven't killed me yet.

Warden: That could be easily rectified.

Zevran: Of that I have no doubt. You are most skilled. If you haven't killed me, however, you must have kept me alive for some purpose, yes?

Warden: You seem awfully glib for a prisoner.

Zevran: (Chuckles) It is my way, or so I am told.

Zevran: Let's see, then. I assume you kept me alive to ask me some questions, yes? If so, let me save you time and get right to the point.

Zevran: My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly.

Warden: I'm rather happy you failed.

Zevran: So would I be, in your shoes. For me, however, it sets a rather poor precedent, doesn't it? Getting captured by a target seems a tad detrimental to one's budding assassin career.

Warden: Too bad for you, then.

Zevran: Yes, it's true. Too bad for me.

Warden: What are the Antivan Crows?

Zevran: An order of assassins, of course. Out of Antiva. I suppose you wouldn't hear much of them out here, but where I come from we're rather infamous.

Warden: Not for being good assassins, I see.

Zevran: Oh, fine. Is that what you Fereldans do? Mock your prisoners? Such cruelty.

Warden: So you came all the way from Antiva?

Zevran: Not precisely. I was in the neighborhood when the offer came. The Crows get around, you see.

Warden: Who hired you to kill us?

Zevran: A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, I think his name was? Yes, that's it.

Warden: Does that mean you're loyal to Loghain?

Zevran: I have no idea what his issues are with you. The usual, I imagine. You threaten his power, yes?

Zevran: Beyond that, no, I'm not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service.

Warden: And now that you've failed that service?

Zevran: Well, that's between Loghain and the Crows. And between the Crows and myself.

Warden: And between you and me?

Zevran: Isn't that what we're establishing now?

Warden: When were you to see him next?

Zevran: I wasn't. If I had succeeded, I would have returned home and the Crows would have informed your Loghain of the results... if he didn't already know.

Zevran: If I had failed, I would be dead. Or I should be, at least as far as the Crows are concerned. No need to see Loghain then.

Warden: If you had failed?

Zevran: What can I say? I am an eternal optimist.

Zevran: Although the chances of succeeding at this point seen a bit slim, don't they? Ha, ha. No, I don't suppose you'd find that funny, would you?

Warden: How much were you paid?

Zevran: I wasn't paid anything. The Crows, however, were paid quite handsomely. Or so I understand.

Zevran: Which does make me about as poor as a chantry mouse, come to think of it. Being an Antivan Crow isn't for the ambitious, to be perfectly honest.

Warden: Then why are you one?

Zevran: Well, aside form a distinct lack of ambition I suppose it's because I wasn't given much of a choice. The Crows bought me young. I was a bargain, too, or so I'm led to believe.

Zevran: But don't let my sad story influence you. The Crows aren't so bad. They keep one well supplied: Wine, women, men. Whatever you happen to fancy.

Zevran: Though the whole severance package is garbage, let me tell you. If you were considering joining, I'd really think twice about it.

Warden: Thanks. I'll take that under advisement.

Zevran: You seem like a bright fellow. I'm sure you've other options.

Warden: Why are you telling me all this?

Zevran: Why not? I wasn't paid for silence. Not that I offered it for sale, precisely.

Warden: Aren't you at least loyal to your employers?

Zevran: Loyalty is an interesting concept. If you wish, and you're done interrogating me, we can discuss it further.

Warden: I'm listening. Make it quick.

Zevran: Well, here's the thing. I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will.

Zevran: Thing is, I like living. And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause. So let me serve you, instead.

Warden: Can I expect the same amount of loyalty from you?

Zevran: I happen to be a very loyal person. Up until the point where someone expects me to die for failing.

Zevran: That's not a fault, really, is it? I mean, unless you're the sort who would do the same thing. In which case I... don't come very well recommended, I suppose.

Warden: And what's to stop you from finishing the job later?

Zevran: To be completely honest, I was never given much of a choice regarding joining the Crows. They bought me on the slave market when I was a child.

Zevran: I think I've paid my worth back to them, plus tenfold. The only way out, however, is to sign up with someone they can't touch.

Zevran: Even if I did kill you now, they might kill me just on principle for failing the first time. Honestly, I'd rather take my chances with you.

Warden: Won't they come after you?

Zevran: Possibly. I happen to know their wily ways, however. I can protect myself, as well as you. Not that you seem to need much help.

Zevran: And if not.... well, it's not as if I had many alternatives to start with, is it?

Warden: What do you want in return?

Zevran: Well... let's see. Being allowed to live would be nice, and would make me marginally more useful to you.

Zevran: And somewhere down the line if you should decide that you no longer have need of me, then I go on my way. Until then, I am yours. Is that fair?

Warden: Why would I want your service?

Zevran: Why? Because I am skilled at many things, from fighting to stealth and picking locks.

Zevran: I could also warn you should the Antivan Crows attempt something more... sophisticated... now that my attempts have failed.

Zevran: I also know a great many jokes. Twelve massage techniques, six different card games? I do wonderful at parties, no?

Zevran: I could also stand around and look pretty, if you prefer. Warm your bed? Fend off unwanted suitors? No?

Warden: You must think I'm royally stupid.

Zevran: I think you're royally tough to kill. And utterly gorgeous.

Zevran: Not that I think you'll respond to simple flattery. I'm only hoping that you're the sort of fellow that takes a chance every now and again. Ha, ha. Yes?

Warden: Very well. I accept your offer.

Alistair: What?! You're taking the assassin with us now? Does that really seem like a good idea?

Warden: Don't worry about it. We could use him.

Alistair: Hmmm. All right, all right. I see your point.

Alistair: Still. If there was a sign that we were desperate, I think it just knocked on the door and said hello.

Morrigan: A fine plan. But I would examine your food and drink far more closely from now on, were I you.

Zevran: That's excellent advice for anyone.

Zevran: I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation... this I swear.

#long post #zevran #zevran arainai #zevrans stories #this has been sitting in my drafts forever

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direnightshade · 4 years

Note

For today's Kylo Week ask. Thinking about the different AU versions of Kylo you write - plus canon Kylo, of course - what would you say each of their Love Languages is and why? What would Reader need to do to meet their needs?

This is such a good ask, and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to respond, but I’ve been thinking about this a lot since you sent it in. Pretty sure I managed to get all the AU Kylo’s included, but if I missed one just yell at me and I’ll add it. lol

Kylo

Love Language: Words of Affirmation

Kylo has spent much, if not all of his life, feeling as if he has no place in this galaxy. His parents left him with an uncle who, as he views it, wants nothing more than for him to meet his demise, and both Snoke and Palpatine have brought him nothing but mental anguish—all of which has led him to feel as if he is worth nothing more than the soot that stains his face, washed away and forgotten after each battle.

There is not a thing in this galaxy that has given him more pleasure than the first time you bestowed upon him your praises. He never takes for granted when you tell him that he’s done well, that you’re proud of him and the choices he makes. Each praise is like the warmth of the sun radiating onto him to chase away the darkest shadow.

Modern!Kylo

Love Language: Physical Touch

Growing up, Kylo’s penchant for angry outbursts earned him a hotheaded reputation, one in which made any and all potential suitors keep a wide berth. As he grew older, so did his resentment and his anger towards the hand he’d been dealt by those in his immediate family.

It wasn’t until you’d come around that he’d learned just how calming a simple touch could be. The ghost of your fingertips along his cheek alone is enough to soothe him to the very core, snuffing out the flames of anger and replacing them with something far gentler.

Priest!Kylo

Love Language: Receiving Gifts

Should Father Kylo find himself in any other scenario, any other life than the one that he leads, perhaps his love language would be entirely different. But given the nature of the life he has chosen for himself, coupled with the fact that his love for you and yours for him is wholly forbidden, he finds love and joy in small, sentimental gifts.

He treasures the gifts that you leave for him to find unexpectedly: a note hidden in his prayer book, a small bouquet of hand picked flowers awaiting his arrival at the entrance to his rectory. Any and all things that you leave him show great care and consideration and this is what he values most; this is what allows him to be tethered to you in those moments you spend away from one another.

CEO!Kylo

Love Language: Quality Time

There is not a single person in the entire building, if not the entire city of New York that has ever witnessed Kylo without his cell phone attached to his hand. He is one of, if not the most important men in Manhattan. His phone is constantly ringing, calendar always full, it seems as if there is never enough time in the day to accomplish what he needs to get done. Everyone wants his time and his attention, but even when they are afforded it, they are always preoccupied by another call, another e-mail, something always in the way.

But you... He can never get enough of you, of your time, of your attention. You are a breath of fresh air. The first time you’d breezed into his office demanding a few moments of his time you didn’t so much as check your phone, your watch, nothing... Now he cannot get enough of you. When you are with him, calls go ignored, e-mails unanswered; when you are at his apartment, work is pushed to the backburner. You are his and he is yours. Completely.

Knight!Kylo

Love Language: Words of Affirmation

Kylo is the most feared knight in all of Alderaan, but not even the most covetous title—in his mind—is enough to soothe his troubled soul. Between Snoke’s constant beratement and his own mother’s rejection, Kylo has experienced nothing but a sense of worthlessness outside of slaying those who threaten the Order of the Sith.

The quiet moments when you slip into one another’s quarters and find your way into bed are his favorites. You are always so attentive, whispering sweet words of praise and thanking him for the countless times he’s stepped in to either save your or prevent any sort of advance made towards you. You’re always so proud of him, and you never fail to tell him. He loves that—and you—more than he could ever express.

Soldier Kylo

Love Language: Physical Touch

The horrors of war have changed Kylo in ways he never could have imagined. At night he dreams of things he wishes to forget, and in the day, he finds himself affected in a variety of ways from a sudden and negative dip of his mood to becoming emotionally reactive.

The gentle and reassuring touches that you bestow upon him help to keep him grounded and frequently ease the tension that so frequently forms in the the depths of his muscles. In the nights where the nightmares become too much, the comfort of your arms wrapped around his solid frame is precisely what he needs to calm his racing heart and mind.

Demon!Kylo

Love Language: Quality Time

Hell is revolving door that more often than not requires Kylo’s undivided attention. The deals that are made, the deals that he must come calling to collect once the term has been reached—the begging and the pleading for one more chance, just a little longer, it is tiresome and thankless and he hates that he does not have time for you.

Your love is forbidden. It is the kind that will cause you to fall from grace just as Kylo has, so every bit of precious time you can steal away to be together in secrecy is made all the more treasured. His calls for havoc go unanswered, and your call to return to the seemingly normal life you currently lead is put on hold whenever the two of you are together. The world, the universe, everything fades away until it is just you and him.

#Ask #han-not-solo #Kylo Ren #Kylo #Kylo Ren x Reader #Kylo x Reader #Modern!Kylo #Modern!Kylo x Reader #Knight!Kylo #Knight!Kylo x Reader #Soldier!Kylo #Soldier!Kylo x Reader #Priest!Kylo #Priest!Kylo x Reader #CEO!Kylo #CEO!Kylo x Reader #cw: ptsd #cw: anger #cw: mental anguish

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owlespresso · 4 years

Text

Tremble, Duck & Weave . V

At last. Also on my ao3, which can be found here. If you’re interested in supporting my work or ordering your own, my commission terms can be found here and my ko-fi is here. Before we begin, please make sure all cellular devices are off. Thank you, and enjoy the show.

If Aymeric were to afford his late father one compliment, it would be his impeccable organizational skills. The perfection of each neat, abet packed drawer and cabinet makes it much easier to toss out items and documents he has no use for. He disposes of letters and paperwork and gauche items that only serve to take up space, skimming through texts and wrinkling his nose at every lie he sees. If nothing else, the archbishop kept his story straight, consistently assuring local leaders of his virtue and desires for a simple peace.

Never does he betray his wretched greed, nor does he betray earthly desires, nor does he disclose the truth of his earthly relationships.

“Never would I forsake my sacred oath for the sake of such petty indulgences,” one letter insists. Aymeric, without even processing it, reads it in his fathers voice and hears every lofty intonation, feels the faux passion oozing from every word. “The Scion of the de Borel family is not my flesh and blood.”

Aymeric’s lips curl into a deep frown, cold fingers tensed on the parchment. Another fruitless attempt to deny him of his true heritage, another desperate attempt for the archbishop to preserve his saintly image. Aymeric doesn’t know what’s more pitiful, the ceaselessness of his father’s denial or the fact that he had to interact with this man every day.

A loveless man, Aymeric thinks, crinkling the paper. There’s no reason to linger on a man long dead, not when he’s already resolved to be different, to be better.

His brows pinch into a firm scowl, lips pursed in a deep frown. His tumultuous thoughts near split his head, every letter and possession an unfortunate reminder—

A knock breaks the stifling quiet and forces his spine rigid. As with every spontaneous visit he receives, he schools his demeanor into something friendly and relaxed, something unemotional and civil.

“Come in,” he calls mere moments later.

The tall, dark doors open. Zephirin’s form, adorned in rich blues and gleaming white, stands out stark against the darkened shadows of the hall. He cuts across the tiled floor, greaves clanking with each long step.

“Pardon the interruption, my lord,” Zephirin regards him with trademark impassiveness. “I have information of the utmost importance to share with you.”

The prompts Aymeric to raise a brow. Long has he worked aside the men of the Heavensward, but never has he grown confident in his abilities to read Zephirin. However, he has always been sure that his father kept an array of secrets, any of which could pose a threat to himself or Ishgard. Due to the recency of his ascension, he made the bold choice to not yet question any of the ward. He would attract more flies with honey than with vinegar. Giving them time to adjust, know and trust him would bear richer fruits than pressuring them to spill his father’s precious secrets. Perhaps that patience is finally paying off.

“You may speak,” Aymeric nods, fingers pressing the papers on the desk flat to the polished wood.

“My lord, I assume you are privy to the existence of the Ascians?” Zephirin’s inquiry nearly makes his brows raise, yet he keeps firm hold of his expression, a face of practiced, steady neutrality.

“I am.” Immortal creatures who were a source of strife to every nation and settlement, known for inflaming local beast tribes into summoning deadly primals. “Why, pray tell?” He wouldn’t put it past his father to break bread with some of the world’s most notorious troublemakers, and he knows better than to hope otherwise.

The migraine blossoming behind his forehead thuds into the foreground. The very last thing Ishgard needs is pressure from another faction. Not whilst they’re in the middle of a transitional period. He knows that change must be introduced slowly for the people to accept it. He already has the Dravanians clawing at the wall every chance they get, and the alliance still knocks on the city’s gates semi-regularly. Aymeric is not an easily agitated man, yet there is only so much he can take before his hinges rust and his temper runs out.

“Before the Archbishop’s untimely death, they approached him offering an alliance,” Zephirin is watching him carefully, closely, measured in his words and demeanor. The timbre of his voice is neutral and passive. “He accepted with the intent of ascertaining their true goal and betraying them when his plans reached fruition. It is my full belief that he never intended to truly ally with them.”

Of course, Aymeric says to himself, Thordan would keep such a crucial secret from him. He wonders if the wretch he barely called a father is laughing at him from the hells below, for now he will surely be expected to continue this trite charade with the Ascians. It is likely that they will approach him openly, expect him to break bread with them despite their transgressions against the star as a whole.

He fancies himself a man with a long fuse, but the sudden revelation makes his fingers curl. He leans forward with the weight of sudden news, flattening his hands against the desk.

“It is a pity he did not disclose the details of something so completely crucial to the future of our nation,” Aymeric takes in a deep breath and sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “The Ascians are not to be easily trifled with. Regardless of his ability to to predict and handle them, I should have been informed much, much earlier.”

“My sincerest apologies, my lord,” Zephirin begins, the barest hint of apology seeping into his otherwise blank expression. “The Knights of the Round—”

“No. I am not in the mood to entertain trite excuses,” Aymeric replies, tone clipped as he restrains himself. There’s much he wants to say, but Zephirin needs not to be the target of his misplaced aggression. “Go. There is much that still has to be done before the day’s end. I will see to the Ascians this evening. Go about your normal duties until you are needed.” A newfound tension sweeps over his entire body and mind as he returns to the long road ahead. Perhaps some of his father’s files will shed some light on the situation.

- - -

The morning descends upon you with firm vengeance. Though your wounds have for the most part aided by Ishgard’s finest astrologian, the aches and phantom pains still wrack you. The plush blankets that curl around your body make up a warm nest you never hope to leave. The mattress is soft and gentle on your back. Still, it is a comfort most difficult to enjoy whilst there is so much work to be done.

Thus, you tumble out of your nest and barely catch yourself on your feet. Your morning routine is scarcely different from the one you had before your ejection from Ul’dah, yet the pain slows you. The cold claws settled within your muscles and bones make it difficult to move with your former swiftness. Climbing out of the shower is pure agony. Even though you’re inside, Ishgard’s vicious climate thwarts you at every turn. Only when you’re clothed are you at last at ease.

The Ishgardian garb is made of lush cottons that loosely swaddle you, easy on the body and meant to avoid aggravating your skin. Your hands duck into your sleeves, absentmindedly playing with the fabric as you descend the stairs.

Artoirel awaits you at the bottom, leaning casually against the banister. He sweeps out from his resting position with a smile at the sight of you, expression warm and welcoming.

“Good morning,” he says. His posture is casual, but his gaze is searching as it rolls you up and down. Curious, explorative. “How are you?”

“Good morning.” You withdraw into yourself ever so slightly, doing your best not to wilt underneath his gaze. “I’m well.”

“Haurchefant is tending to his duties today, but I do hope I can measure up to him in the realm of being pleasant company. Would you grace me with your presence for today’s breakfast?”

And to that, you have no objections. Artoirel cuts an intimidating figure, physically, but his gentlemanly attitude softens his sharp features. He’s something you’d expect from a wealthy prospective suitor in a romance novel.

Breakfast is a wide array of Ishgard’s finest dishes—foods hearty and rich in nature. It’s a struggle to not scarf down your portions, but easy conversation with Artoirel helps you space out your bites.

It’s all pleasantries at first. He attempts to dive beneath who you are outside of your status as the Warrior of Light, asks about your skills and your hobbies, what you enjoy doing outside of slaying gods and monsters alike. He’s picture perfect. Even the bites he takes of his foot are petite and polite, not a crumb to be seen on the corners of his lips. His expression flexes, the space between his eyebrows wrinkling. He looks like he’s grasping for words, lips pursing as he stares down his remaining food.

“Have any of the nobility made a bad impression on you?” he asks out of the blue, a piece of bacon perched atop his fork.

“No. Not yet, at least,” you look down at your potatoes, eyeing the way the chandelier light bounces off the silverware. It’s a surprising line of conversation to go down, but his concern touches you.

“Full glad am I to hear that. I would hate for any of my more… judgmental peers to sully your experience,” his voice is soft and delicate, a type of gentility that makes your heart squeeze. “However, I must encourage you to be cautious. Ishgardian high society can be… especially brutal to the few foreign guests we receive. Should you encounter any hostility, do not hesitate to inform me. I cannot guarantee any consequences for those in rival houses, but be assured that we at House Fortemps do not share the same sentiments.”

It’s reassuring to hear him so concerned with your reputation and well-being. You’re a new stranger to Ishgard, and there’s no doubt that everyone from the high borne to the lowly of the Brume can tell. Being thrust into such a foreign environment after what you endured has made you feel lost and overly dependent on your connections here. And… perhaps you are. But Artoirel’s devoted sentiments soothe you against your better judgment.

You don’t think much of it now, nor do you think much of it when you’re called down for lunch. Or dinner. It’s only right for the count to call all the residents and guests in his home for meals.

Emmanellain joins you for dinner that night. His eyes glint cleverly, his very presence incessant in its curiosity.

“To think, the champion of the ixal could be felled so succinctly!” he crows after you recount your deadly battle with Garuda. “Ah, I remember Haurchefant arriving home with stars in his eyes, that night. Word of your grand exploit was all he wished to speak of—well, besides your form… and the lovely curves that adorn said form.”

Ah. Long have you been aware of Haurchefant’s growing… intrigue in you, but never has it been so plainly observed by another. How much had he said about you? Your cheeks warmed as you thought over the possibilities, distracted from the raise of Artoirel’s voice as he reprimands his brother.

Haurchefant doesn’t return. Artoirel helpfully informs you that he’s seeing to his very last post at Camp Dragonhead before he returns to fully join the Heavensward. His absence leaves you feeling emptier than usual.

And when you cannot sleep, you occupy yourself with studying Ishgardian history. Much to your frustration, you can’t lift more than four of the tomes at once without your arms and shoulders screaming in protest, so you begrudgingly settle for three. You read throughout the night and find that the founding of the city state alone is enough to cover two-hundred or so pages.

A few hours before dawn, you dim the light and settle back against the pillows, filtering in and out of consciousness until you need to use the bathroom.

You eat breakfast with Artoirel again that morning, and promptly decide you need to take a walk for your own sanity. Manor Fortemps is a splendous place to live, but you can only stand being cooped up for so long before you lose your mind. You make sure to throw on a scarf and some knitted gloves that had been fetched for you, all bundled up and equipped as diligently as possible against the merciless cold.

Though you still don’t have a handle on the city’s layout, you believe asking for directions will serve you just fine. The manor is practically a landmark. Any local worth their salt should be able to point you in its direction. You assure yourself as you make your way towards the grand double doors.

“Oh, are you taking a walk?” Artoirel’s voice pipes up, the lord’s head peeking out from behind a nearby corner.

“Yes. I just wanted to get some fresh air, is all,” you inform him with a small shrug. He steps fully into view, his gaze soft and his smile sweet as he regards you.

“Ah, I was just about to head to the astrologicum. Would you care to accompany me?” He tilts his head ever so slightly as he inquires, leaving you struggling for an answer. On one hand, you likely should visit. If you weren’t mistaken, the man who treated your wounds is an astrologian. On the other… your entire stay in Ishgard has been a procession of well-meaning individuals constantly fretting about and crowding you. Even a moment outside alone would help combat the ceaseless, crushing sense of helplessness it has left you with.

Before you can even answer, Artoirel glances past you, gaze sparking with recognition as he spots one of the housekeepers.

“Ah! Adrienne, the Warrior of Light and I are about to take a visit to the astrologicum. Should Emmanellain return before us, kindly to tell him that the tarte tatin is to be shared. I will not have a repeat incident of last week.” His voice carries a firm edge to it at the end of his sentence, exasperation barely kept from breaching the surface. He shakes his head the housekeeper says an affirmative and scurries off, turning back to you with a sheepish smile.

“My apologies. The last time our chef prepared tarte tatin, he sneaked in and pillaged the entire share before dinner even started,” Artoirel shook his head with a sigh. “At times, I can’t help but think Honoroit is more suited to his position than he is… but that’s nothing for you to worry about.” He dismisses the matter with a wave of his hand as he throws his coat over his shoulders. A shame. The nosier part of you wishes he had continued. It’s no secret that his younger brother is a divisive subject among the family due to his immaturity and habitual slacking off, but you’ve heard quite little of the boy who follows him around like a lost puppy.

“I have an acquaintance at the astrologicum who was hoping to meet you.” Artoirel, for the most part, seems genuinely oblivious to your internal monologue. He holds the door open like the truest of gentlemen and sticks close to your side as he swans elegantly down the street. Even his walk is refined, long legs sweeping nimbly over the concrete.

You try to keep your crestfallenness hidden as you follow, hoping Artoirel’s insistence is simply him overcompensating in an effort to be a good host. You’re in no shape to deny him at the moment—he’s the count, and he’s so graciously allowing you to stay in his home. Should he decide to shove you out the front gates, you’ll surely have nowhere to go.

You don’t know how you haven’t realized the potential danger in that until now.

- - -

You accompany him to the astrologicum to placate him.

You try to take your leave after dinner, hoping he’ll be too busy finishing off dessert to notice you slinking towards the living room. He does, of course. And he continues to do so. Every attempt you make to leave on your own winds up inevitably thwarted underneath his watchful gaze.

He accompanies you on walks, and you accompany him on small errands whenever he offers, figuring fresh air with him is better than none at all.

“Foot traffic is high this time of day, especially after the archbishop mandated a longer break time for the construction workers down at the lower Ishgard. I dearly hope the noise has not kept you from your sleep.” Artoirel sighs as he accompanies you through the crowd, a palm flat to your lower back.

“Forgive my intrusion, but I cannot help notice that you have been favoring your right leg. Perhaps it would be a better idea to remain inside and rest? I imagine Urianger will be quite cross with Haurchefant and I if your recovery is hampered in any way.” Artoirel says imploringly, his eyes sweet and his lashes long as he bats them.

“We have a gazebo in the gardens if you would like somewhere to enjoy a spot of fresh air,” he informs you passively over the dinner table. “Not much grows out there these days, but it has been swept down and cleaned up for your use.”

It doesn’t reassure you. The next two days are fraught with uncertainty as you await Haurchefant’s return. Conversations with Alphinaud and Tataru are a brief reprieve from the blossoming paranoia, but you deign to not tell them the truth. There’s no doubt that Alphinaud will march straight to wherever Artoirel happens to be and demand answers.

If this is all some massive understanding, you don’t want to risk jeopardizing your relationship with your host. You keep Artoirel’s suspicious insistence on keeping you cooped up a secret, even as the stress it invokes worsens your condition.

However, you are nothing if not resourceful. The balcony door to your room has remained unopened throughout your short stay. Exiting from the second level had been beyond your capabilities given your current status, but desperate times call for desperate measures. (And trapped creatures often make irrational decisions.)

Your muscles strain under the pressure of holding yourself up as you lower onto a conveniently close ledge, and then onto a trash can nestled against the brick wall. The loud rattle of the metal lid against the can makes you flinch, but the side street is blessedly empty.

Just like that, you’re free. The phantom pains grip you tight and dig into your ilms of muscle, causing you to buckle. One of your hands finds purchase against the textured brick wall, gasps rattling in and out of your lungs as you struggle to steady yourself. Spikes of frigid pain lash out at your head, the space above your eyes throbbing as you attempt to reign it all in. Your thick gloves keep your nails from grating along the brick, something you find yourself suddenly grateful for as the pain begins to clear.

You focus simply on pulling the breath in and out of your lungs, the cold air drying your throat. The rest of the world dims as you refuse to focus on it, the agony ebbing away into blissful nothingness. Only then are you able to straighten up, gaze clear as you look down the long alleyway. Ishgard’s steep spires and long roads suddenly seem to curl around you, the prospect of navigating them alone somehow intimidating.

Weeks ago, you would have been fine with exploring without a chaperone.

You’re only going on a short walk, you rationalize. Your body moves accordingly as you urge it forward, heading out of the alleyway and onto the streets proper. Each step forward is another to be proud of, you try and tell yourself, but the words ring feeble and hollow in the void of your consciousness.

- - -

Estinien, for better or for worse, has grown accustomed to traveling near exclusively via rooftop. The streets below are littered with strangers who are able to perceive him. It’s daunting in ways he refuses to admit to. The stench of raw Ishgard rubs foul against his nose when he mingles among the masses, an affront to his sharpened senses. At least the beast inside of him knows it does not belong.

Powdery snow drifts from the grey sky, dotting his hoarfrost lashes, threatening to blur his vision as they nearly melt on impact. Here, legs perched upon the thin ledge of a building’s high spire, he can comfortably separate and spectate the writhing populace. Idle people-watching has become a disturbingly frequent indulgence in between his missions and tasks.

It helps distract him from the red vines that curl around the tall buildings, from the patches of disembodied flesh that decorate the cobblestone ground. Features of Ishgard only he can see—the beast trying its hardest to convince him to leave.

Perhaps it is the human part of him that remains that enjoys this passtime, desperate for a vicarious taste of old normalcy. Of belonging. He despises it. He is no longer soft flesh and natural composition. He is hard edges and scales, branching horns and gnashing teeth all wrapped neatly under the illusion of humanity. If his glamor were to be dispelled, they would surely throw rocks and knives and weapons of every sort in his direction despite all he has done to protect them.

So he broods, and he is willing to admit that he broods. He consumes the crowd beneath him with wide sweeps of his piercing gaze.

An old woman hands over a coin purse in exchange for a pair of mittens. A child in the middle of a game of tag slips on a patch of ice, tumbling onto his knee. He hears the resulting yelp, despite his distance. The beginnings of warm, childhood nostalgia creep up on him. His jaw tightens as he prepares to beat it back—oh.

He notices someone decidedly different from the rest of the crowd. A figure that stands fulms and fulms apart, one he has seen before. The Warrior of Light. You look decidedly healthier than you had the last time he had laid eyes upon you, sheltered in the cloistered bookman’s keep. You had been crumpled by your injuries, a mess of an individual dragged in, hanging onto life by a mere thread.

You’re walking around, at the very least. Still a tad gaunt. The bags underneath your eyes are new, but he supposes you have plenty to lose sleep over after everything you have been through. He is no stranger to loss. He knows how it can rip a person’s core out, make them a shell of their former self. He sympathizes.

He dismounts his perch, climbs across roofs and spires as he follows you along, glued to the shadows. No one regards him, his armor stained deep grey with the intent of better camouflaging him.

There’s a noticeable stagger to your steps as you visit different merchants, not bothering to actually head inside any of the storefronts. Perhaps the cold is harsh on your injuries. Why, then, are you not inside? He imagines Haurchefant would be on you like a mother hen, though he recalls that the youngest Fortemps child has been sent to Camp Dragonhead for the next few days, overseeing the change of leadership.

A pity, then, that he is not able to stop you as you aimlessly float from stand to stand. With each moment your movements become more labored, more encumbered despite you having nothing on your person. It’s easy to follow you from his position so high above. Eventually, you split off from the crowd, your eyes wide and your arms drawn tightly to yourself. You stumble up the stone steps, across the street and into one of the thin alleyways, thoroughly closed off from the rest of the populace.

It is not sympathy or concern that makes him dismount his perch. The frozen air whips through his long locks and lashes at his eyes as he descends, body instinctively contorting to stick a perfect landing.

It is a curiosity that plants him so firmly before her, a need to know the woman so vaunted and pursued for himself. You, who have so immediately commanded the adoration of Ishgard’s most coveted and quiet astrologian.

You startle as he lands, the sound of the impact ricketing up and down the otherwise empty alley.

- - -

Fatigue jolts up and down your anguished limbs as you trudge through the crowd. Initially, it hadn’t been so bad. Sure, you had been a tad tired after your escape, but your condition quickly snowballed down the slope. Ishgard’s cold seeps into your body even though your thick, cushy clothes. Your capricious escape leaves you in a poor state by the time you reach the marketplace.

Hells, you wouldn’t be surprised if you managed to exacerbate your wounds in the process. Still, you flutter from stand to stand, half-heartedly looking over merchants’ wares until the whimsy to move on strikes you. It helps distract from your new, pounding headache.

One of the most appealing booths has little puppets that are hand-sewn. An array of cute, fuzzy characters is lined up atop the wooden table, alongside some plain stuffed animals. Had you actually brought your coin purse, you undoubtedly would have purchased something. One of the aforementioned plushes is a grey-pelted fox wearing a stone-faced expression, something about it reminding you of ser Aymeric.

Unfortunately, the pain grows too great. Its bitter grip ensnares you, making your breath shorten and your body tremble as you continue your trek. You’ve overstayed your welcome. You should return home. To Manor Fortemps.

You split from the crowd, heading in the direction you believe is right. It’s difficult to keep your full mental faculties whilst so distracted, so you stumble down the alley and hope for the best. The dark brick walls make the path thin and constricting.

It’s by pure chance that you manage to see a flash of red above you before it lands. It’s a fluid blur of motion, a figure descending from the heavens that you don’t quite comprehend until it lands.

Brilliant plates of red armor wrap the broad figure’s body tight. The odd pikes that extend from its form and the angular nature of the sculpt let you know this is a dragoon, albeit unlike anyone you’ve ever seen before. The helmet is absent, allowing you to fully view the individual’s face.

He possesses hardened, sharp features. A cut jawline and a nose with a high bridge. His eyes are narrow, irises a shade of icy blue. It’s the whites of his eyes that take you off guard—stained a deep crimson. Long strands of snowy hair frame his face and brush against his jawline. All things that catch your attention for a fraction of the moment, but what draws your alarm are the two, blackened horns that arch from his skull, curling backwards slightly, raised to the sky. His cheekbones are adorned with glimmering, black scales. They gleam red where the light catches off them.

Sickly, red lines akin to veins scatter across either cheek from his eyes. It’s nothing you’ve ever seen before.

You don’t see it as much as you feel it, waves of inky black void that roll off him like fog or flame. He is the picture of everything Ishgard fears all at once, the corruption of their own people by the dragons who have kept them in stalemate for hundreds of years.

Your breath stalls in your lungs, every muscle in your body seeming to tense as you struggle to comprehend his visage. Upon closer inspection, his form is absent of the gauntlets most dragoons wear. Another thick layer of scaling coats his arms from the elbows down, the tips of his fingers curling into sharp claws.

“The Warrior of Light,” he addresses you contemplatively, but his expression belies disappointment. “I had not expected to see you out of your sickbed so soon—though it looks like you’ve flown the nest before you were ready.”

“Who—what are you?” you stammer, coherency returning to you in staggered stages. You hunch against the cold, brick wall, eyes near the size of saucers as you stare him down. You don’t dare shift your gaze away from him.

The droll disappointment that colors his features vanishes, giving way into momentary surprise. One side of his mouth quirks into a crooked, shark-like smile. Even his teeth are refined into sharp points, better for ripping into flesh and chewing bone. He barks a cold, humorless laugh.

“So you can see me,” he remarks idly. The edges of your consciousness begin to burn and fray. The inky splotches that swim at the edges of your vision threaten the view you have of him. “You have truesight yet the first thing you see with it is this wretched form. I almost feel sorry for you. Aymeric was correct in his assumptions about you, though that’s for better or for worse,” he remarks as you feel yourself start to sway. Your hands grow numb. A slow tingle takes your fingertips and strokes down to your palms, sweeping to the rest of your arms.

Any panic that you might feel is swept under the growing void, too exhausted to muster even a drop of emotion.

The last thing you hear before you take the plunge is the clanking of his greaves against the stone ground.

#ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #aymeric de borel #estinien wyrmblood #artoirel de fortemps #final fantasy 14

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ashleyswrittenwords · 4 years

Text

Subtleties of a Suitor (Part 1 of 2)

Summary: Pre-calamity AU where Zelda’s powers awaken in time, but not everything is back to normal after Calamity Ganon is defeated.

Note: This is all @intangiblyyourswrites‘s fault. Also, the second part is NSFW -which also happens to be Kristie’s fault. Enjoy!

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Scrawling ink coated the underside of her hand and left light imprints on the edge of the paper. That paper was bound within leather covers that rarely left the Princess’s desk. It was a journal of upmost confidence; containing her deepest secrets and cresting moments of happiness. The highs and lows of her life caught between compressed papyrus.

It was hardly secretive that her lows were concentrated in the years before, caught in the repetitive cycle of failing expectations that were handed down to her from birth. This desk and this journal were Princess Zelda’s small reprieve. Even going as far as referring to it as an old friend because it felt better to write with purpose than to speak nothings into a void.

My dearest friend,

A worry line creased her forehead. The nameless friend was so accustomed to moments of happiness nowadays, it felt alarming to her that she was writing with distress once more.

These days have been nothing short of harrowing. In my last letter, I was convinced that he finally understood my intentions after Calamity Ganon was sealed away. I thought-

She paused her pen strokes and glared at the page, willing herself to connect thoughts to words and words to paper.

We don’t meet anymore, we haven’t since before the monster was sealed away. Even though the night prior haunted my dreams for weeks following my expressed wishes to cease these small moments of privacy. No matter how sweet and innocent they could be. As you know, in my heart of hearts I can’t bind him to me when-

When Zelda could never be his. When, in times of great enlightenment and prosperity, their fates have crossed and her father now sees him only as a valuable combatant in his army. When destinies have been fulfilled and they were no use to one another.

They both knew this in the beginning, but with the veil of ignorance and Zelda’s everflowing failure, she was convinced they were fated to die with the kingdom. It was a simple case of action and reaction. If she didn’t unlock her sealing powers, then Calamity Ganon would not be defeated.

The knowledge most likely drew out their passion. Pages upon pages recounted shaky hands and blushing cheeks that glowed hot and bright against starry skies. A string of months where she felt more warm than she had ever been and more loved than she thought she deserved.

Then, a week after the Calamity, when Link was pressing her against the railing of an empty stairwell far from the celebratory festivities, she broke their kiss after her guilt grew too heavy for her chest to bear. Zelda will never be able to forget the unmasked hurt on his face as she thickly told him that they couldn’t do this anymore. Among it all, Zelda told him she loved him.

I was under the impression he understood. Father offered Link a promotion and he didn’t even wait a day to think about it. The next evening another man was waiting by my door and of course it shocked me. A part of me wanted to be belligerent when Link hadn’t bothered to ask, another part was more than understanding. But now?

Now I’m rethinking everything.

It started two weeks ago.

The court was lively. Since Calamity Ganon’s appearance and subsequent defeat, Hyrule Castle had its fair share of celebrations. Three months later, the Zora was being hosted within its walls. Without looming dread over her head, Princess Zelda found herself in more social circles. The Zoran princess and Champion, Mipha, became an especially close contact. As opposing as the two princesses were, they had cultivated a solid friendship. Zelda assisted Mipha with fitting into Hylian customs and Mipha was a fantastic listener.

“Link hasn’t said anything about it to me,” Mipha said gently, swinging her little brother in her arms. Prince Sidon made a disgruntled noise and reached out towards Zelda once more.

The small prince smoothed the trouble in her brow as she heaved him in her arms. “Well maybe it’s for the best. We should both move on.”

They were taking turns about the court, trying to spend the dying summer days. Sidon giggled and reached out to his sister.. Mipha seemed to be debating what to say before opting for nothing at all and looked across the room. Her Hylian companion followed her gaze to find Link communing with her father and few other Zora. It was typical for him to parade around the Hero of Hyrule as if he were some trophy.

“I don’t know, Zelda,” Mipha softly said beside her. A joke from Link made the group laugh and suddenly the blond caught her eye. As if stung, Zelda looked at the marble tiles in front of her. She scorned herself when her mind would drift from the fact that he wasn’t wearing his Champion’s Tunic. “His burden is lifted, yes, but it’s not like him to so easily let go of someone.”

When Zelda didn’t respond, Mipha tried to reassure her. “I could be wrong. If anything, we can refer to Lady Urbosa.”

As they walked, they soon found themselves amongst a throng of Zoran and Hylian ladies who began to gossip about the affluential bachelors in the room. Although she was physically there with polite smiles galore, her head was miles from the court. There was something about wealth they were talking about when all went silent.

“Master Link!” a woman exclaimed, “What a pleasant surprise!”

Suddenly, Zelda was back with slight vertigo. The group moved from her and began asking a dizzying amount of questions.

“Tell us, how frightful was that monster?”

An excited Zoran was nearing jumping out of her draped fabrics. “Heavens! Recall to us how you slayed the dreadful Calamity Ganon, please sir.”

“Oh goodness, Catherine, not with my weak nerves.”

Why hadn’t they asked Zelda those questions? She was there too!

The man seemed caught up in the storm of women and it occurred to Zelda that she had the opportunity to slip away amongst the chaos. Right when she discreetly bid Mipha goodbye, Link began speaking.

“You’re all too kind. I’m afraid I’m not a very good storyteller,” he wore a graceful smile, but she could see the anxiety behind his eyes. She knew him. Then, she saw the skies in his eyes and any desire to leave dissipated. “I can tell you that Princess Zelda saved my life.”

All eyes fell on her and she felt the acute urge to stare at her feet. Her voice sounded foreign, “You say the most fantastic hyperboles, Captain.”

Those were the first words she has said to him beyond common pleasantries in three months.

“I assure you that there was no embellishment in the slightest.” Link was looking at her along with the rest of the ladies.

“Ah, well,” Zelda trailed off, “It was only fair when you saved mine.”

That caused a sea of hushed whispers around them. The woman that separated them spoke up excitedly, “Will you allow us a story or two, sir?”

“My apologies, I should be off to the barracks right now,” Link said, meeting her again. “I came to bid Her Highness goodbye.”

Another wave of whispers as the woman between them shuffled off quickly. Confusion ebbed at the Princess, but refined manners kept it at bay. Link reached out to her and she instinctively offered her hand, but his fingers grazed the underside of her forearm, the tips of his glove brushing down its length before finally clasping her palm. As he bent down low, he held her gaze, and it felt like they were the only people in the room. Warm lips pressed a long, searing kiss to her hand, and it revived the sensation of those same lips drifting up the inside of her thighs.

He pulled back, “You look lovely this evening, Princess. I hope we cross paths again.”

Zelda’s lips drew tight together and she nodded chastely, not trusting her voice to speak. Footsteps on marbled signified his leave and she looked at Mipha, who stared back with bewilderment. The two princesses thought the same question.

What was that?

Her ink quill scratched against the paper from added pressure, she readjusted her grip.

I thought about it for the rest of the evening. That one moment dredged up emotions I spent weeks burying. Logically, I had chalked it up to basic biology; chemicals in my brain that were ultimately a hindrance to my responsibilities. For a few hours, that had worked until I found out that that night would be the first of many where he would bid me goodnight.

The next day was no better because Father decided he was honored enough to dine with us.

“I’m so glad you can join us, Captain!” King Rhoam boisterously said. “There is a seat next to Princess Zelda.”

The woman stared holes into her empty plate as the chair beside her grated against the floor. When her father coughed to clear his throat she glanced up, “Isn’t it nice that he has joined us, Zelda?”

“Oh, yes,” she smiled tightly, hardly meeting their eyes. “It’s good to see you, Link.”

Her hands folded tightly in her lap. Zelda didn’t hear him reply, so she assumed he demonstrated his signature nod. Perhaps he didn’t want to be there either. Before the Calamity, he was never permitted to sit at the royal table, much less next to the princess. He was a simple soldier then, she reminded herself, someone with promise. Princess Zelda assumed this was another way for her father to show off the Hero of Hyrule to the lords and ladies at the table.

The thought made her bite the inside of her cheek. Didn’t he deserve better? Had he been asked what he wanted?

Supper crawled by painfully. Typically, she didn’t mind if someone sat by her but she hadn’t realized how common it was to brush arms with a neighbor. Each time they touched, she’d involuntarily flinch away. Sometimes he would mumble his apologies that were a little too close to her ear.

Like all things, the torture ceased and as Zelda was about to excuse herself, dessert was announced.

“Where are you off to?” Link said, watching as she was already half-risen from her chair.

The Princess swallowed her curses. “I’m excusing myself,” she lilted, not quite leveling with him. “A lady should keep her figure.”

It was a bold-faced lie. She knew that he knew she loved sweets and would easily endure three courses of her most hated dishes to reach them. Zelda dared him to say anything. The door to the kitchen swung open and revealed several servants. Her father suddenly eyed her oddly, “Are you not planning to stay? I requested fruitcake for this evening on your behalf.”

Oh.

Link looked away as she flopped back in her seat. Despite the rolling in her stomach, her cheeks flared in embarrassment and she rushed to say, “Thank you, Father.”

As much as Zelda wished it would, the issue hadn’t immediately folded. When a large cake was placed on the table, she had the full intention of taking the slice to her room under the guise of studying a fallen Guardian’s laser module. It would be an easy solution to this problem. The cake knife was in her field of view and she went for it, only for another’s to brush her hand away.

With accusation in her eyes, Zelda watched the smallest smile - almost unnoticeable - cross Link’s face.

“What are you doing?” she said under her breath, glancing around the table to assure no one was watching. It hadn’t seemed to be the case, but this was exactly what she didn’t want. The Princess knew this court and though they’re opinion of her had shifted, the lords and ladies would cling to any rumor no matter how innocent his actions were.

His eyes were carefully guarded and if he had been anyone else, she would have been offended by how large the slice of fruitcake was when he set it on her plate . Right when she moved to stand, he caught her with his words.

“Who is it that has you caring about the way you look?”

At the head of the table, King Rhoam was laughing at something an advisor said. By now, it would look uncouth to leave the table mid-course. With a heavy breath, Princess Zelda pulled her chair in and spread her napkin over her skirts. The cake was layered with lemon icing, which would usually make her exponentially excited. Her lips upturned into a soft frown. He shouldn’t ask questions like that. It wasn’t fair.

Annoyance surged into her chest. “Does it matter?”

He was quiet for a moment and conversations from others dominated the air between them. The fruitcake tasted stale in her mouth.

“Yes.”

She wasn’t looking at him - she couldn’t. A stirring feeling lodged itself in her throat and threatened to bring about everything she tried to undo. Memories of laughing so hard in Hyrule Field, doubled over in her saddle from something ridiculous he had said; learning in that moment that he looked at her like she was the moon on a cloudless night; his hands twirling her into a circle besides a campfire to the sound of her humming ballroom tunes.

He had asked me if I fell out of love with him or he had hurt me in some way. I hadn’t and I wasn’t then and I am not now. It wasn’t just about me, but him as well. If it came out to the court, to the public, that we were having an affair, of course I would be criticized. My character put into question and subsequently tarnished for as long as it stayed in the minds of my peers, but nothing would happen to my title. I would still be the Princess of Hyrule.

Link would be scrutinized and his reputation ruined. He could be subject to expellment and be banished from the castle or Castle Town entirely. That was a fear I had harbored and for me to perpetuate our relationship for selfish indulgence… that isn’t love. At least, not a love he deserved.

Daintily, Zelda set her fork beside her plate and partially turned to him. The man had been expecting her as if this was any ordinary conversation, his fork pressing down the spongy dessert instead of eating it.

“Only because you care so much,” she uttered with a stiff back. “The royal family of Labrynna will be hosted in Hyrule Castle in just a few days. I haven’t seen their prince since I was a child.”

His expression hadn’t changed, but he ceased his movements with the fork. Guilt pricked at the edge of her consciousness. Link placed his fork on his plate and reached up. Immediately, her faced flushed hotly and felt his coarse fingertips brushed her cheek. There wasn’t any movement to indicate that she would pull away from his touch.

Then, he smirked. “There was cream on your face.”

It was like he didn’t care! I was mortified.

Her ink pen ran underneath the last word several times to create a line deep enough to bleed onto the next page. The worry line on her forehead had creased deeper as she recounted the events that had happened.

I should have made it clear to him after dessert was over, but when we were taking leave, Father got caught up in a conversation with him. I couldn’t confront him at that point and when Link came to my door again to say goodnight, I shouldn’t have opened it. And when I did, I should have told him: Link, this is inappropriate and I’ve told you that I didn’t want this to continue. Especially in front of my father, no less!

But I didn’t.

Zelda’s face burned and she couldn’t get herself to write down that she might have liked it. She was someone who was both stubborn inside and out, and even her feelings wouldn’t leave with tumultuous effort on Zelda’s part. What was she supposed to say? That she really does miss him and that every second around him chipped deeper in the hole he left?

It was rude. Irresponsible. Ungentlemanly and without regards to propriety. OR my feelings for that matter! What if the way I felt about him is different? Three months is a long time.

And then she remembered his self-satisfied smirk when her face was hot under his hand. Her handwriting grew more frantic against the paper and she had to consciously apply less pressure before the quill-tip punctured through the surface.

Her mind shifted to the days after.

Labrynna was hosted in Hyrule Castle amongst continued celebrations of Hyrule’s success. Their King and Queen were welcomed with open arms, overwhelmed by the jubilations of Hyrulean citizens. Along with them was their son and daughter: Prince Tyrion and Princess Aurra.

Prince Tyrion had written to Zelda several times after the Calamity about their shared childhood, a time she hadn’t remembered at all herself and referred to Impa more than once to verify his stories and to write back to adequately pretend she had. The Labrynnian princess was someone Zelda wasn’t aware of whatsoever and even her father had leaned in during the processions to ask of her name.

Aurra, however, was acutely aware of Zelda. More importantly, she knew of the Hylian Champion who slew a monstrous being of myths.

Not long after making her introductions to Princess Zelda and King Rhoam, she skipped to who was at King Rhoams side and curtsied. Before Zelda could see Link’s reaction, Prince Tyrion took up her view. She offered the appropriate pleasantries and allowed him to take her hand, but she didn’t miss when Link took Princess Aurra’s.

She made note that he didn’t bring it to his lips.

Through the day, she didn’t wander from Prince Tyrion’s side. He was an interesting man; well read and well traveled. She found him to be a fantastic conversationalist nor was she blind to his charm. Dark eyes paired with brunet hair that was shorn close to his ears, which were notably shorter than any Hylian’s - a common trait amongst his people.

However, he was also arrogant.

As King Rhoam led the party through the castle grounds, a level above the barracks and training grounds, Tyrion spoke up.

“You know, Your Majesty, I am well trained in the arts of combat,” he said with a slight smile.

Rhoam raised a brow, turning slightly to face his daughter and the Prince. Two men sparred below, each clash of their swords echoing off the walls. The King of Labrynna nodded in affirmation, a certain pride in his face. “Yes, it’s custom for our prodigy to learn the blade from young ages. Tyrion has a special affinity to it.”

“Fascinating. I hope to see your skill during your stay, young man.”

“Well,” the smile of the Prince’s face and he gestured to Link behind him. “I would be honored to spar with the Hero of Hyrule.”

Princess Aurra stopped her chattering with Link and grabbed the sleeve of his blue tunic, “Oh, brother, you will surely lose. Isn’t that right, Link?”

Zelda swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable with her familiarity with him after only hours. Even more was how unbothered he was by it.

“It surely would be quite the duel,” Rhoam mused, “As long as it has your approval, Captain.”

Link nodded Tyrion’s way, graciously, “The honor would be all mine, Your Highness.”

He said it to the Prince, but his eyes meandered to Zelda’s.

The preparation took an hour and by the time Princess took her seat overlooking the training grounds, the sun casted a golden glow over them. King Rhoam was incredibly eager for the duel, shooting secret smiles at his daughter as the two men shook hands below.

It was clear who would win to the Princess, Link was at the top of his class even before he became her attendant. She scolded herself, though, and told herself that she shouldn’t underestimate Prince Tyrion so soon.

Dimly, she could hear the two opponents giving their regards to one another. The Prince had changed into an elaborately designed sparring outfit that appeared to have leather padding laced at his forearms. Link, however, changed only into Hylian trousers.

Princess Aurra hummed next to Zelda, “Is that the magical sword? It looks normal to me.”

It wasn’t as he had chosen a Knight’s Broadsword to match Tyrion’s.

“It isn’t the Master Sword. We returned it to the pedestal after felling Calamity Ganon.”

Aurra blinked, “Together?”

Zelda politely nodded. That sword was an extension of Link and she remembered comforting him after he realized its purpose was served. The night of, she felt his tears through her nightgown and told him he was more than his destiny - they both were.

After Link gave his regards to King Rhoam and Princess Zelda, a man who had sparred prior held an arm out and shouted to begin the duel.

“Oh, how exciting!” Aurra squealed.

The two men circled each other like vultures. Prince Tyrion was the first to push forward, a simple feint that Link sidestepped. He was testing the waters. Then, the Prince leapt forward and went for his opponent’s side, who parried without losing ground. There were several short exchanges of the Hero being passive, while Tyrion was assertive.

Before Zelda knew it, she was gripping the sides of her chair as they danced. Tyrion was grinning wildly at his stoic opponent. He hadn’t been bluffing earlier, he was skilled. The Hylian Princess had seened Link spar time and time again, never did it take so long for him to disarm his opponent in some manner. The sun beat down on them, creating glistening sweat on their skin that bled darkly through their clothes.

Suddenly, Tyrion had space for a large horizontal slash before Link could recover from a parry. Zelda let out a yelp and watched him duck into a lateral roll, regaining his senses and plenty of ground between them.

Tyrion harked out a laugh, “You are brilliant, sir!”

They were panting now and the comment brought a sideways smile to Link’s lips. “I appreciate the regard, Your Highness. You’re a remarkable swordsman.”

They took a moment to breathe and Link did the unthinkable. His Champion tunic was discarded easily to the ground and Zelda held her breath when his eyes found hers on the perch where she sat.

Princess Aurra gasped softly. Zelda didn’t blame her. Hard lines on his stomach were only more prominent in the sun and his chest heaved with his hard breaths. The lack of coverage revealed the flex of his arm as he readjusted his grip on the blade.

It wasn’t an oddity that he was now half naked. Tyrion had long let the strings that laced the neckline of his tunic loosen, leaving a large portion of his chest exposed. Considering that they were already in the heat of midsummer, the sight of shirtless men should be expected at this end of the castle. But Link, well, he was always different.

The Prince of Labrynna lunged forward with a grunt, thrusting his blade out. Where Tryion was tactful, almost mechanical, in his movements, Link was fluid. He took his opponents strikes like water, flowing into the gaps of his defenses and reevaluating in a moment’s notice. It truly was an art in Zelda’s eyes, a very dangerous art.

Much different than anything Tyrion had done, he brought his blade upward in a sideways slashing arch with a loud shout. Princess Zelda’s heart surged in her chest. Link grit his teeth and threw his weight back into a flip, landing on his feet.

Surprise registered in Tyrion’s eyes and couldn’t recover fast enough when Link brought his blade against the hilt of His Highness’s broadsword. The blade was sent skidding along the dirt.

“Ah,” Tyrion brought his hand up to further demonstrate his lack of weapon. “I yield.”

It was then that Zelda realized she was holding her breath. Her father and his guests had all stood and applauded, so she followed suit.

“Good show!” Aurra leaned on the stone wall. “Very well done!”

The two men clasped hands again with a few words of respect. The Hylian princess watched a short regaling and found an opportunity to slip away from the processions without another glance at the arena.

#wow look at allllll those words #loz #zelink #zelda #link #zelink fanfiction #fanfiction #loz fanfiction #legend of zelda #ashleyswrittenwords #subtleties of a suitor

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centuryofdean · 4 years

Text

When Lightning Strikes - Chapter 18

Author Note:: So sorry for such a long update! Life has been hectic. I promise the next one won’t be so long!!

Author Disclaimer:: The Hobbit, Middle Earth and its characters are not mine. I take no credit. The story line and even some dialogue–also not mine. Instead I claim my Original Character Laurel and the adjustments to the story line.

Summary:: From when Laurel Took was small she dreamed of a man. Every time she dreamed of him, he could not see or hear her. Over time they are able to communicate–but he’s been dreaming about her too. Finally after years of anticipation Laurel takes the leap and kisses him. Only for her to wake up and dread the real world. Then lightning strikes and she finds herself in a familiar place, with a familiar face.

Rated:: M for Mature. Please do not read this story unless you are 18+. NSFW.

Warnings:: Language, Violence and Scenes of Sexual Nature.

Pairing:: Kili x OC (Laurel)

Kili

The company and some of the people of the town were led into the large home. The man of the town, the Master they called him, settled us down in the dining room. All of the table and chairs were of course too large for us, but we made do by sitting on books and other items provided for us.

Soon the room was filled with food and ale. Each of the dwarves were indulging themselves in the supplied drinks and morsels. The room was very warm though it did not ease the chill in my bones. "Durin's day is in nine days," Fili murmured quietly from the end of the table we were sitting at. Laurel was once more perched on my lap, toying idly with the courting braid in her hair. The sight brought warmth to my heart.

"I don't fully understand what is going on I suppose," she muttered.

"Uncle was given a key to open a hidden door on the mountain," Fili supplied easily, "during the light of Durin's day is only when the door will be visible. Then, and only then, will we be able to enter the mountain without the beast that lies within knowing."

Her lips pursed together tightly as her eyes still combed the festivities. "What then? Slay a dragon when it sneaks upon us?"

"It slumbers in its horde of gold," I laughed softly.

Pine green eyes widened in astonishment, "Hasn't anyone ever told you lot not to poke the sleeping dragon?"

Together my brother and I smirked, a few chuckles leaving our lips in amusement. Of course we knew not to wake a sleeping beast. Honestly I did not know the true intentions of what was to happen once we got to the mountain. Master Baggins was acquired so that we could have him retrieve the Arkenstone, the Heart of the Mountain. Once Thorin had the stone, I knew not what would actually transpire. How were we to actually kill Smaug once we gained entrance to the mountain?

Soon Laurel rose to get food, leaving Fili and I alone.

"You have gone about this all differently than you should have," he spoke as soon as she was gone. It was one of a few moments that were actually alone. Usually Laurel was with us.

"Things are different in her world. Suitors usually make the first advance. Some women ask their suitors to court, but those are far and few between. Laurel is not the type for it though, she prefers for the suitors to do the asking and courting," I sighed, watching as she worked her way across the room to talk to each of the company members. Dwarrowdams were meant to initiate courting. Not the dwarves.

"She accepted the braid, but does she accept the courting completely? I know you mentioned you were having difficulty with her," he asked.

It was true, even if she accepted the braid I did feel as if she was still holding back. There were times where I could see the spark in her eye, the same spark that burned deep in my stomach when I looked at her. Other times she looked upon me with sorrow and guilt. The messages I saw were hot and cold and passionate and disdained. It did not make much sense at all.

The pain in my thigh flared fiercely for a moment, bringing a gasp softly to my lips as I clutched at it. "I am not sure. She seems to have not changed much at all on the subject, I still see the battle in her when she looks at me," I tore out. "Why is it not easy?"

Fili laughed full-heartedly, "Because you love her! All the other maidens were meaningless. If they did not fall for your charm, you moved onto the next one. Laurel is fighting you and you will not move on because you love her brother! I have not seen you look so struck before!"

Of course I loved her. There was no question on it.

"The jealousy was on her face when we were in Mirkwood," Fili murmured as he tried to remain silent.

"I would not doubt it," I muttered, "Tauriel has not given up on trying to obtain me as one of her playthings."

"Laurel was more concerned with her likeness of face."

"There is a reason for that," I groaned remembering the day I came across Tauriel in the pub.

It was about three years ago when I woke in the morning with a need that could not be met. Laurel haunted my dreams once more, though this time she was covered but in thin fabric that left nothing to the imagination on to what was under it. She was sprawled out across the sand on a cloth in the broad sunlight. Eventually she traveled into the water to swim idly. The water cascaded down her form and caressed her curves beautifully.

It was a very good image, but waking with it in my mind had me frustrated. It was only then that I discovered my attraction of her, but I felt ashamed and unfulfilled at the same time. That day I hunted until sundown only to come across nothing. To end the miserable night I ended up in the Gilded Ghoul with a tankard of ale to keep me company.

Tauriel entered the building with an air about her. Instantly I saw the beauty of the elf. At first the resemblance did not meet me. Instead I was struck by her perfectly sculpted face and the breath of her bosom. I was amazed how she sought me out to drink and talk with me. Soon our words became bold and I invited her back to my home for a more private conversation. We both had drank too much, and evidently were too loud trying to sneak into my room.

The elf maiden was taken with me and kissing me with earnest. Together we were tangled in my sheets, her body completely nude under me, my own still trying to catch up.

"Oh Kili," she whimpered when my lips attached to her breast.

"Mmmm, yes Laurel," I replied.

The elf didn't hear the difference in name, since it was so similar, but immediately I knew my mistake. When my eyes opened I realized everything that had transpired. She looked like a spitting image of my Laurel, almost. There were differences, but I had picked her just for her similarities to my human girl I had fallen for. That is when my door burst open to reveal Thorin.

"That elven maiden I brought home when Thorin burst in was Tauriel, I self-consciously chose her because of her similarity to Laurel," I muttered. "She is upset thinking I chose her because she looked like Tauriel."

Once more I amused my brother more than I should have. He clapped me on the back. The heat finally started to become too much for me to take, so I rose to retreat outside for the freshness of air.

The limp I walked with gave me away to my green eyed beauty, for she followed me the moment the night air brushed my skin. "Are you alright," she asked, hand touching the width of my back.

We walked a distance as the snow fell softly around us.

"I will survive," I breathed deeply through the pain. Once we came to the dock I settled down onto the wooden surface to gaze over the lake. Just on the other side was the mountain we dreamed about for years. The cold night air cooled my skin slightly.

"We are almost there," I grabbed her hand and held it tight as my thigh throbbed, "almost home."

I could hear the hesitation in her voice as she paused before speaking, "Kili, Thorin may like me more now than before, but I was not given permission to live in the Lonely Mountain. I was only told I could come and go as I please."

"That is nonsense," I pulled her closer, "you have nowhere else to go."

"I will go stay with Bilbo as I was told," she murmured, "I already talked it over with him just moments ago."

Rage suddenly filled me to the brim. Why was it battle after battle with this woman? Did she not truly care for me as much as I cared for her? My hand snatched away from her own. "What of us? The Shire is almost one full moon's journey. It would be nearly impossible for us to be together," I muttered.

I jumped up and hissed as pain ripped through my thigh, feet thundering as I stomped down the dock. "Kili! Come back," she called after me.

"Why? I have fought hard for you to remain by my side, and you are going to deny me even still? How is that just to me? How is that what I deserve for everything that I have done," I roared. Soon we were toe to toe, her face gazing up at me with more than guilt. Her trembling hands rose to grasp at my face.

Suddenly I was weak and could no longer hold myself up. The ache and pain in my leg became so unbearable I crumpled to the ground I walked upon.

"Kili!"

Soft delicate fingers traced my face and nose, holding me close to her. "You're sick." My eyes closed heavily. When they opened again her face and that of Fili's were staring down at me.

With tugging and pulling I was dragged by my older brother. The heat was burning me alive, the lushness of my skin was hot to touch. The weakness that held me was terrifying. Was this what it felt like to die? Never before have I felt such a dread in my core, one that had breath hard to find.

Laurel was banging on a door. When Bard's face appeared as seen us, he snarled in our faces.

"No! I am done with dwarves!"

Just as the door was attempted to be shut, Laurel put her boot between the frame and the door, slamming her palm against the wood, "Good thing I'm not a dwarf Mister Bard!"

They stared at one another for a long moment before she whispered just loud enough to hear, "He is sick, and we need help. We have no one else we can get that from but you."

Slowly the door opened as we crossed the threshold.

Previous Chapter << Chapter 17: Across the Chasm, Beasts Lie

Next Chapter >> Chapter 19: Admitting the Heart Knows Where Home Is

#kili fanfic #kili fanfiction #kili x reader #kili x oc #kili durin #the hobbit #the hobbit fanfic #the hobbit fanfiction #when lightning strikes #kili durin x reader #kili durin x oc

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deliciousscaloppine · 4 years

Text

16. A cruel king asks to marry you. Which three impossible dresses do you ask for in exchange for your hand? (Wen Chao, Wen Xu & Nie Huaisang)

Meng Yao entered the room with small coquettish steps, looking down bashfully.

“You are wanted in the main hall.” he said and shuffling all the way to the closet, he opened it wide and started throwing out in the room his finest evening wear.

“Ah! These are delicate, Meng Yao! Don't toss them like that.” Huaisang said wrestling an outfit out of his hands.

“You have to dress nice, there are two gentlemen to see you tonight.” Meng Yao effortlessly said while grabbing a comb and taking it to Huaisang's hair with all the rancor of a former street urchin who had to use twenty four different products to make his own hair less frizzy.

“Two? What do they want from me?” he said trying to get out of Meng Yao's vindictive ministrations.

“To marry you, silly. What else?”

“Does Da-ge know?”

“He is the one who sent me to fetch you. You see the two gentlemen happen to be lord Wen Ruohan's sons.”

“The Twin Dipshits of Qishan are here to ask my hand in marriage!? And there are still alive!?”

“Well.” Meng Yao said as he brought over the box with his exquisite selection of jade pendants. “As guests, your brother has to honor their request to state their intentions before you, but after that I am pretty sure he is going to behead them both. So don't wear white.”

“Eugh!” Huaisang said as he rummaged for something equally appropriate for both a marriage proposal and a public execution.

“Oh, tell me about it! I tried advising your brother to just slip a little something in their tea, but he grrrrrrr'ed at me. And it was not even a sexy grrrrrrr. It was more like a stop talking now grrrrrr” Meng Yao said with an air of terse exasperation.

“How am I not going to wear white? White is my color.” Huaisang said as he exchanged his little flat coronet, for a bigger one – to look taller of course, life was meaningless without its little vanities after all.

Finally decked in his finest crescent moon, hazy river in the mist pattern robes, and his fringe tastefully brushed with a touch of unkemptness, he and Meng Yao made their way to the main hall, after agreeing that Meng Yao would enter with his head bowed and at least three steps behind him so that Huaisang could appear taller.

The twin dipshits, er, the twin esteemed young lords of Qishan were sitting at a small distance from each other emanating some really cursed vibes, sporting what seemed to be last seasons' red under the falling maple leaves fashions, while Huaisang's own big brother in all of his I grew a moustache when I was fifteen lordly dignity was silently qi deviating on his throne, his knuckles turned completely white as he clutched the armrests of his seat.

When the two lords, Wen Xu and Wen Chao saw him, they elbowed each other for who would sit closer to him. Meng Yao intercepted them both in full bodyguard mode.

“Gentlemen, please. Allow my lord to display his many talents first, then tea. At any given moment, you are not allowed to come within ten paces of him. People's respiration hazes up my lord's complexion.”

Huaisang settled before an elegant study set before the princes, and right below his own brother's dais. He straightened his fringe, did a full profile, three quarters, full face, face posing twice, so the two princes could admire his looks. Having his sleeves arranged elegantly around him on the floor by his beloved manservant Meng Yao, the latter vanished to prepare tea.

Huaisang took out his brush and gave it a lick. Today he was going to do a scroll with a depiction of pines in soft snowfall under the glow of the midwinter moon. And while at it, he would get a good look at those two princes of the Wen, whose eyebrows were doing some weird interpretive dance right now at being told off.

That Wen Chao was serving evil prince who plans to kill his own father looks, while Wen Xu had that aura of I slay children, but if I had a little sister I would dote on her lovingly.

“So, I heard the two of you, gentlemen, came to ask my hand in marriage.”

“Marry me, lord Huaisang!” Wen Chao said passionately. “My brother Wen Xu barely leaves the house! He is totally under my father's thumb. You'll be locked in every weekend for family dinner.”

“Eugh!” Wen Xu said disgustedly. “Don't marry him, lord Huaisang! He has lost count of his girlfriends. Also he is already married, you wouldn't even be his first!”

“Are you bragging about being a virgin!” Wen Chao yelled.

“At least I don't have twelve different stds. Nor do I trash innocent people's homes and then fall unconscious from doing drugs!”*

Huaisang heard wood splinter. It was his brother's hand slowly digging into the armrest.

“You don't even have a bodyguard. I have Wen Zhuliu. All chicks love Wen Zhuliu. You listen here closely, lord Huaisang, Wen Zhuliu can do benchpresses with you sitting on the bar.” Wen Chao bragged.

“You don't even love him! The only reason you came was because you found out I was interested first. I am going to tell dad!” Wen Xu said shoving his brother. Soon they were locked in what seemed to be a sequence of wrestling headlocks, while Baxia behind him was rattling madly in its stand.

Thankfully right at this moment Meng Yao came in with the tea.

“Stop clenching your jaw.” Huaisang heard Meng Yao whisper to his brother. Mingjue's jaw immediately popped. Since when did the two of them were on such fond terms that his brother did everything Meng Yao said? This was too suspicious.

Meng Yao served him next. “For the love of my mother's bones, please stop licking the brush. It is both gross and unhygienic. Use this cup right over here. I can't believe how anyone would want to marry you!”

“Jealous because you are pressing thirty and no one has ever asked you to marry them?”

Meng Yao silently scoffed and moved on.

“Gentlemen” Huaisang addressed the two evil princes. “Please, settle down. I would love to marry either of you, but Qishan is notorious for its yesterday fashions. So to my great disapointment I can't choose any of you, unless you pledge to do something about the pitiable condition of your clan's fashion state.”

“What are you talking about? Have you seen my designer belt? This is bespoke!” Wen Xu said lifting himself.

“Yes, and it would have greatly impressed me, hadn't it been a KNOCKOFF! Check the decorative hoops at the sides for holding jade pendants. This designer is known for their uniquely constructed ridged hoops. These are plain, not ridged. So do not insult my intelligence. Do you think we are some backwater village up in the mountains we the Qinghe Nie?”

The two princes remained with mouths agape.

“I could be persuaded to choose one of you, if only you abandon your wannabe fashionista who only shops in a bazaar sale ways, and both of you go on a quest to bring me three of the most exclusive, the most discontinued, the most bespoke items in existence!”

“We accept!” Wen Chao said forcefully. “There is no thing Wen money can't buy.”

Huaisang squinted evily. “Oh! Well then, I want each to bring me a semi-cloak cut on a circular pattern, with pleats, made of the finest fur of Gusu Cold Pond bunnies! And I don't want it in white. I want it in black!”

Wen Chao made a choked sound in his throat. “This is a suicide mission!” he said. “The Lan will skin anyone who tries to skin their bunnies.”

“Only for someone as cowardly as yourself!” Wen Xu said elbowing him.

“Secondly, you must bring me the elegant two fiber fishbone weave stripe pattern sari that Madam Yu Ziyuan head of the Yunmeng Jiang produces and distributes exclusively to her most trusted handmaidens once every season. And I want it to be in the colors of the last fall season! A most tasteful contrast of purple, yellow, red ochra and beige, hemmed with the finest muslin silk money can buy, and a tasteful silver bead trim.”

“Than can be done! I am really close buddies with old Yu.” Wen Chao said.

“You mean after you trashed her place last summer at the pink lotus gala!” Wen Xu said.

“And third! I want a penannular pendant made exclusively from the shell of the Turle of Slaughter, Xuanwu, with its accompanying beads, five of them on each tassel and a sixth in the shape of a buddha sitting on lotus flower design. And I want them to be so finely carved that light passes through them!”

“These things are impossible to make and you know it!” Wen Xu said, chugging some of his tea. “You are just stalling because you can't make a decision. You know what? My father will hear of this. See what he has to say. Come on, brother, we will not be ridiculed in here anymore” Wen Xu continued and lifted his brother, who was also finishing his tea.

The two princes glared at everyone in the hall swearing retribution with their eyes, before sauntering towards the door. But before exiting the hall, they both collapsed on the ground out cold.

“Ooops. I couldn't help myself.” Meng Yao smiled naughtily.

“Meng Yao! These were foreign dignitaries! Brother, tell him something, he killed our esteemed guests. I was going to marry one of them!” Huaisang pouted.

“Meng Yao!” Nie Mingjue finally said after he recovered from his tenth consecutive mini stroke.

“Oh, relax, they are not dead. I just gave them Chifeng-zun’s special relaxing bedtime herbal tea blend.” Meng Yao said, shuffling towards the snoring suitors to sweep them out of the room.

#meng yao #nie huaisang #wen xu #wen chao #wensang #nie mingjue #the untamed #the untamed prompts #the untamed fic #qinghe harem stories

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som3thingcr3ative · 5 years

Text

And I am Wanting

So, here it is...a slow burn, angsty, poly-amorous Geraskier fic. This beast is gonna be multiple parts, feature our boys Geralt the sass master and Jaskier the smol bean as well as an OC.

It’s got canon-typical violence, respect women juice (tm) and everything else that goes with the beauty of the Witcher.

Our story begins two months before Geralt meets Yennefer in a small town south of Rinde.

part one part two part three part four

Summary: Geralt seeks a bounty and finds something unusual waiting for him in the monster’s lair: Jaskier composes a song in honor of an unsung hero.

Warnings: If you’ve watched the Witcher, you’re prepared. This gets a little more into Geralt’s feelings, but that’s about it.

pairings: so far, mild Jaskier x OC, eventual Geraskier x OC.

also, this is loooong. You’ve been warned.

Word of a beast with a price on its head had come from a local town: the Lord of the town promised a room for any who dared attempt to slay the beast, food for three nights and a great ransom upon return of the creature’s severed head. Geralt was intrigued. The disgruntled highwayman who’d told him spoke also of the town’s vigilante, a man who ‘cleaned up the streets’. It’s a town without rapists or child-molesters, the man had said. The only murderer is the vigilante, and people are calling his work just. They honor him. Whores have professed their undying gratitude.

Geralt sips his ale and wonders what the vigilante would think of him. Across the tavern, Jaskier has started his third run-through of ‘fishmonger’s daughter’. The Witcher feels his eyes twitch. He downs the ale and motions for another from the hesitant bartender; it’s his sixth- or so, he’s not really counting. When the barkeep fills his mug once more, he slams it back and lets his stools’ legs scrape loudly against the slatted floor as he stands, making his exit. He spares only the briefest glances for Jaskier, who is surrounded by drunkards singing along with him. The bard’s cheeks are rosy from drink, his eyes sparkling in the low light with the attention of so many on him.

The Witcher waits outside the tavern, leaning against the hitching post Roach is tied to. He strokes a hand over her ear and murmurs lowly to her as he looks around; the town is quite large by rural standards, boasting three taverns and two brothels, a church with a monopoly on the religious sheep of the place, and a rather palatial estate overlooking the main street. This estate is where he needs to go- he takes the whole thing in, from the neatly trimmed rose bushes out front to the large barn to its left. There is a circular cobblestone path for horses and coaches, tall columns guarding the entrance.

Jaskier stumbles out of the tavern, a little tipsy and with a wide grin on his face. Geralt grunts, sending the bard a short glare before he turns his back, throwing the reins over Roach’s head and mounting up. Together, Jaskier telling Geralt in great detail how amazing having everyone singing his songs was, they make a steady pace for the estate.

The first thing Geralt notices as a servant leads him into the dining room is the beautiful woman sitting to the right of who he assumes is the Lord of the town. She’s stunning, her features refined as he’d come to expect of nobility, her long hair let loose in ringlets that spill over her shoulders in waves of auburn. Her posture is perfect, hands clasped in her lap over a flowing dress. Every inch of her screams wealth.

Geralt doesn’t have to force himself to look away. While she looks like she can afford the price on the beasts’ head, she doesn’t look like the type to get her hands dirty- in fact, even at dinner her hands and forearms are covered by black silk gloves. She’s far too prissy for his taste.

“Geralt of Rivia!” The Lord of the town booms, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin as he stands up. He spreads his long arms wide. “I’d heard you were in town. Have you come for the monster? Who am I kidding, of course you have! Welcome, welcome!”

The Witcher steps into the dining room, Jaskier just behind and to his left. He knows he’s out of place with his dual swords, his black leather armor, but he couldn’t give less of a damn. Money is money, and this man has plenty.

“Please, sit!” The Lord continues. “I’d like you to meet my daughter, Lani.” He motions to the auburn-haired woman beside him. She inclines her head with a small smile, properly polite. Geralt nearly scoffs. Instead, he takes a seat at the foot of the table, Jaskier placing himself beside the woman. He kisses the back of her hand, turning on the charm. Geralt watches them for a second, seeing her polite dismissal of the bard. Jaskier doesn’t seem deterred- he keeps talking to her despite her lack of interest.

“I head you have a pest.” Geralt says, ignoring the way the woman’s green eyes lock on him.

“Yes, a werewolf. There’s a mage who has gone rogue around here, and the werewolf seems to be her pet. It’s a creature born, if the pattern of attacks mean anything, and it’s killing our businesses. My businesses, really, since everything in this town is mine.” He laughs, self-confident to the point of cockiness. “I’ll pay you handsomely if you slay it.”

“When.” Geralt corrects, but the man doesn’t seem to notice.

“I can’t have it threatening my daughter, you see. No suitor will want her if the land she is to inherit is plagued with a monster.”

The daughter’s eyes narrow, but she quickly composes her face into an emotionless mask. Geralt notices the slip, though. It seems she’s not content to be married off.

“We have rooms prepared for you, Witcher. Your…friend can stay in the adjoining room. Please, help yourself to whatever food and drink you fancy while here. I can’t offer an advance payment, you see, or too many fakes would come through those doors, but I promise payment in full as soon as the task is complete and the wolf’s head- human or otherwise- crosses my threshold. And only the head, mind you.” He clears his throat. “Apologies, Lani sweet, for such coarse language.”

Lani tips her head to him, but her eyes are still focused on Geralt. He shifts an inch, starting to feel uncomfortable. Her stare isn’t obvious, but it is disconcerting, and with her careful mask, he can’t tell what she’s thinking or why she’s staring.

“Where?” Geralt questions.

“It’s sheltered in the mountain just south of here, at the base. There’s a cave system there, it’s hard to miss. Just follow the creek upstream.”

Geralt nods and stands, turning to leave the room without another word.

“Did you see how beautiful Lani is?” Jaskier babbles as he follows Roach up a sloping hill. “She looks like a princess, or a queen. Oh, I could write a song about her beauty! Should I? Do you think that would woo her to me?”

Geralt huffs, rolling his eyes. Roach is sure-footed on the rocks, but he can hear Jaskier slipping every so often behind him. Nevertheless, the bard keeps up his steady stream of talking. They’re an hour into the woods, following the creek as Lord Corro (He’d gleaned the name from a passing servant in the hall) had said. There are fresh hoofprints in the bits of sandy ground between rocks, and only in one direction. Whoever had gone hadn’t come back.

The Witcher holds up a hand. Jaskier stops with a huff. “Are we there yet?”

Geralt glares at him, but his attention is diverted; just over the crest of the hill he can see the very top of a cave mouth. Inside, echoing just loud enough for his highly tuned senses to pick up is the sound of a fight. He hears a shout, a roar, a scream- and then a thud as something- or someone- is thrown.

He nudges Roach into a canter over the path, finding that the ground levels out and becomes less rocky the closer they get to the cave. Outside the mouth of the cave, a large black horse grazes amongst bones strewn haphazardly on the ground. It lifts its head and whickers, puffing itself up to full height as it watches Roach canter in. Inside, the sounds of the fight have resumed. Geralt catches the scent of blood, of sweat and something else- wood smoke? He turns his mare and jumps off, rushing into the cave.

The inside of the cave is littered with full skeletons, half-eaten corpses and fresh blood. There are several human bodies among the dead, but sheep and goats far out number the people. He even spots a few cows, their skulls resting in odd positions. Closer now, he can hear each grunt the human fighter makes, each glance of their weapon over the werewolf’s hide. The monster screams, then roars. For a second there’s nothing.

Geralt skids to a stop at the entrance to the main lair. The werewolf lays dead, skewered through the neck by a silver-plated sword. Standing over the corpse with a leg over either shoulder is a black-clad figure whose face is obscured by a mask and a hood- but Geralt can see that the blood dripping from their hands to the sword’s hilt isn’t werewolf blood. It’s their own.

The figure collapses, falling just to the side of the werewolf’s massive body, curled in on itself. Is it the vigilante? Geralt thinks, blinking at the well-made sword, the man’s black doublet and thick leather pants. He sure did come prepared.

As he stalks toward the too-brave human, he takes stock of the fight scene. It had been brutal, this much he can tell; there is human blood smeared across the ceiling and directly below, too fresh to belong to anyone other than the vigilante.

“You shouldn’t have taken on a monster by yourself.” Geralt admonishes the panting, nearly-broken figure on the floor. “That’s what I’m here for.”

He doesn’t answer verbally, instead pushing himself up with both hands firmly planted on the ground. As soon as he gets his feet under him, he’s scrambling backwards, away from Geralt.

The Witcher holds his hands up, seeing the vigilante reach for a dagger belted to his waist. “No need.” He says. “I only hunt monsters, not humans.” Still, no response other than ragged breathing. The man presses a hand to his ribs, hunched over. Clearly injured. “You need help.” Geralt comments. “I can help you.”

He’s aware of Jaskier finally catching up; the bard stands in awe of the scene before him, jaw dropped. Then he sees the vigilante, and notices that both of Geralt’s swords are still strapped to his back- though there is a sword stuck in the werewolf.

“Geralt?” Jaskier questions, confused. “Did he kill the monster?”

The vigilante drops like dead weight. Geralt rushes over, taking the dagger from a limp hand. His fingers come away slick with blood. Up close, the man is smaller than most men he’d seen. He pushes back the hood, noting that the man wears a tight black knit cap that lines up perfectly with the mask. Blood seeps from below the mask, so Geralt takes it off carefully.

“Oh.” He murmurs, shocked. The man, the vigilante, slayer of the werewolf, isn’t a man at all.

Lying unconscious on the ground before him, her body battered, is Lani, Lord Corro’s daughter. Blood drips from the corner of her mouth, but her face is unmarred. Up close, Geralt notices a small scar over her right eyebrow, a tiny imperfection on her otherwise unmarked face. She groans, face scrunching, then gags, rolling over to spit up blood. For a second she seems to gather herself, then her eyes land on his.

She reaches up, feeling for the mask, but when her fingers touch only skin her eyes widen. “Don’t tell my father-“ She says, voice hoarse with the blood coating her throat. Geralt pats her back as she falls into a coughing fit, spitting up more blood. When she flops onto her back, she gives him a side-eye. “Don’t tell anyone.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re injured.”

Her hand lifts to her ribs and she winces. “I’ll be fine. Just…don’t tell.”

Geralt looks to Jaskier over his shoulder. The bard has a comical look of surprise on his face, so shocked that he can do nothing but blink. Huffing, he nods. “I won’t.”

Lani closes her eyes, nose scrunching in pain. She pants through bared teeth as she tries to lift herself onto an elbow, but Geralt is quick to push her back down. “Stay.” he says.

“M’lady?” A girl’s voice calls out from behind them. “Oh! Lani!” Geralt turns to see a woman the same size as Lani rushing towards her. She wears the outfit of a handmaiden in Lord Corro’s house, her mouse-brown hair done up in a braid. Without even bothering to glance at the witcher, she kneels beside Lani and cups her face in one hand. “This is going to leave a mark.” She says.

“You knew about this?” Jaskier’s incredulous voice questions from just over Geralt’s shoulder. His face is bewildered, and Geralt thinks- not for the first time- that the bard lets too much of what he’s feeling show on his face. “You knew that she’s the vigilante?”

The handmaiden cuts Jaskier a look so cold that Geralt’s eyebrows raise. “Of course I did.” She growls, already feeling down Lani’s side for broken bones. “I knew I couldn’t stop her, so I decided to join her. I’m the only one who knows.”

“Not anymore.” Lani coughs, wiping at her mouth. She glances only briefly to the blood on her hand before she warily eyes Jaskier. “Don’t. Tell.”

“Her father would disown her.” The maid explains. “Some of the men she’s, ehem, stopped are men who work for Lord Corro. He’d kill me if he found out I helped her.” She cuts herself off, looking to Lani. They share a glance that clearly means something to the other.

“You can say it.” Lani says, gritting her teeth past a fresh wave of pain.

“Lani’s been playing a long game. Lord Corro is the most corrupt person in town, and she’s been taking out his pawns one by one until she can bring him down, but it’s dangerous. If she were to be found out…”

Geralt’s mind reels. This is not the woman who he’d seen sit so demurely at her father’s side. This woman is cunning. She’s an incredible actress, and far more than he’d given her credit for. “He’s your father.” The Witcher comments. “Not many people would dare take on their own family.”

She bares her teeth, her smile bloodied. “He doesn’t deserve what he has. No one should be that rich while others suffer.”

Behind him, Geralt swears he hears Jaskier whimper. The scent that always clings to the bard intensifies. He looks over his shoulder to find Jaskier making heart-eyes at the woman lying bleeding on the floor, broken but victorious.

“We have to get you back.” The maid murmurs to Lani. “Can you move?”

“She shouldn’t walk on her own.” Geralt says, wondering at the sudden protective urge he has over the woman. “I’ll carry her.”

Lani scoffs, but he knows her pride won’t get her upright. She sets her jaw, eyeing him distrustfully, but when he only holds out a hand for her she seems to deflate. He waits until she nods before he scoops her up with an arm behind her back and one under her legs. She groans in pain, eyes squeezed shut, body trembling. “You’re not like the others, Witcher.” Lani grudgingly admits from behind clenched teeth. “Most men wouldn’t wait for permission.”

Geralt hums low in his chest, knowing she can hear it. He doesn’t bother to answer as he turns around, noting that Jaskier is still reeling from the surprises of the day. “Are you coming, bard?” He burrs, amused. Jaskier nods, glancing back to see the maid following them.

The Witcher places Lani as gently as he can on the black horses’ back, frowning when she still grimaces in pain despite his best efforts. She’s a tough woman, but those are serious injuries, he thinks to himself. “You take the bounty.” She says to him, not meeting his eyes. “As payment for keeping my secret.”

He nearly shakes his head. She’d almost been killed in the fight, the bounty was hers by rights- but the part of himself that remained from his lessons says that coin is coin, no matter how it is gotten. “You killed it.” He says instead. “It’s your bounty.”

“She won’t take it.” the maid replies when Lani clutches her ribs, her face scrunching up in pain. “She’s stubborn like that. Either you take the money or no one will.”

“He’ll take it.” Jaskier jumps in. “Or I will.” When Geralt gives him a short glare, he shrugs. “Living on the road is expensive. We need to pay for food somehow.” Geralt’s lips twitch in annoyance but he realizes the bard is right. It’s a waste of Lani’s blood if no one takes the bounty.

“Where will you go?” He asks instead.

“Home.” Lani breathes, pushing herself upright in the saddle. She takes a few shallow breaths past her bruised ribs. “I’ve gotten good at hiding my injuries.” Geralt sees the sadness in her maid’s expression and knows it’s all too true. “Ready, Loretta?”

The maid nods, swinging up unassisted into the saddle behind her Lady. Lani turns the horse toward the town, giving Geralt a lingering look. “I’ll see you there, Witcher.” She says, gritting her teeth as she urges the horse into a rolling canter.

Geralt huffs, muttering a low ‘fuck’ under his breath. He turns toward the cave where the werewolf’s dead body waits. Jaskier, behind him, is staring after the two riders with longing in his eyes.

“I want to marry that woman.” Jaskier murmurs, his cheeks pink. “She’s so… perfect.”

The Witcher grunts. “She’s her own woman, Jask. Can’t be tied down.” He stomps into the cave, finding the monster exactly the way it had been left. The blood on his leather is Lani’s, but no one in town would know that, so he decides to leave it as a sign of the battle. With a savage yank, he pulls the sword from the werewolf’s spine and uses it to sever the head in two blows. When the head rolls alone on the stone floor of the cave, Geralt takes a closer look at the sword, humming in appreciation of the wonderful craftsmanship. If Lani left it, then she left it for a reason, so he decides to keep it though it is smaller than he likes.

The sun is nearing its crest when Geralt walks out of the cave with a new sword in one hand and a werewolf’s head in the other. Jaskier waits, already strumming his lute to a new tune; one of the witcher, victorious in battle against yet another monster.

Lani sits stiff as a board in her seat beside her father. Her ribs throb with every shallow breath, her entire right side is an amalgamation of black and blue bruises, but the sleeves of her dress and her black silk gloves cover everything. Behind her, Loretta frets. She can feel the handmaiden’s eyes boring into the back of her skull, watching and waiting for a sign that she’s had enough.

She’s about to give up when the double doors to the dining room crash open and in strides Geralt, bloodied and carrying the head of the monster she herself slew.

A good excuse, she thinks, feeling rather pale. She puts the back of one hand daintily to her forehead, sighing just enough that her father hears. “Oh my,” she murmurs. “Father, I feel quite faint. You must excuse me.”

And with that, she rises on unsteady feet, using the back of the chair as balance to leave. As soon as she’s out of eyesight of anyone, Loretta slips an arm around her waist and takes half of her weight, guiding them both to her room.

Lani doesn’t see Geralt unceremoniously dump the head to the floor, or her father hand over a large bag of gold coins. She lays in bed, aching all over and so tired as Jaskier serenades the Lord with a song of Geralt’s triumph over the beast. She hears the revel thrown in Geralt’s honor, the revel that goes on for hours until there’s a shallow knock on her door.

“My Lady Lani?” Jaskier’s voice calls, muffled through the door.

Lani motions Loretta to open the door, too weak to do much more. Jaskier is quickly by her side, gingerly taking her hand in both of his. “How are you feeling?” The bard asks, and Lani can see genuine worry in his eyes.

“Everything hurts.” she confesses, in too much pain to put on an act. “Did Geralt collect the bounty?”

“He did. I made a song about his victory over the beast, but I wanted you to hear the real one, the one I’ll only sing to him or you. Would you like that?”

She doesn’t know why there are tears suddenly at the back of her eyes, or why seeing his soft gaze breaks down the walls she’s built for so long. “Loretta,” She calls, and instantly her handmaiden is there, helping her sit up. Jaskier helps too, his hands warm on her shoulder and careful not to hurt her any more than she already is. The bard fluffs her pillows behind her without being asked. “Thank you, Jaskier. I’d love to hear your song.”

And so, with Loretta sitting comfortably on her bed beside her, she watches as Jaskier kneels and swings his lute over his chest, strumming a few careful notes.

“This tale begins with a proper Lady whose beauty knows no bounds, whose courage is unmatched, whose honor is worth more than gold.

Defender of her land, protector of her realm, she is unknown to all but one.

She fought minor beasts, men whose deeds made them wicked, defeated their demons and emerged victorious.

So when true evil came to her land

When a monster stalked her people,

She did as heroes do and she hunted the creature.

When no man would stand up and fight, when cowardice was proven, she asked no recompense, no quarter, for there could be no mercy either.

When no man would fight, she said ‘I am no man’ and she proved her worth.

She fought the creature with every breath, she slew the beast with the last of her strength

And though battered by the monster, she didn’t cry for help. This valiant, beautiful woman had proven herself worth more than fifty men and yet she asked to remain hidden.

And so it is that no one will know her name, the glory of battle goes to another, the spoils of victory hers to give but not taken.

But let not her tale end here.

Let it not end here, but let there be many more victories in her future.’

Loretta is crying when Lani glances over at her. Jaskier’s eyes are soft, but there’s something glimmering in them from his song, and Lani feels the effects of it long after the last note fades away, like some sort of spell. “That was beautiful.” She whispers to the bard. “Thank you.”

Jaskier smiles, a smile that lights up his whole face. Geralt never compliments his singing, and more often than not he’s boo-ed out of taverns. “No, thank you, M’lady. Today you proved that it doesn’t take a Witcher for all monsters. There may be hope for us yet.”

Lani laughs, but it quickly dissolves into a coughing fit. Jaskier is quick to help, rubbing her back soothingly as she coughs. She leans into him for a minute, weakened by the fit, and his heart threatens to burst. He’d always been one to trust too quickly, but even he knew that from the moment he first saw her that she was unlike the others. He sets her back against her pillows gently, pushing a lock of hair out of her face. Her eyes are as green as he remembers them being from first glance, though they are pain-dulled and tired. “Get some rest.” he says, kissing the back of her hand once more. He can feel her callouses from weaponry and realizes why she always wears gloves. “You deserve it.”

“Thank you, Jaskier.” She says as he stands, moving his lute onto his back. “And please tell Geralt thank you too.”

“I will.” He replies. “But you are the one we should both be thanking.”

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allisondraste · 5 years

Text

Temperance (36/42)

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/ Female, Non-HoF Cousland

Story Summary: Nathaniel and Elissa were childhood friends, but time and distance tore them apart. In the aftermath of the Fifth Blight, and Ferelden’s Civil War, both Elissa and Nathaniel must attempt reconstruct their tattered lives. As a series of events lead them to be reunited, both are reminded of so many years ago when things were much simpler.

Chapter Summary: A visit to Amaranthine stirs up everyone's emotions, and Liss must weigh her own happiness against concern for others.

Author Note: The last flashback chapter from Liss' perspective has finally arrived. I'm particularly sad about saying goodbye to the Couslands, but did try to tie off any loose ends and end it on a *relatively* happy note. Nothing can be truly happy when we know what happens to the Couslands. Still, thank you all for your patience with update, and I hope you enjoy!!

First Chapter

Previous Chapter

[AO3 LINK]

Fereldan Countryside, 9:29 Dragon

The carriage ride from Highever to Amaranthine was long, the view from the window filled with an endless expanse of dull hills and grey skies that teased of rain that had yet to fall. It was an unusual journey, and one that Liss had made few times in her life, many before she was old enough to remember, none since Lady Eliane had fallen ill. In her mind, Vigil’s Keep was a ruin, torches burned out, cobwebs nestled in every dark, damp corner while ghosts of footsteps pattered down long empty halls. She did not imagine it to be the sort of place one would host festivities, and she certainly could not understand why Arl Howe had so suddenly and graciously offered to host a gathering for Summerday celebrations.

Liss had been unable to provide an appropriate excuse as to why she should remain at home, or at least nothing her parents believed to be suitable. A shame she could not have suddenly caught some highly contagious, yet nonlethal illness that would have kept her in bed for days. It was an even greater shame that she was a grown woman and she still had to do as her parents bade. She loved them, but resented their insistence that she paint on a pleasant face and make political appearances, to ignore the rumors that still spread about her throughout Ferelden, to pretend like she liked Rendon Howe for any reason whatsoever. There was no doubt that she was unfit for such a courtly lifestyle, that she’d been born into the wrong part of society.

“Darling,” her mother spoke up from the seat directly across from her, an unstated plea in her voice, “I know that it might be too much to ask, but perhaps you could try to make it through one party without entirely shattering the ego of every young man who happens to look at you.”

Without turning her gaze from the window, Liss replied numbly, “It would be easier were their egos not so fragile.”

“Elissa.”

“I tried at the last gathering. I really did,” Liss explained melodramatically, turning to face her parents. She smirked when she saw the laughter sparkling in her father’s eyes. “But I simply couldn’t pretend to find Lord Vaughan’s story about slaying a grand and majestic beast compelling.”

Her mother appeared to stifle a chuckle. “It sounded like quite the arduous trial. It is a wonder he survived.”

“It was a ram, Mother. Oren nearly hugged one to death last week, and he is tiny.”

“Pup,” Papa chimed in, seriousness in his voice that she could not quite place. “If you do not wish to be courted, if you never want to marry, your mother and I are not going to make you. We want you to be happy.”

“And to not embarrass your suitors in the process.”

Liss’ fists tightened around the fabric of her skirts, agitated. The only men she had embarrassed were those who thought it appropriate to speak to her as if she were a cut of meat or some delicate trophy to be placed upon a shelf. She’d insulted Vaughan because he made vile remarks about not only one, but several of the servants. Of course she’d refused to tell her parents about such things, and she was not certain if it was because she did not want to worry them or if it was because she did not trust them to view the situation in the same light she did. For all their wonderful qualities, Bryce and Eleanor Cousland were not without blind spots of their own.

“What will make me happy,” she bit back, words sharper than she would have liked, “Is for Arl Howe to leave me alone. Poor Thomas, too, for that matter. If that means I have to marry an empty suit of armor, then I will.”

“You know,” Mother said, shrugging, “Thomas would be an excellent match.”

“Yes,” Liss sighed, throwing her hands up,”Completely good and not at all awkward.”

“Why ever would it be awkward,” the other woman teased, smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.

“Mother. Please.”

Her parents both sighed and exchanged knowing looks with one another before turning their gazes back to her, sympathy in their expressions making her skin crawl.

“You know, sweetheart, if you keep searching for Nathaniel in the faces of anyone else who dares get close to you, you will always be disappointed.” Mother leaned forward to place a hand on Liss’ and squeezed.

“I’ve told you a thousand times.” Liss shook her head and offered them a laugh she did not feel. “I’m over him. It was just a ridiculous adolescent infatuation.”

“Whatever you say, pup.” Papa smiled a small, sad smile and leaned back in his seat. “You’ll be lucky to find someone who loves you more than that young man.”

“He doesn’t love me,” she snapped again, hot tears burning in her eyes. “If he loved me, he would answer my letters.”

“If that is what you must believe, then believe it,” he said with a sigh, “But I do not think you are giving the boy enough credit.”

“Can we… stop talking about this,” Liss asked, leaning against the wall of the carriage, eyes drawn back to the window, “Please?”

Her parents exchanged skeptical glances and eyerolls before looking back at her and nodding in unison. She wished she had ridden with Fergus and his family after all. Oren’s million repetitions of “are we there yet,” and fussy complaints of being bored would be far preferable to the oppressive sympathy and understanding with which she currently contended.

Liss knew her mother and father not deserve her cold-shouldering and hostility, that they only worried for her and her happiness. They also knew Nate better than most, and a small part of them must have believed him to be Liss’ person. She had believed it for many years. Still, the longer she waited without a word from him, the more unlikely it seemed that he had the same opinion.

The remainder of the trip was quiet, but comfortable, her father occasionally breaking the silence to hum hsoftly or tell a joke in an attempt to pull Liss from her melancholy. It would have worked had she not been so stubborn. As they arrived in Amaranthine, to Vigil’s Keep, it was not as stark as Liss had envisioned. Large, stone walls encircled the fortress home of the Howe family as well as several small buildings that lined the walls of the battlements, most likely serving as houses for those who worked in the castle. Bright golden, bear-adorned banners hung from doors and decorated battlements and lively, happy people milled about excitedly, brought down only by the downpour of rain that began as the clouds broke open.

Howe guards ushered Liss and her family inside to the main hall. It was large, open, and lined with large wooden beams. Deep red carpeting ran the length of the room, from the entrance to the large pair of thrones at the front. A large brazier stood in the center of the room, unlit yet inviting all the same, and torches burned along the walls illuminating bookshelves and gorgeous portraits. Liss could scarcely imagine that such a lovely place could belong to someone as cold as Rendon Howe.

“Liss,” shouted a familiar voice, excitedly, pulling her from her thoughts, “I am so happy you were able to make it.”

Liss turned just in time to see Delilah embrace her, long, thin arms wrapping easily around her shoulders, before pulling away. It had been over a year since they had seen one another in person, and Liss’ chest tightened to look at the other woman. Delilah was tall, and had always been thin, but not so thin that she seemed as fragile as her embrace felt. Her bright blue eyes were sunken in and sat above dark circles. The smile she wore on her lips did not quite reach the rest of her face.

“Delilah,” Liss finally said, taking Delilah’s hands in her own and squeezing gently before letting go, “Are you—”

“Let me show you around,” Delilah interrupted the question, very deliberately, taking Liss’ arm and tilting her head toward the direction of one of the few doors in the room.

Liss followed Delilah, down the corridors, looking as she showed her the kitchens, dining hall, and several different wings. Ending with the Howe’s specific living area. She’d seemed nervous, frantic the entire time, and nothing like the even, happy girl Liss remembered.

“This is Father’s room, Thomas’, mine,”she explained. pointing at the various doors.

“Delilah.” Liss said her name gently, hoping the concern in her voice would warrant some explanation for the obvious anxiety.

Instead she continued the tour and pointed to the final door on the wing. “That one is Nate’s… or at least it was when he was—“

“Delilah.”Liss grabbed her arm, and she turned, tears sparkling in her eyes. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

Heaving a shaky sigh, the other woman whispered an answer. “Just before you all arrived, Father informed me that I’m… that he’s…” She trailed off, obviously struggling to speak the words.

“It’s okay,” Liss said, placing her hands on Delilah’s shoulders.

“It’s anything but okay,” Delilah stated sharply, sniffing between words, “I am to marry Vaughan Kendells. Father and Arl Urien came to some sort of agreement.”

“You can’t,” Liss said urgently, “Vaughan is—“

“Horrid? Vile? I know.” Delilah took a breath and composed herself, straightening her posture and meeting Liss’ gaze. “Unfortunately, I was not consulted on the matter.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Well, at least maybe now he’ll leave the servant girls alone.” Delilah laughed bitterly and shrugged out from under Liss’ touch. “Father tells me this is only the case because your father refuses to make you marry Thomas. He intends to obtain influence one way or another, I suppose.”

“My parents do not believe in arranging marriages,” Liss explained, pretending not to feel the sting of her friend’s words. Delilah wouldn’t blame her for this, would she?

“So this was your choice?”

“Yes.”

Delilah’s lips pressed into a thin line and she shook her head in disbelief. “Can you not get over yourself?”

The question pierced Liss’ chest as well as any arrow could, and she nearly released an audible gasp. “But I thought—“

“You thought what? That Nathaniel was going to come back at any moment?” She was speaking loud enough that her words echoed down the hallway. “You know, I tried to believe the same. I really did, but it’s been seven years, and he hasn’t said a word to any of us. He’s gone. He’s not coming back, and now I am to pay the price for everyone else’s selfishness.”

How frightened Delilah must have been to become so agitated, so uncharacteristically pointed. Liss didn’t want to cry, didn’t feel as if she had the right, but nevertheless the tears fell, and Delilah flinched. A worried knot formed between her brows and she reached out.

“Maker, Liss,” she said gently, “I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have— that was completely unworthy of me.”

“No. I understand why you’re upset with me. It isn’t fair.”

“Nothing is fair,” muttered Delilah, smiling sadly, “But I shouldn’t take it out on one of the few friends I have. Please forgive me.”

“Of course.”

They embraced, and Delilah excused herself to clean up and make herself appear “presentable” again. Liss turned to walk back down the hallway, toward the main hall, hoping to regroup with her family before guests began to arrive. She couldn’t shake the uneasiness in her stomach that lingered from her friend’s words. Was it truly her fault that Delilah was being forced into a marriage with Vaughan? Wouldn’t Arl Howe certainly have made the arrangement regardless of Liss’ decision about Thomas? How many lives did that man intend on ruining to make himself happy?

Just as she neared the staircase that would take her down to the main area, a large portrait that hung on the wall caught her eye, and she moved closer to get a better look. It featured two, young, uniformed men. One had raven hair, blue eyes, and an icy expression. The other was only slightly shorter, with sandy brown hair and a wide smile. It was a portrait of her father and Arl Howe, painted when they were much younger, likely around her own age. She tilted her head and examined the young arl more closely. She had not seen Nate since he was just seventeen, but the resemblance was still striking.

“Ah,” remarked a voice behind Liss, causing her to jump and turn around. It was Rendon himself, and Liss’ stomach twisted back into knots. “Lady Elissa, there you are. Your parents have been looking for you.”

“Delilah was showing me around,” she stated politely, “It has been so long since we visited your home, I had forgotten how lovely it is.”

“You are too kind, my lady,” he replied with a smile that almost appeared genuine. Then he turned his gaze to the painting, smirk forming at the corners of his mouth. “I see you’ve found the one portrait for which your father ever convinced me to sit with him.”

“It is a beautiful piece, my lord.” Liss eyed him skeptically, but his expression was still sincere as he moved closer to examine the painting himself, hands behind his back.

“It was just after my wedding to Lady Eliane,” he explained, “Your parents were the only guests in attendance.”

Liss shook her head and furrowed her eyebrows. “Why?”

“Our wedding was not long after the end of the Rebellion. Despite the fact that my brother’s choice to join the Rebellion turned the tide of the efforts to retake the throne, despite his death in service to King Maric, and despite my own injuries at the Battle of White River, many among the nobility still mistrusted the Howes. We were thought to be cowards and opportunists whose loyalties depended entirely upon who had the greatest odds of winning.”

“And those sentiments remained after the war had passed?”

“Yes.” The answer was abrupt, but Liss could hear the emotion behind the word. “Eliane’s family held that opinion more fiercely than anyone else, and especially regarding me.”

Unsure what to say, and desperate to be out of conversation with the man, Liss helplessly muttered, “I am sorry to bring up painful memories, my lord.”

As if he did not hear her remark, he sighed and continued. “Nathaniel was always so much like Leonas, always skeptical and questioning. My word never satisfied the boy.”

Liss’ chest tightened. Was this his aim, to taunt her with Nate again? “And so you sent him to Starkhaven as punishment?”

“I sent him to Starkhaven for his own good,” Arl Howe said through his teeth, true colors bleeding through the facade of geniality he’d been wearing just moments prior, “I am not the monster he would have you believe.”

“Arl Howe,” Liss stated as boldly as she could, “Nate didn’t talk about you. Not unless it was to explain why he had to pretend I did not exist for days.”

“I see.” He frowned, and stood silently for longer than Liss would have preferred. “You are still quite taken with him, aren’t you?”

“No,” she answered tersely, eyes welling up with hot, angry tears, but she held them back. “In fact, I’m not certain I could even still call him my friend.”

“Well, that is good news, indeed,” he said, still smirking, “You are a lovely young woman, Lady Elissa, and it would be a shame to see you wasted on that fool boy. I hope you reconsider your refusal to marry Thomas.”

Liss’ temper ignited immediately, but before she had the opportunity to snap at the arrogant man, to tell him where he could shove his arrangement, he nodded politely and left down the hallway, toward his quarters. It was alarming and uncomfortable, his last words repeating themselves in her mind, a silent “or else” attached to the end, a vague threat of nothing or anything. While she would have preferred anything to giving him what he wanted, she could not help but wonder if it might be better to appease him. Thomas was kind and gentle, and not similar enough to Nate in appearance or demeanor that it would be too uncomfortable. Would it be so terrible?

When Liss finally made her way back down to the throne room, several guests had already begun to arrive. A handful of lesser lords from the bannorn mingled about, talking quietly, almost drowned out entirely by the boisterous Guerrin family, Bann Teagan in particular making jokes and rubbing arms with Liss’ father. Arl Eamon stood some distance away with his lovely wife and son, speaking to Fergus and Orianna while the two little boys played. They all looked so happy, so contented with this way of life, with stroking one another’s egos and pretending that nothing could possibly ever go wrong.

Liss caught a glimpse of Lord Daerios, across the room, as well. He was surrounded by young women, daughters of other Banns no doubt. His eyes met hers and he winked, causing heat to rush to her cheeks. She smiled and waved, ignoring the pangs of regret that she had been unable to love him.

In the far corner of the room, sulking in the shadows stood the only person who seemed remotely as miserable as Liss was, a kindred spirit among the revelry. Thomas had once been such a cheerful boy, mischievous and fun. She had always wondered how he was even related Nate. However, in the years since his brother had left, Tom had struggled to live up to his father’s expectations for him, turning to the bottle to cope. She approached him somberly, and he nodded when he saw her, a sad, knowing smile on his lips.

“You look like you’ve spoken to Delilah. Or Father. Both, perhaps?”

“Both,” she answered, one persistent tear streaking it’s way down her face.

“Oh, no. Don’t do that.” Thomas said, patting his pockets until he found a handkerchief and pulled it out, extending it to her. “I’m horribly bad at comforting women.”

Liss took the handkerchief and laughed as he continued. “Come to think of it, I’m not very good at comforting anyone. I can’t even make myself feel better most of the time.”

“Sorry, Tom. I just—“

“Want to go for a walk, my lady?” Tom offered his arm to her. “We could go outside, maybe get some air.”

She tilted her head and laughed again. “But it’s raining.”

“Even better,” he said with a shrug, “It does seem to fit the current mood.”

“You have a point.” Liss smiled and looped her arm through his, and allowed him to lead her out the front door and into the courtyard. For a brief moment she wondered if anyone saw, worried what they might think. Then, she decided she didn’t care. Thomas was perhaps the only person in the world who knew exactly how she felt, who understood, and she refused to give a rat’s about how leaving another party with another man would look. It wasn’t like that with Tom anyway.

Outside, the rain fell with much more force than Liss had expected. It was less of a somber stroll in a drizzle, and more of a dash through a torrential downpour to reach the entrance to the battlements. They ran up the stairs and out to a covered area that looked over the courtyard. Water drenched her hair and clothes, making them heavy. A glance up at Thomas, and she saw water droplets fair from his dark brown curls. He chuckled, tousling his hair as if that would help the situation.

“Well then,” he remarked, staring out at the sky as if it had personally offended him, before sitting down and leaning his back against the parapet.

Liss sat down next to him, and returned his handkerchief, now thoroughly wet from the rain. “Think of it this way: We now have ample excuse not to go back inside.”

“Sorry I missed your ridiculously boring affair, Father, but Lady Elissa and I were lost at sea.” He waved his arms dramatically. “We had to swim for days!”

“I am certain that he would not be amused.”

“Well, no,” he admitted, smile fading, “But what else is new?”

Several quiet moments passed in which she did not know what to say. Thomas stared off into the space in front of him, scowl hardening his soft features. It was the first time she had ever really thought he resembled his brother. Unable to bear it any longer, Liss sighed and spoke. “You know, we could save ourselves and everyone the trouble, and just get married. It wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Yes, the perfect reason to get married: not awful.” He laughed and turned to face Liss. “Besides, I’m content with my father’s unhappiness.”

“What? It would only be on paper, and for formal occasions.” She laughed. “All the other times we could go on as if we were not married. “

“What about when we have to make an heir?” Thomas raised an eyebrow and heat rushed to her face as if she were suddenly modest.

“That’s one of those ‘cross the bridge when you get to it’ sorts of problems,” she replied, waving her hand dismissively.

“It is a bridge I would rather not have to cross,” he admitted, looking down at the floor beneath him.

“Am I that unappealing?”

“You are very beautiful, my lady. Strong, fun, intelligent.” He laughed and shook his head. “It made sense that Nate would like you, but… I don’t, not in that way at least. I’ve never liked any woman in that way.”

“Oh,” Liss muttered, feeling awful for putting him in such a position that he disclosed something so personal to her.

“I’ve not talked about it with anyone except Nate,” he explained, “And now you. Please don’t tell anyone. Not even Delilah.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Anyway,” Tom continued, finally bringing his eyes back up to meet hers, “What I am trying to say is that I’ve come to terms with the fact that I will not be allowed to freely be with whomever I want. Not while father still lives and breathes.”

“Then why not be with a friend, someone who understands?” Liss didn’t want to marry Thomas, now less than ever. Yet she hated the idea that he would be miserable.

“Because you should be with my brother,” he said, seriously, frowning. “You deserve to be with someone who loves you like he does at the very least.”

“Tom,” she argued, “Nate hasn’t spoken to me in years.”

“I know, Liss. He hasn’t spoken to me in years either.” His words were pointed, but not at her. “He’s a ridiculous, stubborn arse, and he’s going to regret that he ever thought he could pretend we don’t exist. That doesn’t make him any less my brother, and it doesn’t make him any less in love with you.”

“I —” She began to protest, but did not even know where to start, or if she even wanted to. She wanted to believe that Nathaniel cared about her, but that made everything more difficult. There were no easy answers if he still cared, no quick and easy solution to locking away her own feelings.

“I could probably have said that more gently, couldn’t I?” He smiled apologetically.

“Just a little,” she joked.

They sat up in the battlements until the rain slowed, and their clothing was dry enough that their return to the main hall would not cause a stir. The guests had all arrived, and music had begun to be played. Everyone danced happily. Even Delilah had cheered up as she twirled around with Fergus while Vaughan stood off to the side grimacing. Oriana watched, eyes glittering with amusement.

It was Oren who first noticed Liss’ return, grinning and flailing his arms excitedly as he ran to her. She scooped him up in her arms easily and embraced him. He wrapped his tiny arms around her neck, hands tangling up in her hair.

“Auntie Liss,” he said, words lilting up into a question.

“Yes?”

“Why are you all wet?” He leaned back, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“We were lost at sea,” Thomas chimed in, pinching Oren’s little nose playfully, “Your auntie here is the only reason we didn’t drown.”

“Thomas,” Liss scolded, but was unable to keep the laughter out of her voice.

Oren’s eyes widened and he looked back to Liss, bringing his hands to her cheeks. “Is that true?”

“It’s completely true,” Thomas answered in her stead, “She even had to fight an enormous whale with her bare hands.”

“Tom,” Liss scolded again, words muffled by her cheeks being squished together.

“Oh wow,” Oren exclaimed, “You’re the bestest auntie ever.”

“And your the bestest nephew ever,” she answered, doing her best to hold back the blissful tears that welled in her eyes.

“Oren, let go of Elissa’s face, child,” Oriana said as she approached. She was both stern and gentle at the same time.

“Mama, Auntie Liss and Thomas got lost at sea and Auntie Liss got them back here by fighting a whale.”

Oriana raised her eyebrows and smiled, looking from Liss to Thomas. “Sounds like quite the adventure. Perhaps we can join next time, yes?”

“I love you, Liss,” Tom said, dryly, “But I am not getting lost at sea again for your family’s amusement. Now if you’ll excuse me, I intend to return to my corner to sulk.”

Liss and Oriana both laughed as Thomas walked away, grabbing a glass of wine from one of the servants before doing so. He’d be completely drunk within the hour, and Liss couldn’t say she blamed him. She turned her head back so that she could look at Oren, still gazing up at her in adoration.

“Hey Oren.”

“Hmm?”

“Want to dance with me?”

Oren grinned widely and wiggled down out of Liss’ arms, balancing himself before bowing and extending a hand to her as formally as a four year old could. Liss looked up at Oriana who beamed proudly.

“Well are you not just a proper gentleman,” Liss said, as she took his hand and walked him out onto the dance floor. They spun and laughed and twirled, completely ignoring the steps to the Remigold, or whatever other ridiculous dance the others performed. For the first time in years, Liss felt something she could only describe as contentment. Nothing was perfect. In fact, many things in her life, and in the lives of those around her, were the opposite of perfect. However, they all had one another, and maybe that would be enough.

#dragon age #dragon age origins #dragon age awakening #nathaniel howe #nathaniel howe x cousland #cousland #my writing #temperance #update

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mythologyfolklore · 4 years

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Ares and Athena through the years - Ch. 13

Chapter Thirteen: The Odyssey, Pt. 01

Zeus was doing his correspondence.

He was also mentally cursing himself for allowing Ares to go on his world trip.

The war god, who was always written off as stupid and incompetent had been a big help with the mail, but now Zeus was submerging in a sea of prayers, letters from both his own pantheon and from abroad, and complaints. Complaints en masse.

“'You won't be needing me', he said, 'That stuff is really easy', he said!”, Zeus grumbled irritably.

Then there was a knock on the door.

“Enter!”

It was Athena, who came in.

Zeus stood up. “My little Owl-Eye! So good to see you!”

Athena looked around, assessed the situation in one glance and grinned: “Too much paper stuff?”

“Too much paper stuff”, he confirmed.

“If I help you with all of that, will you let Odysseus finally return home?”

Zeus laughed heartily: “I was going to do that anyway! But how could I possibly refuse that offer?”

Athena beamed at him.

Cute.

After doing the majority of her father's paper stuff and questioning how Ares with his lack of tact had done this all those millennia, Athena wasted no time in descending down to earth and onto Ithaka.

She had to take a look at the situation there – and to see, if the son of Odysseus was any good.

In the shape of an old friend of Odysseus' she went up to the palace.

Even from the outside, she could hear a lot of noise.

What the Tartaros is going on in there?

As she came into the yard, she saw strangers – probably the suitors of Penelope – playing boardgames to waste their time, sitting on the skins of bovines they had slaughtered and generally living the high life consuming the wealth of another, like parasites.

Soon she was noticed and approached by a young man with chestnut brown hair.

The sharp green eyes, so much like those of Odysseus, gave away who he was.

“Welcome, welcome!”, Telemakhos exclaimed, “Do come in, our respected guest! We shall give you the best we have to offer! And after you have eaten and refreshed yourself, tell us what brings you here.”

Athena could tell, that the young man was miserable at the situation, but he didn't show it.

He was nothing but polite and respectful towards his guest and readied her a place apart from all the insolent suitors.

“I don't assume you want to eat with this noisy crew”, he commented.

“No, I prefer to eat and drink in peace.”

Just a few moments later, the suitors came in, rude and hubristic as they apparently always were.

They were served and then forced a musician to sing for them. The man glared at them hatefully, but began to sing beautifully.

Telemakhos looked pained and murmured to the disguised Athena: “Would you lend me your ear?”

“Of course.”

“I hate this. I hate how these people consume the goods of another without care or compensation, while my mother and I mourn my dear father, who is most likely dead, even though some say that he'll come back one day. But our hope is dwindling from day to day. And we can't even give him an honourable burial, because his bones are probably lying on the bottom of the sea, where the salt water washes and bleaches them. But tell me, stranger, who are you, which family and what home do you come from?”

“My name is Mentor, son of Anchialos and Lord of Taphos. I'm a good friend of your father's and our fathers were friends before us (you can ask Laertes, I heard he lives away from here out of shame). I'm on my way to Temesa to trade precious metals and tissue. I wanted to pay you a visit, because I heard that your father was home. But apparently he's not. But I'm certain he's not dead either; perhaps some brutal and savage tribe is holding him captive and keeping him from coming home. Now I'm not a prophet, but I know for certain, that the Deathless Ones will grant him a safe homecoming soon. He won't stay away from home for much longer, I'm sure. But what about you? Are you really his son? You have his eyes, you do. I may not have seen him in over twenty years, but his face was hardly one I could forget!”

“He is my father”, Telemakhos sighed, “But I wish that rather instead of such an unfortunate man it was one, who could be here with his family, growing old in peace in his own land.”

Athena pitied the young man, but had to keep her act up.

“Now, now. Your family was made for glory and you're no different, I can tell. But tell me, what is this celebration here for? Those men there certainly don't obey the laws of hospitality, uncouth and shamefully as they're acting. Any sensible man would be ashamed.”

Telemakhos frowned – just the way his father always did.

“I'm not going to lie: there must have been a time, when this was an honest household, wealthy and abundant, while its master was still here. But just a few years ago, the entire noble population of this one and the surrounding islands have come to woo my mother and now they're feeding off our property. We can't get rid of them, they won't leave until my mother marries one of them. She loathes the idea, but she can't offend them by refusing outright, so she's putting them off for as long as she can. Meanwhile these parasites are eating my reserves and sooner or later they will surely kill me.”

“Mentor” was indignant. “By the gods, you really need Odysseus back home! Would he come through this door in full armour and make short work of them! Oh, for them to be taken by dark Soteira¹ and rot in the underworld!”

“I wish”, the young man muttered.

But the disguised goddess continued: “But it's all in the hand of the gods, whether he will come home and have bloody revenge. For now, this is my counsel, from an old friend to a young one: summon the council of the island, tell the suitors to leave and your mother, if she chooses to marry, to return to the home of her father, for a dower to be prepared. As for yourself, prepare a good ship with twenty rowers and travel abroad to inquire about the whereabouts of your glorious father. First travel to Pylos and ask Nestor and if he can't help you out, move on to Sparta, to the court of Menélaos – he came home last, as far as I know. Should they give you hope, that your father is still alive, hang in there for another year. Should you hear, that he's dead, make a burial mount for him, with many gifts, as is appropriate. Then eliminate all those insolent suitors. Haven't you heard of how Orestes gained glory by slaying the murderer of his father Agamemnon? You're no longer a child, you're a grown handsome man. Hesitate not. Defend your honour, so that future generations may speak well of you. But I must leave now – surely my crew is getting impatient down at the harbour!”

Telemakhos smiled warmly (that was his mother's smile): “Thank you for your advice, kind old man. But won't you stay just a little longer? You're my guest, how could I possibly let you go without a gift? A precious and pretty one-”

“I'm afraid I really have no time”, she chuckled, “But I will come back and till then chose a really beautiful guest gift! It will be returned with one of equal worth.”

Then she turned into a small owl and flew out of the window, leaving behind a stunned Telemakhos.

Meanwhile Hermes had made his way to Ogygia, the island of Kalypso.

The nymph welcomed him and served him nectar and ambrosia and wanted to know, what he was here for.

Hermes, now refreshed, briefed her on the situation: “The King of the Gods has sent me to let you know his will. We happen to know, that you're keeping a poor man, who has been away from home for twenty years. Ten years he spent in the land of the Trojans, three lost at sea and seven years he has been languishing here, pining for home. This is the will of His Majesty: for this mortal to finally get home to his family, to reclaim his home and embrace his wife and son again. That is his lot, not to vegetate here, far away from his loved ones.”

Kalypso blanched and her eyes filled with tears.

“This … this is not fair! Why won't the gods allow, that a goddess may be happy with a mortal? Êôs loved Orion, only for him to die by the hands of golden-throned Artemis! Demeter loved Iasion, only for him to be hit by the Thunderer's lightning bolts! I saved this man, hosted and fed him, offered him immortality, so he would never grow old and die-”

“Êôs and Demeter were loved back”, Hermes countered, “Odysseus isn't happy with you. We see this man weeping on the strand day after da. Not every mortal wants immortality, Kalypso. Immortality is no blessing for a mortal, even though a lot of people think that. Odysseus needs his family and they need him. Let him go. Don't risk the anger of the King of the Gods.”

The nymph choked back a sob, but nodded.

Poseidon was returning from a party in Ethiopia, when he spotted something he did not like: his nemesi- er, the mortal he hated, merrily rowing on the surface of his sea on a raft with provisions.

Within seconds he put two and two together: the other gods must have decided for Odysseus to be allowed to go home, while he had been away.

“Well, I'm not letting him off easy”, Poseidon grumbled and unleashed a mighty storm, house-high waves, deadly currents and all.

Odysseus clung to his raft, as it was thrown back and forth by the waves and realised, that he was likely going to drown.

“Aw, shit!”, he muttered and held on tighter, because there was no way he would accept a death as inglorious as drowning.

But as he was clinging to his wooden raft, he soon saw the foam on one of the waves shift into the shape of a woman.

That was Leukothea, formerly Ino, the daughter of Kadmos and Harmonia and aunt of Dionysos, who had been deified by Poseidon, many centuries ago.

She pitied the struggling mortal thrown around by the raging sea.

“Poor man” she spoke, “What have you done to provoke the merciless wrath of Poseidon, that he wants to drown you so badly? But fear not, I'm here to help you. Listen: take off your clothes and everything that drags you down, then tie my scarf around your chest – it will save you from drowning. Once you have reached dry land, give it back to me.”

She handed him a silken scarf and dived back into the waves.

Odysseus frowned. Why would I need this, when I have a raft?

Right in that moment, said raft was torn apart by a particularly huge wave.

Never mind.

He did as the marine goddess had told him and took to swimming.

In the meantime Poseidon retired to his crystal palace on the bottom of the sea.

Odysseus spent the next two days fighting against the raging sea, trying to finally reach the shore.

All the while, Athena was with him, never once taking her protection away.

She stilled the winds and gave him the strength to swim long enough to reach the shore of the land of the Phaiakoi.

The long-suffering hero finally found a piece of strand, crawled onto the shore and fainted.

When he came to himself, he took off the anti-drowning-scarf and threw it back into the sea, back to its owner.

Then he turned his back onto the water, stumbled further inland and crawled under a bush.

Exhausted, hurting everywhere and too tired to do anything, he fell into a healing, restful slumber.

Athena meanwhile entered the sleep of Nausikaa, the princess of this land, disguised as one of her friends. She inspired her to go out in the morning to do her laundry with her maids and maybe play at ball and Nausikaa woke up, resolved to do just that.

Odysseus woke up to women's screaming.

He crawled out from under this bush, covered his private parts with a leafy branch and went to investigate.

Soon he came across a group of ladies, apparently looking for something.

When they saw him, they screamed and fled, all except for one.

She didn't seem to be afraid at all.

And perhaps she could help him.

So the former hero cleared his throat and with many a flattery asked her for help.

The lady introduced herself as princess Nausikaa of the Phaiakoi and gave him some of her father's clothes she and her maids had been washing earlier.

Once washed and finally dressed, he could feel a divine presence cast a spell on him.

When he stepped back in front of Nausikaa, he guessed that Athena had made him look younger and more stately than he actually was, because the princess proclaimed her hope to have a bridegroom as regal and handsome as himself.

Then she pointed him a way to the city, while she left for some place else.

One of her maids guided him and instructed him on how he should come to the king and queen to plead for hospitality.

He did as told and they received him kindly.

Next morning, king Alkinoos called an assembly of the local nobility, introduced them to this stranger and informed him of his request.

They marvelled at the newcomer, whom Athena had given godlike beauty, so that he would find approval and be liked by the people here.

“This stranger – I don't know who he is – has been stranded here and beseeches me for help to return to his homeland”, Alkinoos explained. “No supplicant has ever asked us in vain for safe transport. So let's ready a ship and rowers and let him go where he wishes to, as soon as possible. But first we should host him according to the laws of hospitality. Let a great feast be prepared and summon our best musician.”

This was done and not much later, the entire nobility was gathered in his hall to feast.

Demodokon, the blind singer, entertained them with his beautiful music and sung of the glory of the Achaeans in the Trojan War.

The musical reminder of the events made Odysseus upset and he pulled the cloak he was wearing over his face, so no one saw him cry.

Next was a small tournament.

The young Phaiakoi competed in all kinds of sports.

Odysseus was feeling too gloomy to participate in discus throwing, but when one of the young men provoked him and questioned his masculinity, he got so angry that he grabbed the biggest, heaviest discus at hand and threw it much farther than all the others.

“As you can see”, he turned to the stunned Phaiakoi, “I'm more than adept in the art of war and battle. If any of you wants to challenge me in another discipline, I'm more than confident, that I can best them. Except when it comes to running, as my leg muscles are out of shape.”

Alkinoos quickly pacified his guest and called to music and dance.

Odysseus marvelled at the dancing skills of the Phaiakoi, at the gracefulness of their movements and how their feet practically flew across the dance floor.

The singer Demodokon sang about the love of Ares and Aphrodite and of how her then husband Hephaistos had caught them in his golden net.

A pair of dancers performed a rhythmic ball play and everyone clapped along to the beat.

Odysseus turned to Alkinoos: “You praised your people as the best of dancers and it's really true! The sight astonishes me.”

That pleased the king and he ordered for rich guest presents to be given to the flatterer.

The man, who had provoked Odysseus earlier, gave him a reconciliatory gift (an iron sword² with a silver handle and ivory sheath) and an apology, which the older man gladly accepted and wished him, that he would never regret having given his sword away.

Evening came and after a nice bath Odysseus went to join another banquet, which was about to take place.

On the way he met Nausikaa and they bid each other farewell, as only men were allowed at the Symposion.³

As all men sat down to eat, Odysseus cut off a good piece of his meat and offered it to the grateful singer as a token of appreciation.

Demodokon continued his earlier song about the heroic deeds of the Achaeans in the Trojan War. Odysseus requested: “You sing so beautifully and accurately of those events! But now sing of the wooden horse! Sing of the thing that Epeios built with Athena's aid and which was brought to Troy, filled by Odysseus with warriors to raze Troy to the ground! If you can do that, I would be forever grateful!”

The singer did so and everyone was captivated.

But the memory made the war veteran weep bitterly.

When Alkinoos saw this, he ordered Demodokon to stop and asked Odysseus what the matter was.

“Also”, he added, “I still don't know who you are. What's your name, your family and the name of your home? Were you there in Troas or did you lose someone dear to you in this terrible war? A family member, a comrade or a friend?”

The other man wiped his tears away and stood up.

“I am Odysseus, son of Laertes, who beguiles men with cunning and beautiful words, whose fame reaches to the skies. I come from the bountiful island of Ithaka and I couldn't possibly think of a sweeter sight than my own home.”

The whole room was silent, as everyone stared at him.

---

1) Soteira: "Saviour", an epithet to many goddesses. In this case a euphemistic epithet of Persephone. 2) The Trojan War is supposed to have taken place in about the 13th or 12th century BC, which was still in the bronze age. So an iron weapon was something special. Iron was hard to forge, because it requires a higher temperature than copper and tin (the components of bronze), but it's also tougher than bronze. Therefore it was in high demand and it would stay that way, during the iron age and beyond. But because it was harder to work with and for other reasons, it was a lot more expensive than bronze. 3) The Symposion (a banquet with music, dance and philosophical discussions) was for men only. Ancient Greek misogyny, everyone. -_-

#Greek Mythology #odyssey #zeus #athena #telemakhos #hermes #kalypso #poseidon #leukothea #odysseus #nausikaa #alkinoo

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ayearinfaith · 5 years

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𝗔 𝗬𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗶𝗻 𝗙𝗮𝗶𝘁𝗵, 𝗗𝗮𝘆 𝟯𝟴: 𝗢𝗱𝘆𝘀𝘀𝗲𝘆

The 𝘖𝘥𝘺𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘺 is the second oldest complete literary work in European history, preceded only by its prequel the 𝘐𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘥, both written by the Greek poet Homer in the 8th century BCE. It tells the tale of the hero Odysseus’ 10-year journey back home after the Trojan War events of the 𝘐𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘥. It is a highly influential text in Western cultures and the source of the English common noun “odyssey”.

𝗢𝗱𝘆𝘀𝘀𝗲𝘂𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗜𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗰𝗮

Before the setting of the 𝘖𝘥𝘺𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘺, Odysseus was a hero of the Iliad and likely a widespread figure of oral mythology. The Roman name for him is Ulysses, and the distinction between Greek and Latin terms implies traditions of Odysseus beyond and predating Homer. If the Romans had just inherited the myth directly from the Homeric account, they would have named him more similarly but instead have used a variant that may have come from other Greek dialects or from neighboring non-Italic speaking people like the Etruscans. The actual etymology of Odysseus’ name is unknown, though Homer and other poets made many puns or allusions with it, normally giving it regrettable meanings such as “hated one:, “lamentable one” or, most fittingly, “lost”. In accounts of the Trojan War, one of the most significant events in Greek mythology, Odysseus is portrayed as a very different hero from the other major figures, like Achilles, Ajax, or Agamemnon. While most of the Greek and Trojan heroes are renowned mostly for their physical abilities and have generally passionate and headstrong personalities, Odysseus is cunning and able to keep a cool head. He is both one of the leading Greek tacticians and a diplomat, able to maintain the unity of the Greek forces despite their constant squabbling. His most famous tactic is the Trojan Horse, in which the Greek’s hid a retinue of soldiers inside a giant wooden horse and then appeared to sail away. The Trojan’s, believing the siege at an end, pulled the Horse inside as a trophy. At night, the retinue came out of the horse and opened the city gates for the rest of the army, thus ending the 10-year conflict with a Greek victory. Prior to the war, Odysseus was king of Ithaca. The exact location of Ithaca is unknown, though it is commonly believed to be an island west of the Greek mainland. Odysseus was no demi-God, unlike many other famous Greek heroes, though he was not totally without divine heritage, being 1/8th a god on his mother’s side, by way of Hermes. He is the favorite of Athena, goddess of wisdom, who comes to his aide many times over the course of his life.

𝟮𝟬 𝗬𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘀 𝗔𝗯𝗿𝗼𝗮𝗱

Though not a part of the Homeric account, later tales of Odysseus display him as unwilling to go to war with Troy and feigning madness as an attempt to escape his oath to aid his fellow Greeks. He is unsuccessful in this gambit and must join his fellow kings and heroes on the journey to Troy, in what is modern day Turkey, for a war that would last ten years. At long last his tactics provided a Greek victory and the heroes could begin the journey back across the Aegean Sea. Homer’s 𝘖𝘥𝘺𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘺 does not actually begin with Odysseus’ journey, but rather with his son, Telemachus (literally "distant war"), now 20 years old, ten years after the end of the war. Though Odysseus is assumed dead, he and his mother Penelope have not lost faith and are fending off suitors wishing to claim Odysseus’ estates and kingdom. Athena comes to Telemachus and convinces him to voyage out himself to seek his father. Telemachus does so, taking him on his own journey across Greece meeting much of the surviving cast of the Iliad. Odysseus, meanwhile, makes his appearance washed ashore in the kingdom of Phaeacia, not far from Ithaca itself. Here he is found, nude and barely alive, by the princess Nausicaa who take pity on him and takes him in. Once restored, he recounts the events leading up to this point and the 𝘖𝘥𝘺𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘺 truly begins. One could summarize the journey as a tale of warning to those who do not properly venerate the gods. First Odysseus is separated from most of his fleet by a storm sent by Zeus as punishment for the deceitful nature by which he ended the war. Next, he lands at a lush island which turns out to be home to one of the terrifying one-eyed man-eating giants, the Cyclopes. Odysseus uses his cunning to escape the cave of the Cyclops (whose name is Polyphemus) first by telling the monster that his name is “nobody” and then blinding it. After his men escape, hiding below Polyphemus’ flock of sheep, Polyphemus calls for help from his brothers, but they do not credit his claims that “nobody has blinded me”. Odysseus’ misadventures might have ended here, except as he leaves, he taunts Polyphemus and reveals his true name. Polyphemus then asks his father, none other than the god of the sea Poseidon. Poseidon curses Odysseus and though the hero does not realize it, he cannot return home until the sea god is appeased. Odysseus then has his boat blown of course by a magic bag of winds, is attacked by more giant man-eaters (though not Cyclopes), and winds up on the isle of the demi-God sorceress Circe, who turns all his men into pigs. Here Odysseus finally receives some aid from his great-grandfather and messenger of the gods, Hermes. Protected from her magic by Hermes gift, Odysseus forces her to restore his men. Circe still manages to seduce Odysseus and convinces him to stay with her for one year. After this, she aids him in summoning the spirit of a dead prophet, Tiresias, who advises Odysseus on how to placate Poseidon. It seems Poseidon’s wrath is almost at an end, so long as Odysseus and his men can survive a few more trials which Circe and Tiresias advise him on. Thus, he is able to survive the hypnotic call of the Sirens (by having his men plug their ears and tie him to the mast) and successfully navigates the whirpool, Charybdis, albeit suffering some loses to the nearby sea monster, Scylla. Finally, the last trial is upon them. All Odysseus and his crew must do is avoid eating the sacred cows on the island of Thrinacia. Odysseus’ men, who so far have been as much a plague to him as any god, eat the cattle, enraging the sun god Helios who has Zeus strike their boat with lightning and send them all careening baack into Charybdis. Odysseus, protected by fate, washes ashore on the island of Ogygia where he is found by the nymph Calypso. Calypso wishes to make Odysseus her husband and keeps him trapped with her for seven years. Finally, with all the gods having forgotten their ire, Athena is able to free him. Poseidon does have one last laugh, and shipwrecks Odysseus one last time leading to his washing ashore in Phaeacia.

𝗛𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗮𝘁 𝗟𝗮𝘀𝘁

Odysseus is given a boat by the Phaeacians and finally returns home, just as Telemachus returns as well, having been unable to find his father. Through some plotting, disguises, and divine intervention by Athena, Telemachus and Odysseus reunite and hatch a plan to oust the suitors. Penelope announce a final trial for any man wishing to marry her: they must string Odysseus’ famed bow and shoot an arrow through 12 axe heads. None can do it but a disguised Odysseus. It is uncertain if the stringing of the bow was impossible for others due to a lack of strength or because only Odysseus knew how to properly string a recurve bow. Regardless, the deed is done and Odysseus reveals himself. Along with Telemachus, he slays the suitors and some unfaithful servants. The tale ends happily, with Ithaca at peace and Odysseus on his throne, reunited with his family.

Image Credit: Odysseus and Polyphemus, Arnold Böcklin, 1896

#A Year in Faith #Odyssey #AYIF #Religion #Mythology #Day 38

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honestsycrets · 6 years

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Bridal Price VIII: The Final Price

Author’s Notes | this is the last in the series. i feel so accomplished, i’m actually finishing things this year.

❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader

❛ word count | 2067

❛ genre | multiseries

❛ summary | reader clings back onto hvitserk after the death of most of her family. hvitserk speculates whom might have brought on their demise.

❛ warnings | mention of arson, ‘cheating’

Your looms, your beautiful silk from England and fine thread were all gone. The fire devoured everything under your feet. Only dark ash remained. Your father’s body-- your sisters trapped inside, they were all gone. Vaði kept at the ashen site while Hvitserk’s boots kicked through, looking for the right area. You fall upon the ground in your olive green dress, pulling open a small chest of your father’s treasure to go with what little remains that there was left.

“Here.” Hvitserk drops beside you, pushing apart the floors to pull out a chest. He lifts it into his arms while you take to the locks, popping it open and looking at the fine treasure left there.

“I am happy that he died well.” You say, running your finger over the top of the chest. “That way perhaps he went to hel instantly.”

Your father was no warrior. For the war upon Ragnarok, you doubted that Odin would call him to the battlefield. Through it all, Hvitserk had been there. You couldn’t explain why he was. A prince that took Ake into his home to be cared by the healers. She finally seemed to come back to her normal self but… she was burnt. It was anyone’s guess what would come of her.

“He did.” Hvitserk says. “Your sisters as well.”

You glance over to your old fuck buddy, nodding. Vaði had been through to clear the remains before you had gotten here and so you had come through to find your father’s remaining treasure buried away under the floorboards of the home. You retrieve a coin of gold your father had buried away, looking upon the head of Ecbert. He always boasted of going with Ragnar on his raid of Lindisfarne.

“Except for Ake. I will have to keep her with me.” Your voice hinges on fear that he can almost taste on his tongue. What man would take on dual responsibility? “It is unlikely she’ll marry now.”

The burns were… well, extensive. He’d gotten in trouble for pulling the dress of her body, as evidently, he was not supposed to do that. Still now she sat under salves for which the basket around your arm had both yarrow and lily that you would shortly boil in butter to apply as a red salve. Even ribwort that you would later boil in the same for a blue salve.

“Whatever man you find would be lucky to have two seamstresses.” Hvitserk says evenly while tucking the trunk under his arm. He offers you out a hand to help you leap over the ask and grime in your cute flats.

“What changed, Hvit?” You walk slowly with him, setting your palm to his firm bicep. Vaði had given him permission to touch you and bit by bit had you turned back to him. Enough that he could feel less shameful when he touched you.

“What do you mean?” He looks past the ones staring upon you. The streets are full, bustling with life from the Kattegat’s people going on their way. It isn’t as if you could blame them. Life went on. The day was beautiful-- the sky, clear.

“You’re not begging.” You note.

Ah, begging for you to take him back.

“Thought it would be annoying.” Hvitserk answers. You both stop in front of the marketplace, looking out toward everyone that sells their wares. After a moment you signal him closer to those that sell goods from far off places. After such a traumatic past few days, you could use something sweet. Sweet like the cherries imported from Spain. You have a soft sigh on your lips, debating just… what to do or say.

“Thank you, Hvitserk.”

He shifts, glancing to motion behind you. The blacksmith sweeps closer with several large steps, clearing his throat when he’s close enough behind you. You shift on Hvitserk’s arm uncomfortably and he notices as much.

“You’ve chosen to marry Hvitserk?” He rumbles, trembling like your hand around his arm. Hvitserk thinks it strange enough but more so when you look down to your basket without speaking much to him.

“I take it that is why he is touching you.” The blacksmith continues rambling in place, folding one thick arm over another.

“That is the case.” He barks back. Usually he was the man to be quiet, time his responses-- but for some things, there was no timing. He brushes past the blacksmith and carries on his way toward the Great Hall where Aslaug had allowed your sister and you to stay.

“What was that wretched thing about?” He asks. You look aside, running your hand up your forearm along the fine fabric of the dress Queen Aslaug had allowed you to wear.

“He has been pressing me for marriage since father passed.” You explain with prudent concern. A blacksmith was always in good company-- especially one so well known to the Ragnarssons as the one in Kattegat.

“Why did you not tell me?” Hvitserk closes the distance between your bodies. You lift your hand to his firm bicep, looking between him and your ailing sister who lays on a bed of furs.

“I had other concerns.” You say. “And maybe… it would be a good arrangement that I should marry him. We will not have lodging soon and food less so. Marriage is all about alliance, after all.”

“Who said that you would be uncared for? I have no intention on pushing you out.” He explains.

“Your mother is gracious when it comes to her own agenda… but I don’t know where I fit in that.” You expand on it. Of course you knew that Queen Aslaug was a great, merciful woman on any well doing heathen. To live in her home with a crispy, oh bless your Ake, sister? It had to be with intent. Hvitserk sways, looking back to Ake while pursing his lips. The strain brings wrinkles to his chin, the soft curls of his facial hair waving on his jawline.

“Then you will marry me.”

“Hvitserk… I...” You come to your basket beside Ake, taking out the lily and yarrow that you had brought to make her a salve. You hold them in your lap, rolling your lips into your mouth in pensive thought.

“There is something wrong with a man who offers marriage because you are without family!” Hvitserk supplies. “What if he had something to do with it?”

“But I am not sure I want to marry you. You didn’t even remember my name.”

“What is a name anyway?” He turns the corner, kneeling before you. “Names are lost to time. In time no one will remember my father Ragnar Lothbrok or my grandfather Sigurd who slayed Fafnir.”

“You believe in such things?” You could almost laugh.

“The point is not that.” Hvitserk grumbles in a low rumble, sending soft chills up your arms. “The point is… to marry me. Experiences outweigh name. Which, if we are counting, you are (Y/N) daughter of Geir. And I promised your father I would take care of you.”

You glance up, abandoning your pestle to stare into his deep green eyes. Eyes that stand so far apart from the shocking blue ones of his brothers and father. When you were in bed with him, running your hands through his curls fiddling with his hacksilver pendant, you wondered just that sometimes. Then he would laugh and ask what you were looking at, crawling over your body for another round.

“You… what?” You shake your head. “He was alive?”

The admission could have broken you. Hvitserk walks forth.

“There was nothing we could do. He was pinned, dying well. His only dying wish was to care for Ake and you.”

Your head hangs, looking to the lily in your lap. Hvitserk slides down beside you, reaching out to take your hand in his. It’s been a long time since he groveled at your feet. Before Geir died when Vaði considered looking at suitors for you.

“You know I would care for you. Regardless of marriage or dying wishes, but his wishes make it that much more important to carry out.” Hvitserk smooths his thumb over the top of your hand, bringing you to his lips. His moustache tickles the top of your hand as he plants a chaste kiss over the top. You scrunch up your shoulders, head shaking slightly as your eyes bead with wetness.

“I love you, Hvitserk… but you hurt me. How do I know...”

“I know. I know, and I hate that I have that power over you, (Y/N). If I could take it back, I would. I make a terrible boyfriend.” He says. At least he was owning up to it.

If you were signing up for another round of being his last to fuck, you didn’t want this. If you were signing up for days of waiting for his kisses or wondering what woman could twist her hips better, you didn’t want it. You especially didn’t want to be a part of the Ragnarsson’s list of what is hot to fuck and what is not--

“Marry… him…” The voice is a forced whisper. Glancing around, you realize that it’s Ake who speaks, despite Aslaug and Ivar at the corner eavesdropping as was their typical. You glance to them then to your charred sister.

“Huh… what?” You ask her with nothing short of a apprehensive grimace. She turns her head toward you, finally speaking for the first time since the accident occurred.

“He’s stupid, but not a bad man.” She gives a deep sigh. “And we are all tired of hearing you two mope.”

At that you finally do laugh. Behind the leather strapped curtains, you can hear Aslaugh stifling her meek laugh. A chortle can’t help its way out of Ivar’s lips. Hvitserk gleams hopeful eyes at you and so you give a quick nod.

“I’ll marry you, Hvitserk Ragnarsson.”

This time its Hvitserk who lets loose his playful laugh, jerking you up onto your feet. The feeling of being flightless hits you like a bird, and if you were a bird, you would have been an enraged chicken. You don’t quite like being off the ground!

“Hvitserk!”

“Sorry!” Hvitserk says, setting you back down upon the ground. He takes your hands, spinning you in with your hands crossed in front of your chest. Your back collides with his chest. Playfully he nudges you, motioning you to look back to him.

“Kiss me.” He says. Your eyebrow perks at him, as if to say for all his trouble, he should owe you a kiss! “Come, for the price I will have to play for your mundr?”

He had a point. Vaði would most certainly milk that price in order to help Ake get back onto her feet. You lean back toward him, gliding your lips against his for one smooth tongueless kiss. He leans forward aching for more but just as quickly as the kiss began, it ended.

“But--”

“We can save the rest for the wedding.” You say.

“We’ve already fucked!” Hvitserk complains. Quickly spinning out from him, you slip out of the room in a sprint through the Great Hall. Your sandal clad feet thump upon the rough planks, rushing past the guards that kept Ake and you safe. A jaunty gathering of men drink on the many tables.

Hvitserk clicks his tongue angrily, colliding with the hard-- hard iron chest of your cousin who stands like a wall between you and him. What was it with obstacles to his kisses and love today!? Ubbe stands beside him. Sigurd most definitely probably wasn’t that far along either. Vadi folds his arms.

“Now that the blacksmith is taken care of.” Vaði states. His armour, splattered with blood. “We have a bridal price to discuss with Ubbe and Bjorn-- the morgengifu and mundr, right, my new brother?”

“Uhh--”

His pockets were already screaming. The best seamstress in all of Kattegat. He would dare say in all of Midgard! Could he even afford you? Ubbe pulls out his bag of coins, flicking them up into the air and motioning to his belt full of rabbit pelts. A true brother wouldn’t let him pay on his own! He would owe Ubbe for years… but as you stand beside them, wiggling your fingers playfully at him, he wouldn’t take it back for the world.

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