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miss-kittys-magical-library · 3 years

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Last Christmas

Word Count: 3100

Warnings: Language some smut and loads of angst

A/N: This took me two days to write. 🤣 Once again @robertsheehanownsmyass helped in so many ways and I continue to love her for it! This time @elliethesuperfruitlover was my sounding board too ☺️

Tag list: @joz-stankovich @bisexualnathanyoung @frogs--are--bitches @magic-multicolored-miracle @nightmonsters

Chapter 4: Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

“Of all the places to eat in Sin City, you chose fucking Taco Bell,” disdain. “Don't you have those in The UK?”

“Not with a bloody margarita bar inside,” Nathan held up a giant plastic cup full of strawberry watermelon tequila and syrup. Violet lived for every time he spoke a word with the “AR” sound.

“IT'S A T’GO MARGARITA! I can just go anywhere I want and leave with booze. Fucking beauty if you treat her right,” Nathan’s eyes sparkled. “And there's no problem that can't be solved with a bit o’ t’go booze.” He shoved an entire soft taco in his mouth that smiled from ear to ear.

“Are you gonna have better manners tomorrow at my sister’s place?” Violet looked at Nathan unexpectedly hearing her own mother’s voice escape from inside and she frowned.

She had avoided bringing up anything of her own that was personal. These feelings for Nathan that were suffocating her could be held at bay for 36 more hours. He prodded her for information a few times since they woke up. She dodged every one, even going so far as to offer him head in exchange.

(Still only Christmas eve. The snow had stopped inside as Nathan drifted deep in slumber. Violet grateful because how could they explain a woman freezing to death while he was alive?)

Nathan nodded with a bit too much enthusiasm. “I'll be mature and polite!” His smile resembled Bruce in Finding Nemo. “If you tell me what I'm walking into?” There it was.

“None of your business,” Violet plopped a piece of sushi in her mouth.

Nathan sneered, “Bet that tastes like bad snatch. If we're playing happy families, I'm gonna need to know some details!!”

“You're just a guy who got stuck with me until the 26th. I'm not telling them you're my boyfriend or anything.”

“Oh TWICE you're gonna just jab a knife in my heart, huh?”

Violet couldn't tell if that was sarcasm or a tease. She inhaled deeply and brushed her fingertip down Nathan’s cheek. “Fine. It's a bit more complicated than that, but it doesn't change anything about what happens after tomorrow.”

“I like complicated situations. It's my middle name!”

“Oh really?”

“No. it's Michael but, wouldn't you love to meet a guy named Nathan Complicated Young?”

“I didn't even plan on meeting Nathan MICHAEL Young,” it came out a whisper.

They stared at one another in silence for a few minutes over tacos and sushi and margaritas and wine. An alarm jolted Violet to reality indicating it was time for her show to come on.

“Hold those thoughts”

“In my wank bank, darling”

Violet ignored Nathan and turned on her tv “You're gonna want to see this guy. I swear you could be twins.”

A few hours later the pair laid up on the pillows. Tears glittered Violet's eyes that she tried to wipe away surreptitiously with her knuckle.

“My mom watches this garbage show because,” Nathan mimicked a high whine, “NAY-TAN HE LOOKS LIKE YOOO. Alright Ma, and you look like Catelyn Stark.”

“But he kinda does.”

“C’mon what's with that twat’s hair?!

Violet sat up and tugged Nathan on the top of the head, “What's with YOUR hair.”

“IT’S NOT EVEN MY HAIR!” he dramatically waved his hand around. In a blink of an eye his hair became longer, darker and curlier. The description would be a mess. “TA DA!”

Violet hid her shock as her heart raced in her ears. “That's a fucking bird’s nest,” she recovered but not before combing her fingers through the curls.

“Why must your compliments always be so damn backhanded, woman?!” he swatted her hand away.

Violet laid down alongside Nathan with one arm tucked against her body. She stretched her free one across his bare chest, face concealed in the crook of his arm. There was a small contented sigh as he engulfed her in his arms. A kiss planted on her forehead before he inhaled deeply.

Blissful silence for a few minutes.

“I don't even BELIEVE Darren’s dead.”

“She shot him FOUR TIMES!” Nathan was incredulous as he stretched a hand palm up towards the tv. “IN THE FUCKING HEAD!!”

Violet lifted herself so she could look Nathan right in the eye. “Well he ALSO came back from the dead!” She struggled to maintain sincerity. “He got shot a bunch of times then too. So for like, two years he only had one lung.”

Nathan’s eyebrows knit together in utter confusion. “ONE LUNG?!”

“Plenty of people supposedly live without lungs. It's the back of his head missing that might cause problems.”

There was an exaggerated groan as his eyes nearly rolled back in his head, “Worst Dublin accent too.”

“Why ye from there?” Violet mocked.

“Jaysus, no! We didn't even really have a steady home even when I wasn't homeless. Not until I was too much of a selfish prick t’appreciate it.”

“Wow, death really makes you self actualize.”

“Only until my dick wakes up.”

Before Violet could blink, Nathan flipped her so he could pin her to the bed. She swerved with ease each time Nathan bent to kiss her lips. Her cheeks. She slept with him once already; wouldn't give in again. Well, maybe a little as he landed finally on her neck. A bolt of pleasure shot through her entire body. That familiar ache between her legs as a small moan escaped her.

“Did ye shag me because ye fancy him then?” Nathan’s voice low in Violet's ear.

“That's for me to know, and you to figure out ten years from now in the shower.” Her hands entangled in the waves of dark curls to guide his lips up to her own.

Their tongues danced for what felt like ages. Violet gobsmacked by how subdued Nathan was being. A hand between her ass and the bed to lift her pelvis up towards his burgeoning erection. Another moan, this one into his mouth.

Nathan wriggled to free himself from his boxers as Violet took his tongue entirely in her mouth. The head of his cock labored against her panties, desperate to get inside. He almost settled for the wetness it created and a few times in response.

“Fuck,” he growled pumping his hips. “I t’ink sexy Irishmen who commit felonies get you off.”

Violet raked her nails along Nathan's shoulder blades. Dug them in when her body started to twitch and her sex throbbed from the intensity of being fucked with her underwear on. Nathan's cock hit her clit just right through the lingerie.

Violet's legs started to writhe as the heat in her core began to build. Nathan’s breathing heavy while hers came out in short bursts through mewls of pleasure. The rhythmic way he undulated his hips took on a swift pace. Instinct must have finally kicked in. Like he knew Violet was about to cum.

Except everything came to a sudden halt. Nathan rolled off Violet and replaced his body with two fingers in the same spot. He started to rapidly press them to the wet spot in the fabric like someone desperate to close an elevator door.

Violet gripped his forearm, but again an abrupt end as she felt herself cum.

“Tell me anything about you,” Nathan chose to interrogate her now.

“My-My parents died when I was a teenager. three of us were raised by our grandfather.”

Nathan rewarded Violet by slipping his fingers inside of her. They remained still. “You've got sisters? I had a brother, but some Ice Queen bitch blew him up. What are their names?”

“Rose.. Fern.. Iris and Lily.”

Another reward. Nathan’s fingers began to work her clit in slow circles counterclockwise. “Oh a garden of sexy sisters. They inta Irishman too?” He stopped.

“It's because we're from the Garden District in New Orleans,” Violet's words came out in short bursts. “They're.. two are married. Not Lily, she's younger than you are. Seventeen. Fern is a lesbian.”

“One in every family,” he said it so casually. As casually as the fingers that pumped in and out a bit too easily with how slick she was. Deep inside where they hooked just a bit and pulled back.

“Na- Nathan are you-” Violet started to squirm under his motions. Between the horribly slow circles just his fingertip made on her clit before delving inside and back. “Are you trying to find my G-spot?”

Nathan ignored her as he bit his lower lip in concentration. “Maybe. Sometimes I play stupid with a bird if I t’ink she may do the work for me. Show me around a bit.”

Violet ignored that she may have been hustled a bit in the sack. Maybe his eagerness and pride was what really caused him to be all messy about it.

Still his hand worked faster. She coiled right at the beginning of the explosion, again. Then nothing. This was too much power for someone so fucking arrogant.

“I'm asking the questions, love,” he muttered. “Tell us about your granddad.”

Violet closed her eyes, “He was a Civil Rights lawyer. My grandmother was a society woman. Charity balls all that shit.”

“Oh yer a posh bitch. Slumming it wit us street trash,” Nathan picked up again. His fingers a bit too aggressive. “Is that how you work for free but still can live in a flat like this?” his mouth rough in her neck. He bit with the ends of his teeth and sucked somewhat. “While us arseholes are figuring out how t’work the system so we can survive.”

“Nathan! It's not like that. I left a very well-paying job at a firm to help people like you that deserve a fair shake. That DA? Tony? He was one of my partners. Yeah, I saved up and worked HARD for this “posh flat”. Not everyone takes the easy way by doing a little fucking magic and stealing from other people.

Violet had shoved his hand away and sat up on her knees. “I did my research, Nathan. You didn't exactly grow up rough. Your mom’s a teacher and your dad is a successful novelist? You're just one of those dick middle class white guys who gets bored and fucks off because he can.”

“YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT WAS LIKE. My dad leaving us. Mom and I never had a place to live until he started paying her. All the guys she dated. I just wanted it to be us.”

“MY PARENTS ARE DEAD, NATHAN. THEY'RE DUST. Have you even checked your phone? Your dad has called you probably 300 times not including the 20 since the trial ended yesterday. You get to fix things with them.”

Nathan growled and crossed his arms, “Fuck off. I'm not a charity case for you t’fix. I do alright on my own.”

“In jail because you're reckless. You know what happened to me when I was twenty-two?”

“I had t’finger fuck you just to find out ye had sisters. How am I supposed t’know what happened to ye years ago?”

“I was a widow. I got married like a moron when I turned 19. He already had a kid. My grandfather cut me off because education is worth more than a man! It is. I busted my ass to do the rest. AND raise a kid and a drug addict. You know what he did in return?”

Violet was on a roll. Hot tears threatened to spill over her cheeks and stung her eyes. The dark anger in Nathan’s took her by surprise. They were always so congenial if not a bit sad.,

“He drove in to a fucking semi on the highway with our son in the car. So forgive me for not being sympathetic to you being so fucking STUPID you got caught robbing a casino with a seven sided dice. And TWICE you've been too conceited to let your dad bail you out. You are better than this, Nathan. I know it.”

“HAPPY FUCKING CHRISTMAS!” Nathan shouted before throwing himself out of the bed. “I need a proper shower. Is that ok?!”

Violet looked at the clock. 2am. She waved him off, “I don't give a shit.”

She wished she could look back on that moment and say she didn't follow Nathan into the bathroom. That she never joined him in the shower. Or let him fuck her in silence and frustration and fury. That he never used his power to morph himself in a handful of ways, mocking Violet at every chance as their bodies pounded together until she came harder than ever. And most definitely did not fuck a third time after having slept angrily with their backs to each other.

-------

Nathan collapsed beside Violet still on all fours. Her arms waivered as adrenaline and serotonin drained from her body, and collected herself. How guilty she felt that his petulance made her wanton. The ring of the doorbell jarred them both back to reality.

“Oh don't get up. I'll answer it.” Violet threw the nearest shirt on and made her way to the foyer.

Nathan, in his boxers hurried behind her. “I'm a fucking guest. Ye expect me t’answer it?”

“You know a posh bitch like me doesnt answer doors on her own. My fucking maid’s off for the holidays.”

Violet opened the door to a short and cute dark haired girl with barely a toddler on her hip. He reached out for Nathan babbling “Dada Dada Dada” on repeat.

“Marnie?!” He was gobsmacked as the baby wiggled from his mother’s grasp into Nathan’s waiting arms.

A stunned Violet made a poor attempt at stretching the tee shirt she wore into a dress. It was fruitless as it was one of Nathan’s from his duffle. Her hands began to shake as a warmth crawled across her cheeks and nausea set in.

What the fuck is she doing here still? was what Violet said in her mind. “Well um come in,” is what she said with her mouth.

Nathan absently bounced the little boy in his arms as they walked into the living room, “How are ye here? Wit’him?”

Marnie was gawking at the apartment. “Hey this is a right posh gaff you've got. Why couldn't me n’ Nathan junior bunk up here again?”

Violet blanched.

“Oh our passports disappeared. Figured you might ‘ave been done in momentarily,” the young mother turned on the other two and stared from to the other. “Ah you shaggin’ the barrister?!”

“I said when we met t’is would happen, sweetheart. C’mon you know t’ere’s an understanding before we signed the license.”

Now Violet’s head swam, “Are you married? Married. Nathan are you and Marnie..”

“Just a little,” Marnie crossed her arms. “Nathan says if we got hitched your court couldn't make us rat on each other.”

The lawyer had to admit that was pretty genius, something she wished she knew a few weeks ago when she took this case instead of..

“What do you mean a little?”

“No one got a chance to agree. So it's just our signatures. We thought ‘is lawyer might sign ‘em after ‘e got arrested. That's not what you did is it?” She didn't look angry to Violet, merely a little sad.

“Vi you said she left Las Vegas,” Nathan’s tone was one of disbelief. He let the toddler down only because Violet knew he couldn't function without wildly gesticulating as he spoke.

“You left Vegas..” Violet was just too stunned.

“You told me to leave! Said I’d interfere with ‘is trial! Did you tell ‘im about the ASBOs?”

“The shit-heads?” Nathan asked. “What about them? Why would Violet know anything about my friends or talk to you?”

“Because Simon found her to be your lawyer.”

“Barry? He didn't even answer the phone when I called.”

“Well ‘e called me. But so much shit why down it all went barkin’. Some bloke can bring dead people back. That Virtue bitch you told me about killed Alisha because she couldn't kill you.”

Nathan’s mouth hung open, “But she didn't have anything t’do with that. I'm the one who pushed her off the roof. I just.. WILL SOMEONE TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON?!”

Violet went to speak but Marnie cut her off at the pass, “Simon told me to go see Miss Duval because I know how your magic works. But she told me I’d interfere with the trial.”

“How the hell would ye do that?”

Nathan’s nostrils flared like a horse. His green eyes darkened as he waited expectantly in Violet's direction.

“If she showed up with the chip that's evidence! The cops and Tony would know you stole from the casino. And the rest of them are criminals. Theyre fucking criminals and if they knew you ready had a record that could be used against you. ”

“I DIDN'T STEAL ANYTHING! I FUCKING CONJURED IT!!”

“I KNOW, BUT HOW DO I EXPLAIN THAT TO NORMAL HUMANS?!”

“BY MAKING ME PERFORM LIKE A FUCKING CIRCUS MONKEY?!”

“YES!! BECAUSE YOUR HEAD IS TOO FAR UP YOUR ASS TO REALIZE WHAT YOU WERE UP AGAINST. AND NEITHER OF YOU IS SMART ENOUGH FOR ANY OTHER STRATEGY! SHE WOULD INCRIMINATE YOU!”

Nathan’s eyebrows creased, there was a quiet fury in his voice, “Then why the FUCK did ye tell Marnie to leave? Ye made me think everyone left me t’rot in jail. I didn't even get to say goodbye t’Alisha or Simon.

“If the District Attorney’s office found Marnie, she wouldn't know enough to plead the fifth. And you, you got arrested for STEALING FUCKING CANDY AND YOUR RESPONSE TO BEING ARRESTED TO TO CAUSE A FUCKING DISASTER FOR YOURSELF INSTEAD OF JUST SHUTTING UP. BECAUSE YOU'RE A PETULANT MAN-CHILD. THERE'S NO WAY WE COULD'VE WON WITH THE LOT OF YOU TOGETHER. You’re too fucking stupid to lie.”

Violet regretted them the moment the words fell out of her mouth. The baby started to cry and Marnie picked him up. She didn't look upset or angry with Violet. Disappointed.

“I didn't mean that, Nathan,” she reached for him but he yanked himself away out of her reach.

Nathan just looked at Violet. Those eyes, ever-changing in color were no longer furious or frustrated. Just full of sadness that tore her apart.

"You’re a treacherous bitch.”

Violet’s chest tightened as Nathan turned his back on her to throw clothes on. Her eyes stung while a blackness clouded her vision. As if she would faint. Yet when he returned, she had recovered before the tears could threaten her further.

“Good luck with this one, then. I've come to realize he'll never love anyone as much as he loves himself.”

Nathan maintained a deafening silence as he and Marnie made to leave, the baby back in his arms. That knife twisting in Violet's chest, an imaginary one to rival the way she had stabbed Nathan. How ignorant Violet had been to think this would ever work out.

“I'm not the one whose partner killed themself to get away from.” And then they were gone.

His heart yesterday for hers today.

#robert sheehan #nathan young #nathan x violet #robert sheehan character fics

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zoyaalinas · 4 years

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rosa suburbia

written for @jonsadrabbles

day 1: prompt ~ linger

summary: sansa's world is glossy pink. jon wishes she'd let him nurse his heartbreak in peace. he also wishes she'd let him stay.

“Can I work here for a bit? Robb’s so bloody loud I can’t hear myself.”

A listless shrug. “Sure.”

“Thanks. I’ll be quiet.”

She nods, and says it again, sure, her rs clipped off like dead lobelias to make space for drags. Sometimes he wonders what Sansa dreams about when she’s perched this way- looking out a window with the secrecy of a sniper at a periscope, cigarette dangling from the left corner of her mouth. It’s how Jon finds her every morning on his way downstairs, seeking six o’clock supplies (hard-to-ration things: dental floss, Xeroxes, coffee, mental peace). A ritual viewing to keep balance: Sansa Stark in her too-pink bedroom wearing too-pink lingerie staring at too-pink sunsets, although on retrospection, sunsets here are never quite as brilliant as his idea of them.

Most things aren’t.

Outside, it’s summer. In the canon of atmospheric literature, there is something artificial about the way summer is described. Sunshine and great bursts of leaves. Air that smells of crushed fern. Summer in the foothills isn’t half as proprietary; it arrives in silence and gets into crevices like beach glass and thoughtless exchanges made in the heat of a single moment. The air, in fact, hadn’t smelt like crushed fern when Val had slammed the door upon his face in a hot blaze of tears and told him he had developed a pathological affinity for self-centeredness. It had smelt like the wine they’d drunk before.

That was two months back. Jon Snow lost two months to an error of judgement, though some of it was probably the wine too.

Anyway. Non, rien de rien, non, je ne regrette rien.

Thump, thump, thump. Insane acoustics. When Jon is sad, he drinks a lot and rhapsodizes on the lines of Richard Siken. When Robb is sad, he plays Post Malone. From the looks of it, Jon’s roommate must be fucking devastated today, but one can only endure Rockstar so many times before one feels a burgeoning need to pop in half a Percocet and seek refuge in the room of a greater, more tranquil being for the first time in forty days.

Thump.

Or, maybe he’s beating shit up? The Stark kids are a weird lot, Jon has come to realise from his time playing hanger-on: they keep to themselves and operate strictly on an eat-or-be-eaten policy, running on cool crisp cocktails of narcotics and self-hatred. Combinations vary: Arya punches jocks; Bran plays Ted Bundy podcasts during morning yoga sessions. Etcetera.

“What are you writing?”

Nothing to be exact, not since he got distracted from self-pity an odd minute back. More of guilt than anything else, Jon shuts his laptop. “Nada.”

“You working on that novel?”

“Trying.”

“Feel you.” She taps on a fissure in the cool granite of the sill. “When Harry dumped me, I locked myself into a room and watched Elizabeth Taylor movies for 72 hours. Naked.”

“Sounds terrific.”

“The binging or the nudity?”

“Both. Invite me next time.”

“Alrighty!” this in a sing-song lilt, like playing Harley Quinn. “Bring your best Arbor Red and we’ll watch Gone with the Wind.”

“Don’t forget the other half of the pact.”

Sansa pulls a silly face, and he thinks, Percocet-hazed, funny girl. Conversations should’ve been initiated before, but she wasn’t, well, Val. Embarrassing.

“Here, have a whole drag. Cleanses your mind.” She proffers the cig at him, rolling-paper stained by a very bright, very bubblegum-pink lipgloss. Jon manages to complicatedly maneuver accepting the cigarette without making contact with Sansa’s fingers, a feat he’d thought impossible for any human in hypothetical pick-me-ups.

Not that he minds. Not that he’s-

“Close the laptop darling, if the angst doesn’t come in fifteen minutes it sure wouldn’t materialize in twenty.”

Not used to being told off by anyone in a camisole, Jon does, indeed, close his laptop. It’s a very becoming camisole, objectively. In fact all of Sansa’s room has the strange congruity of an organized film set, there’s clutter, but it’s organic, prettily messy, an 80’s pinup-girl-dorm with the mandatory young Leo poster behind the door. The one in the floral shirt.

Jon looks at her again. Funny girl, yes, but also quite lovely, objectively, with that shock of red hair falling all over her face and big blue eyes with liquid flourishes at the creases that probably have a cosmetological name Jon doesn’t know. He watches her reapply her lipgloss in the dresser mirror. That particular pink would look atrocious anywhere else but somehow it looks just correct on her mouth. Glossology- proclaims the tube in bright gaudy silver letters. Shade 245: Rosa Suburbia. Christ above.

His phone buzzes. Val, says the ID, with the two blue hearts she’d added the day they’d swapped contacts. Jon hesitates, delaying the imminent. Lingering. Just another five seconds.

Mirror Sansa looks at him and flashes a dazzling smile. He smiles back only to realise she’s checking her makeup. Bit of an idiot move, classic Jon.

Another buzz.

“You better get that, Johnny,” Sansa chimes in her Harley Quinn voice.

Summer is untyped sentences waiting to be born, a room plastered by Vogue cutouts, a bed strewn with nail polish bottles, lacy underthings and empty boxes of dessert crumbs. Summer is ugly pink lipgloss and ridiculously lovely blue eyes and the epiphany that Gone with the Wind is that movie you’ve been planning to watch your whole life but simply never got around to.

“It’s probably dad, checking in. I’ll call him later. Listen, you want to go out on the terrace or something? It’s too smoky in here.”

“Shit, you just asked me on a date to my own rooftop?”

“Wait, what?”

She laughs.

The glow on Jon’s phone screen informs he has three missed calls. They can wait.

Being with Sansa is good. Being with Sansa works a bit like holding a red hot iron tong to an open flesh-wound. It’s overwhelming, and sometimes the bite in her words is hostile, but it heals. It cleans. If it were upto him, he would be cauterized by Sansa Stark every time the Percocet didn’t dissolve.

Outside, the summer too, lingers.

Inside, the room is thick with nicotine and Rosa Suburbia.

(follow the notes to read this on ao3)

#jonsadrabbles #jonsacentric #jonsa fic #jonsadrabblefest #jonsa #jon snow x sansa stark #jon snow #sansa stark #modern au #ship: jonsa #fandom: asoiaf #rosa suburbia #tw smoking #mimiwrites #userzelle #ladystarks

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onemilliongoldstars · 5 years

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a crown seldom enjoyed - chapter 26

To maintain the fragile peace between north and south, Clarke of House Tyrell is sent to live in Winterfell as an act of faith between the two kingdoms. There, she is put under the protection of the first queen in the north, Queen Lexa of House Stark, Daughter of Wolves. A woman draped in steel and silver, wolves at her heels and rumoured to be a manifestation of the fury of the old gods; Clarke refuses to be awed be her quiet violence and cold smile. Instead of fostering unity, the meeting of the wolf and the rose lights a spark that spreads through the rest of Westeros, threatening to burn it to the ground.

26/33

tw: violence

clexa game of thrones au

read on ao3

Book Three: Chapter 5

Leaving Lexa that night is one of the most difficult things Clarke has ever done. Something has passed between them now, in that time they spent in each other’s arms, something hidden and secret and too terrible to say, and now Clarke feels it lodged into her heart, beside the aching pit of pain and guilt that she carries with her. In part it warms her, a secret that she can keep and not fear for, and in part in pains her, an aching reminder of what she cannot have. There is no use lingering on it, and in the day when she is rushed from one moment to the next she does not spare it a thought, but at night between her moments of fear and fury, she treasures her secret. It is a small comfort to know that somebody she trusts is on her side.

In the days that lead up to the wedding she does not see the northern queen, instead fully engaged in wedding preparations. There is no end to the things that need her attention and decisions, and she is run off her feet from sunup to sunset. Her mother, from whom she has not heard since she sent Roan away, sends a formal letter pleading illness to keep her away, and between the lines of these words Clarke can see Lady Tyrell’s utter fury at being disobeyed. Her mother must know all of what her father suspected, Clarke thinks, for surely nothing else could keep her away from the capital now other than her fear. Her heart aches a little for her mother, who had loved her father so dearly that his murder must have crushed her spirit, but the rest of her is childishly furious that she has been left to deal with this alone. Perhaps this is adulthood, she thinks, needing her parents and not having them.

The eve before the wedding she sits in the light and airy solar set aside for her with some of the ladies of the court who she finds the least disagreeable. They lounge on velvet chaises and benches set low to the ground, with gauzy curtains draping over the tall, open archways to the balcony. The room is decorated in the sort of western style that Clarke recognises from her homeland, presumably in an attempt to please her, but instead it only feels like a cheap replica of home. Upon the low table there is a luxurious array of food set out for them, honeyed mead and spiced wine, soft cheese and fresh bread, with juicy figs and fresh oranges, but Clarke can only pick at it. Around her ladies talk excitedly of the celebrations to come over the gentle plucking from the lyre in the corner, but as the night draws in she is reduced to nods and smiles. Octavia is not at her side as she usually is, instead she is with Raven, Monty and Jasper, rescuing Ivy and the baby. It feels strange not to have Octavia with her, even Lady Fern asks where she is, but Clarke only shrugs and smiles.

“Enjoying the night, I would expect.” She answers wryly and the other ladies laugh.

“It is odd to see a female soldier,” One of her cousins, young Marie, as sweet as a freshly bloomed rose, comments cautiously.

“Women fighting is a mostly northern tradition,” One of her other guests comments, wrinkling her delicate nose and sipping her wine.

“No,” Princess Arianna, from the warm southern lands of Sunspear, to whom Clarke has taken a liking in the few days she has been in the capital, looks up from where she is lounging close with her friend, their fingers lingering on each other’s skin. The woman looks out at them, her beautiful eyes slanted with disdain, and says. “Plenty of women are warriors in Sunspear.”

“I have heard that,” Lady Fern, ever the peacekeeper, nods. “The traditions are different.”

Princess Arianna scoffs. “We do not impose such ridiculous restrictions on our women, they are treated just like men and we are better off for it.”

“I don’t know if I would have the courage to go into battle,” Marie smiles nervously, and Clarke meets her gaze.

“You would,” She says, seriously. “You’re a Tyrell.” As she speaks, a new figure slipping into the shadows jarrs her attention, just as it always does nowadays. Her hand slips to the dagger hidden within her skirts, but when the figure step into a slant of light coming in low through the window, she startles when she realises it’s Octavia, her hair and clothes disheveled. Something settles into her stomach, a low feeling of dread, and she stands so abruptly that conversation comes to a halt and surprised faces turn to stare at her. She manages a wavering smile and apologises. “I’m sorry I- I think I have a headache coming on.”

“We all had that headache before our wedding days,” Lady Fern gives her a warm smile and stands to touch at her elbow gently. “Nerves are normal, my lady.”

A smattering of murmured agreement comes from the rest of the room and Clarke smiles thinly at them.

“Let me see you to your room, my lady.” Lady Fern smiles again and Clarke feels a flickering of suspicion run through her, pulling away from her touch.

“No, no. Please stay and enjoy the celebrations, I will see you all tomorrow.”

Octavia falls into step beside her as they walk back to her suite of rooms in the Maidenvault, and she can feel her heart pounding in her chest. She doesn’t dare to ask what’s happened in the open corridors, where they could be overheard by anyone, so she is utterly unprepared to step into her room and find another figure waiting for them. The room is dim, the fireplace cold and the shutters pulled together. Only a solitary lantern placed on the writing desk gives enough light to tell that the figure in her room is holding a small bundle within their arms. Clarke’s breath catches at the sight and for a moment her heart leaps with relief, until the figure turns and she sees the slants and lines of Raven’s anguished face, stained dark with blood.

“No.” The word escapes her, half strangled, and she fears that her shaking legs will not hold her. Octavia reaches out as if to steady her, but she shrugs away the touch, repulsed suddenly. In Raven’s arms the baby squirms and makes a soft, sad sound, and Clarke edges close enough to see his little mouth open in an O of a yawn. “What happened?”

A long silence passes, heavy and tense, and then Raven finally speaks, her voice shaking.

“We got caught.”

When the blacksmith doesn’t continue, Clarke eyes spin to Octavia, wide and impeaching.

The soldier slumps, appearing defeated and haunted in a way that Clarke has never seen her before. “There were more soldiers in the street than we thought, some of them recognised us and gave chase. Things got bloody.”

“Where’s Ivy?” Clarke stutters over a sob, fighting back her tears.

A noise escapes Raven that sounds close to a whimper and she turns away abruptly, still cradling the baby. Octavia reaches out to steady herself against a sideboard, and when she speaks her voice quivers.

“When it was clear we weren’t going to make it she-” Octavia brushes roughly at her cheek. “She rushed in, she was ferocious, so brave.”

“And she…”

Octavia shakes her head, jerky movements that seem painful and forced. “She didn’t stand a chance, she told us to run and we- I-”

“Stop it,” Raven’s voice is so harsh that the baby quails in her arms, a weak and watery cry. “She wanted us to go and there would have been no use you dying with her, no use in any of us-” She cuts herself off and holds out her hands suddenly. “Somebody- please-”

Clarke’s arm open on instinct and she gathers the baby into her grip, his body warm and heavy against hers. Carefully, she rocks him back and forth until his weak little cries fade into whimpers, and looks on as Octavia crosses the room to place a hand on Raven’s arm. Raven raises her gaze to meet Octavia’s eyes and they are still for a long moment, before Raven rests her head against Octavia’s shoulder, the soldier’s arms strong and steadying around her.

Carefully, she takes a quiet step away, allowing them a moment of privacy. Benam wriggles in her arms and she settles him more gently, looking down. His big eyes are dark, staring up at her, his mouth slightly agape, with drool pooling at the corners of his lips. She has to admit, there is little of him that reminds her of Wells, but if she looks closely she sees something of Wells’ nose and puzzled frown in his wrinkled brow. Wells knows of this child, of that she is sure, and cares for his well being, but no one had truly loved him like his mother, who had put down her life for him. The memory of Ivy’s smile looking down at the baby, of the fire in her eyes and the passion in her voice is enough to bring tears to Clarke’s eyes and she brings the baby up to cradle against her body, pressing her cheek to his soft, downy head and letting her tears soak into his skin.

“Clarke?” She looks up to find the two women looking at her, “Are you alright?” Octavia asks, her voice rough.

Clarke almost laughs, dark bitterness sweeping through her. “How can you ask me that? The two of you, who nearly died on my instructions tonight?”

“Clarke,” Raven speaks more softly than Clarke has ever heard her. “We didn’t do this for you, we did it because it was the right thing to do.”

“You warned us when this began that you couldn’t protect us,” Octavia agrees, “But you’ve tried your hardest even so. You’ve done everything you can.”

“And this baby is still without a mother,” She turns her gaze back to the child in her arms. “It feels… so hopeless.”

“He is the true heir to the throne, Clarke.” Octavia moves closer, standing beside her to look down at the baby. “And here he is alive and safe in your arms, don’t despair.”

“We’re going to fight Pike,” Raven agrees, her voice low in the darkness. “We’re going to figure out his plan and stop him from hurting anyone else.”

---

Like so many other young ladies in Westeros, Clarke has been dreaming of her wedding since she was old enough to walk. Unlike many of her counterparts, she had been raised to know that she is more than just a pawn to be passed from husband to husband. Perhaps the product of being a Tyrell woman or the only heir of such a powerful family, she had been taught her numbers and letters to a high standard, taught traditional politics by her father and feminine politics by her grandmother. Yet even then she had known that everything she did would lead up to her wedding day. She had dreamed of a wedding in the Highgarden orange groves, with the warm afternoon sun above her and a beautiful dress embroidered with roses. Her groom was mostly faceless, though always handsome, and her friends and family watched on as they were married, birds singing in the trees. The older she got, the more pragmatic she became, but there is still a part of her that longs for a beautiful, perfect wedding, the sort that only childhood can really provide.

Now, on the morning of her wedding, she sits by the fire, picking at her food which turns to ash in her mouth. Her eyes are heavy from a night spent tossing and turning, and the only true friend at her side on what should be the happiest day of her life is Octavia, posted on the other side of the door. Serving girls and seamstresses scurry around her rooms, making ready her beautiful gown, but Clarke doesn’t spare them a glance, her thoughts consumed by all that has passed and is still to come. She eats half heartedly through her toasted bread, smeared in butter, and picks at the oranges sliced delicately on her plate, when a knock comes to the door and Harper steps in.

Clarke is grateful enough to see her that she manages a vague smile. Though the girl is only a maid, she has taken on the role of Clarke’s handmaiden to better hide her expeditions in and out of the castle. Now, she gives Clarke a look which is a little too insightful and says, her voice kind.

“You must eat, my lady, it will be a long day.”

Clarke manages a wavering smile and obediently eats a few slices of orange, letting the juices erupt across her tongue. Harper makes her way to the seamstresses and maids gawking over her wedding gown and shoos them into order with the authority of being Clarke’s known favourite at her back. Several of the maids reluctantly peel away, offering Clarke little bobbing curtseys as they leave the room. The commotion is adding to the ache she can feel building in her head, and Clarke rubs at her temples as she waits. It feels as if she is like to explode with her fear and tension, but she knows that if she can only keep her mind on the immediate worries of Lord Pike and baby Benam, she will not have to think about all today means. Once marrying the king would have been her dream, but to marry him without her mother there, and with Lexa watching from the Sept…

It is too much to bear and so instead she pushes herself from her seat so abruptly that all conversation ceases as the eyes of the room turn to stare at her. She wavers for a moment, and then says, her voice scraping over sudden emotion.

“Could everyone just-” She gestures blindly to the door. “For a moment, please.”

They must hear the desperation in her words, because they leave with exchanged glances. Harper hesitates in the door, glancing back at her and asking, quietly.

“My lady?”

“Just a moment Harper.”

The handmaiden nods, stepping out and letting the door swing shut behind her. The thump of it shutting releases Clarke like a marionette’s strings being cut, and she sags, moving like a ghost to the window, where the brilliant sun streams in. The roofs of Kings Landing stretch out before her, red tiled, and the sounds of the city just about reach her from here, the sea a distant sliver of silver in the far distance. She knows this city so well, has seen it suffer and prosper, has grown up here, and yet this is not her home. She feels a sudden surge of dread at the thought of her future here. Though she cares for these people as she cares for all of the realm, it is nothing compared to how she feels for the people of Highgarden or even- the people of Winterfell. She would give everything for them, commit any crime to keep them well and safe and when she looks down at her hands she thinks of the Maester’s boy’s trembling figure beneath her and Margo’s empty eyes. She drops her hands to the windowsill, fingers curling as if she force her way out of this castle. When she shuts her eyes, it is sad, green eyes that she sees looking back at her and a sob builds in her throat.

How can Lexa still linger with her like this? They shared one kiss in the moonlight, Clarke has done more with handsome stable boys and young lordlings, and yet it is Lexa who hangs around her like a yoke. Their conversation at the tavern recently has settled in her bones; before it, she had believed that any affections Lexa may have had for her in Winterfell were imagined, or at least long gone since her betrayal and betrothal. But in the candlelight something had passed between them, with Lexa’s warm skin beneath her touch, her chest utterly exposed, and now it is harder to dismiss their fleeting kiss as unrequited. If Lexa did… if Lexa could ever… Clarke knows she would allow herself to become an old maid, allow the governance of Highgarden to fall to her unruly cousins, if only for the chance to kiss Lexa like that again. The thought is so terrifying that she pushes herself away from the window, shaking herself thoroughly. They could never marry, could never be together truly and it is a wild dream to think that Lexa could ever forgive her for all that has passed. Regardless, her duty is to her people and not her heart, her father had always taught her that as a ruler she had to value her people above all else and she cannot forget his words now, in the time of greatest need.

A knock comes to the door and when Harper looks cautiously in, Clarke’s back is straight again, her lips pulled into a slight, absent smile.

“Come in, Harper. There is much to do.”

---

The choir begins to sing just as the sun hits its highest point in the sky, shining down through the glass atop the Great Sept of Baelor to send light arching in soft rainbows around the Sept. Their voices merge together like a sunset, where the sky fades from indigo to pink and dusk begins to fall, and echo through the grand space so that they can be heard from the steps outside. The Sept is bathed in golden light from the tall stained glass windows that are fitted into every wall, and the glow of the beeswax candles that burn on every surface, scenting the air with the sweet smell of honey. From great vases and hung from the columns and walls are great cascades of beautiful flowers, lavender and honeysuckle and, of course, roses, filling the air with their floral scent and appearing lush and beautiful. The sept is filled with people, with the noblest of them all stood in the inner sanctum, while the other lords and ladies fill the onlooking balcony, the steps outside and the streets surrounding the Sept.

Lexa stands at the front of the inner sanctum, surrounded by her Queensguard and her advisers. She has never before attended a southern wedding and the pomp and grandeur would sit strangely with her if she did not feel utterly numb from head to toe. Her dress is a soft grey, embroidered with gold, and the crown that sits within her curls is heavy with jewels. Most of the wolves have slipped away into the crowds of Kingslanding, no doubt frightening the life out of the smallfolk, but at her side sit Honour and Faith, their coats starkly contrasting and their dark eyes watching everything. When the choir begin to sing Faith’s ears prick, but Honour remains utterly unaffected. They are as different as night and day, and yet they both press their bodies close to her legs, as if aware that her soul feels like it is balancing on a knife edge.

A hush, like a thick snowfall, falling upon the gathered onlookers draws her attention to the back of the grand sept, and her breath catches in her throat when she sees the two figures silhouetted by the hot sun in the tall doorway of the sept. They seem to glow, illuminated as they are by the bright sunlight, and Lexa feels her breath catch in her throat when they step into the darkness and her eyes first fall upon Clarke’s form.

She has seen much strife and heartache in her life: has been covered in the blood of her enemies, has held the hands of her soldiers as they have died, has nearly frozen to death in the icy snows of the northern winter. Part of her expects her heart to be harder now, protected by the ice that seems to her formed within her veins, and yet somehow she feels more exposed than ever before. Clarke’s dress is a beautiful soft blue, with golden roses embroidered upon it, tiny diamonds and sapphires making up their centres so that the dress sparkles when the light hits it. Around her waist sits a golden girdle, intertwined roses with thorns that shine and stag’s antlers where the two sides meet. The silky skirt trails away into a train that becomes a cascade of roses, beginning where the fabric is artfully gathered at the back. Clarke’s beautiful golden curls, which she remembers brushing away from her smooth cheeks, are piled high at the back of her head and run down her back. Buried within it are none of the usual jewels or flowers, but instead only a small golden crown, made to represent curling roses and antlers. The sights settles deep within Lexa and her own crown seems to weigh doubly heavy as she watches Clarke approach on the arm of her uncle.

The warmth and the heady scent of the flowers and the beeswax candles gives an almost dreamlike quality to the scene. Bathed in golden light Clarke appears like something from another world. The rest of the congregation drop into curtseys and bows as she passes, and Lexa feels something strangely close to pride swell within her heart. When she passes Lexa Faith whimpers and Clarke’s eyes dart towards them. Her expression, which until then has been one of serene calm and happiness flickers, and when their eyes meet Lexa wishes they had not. If she had not met her eyes she wouldn’t have seen the crack of heartbreak shining out from her beautiful face.

It is easy to persuade herself that this was a self fulfilling prophecy if she thinks of Clarke as only the spoiled southern girl she once thought she was. In those slow days in Winterfell in which they grew to know one another, never once did Lexa dare to hope that Clarke returned her feelings. Since those days, in her worst moments she has thought herself a manipulated plaything, and in her lightest moments the subject of a fleeting infatuation. Never once had she thought that Clarke could seriously return her feelings, and never once had she thought that anything more could happen between them. She had always known that Clarke would one day marry some powerful southern lord, but to see her doing it with such pain in her eyes… it is all that Lexa can do to keep herself still and expressionless.

Before them, up the few steps to the dais, stands the king and the High Septon, placed between the towering statues of the Mother and the Father. Finn’s face is split into a wide beam and there is something so childlike to the way that he can barely keep himself still for his excitement. His crown seems overbearing on his head, slipping back just slightly in his hair.

Clarke passes Lexa and elegantly makes her way up the few steps of the dais. Her uncle transfers Clarke’s hand from his to the hand of the king, and the High Septon clears his throat. The choir stop singing, and an expectant hush falls over the onlookers as all eyes turn to them.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

At his words, the king takes the gold and bronze cloak from a waiting attendant, richly embossed with the sigil of his house, and in one sweeping motion draws it around Clarke’s shoulders, sealing them together forever.

---

Raven still remembers the first time she entered the inner sanctum of a castle. When she was twelve years old Sinclair finally gave in to her constant barrage of pleading and took her to see the king to request that she become his apprentice. With his hand on her small shoulder, he had guided her into the dark hall and from his throne Lord Stark had appeared like something from another world. The old man had gazed down at her, and she remembers thinking that he seemed tired and drawn with what she now realises were the months leading up to the outbreak of war between north and south. He had asked her, very simply, if she could work hard and be loyal to Starks, and she had answered with a shaking voice. Though she had lived under the shadow of Winterfell for most of her life and watched nobles come and go, she had been glad to never be required in that drafty hall again.

Her time in Kings Landing has not afforded her the luxuries she had in Winterfell as Lady Clarke’s friend. There had been no invitations to eat with her, no games of cyvasse or hours spent idling away the time together, so when she steps foot inside the Red Keep it is with her head bowed, dodging between servers and guards, with her secret pounding close to her heart. If she were not so consumed with what she knew she would be scared for her life. Sneaking into the Red Keep on any day is a fool’s errand, let alone during the wedding of the new king, when the castle is filled with the most powerful people in the land. The tunnels Octavia had guided her through the night before would be perfect for this moment, but she has no knowledge of them on her own and what she knows cannot wait.

She is lucky that a passing cook mistakes her for new help got turned about. The man pushes a carafe of water into her hands and shoves her in the direction of the Great Hall, instructing her.

“Keep those lords and ladies sober enough to see the bedding ceremony.”

The Great Hall is a mad affair of rowdy, jovial lords and ladies. Evening has fallen since the wedding first took place and the nobility have been celebrating for hours, easily long enough to drain most of the wine from the city and lose any control that they once had of their manners. Those who are older or more dignified still sit at the long tables that are placed around the edge of the room, but the rest of the guests are lingering in the space in the middle of the room, some dancing, others laughing and talking, a few arguing with raised voices. The hot, bright room brings Raven back to her senses a little and she hesitates in the shadow, her eyes searching through the room until they land upon Clarke and her new husband, both sat at the high table. On the King’s other side sits the Queen in the North and the sight of her sends ice to Raven’s heart. With hurrying feet, she slips through the thronging people, past a Kingsguard distracted by the sight of some women dancing together drunkenly, and makes her way up onto the dais on the pretense of filling the empty water cups at the high table.

Lady Clarke is looking out onto the crowd, her eyes far away, and she startles when Raven appears beside her and leans down to fill her cup.

“Water, m’lady?”

Clarke’s eyes are wide, but her voice is utterly composed when she answers. “Yes, thank you.”

When Raven leans over to fill the goblet, she purposefully knocks it so that it spreads water across the table, rolling onto the floor.

“Oh! M’lady-”

“No, let me.”

They lean down to collect the goblet at the same time, and in that moment that they are hidden Raven grabs at her arms, draws her near and hisses in her ear.

“Pike is trying to have the queen killed! He’s trying to start a war with the north and kill every Stark, put the Boltons in Winterfell! He has the Iron Bank at his back and half of the families in the realm have sworn loyalty to him. The Iron Bank have employed the Faceless Men to assassinate her! She has to leave now.”

Horror passes across Clarke’s features, the colour draining from her face as Raven confirms her worst fears. Her lips part as if to speak, but before she can a hand grasps at Raven’s arm and wrenches her upwards so hard that pain shoots through her leg and she lets out a yelp. Holding her upright is a stern faced Kingsguard, his white cloak billowing, accompanied by a servant with a pinched expression.

He rushes to explain himself to his new queen. “Apologies your majesty, the girl slipped past us but she isn’t authorised to be here. She’ll be taken to the dungeons immediately.”

Fear lances to Raven’s heart and her eyes flicker from Clarke and then find the watching Lord Pike. Suspicion settles inside of her and she wonders what the Lannister Lord has found out about Clarke and her friendships.

Clarke opens her mouth to protest but before she can say anything another hand settles on Raven’s shoulder and a blessedly familiar voice says. “I’ll escort her to the dungeons.”

“Lady Anya,” The Kingsguard’s brows furrow, “There is no need to-” But before the words can leave his mouth the king stands, utterly oblivious to the commotion behind him, and shouts for the attention of the watching crowd. His cheeks are flushed, his pupils dilated, and Raven can tell from here that he’s had more than a little wine.

In the distraction, Anya yanks at her arm and Raven stumbles into hurried steps behind her, following as she is led from the dais and through the nobility watching the king. The distraction is a blessing from the gods and they are able to make their way out of the Great Hall without being accosted by Pike or the Kingsguard. As they emerge into the yard where the celebrations are continuing in the warm night air, Anya’s grip on her loosens a little. From the darkness a large, low form emerges, one of the queen’s direwolves loping at Anya’s heels. The Queensguard must spot Raven’s wide eyed glance, because she says quietly.

“They go where she commands.”

Raven can only nod, and it is Anya’s fierce expression and the sight of the direwolf at her side that allows them through the castle gates. Once beyond the castle walls Anya releases her hold on Raven’s shoulder, looking down at her through the darkness. Something catches in Raven’s throat, a strange swell of nostalgic familiarity and she clears her throat, tucking the strands of hair that have fallen from her braid away to distract herself.

“I was… surprised to see you in the city.” Anya confesses, after a moment of silence and Raven’s eyes flicker up to her, wide.

“I came to get my leg looked at.” There is something sharp and defensive to her voice, but Anya doesn’t push back.

“I know,” At Anya’s words, Raven softens a little. “Sinclair told me.” The thought of the knight asking about her sends a curl of something strange to Raven’s stomach and she finds her breath caught in her throat. Anya clears her throat, embarrassed, and continues more gruffly. “Your leg still pains you?”

Automatically, Raven shifts upon her leg, her fingers twitching to rub at her stiff muscles. “Yes,” A moment of silence settles between them.

“What were you talking to Lady Clarke about?” Anya asks, and the words bring her back to herself.

“The queen,” Her eyes widen, flickering over Anya with consideration for a moment. For as long as she’s known her the knight has held her queen’s protection in the highest regard, even if that led to some very questionable decisions. “The queen is in danger, Anya. Pike is plotting against the north, he wants to have the queen killed while she’s here and wage war upon the north, take us back! He has the Iron Bank behind him, you have to tell the queen, she has to leave and prepare her defences!”

Anya’s face stiffens to stone, her lips a thin line, and she waits until Raven has finished to ask, very seriously, “You’re sure of this?”

“Completely.” Raven takes the translated letters hidden against her breast and presses them into Anya’s hands. “Here.”

Anya’s hands fold around them. “Thank you, Raven. I will warn her majesty.”

“Good,” For a moment they are still, simply looking at each other, and something unsaid seems to linger.

“I pray we meet again Raven Reyes.” Anya says at last, holding out her hand to grasp Raven’s elbow in hers. Raven returns the gesture.

“As do I.”

—-

Clarke barely manages to swallow back her furious words as Lady Anya places a firm hand upon Raven’s arm. Every bone in her body aches to follow them and pull Raven from the knight’s grasp, but the strange look that passes between them and FInn’s words stop her, keeping her chained to her seat. She can feel Pike’s angry gaze upon her and yet she cannot bring herself to draw her eyes back to the man who is now her husband. Lady Anya, to her utter relief, appears firm but gentle with Raven as she guides her out of the hall, and it is only when the door shuts behind them that she realises that Finn is swaying unsteadily, his word meandering from one topic to the other. She forces her eyes, so heavy that they feel like the hem of a skirt drenched and soaking with sea water, to find his and the moment that they do he sways heavily into her chair. She stands abruptly, winding an arm around his waist to keep him steady.

“My beautiful wife,” Finn says, a smile on his face and tenderness in his eyes, and Clark’s eyes are drawn to where Lord Pike is watching them, a tight coldness in his eyes.

“I think your new husband may need to lie down, your majesty.” Lord Marcus stands from the other side of her to murmur discreetly in her ear. He offers her an apologetic wince. “This may not be the tender night of first wedlock that your Septas told you of - if only your mother-”

Some distant part of Clarke wants to laugh at that, wondering how the lord could claim to know her so well and not realise that Tyrell women were taught the ways of the marriage bed from the moment they began to bloom.

From Finn’s other side Lord Pike appears, like a snake from the long grasses. He places a hand on the king’s shoulder and says, his voice like that of a kindly, amused father. “I think it is high time the king and queen were escorted to the bedding ceremony, don’t you my lord?”

Lord Marcus cringes again, his nose wrinkling with distaste, but he nods all the same. “Before the boy falls unconscious altogether.” He mutters, but Pike chooses to ignore him and turns back to the rowdy room.

“It is time for the bedding ceremony!” He shouts above the noise, and people laugh and cheer raucously at the news. “Our new queen shall go first, accompanied by her closest ladies!” Lord Pike’s eyes bore into her and Clarke feels a shiver of fear run through her, as though the lord’s gaze can see beneath the embroidery of her dress. There is something in his look, an expression of triumph that makes dread curl in her stomach and threaten to expel what little food she has in there.

At her side, Lady Fern and Lady Myra appear, her cousins and Harper close behind them, and they offer her excited little smiles and murmured words of reassurance as they begin to lead her from the dais. The crowd cheer their approval, dropping into curtseys as she passes, but Clarke’s eyes search the room desperately for the northern queen. Lexa is nowhere to be found, her wolves are gone as is the queen herself. None of her guards or attendants are in sight and Clarke curses herself for sending Octavia away to check on Lady Tris when the celebrations devolved into drunken dancing and feasting. Raven’s words ring in her head like the chiming of the city bells, but there is nothing she can do to escape her ladies as she is led from the great hall and down the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast. They climb the wide stairs together, Lady Fern holding one of her hands tightly between her own, Harper on her other side.

“All will be well, your majesty,” Lady Fern is saying, as they are shown into the royal bedchamber, but Clarke can barely hear her so hard is her heart racing.

“She knows that, don’t you m’lady?” Harper smiles at her encouragingly as they lead her across the large room, to where the expansive bed, embroidered in gold and black with heavy curtains and a dark wooden frame dominates the room.

“The king has had so much to drink I don’t expect there’ll be much to do,” Princess Arianna rolls her eyes, stepping closer to brush a strand of wispy hair behind Clarke’s ear. Her eyes narrow, running over her, and she says quietly. “Surely you are not scared, little rose?”

“No,” Despite herself, Clarke’s voice wavers, but not for the reasons they think. Princess Arianna hums and sets to pulling the crown from her head and unpinning her curls as Fern and Harper work to unlace her from her dress. Clarke’s hair falls about her face in a tumble of golden ringlets and Princess Arianna hums approvingly, running the back of her knuckles gently over Clarke’s chin.

“Your king will be struck dumb by the sight of you,” She smiles wryly, stepping away. “I’m a little jealous myself.” Harper and Fern slide her bodice away and urge her to step out of her skirts.

Even when they unlace her corset, Clarke still feels as if her breath is being stolen from her throat. Her fear swirls in her head like wine, making her feel hazy and disconnected from the hands upon her and the gentle voices of her friends and companions. Princess Arianna’s gaze is too shrewd and suspicious for her liking, and she is vaguely glad when Harper leads her behind the screen in the corner of the room to slip away the rest of her clothing. Her mind races as the maid servant guides a floating nightdress over her bare body, and then slips an embroidered robe up her arms, leaving it open to show the gauzy fabric beneath. Clarke’s mind races, struggling against the wine she’s drank and the exhaustion of the day to know what to do. Her heart screams at her to run to Lexa and ensure her safety, force the northern queen onto the first horse she can find and send her back to Winterfell where she is safe, but she forces herself to stay still. Her fingers tremble when she reaches up to loosely tie the belt at her waist, and she slips from behind the screen as Harper gathers the last of her clothing.

“Come,” She bustles the noble ladies out of the room as if they are no more than clucking geese underfoot. “The king will be here soon, we must give her majesty a moment to prepare herself.”

The noble ladies murmur their congratulations and well wishes, and Lady Fern pauses to touch a gentle hand to her cheek, but moments later they are all gone and Clarke finds herself blessedly, blissfully alone. The moment the door shuts she turns on her heel, her eyes glancing through the room for some way out. She hurries to the balcony, though she knows that it is too far to jump. There are guards at the door and a whole manner of lords and ladies in the corridors who would question her absence from the king’s bedchamber. Her heart is pounding so loudly that she can barely hear herself think, and she lets out a grunt of frustration as she surveys the room again, before her eyes land on a tapestry and she hesitates. A memory returns, so suddenly that she is almost wrongfooted by it. Lady Tris’s voice in her head: “You can get all the way to the kitchens, and the great hall, and even the king’s bedchambers!”

Her bare feet slap against the floor in her rush, noisy in the silent room, and when she twitches the tapestry away from the wall she finds a dark wooden door, with a snarling dragon’s head engraved upon the handle. In that moment she cannot worry about Finn or Lord Pike finding her missing, she cannot worry about the whispers or the questions that will follow her absence. All she can think of is Lexa’s safety, and so she takes off down the dark passageway with neither torch nor cloak to help her. The passageways are dark and twisting, and without the light of a torch she is forced to run her hands along the walls to keep her balance. Once in the darkness she fears she can hear footsteps somewhere, echoing off the strange stone walls and throwing the sound, and she presses herself back into the cold stone, her breath coming hot and loud. Eventually she peels herself away from the wall, almost running down the dark tunnels until she emerges, so suddenly she almost falls, into the warm night air of the Godswood.

She is caught by the bushes guarding the way, their gnarled branches snatching at her clothes and curls, and she fights her way out, struggling to catch her breath. For a moment she is disorientated, blinded by the light of the moon and in the distance she can hear the raucous sounds of the celebrations in her honour. The soft grass gives beneath her feet, and she curses herself for not bringing a cloak, wondering how she can go searching for Lexa dressed as she is when a movement catches her eye. She turns, groping for the dagger she keeps in her dress before she remembers it is not there. Goosebumps spread along her arms when she catches sight of the dark figure again among the trees, but when they step into a beam of moonlight she almost lets out a cry of relief.

It is Lexa, blessedly alone and utterly beautiful in the soft grey gown that she wore to the wedding. For a moment Clarke feels frozen in place, unsure whether her presence will be welcomed, but then she is running, her bare feet soft against the grass. Lexa doesn’t turn until she is almost open her, and her lips part in shock, her eyes widened as she takes Clarke in. Automatically, the queen reaches out to steady her when she gets close enough, her fingers warm and firm through the thin fabric of the nightgown and the robe, and Clarke presses her hands against Lexa’s chest.

“You have to go! You have to leave here!”

Lexa blinks at her, still reeling at the sight of her. “Clarke- what-”

“You’re in danger,” Clarke’s hands fist in the fabric of her dress and she clings to her fiercely. “Pike is trying to have you killed while you’re here, he wants to kill Aden too and put the Boltons on the throne and start a war-”

“Clarke,” Lexa cuts through her, her voice hard and steadying now. “Are you certain of this?”

She is shaking when she nods, her voice suddenly caught in her throat, and she gazes up into Lexa’s face as something close to resignation and despair pulls across the queen’s expression. Her grip on Clarke’s shoulders softens and she closes her eyes for a moment, her brows pulling together.

“I should have known,” The quiet words are all Clarke sees of Lexa’s grief for her northern kingdom before her eyes open again and flash with fury. “How do you know, Clarke?”

“Raven read Pike’s letters, she came as soon as she could.” Her voice is trembling and she is glad of Lexa’s firm body against hers. “Lexa you have to go now, take a horse and escape before Pike realises.”

“Come with me.” Her warm hands slide across Clarke’s shoulders and cup her cheeks, guiding their eyes to meet. Her gaze is heartwrenching, filled with her desperate plea, and Clarke feels tears drip from her own eyes at the sight. “Please, we should leave here together.”

“You know I can’t.” Clarke’s voice breaks over the words, placing her hands over Lexa’s and bringing their foreheads together. “I have to see this through, as queen I can protect you.”

“Pike will kill you when he realises you know.” Lexa insists, “He already suspects.”

“Not if I kill him first.” Their eyes meet again and Clarke holds her gaze this time, determined and headstrong. “I won’t let him hurt you., I won’t run away.”

“Then how can I leave you?” Lexa whispers, pain in every word. “Clarke.” She hears the sob tear its way from Lexa’s throat, feels Lexa’s fingers tighten against her skin and sees her jaw clench to keep it inside.

“Lexa,” Clarke presses their bodies together, “You have to go, for Aden, for your kingdom-”

“And what does my kingdom mean if I don’t have you?” The words spill from Lexa’s mouth and they feel like a punch to the stomach, knocking the air from her as soundly as a strike. Lexa’s eyes meet hers and there is no remorse in them, in fact they are alight with passion. “Why be queen when I cannot be with the woman I love?”

A choking sob leaves Clarke and she wishes that she can be an alchemist and bottle this moment forever. Never will she forget the elation that sweeps through her, drowning out her fear and anguish, at the sound of those words, and she reaches up to touch Lexa’s cheek, her neck, wind her arms around her to bring them together again.

“Don’t you see?” Her voice is soft and calm now, like the still water of a pond. “I love you too, and that is why I am asking you to go.”

Lexa’s expression crumples, something close to heartbreak seeping into her eyes and she holds Clarke so closely that she feels like a doll, delicate and fragile, and brings their lips together. Their kiss is soft and sweet and their tears salt their lips. In the moonlight, hidden within the trees of the godswood, they are hidden from the world, though their problems snarl like monsters in their breasts. Clarke kisses her back and her heart beats in her ears, each thud the same words over and over: I love you.

When they finally part, she looks up at Lexa through the silvery light and takes their clasped hands to press a kiss to both of hers.

“I would not ask you to pledge yourself to me.” She murmurs, and she can feel Lexa’s gaze on her downturned head. “I know you will always put your people and your country first, which is why I ask you to go while you still can.”

Lexa swallows, squeezing their fingers together and nods. “For you then, I will.”

The words are like a blow to the heart, one that she has orchestrated and struck herself, and she nods shakily. Slowly, like ice thawing away in the spring sun, she draws their fingers away from each other, and takes a shaking step back the way that she came. When she turns back, almost to the tunnel entrance, she finds Lexa still watching her, clasping her hands together close to her heart.

If she left part of her heart in Winterfell when she left, Clarke knows as she disappears into the tunnels that the rest of it has been planted in the ground of the godswood, like a sapling which will never grow again.

---

The chill that runs up Clarke’s spine as she gets closer to the king’s bedchamber is nothing to do with the cold. The moment she feels it she pauses, her breath catching silently in her throat and her hands stalling against the rough hewn stone walls. She knows this chill too well now, feels it settle like dread into her bones and turn them to stiff, unwieldy iron. It is the same chill she felt before Margo turned on them that fateful night and the same chill that woke her in WInterfell, when the moon was bright and death hung in the air. Her stomach rolls with what little food she has put into it, and she cannot stop herself from moving forwards, grasping uselessly for a dagger that she does not have on her person. A loud crash from up ahead startles her from her reverie and her feet speed up, slapping against the stone floor. It is so dark that she does not realises she has come upon the rooms until she almost falls through the tapestry. At the last moment she saves herself and manages to push away the tapestry just enough that she can see the scene inside.

Her cry gets caught in her throat. On the bed where her husband should be waiting for her there is only a bloody corpse, Finn’s lifeless eyes staring up at the canopy, his throat cutin one quick slice. A person in black robes stands above him, thoughtfully cleaning his dagger and looking down upon the dead king with a sort of morose curiosity. Several things run through Clarke’s mind very quickly. An absent, far away sort of grief for the man who was to be her husband, who she has known since childhood. And then, fighting against the cold curl of fear, a horrified realisation. If this man escapes, Pike will surely pin the blame for Finn’s death upon her, and have her sentenced and dead within a day. Nobody but Lexa knows she has left the room, and she cannot explain her lack of injury. She could cry for help, but is a sad truth that the guards down the corridor will ignore any sounds coming from the room of a newly married couple, no matter how distressed.

She will have to kill him.

Her breath steadies and a cold, calm sort of clarity settles around her, clean and clear. Carefully, she slips from behind the tapestry, her bare feet quiet against the stone slabbed floor, and manages to cross the two steps to the sideboard, her fingers curling around the base of a heavy silver candlestick, before the assassin notices her presence. He turns, his eyes widening with surprise when he sees her and his fingers curl again around his dagger.

She will never truly know how she managed to avoid the thrust of his dagger and his deadly hands. Perhaps the force of her grief and rage was stronger than she could have known. Several times, she catches sight of Finn’s body, drenched in dark blood, lying lifeless on the bed, and feels herself gripped with somethings stronger than herself.

She only truly comes back to herself when she is standing over the assassin’s body, now with a new face, her own hands covered in a mixture of his blood and hers. Her beautiful nightgown and robe are torn and stained, her hair knotted where his hands had tangled and pulled to try to fend her off. She only realises that she is shaking when she tries to step away, and the dagger in her fingers falls to the ground, clattering sharply against the stone. She flinches away from the sound, and stumbles against the edge of the bed, falling back upon its surface.

Beside her, Finn’s glazed eyes stare up at her and she feels something horrendous and terrifying swallow her whole suddenly, in one mouthful. Her heart shatters at the sight of her old friend and new husband dead beside her and she almost chokes on her breath. Slowly, unable to help herself, she reaches out to touch him. He is still warm beneath her, dressed in a soft fur robe, and she lowers herself down until their bodies are resting closely together. Though she cannot claim to have loved him as a wife ought, he had been dear to her as a friend and when she catches his glazed, glassy eyes again, a cry of such despair escapes her that she thinks it will wake the whole castle.

They find her what feels like hours later, covered in Finn’s blood and her own, weak with her injuries. The body of the assassin still lies at the foot of the bed they never shared.

---

#clexa #clexa gotau #commander lexa #clarke griffin #clexa fic

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ask-de-writer · 4 years

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THE HOUSE, (part 3 of 3), a tale of Flocking Bay

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THE HOUSE

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

7357 words

Written 1990

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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I was still curious about the rest of the file in the town library, so I decided to take a break and go into town. As I stepped out the front door, I felt the wind. The trees along the road were still, yet I was buffeted from all sides at once by a wind that did not swirl but pressed my clothes tight to me from all sides at once. I felt more like I was being held comfortably than pushed like a wind usually would. It was warm, where the day and been chill. When I got into the car I left the door open to see what would happen. The wind closed it. This time there was a perceptible pause before the glove box opened.

When it did, a rush of wind gusted out and raced about inside the car. Once again, there were five of the odd gold coins within it. As before, I thanked whatever Power had put them there. Though brisk, the day seemed clear enough to risk the walk into town after all, so I got out of the car strolled down the road to town. Having everything that I needed within walking distance was one of the reasons that I liked the small town of Flocking Bay so much.

The Flocking Bay Bank of Maine was my next stop. I had some difficulty getting them to accept the coins for credit to my account. They insisted on a slate test by a local jeweler to ascertain the purity of the coins. They were twenty four carat. Then they wanted to take the coins at current spot price less ten percent, which was fine with me. They also wanted to count the coins at three to the troy ounce, as Hiram Wickes had counted them in the 1850’s and 60’s, which was not. I insisted that the same jeweler weigh the nine coins that I was depositing. With gold at nearly four hundred dollars to the ounce, the six tenths of an ounce per coin seemed worth the effort. The business was finally done to the satisfaction of all.

My steps now lead me down aged, tree lined streets to the library. Mrs. Alderman had set out the file in readiness for me. I added the tenth coin and a notarized account of its origin and the number of coins to date.

“You have been so helpful, she said brightly, “setting things in order the way you have. Do you know, I’ve been studying some, after hours. I hope that you will have a great book.”

“Mrs. Alderman,” I said in a confidential tone, “I’ve allowed you to deceive yourself. See, I too, put something in your file. I’m not a writer. I’m John Peaslee. I live in the old Wickes place, and I wanted to find out about its history.

My uncle, Gordon Wetherbee, is a scholar at Miskatonic University and he may indeed wish to publish a book or monograph on the subject of my house.”

She looked like a person seeing a ghost. In a faint voice, she replied, “Oh, my! I had hoped it was not you. You were such a nice young man, too.”

Noticing the past tense, I chided gently, “I still am, Mrs. Alderman. I live yet and I have not changed from the person that you first met. The nice young man who set your file in order is not dead.”

“Yet,” she said firmly. “Nobody as lives in that house does so for long. None has ever escaped it.”

“Yet,” I completed with a smile, and crossed the room to the battered pine table by the old mullioned window.

I had put the botanical report off until last, not knowing anything about plants. The report described in dry detail what were called “some of the most unusual genetic monsters that I have ever seen.” The report was issued by Miskatonic University. It described roses that were nothing of the sort. The “rose” plants were carnivorous. There were low pansy and violet-like plants that were some strange form of thallophyte. The mycelium of these fungi was linked in some fashion to the roots of the “roses.” Both forms died instantly upon being plucked and began rotting with almost supernatural speed. No pressings were possible due to the rapidity of decomposition, so only photos and rapidly drawn pictures of what was seen by microscope were included. The grass was as unusual as the “pansies” and “roses.” The leaves all rose from rhizomes, which spread from a central node, like some ferns. This “grass” was no fern, however. None of the plants could be cultivated away from the Wickes house. “The plants fit no known classification and must be regarded as unique to science,” the report concluded.

That evening the wind came again, and blew at my back all the way to the house, like a great friendly beast hurrying its master home. I had forgotten to buy batteries for my flashlight, but I did not turn back.

I resumed my search of the library. The evening passed uneventfully, I did not finish with the library that night. I was feeling restless.

So were the rats of the spectral brigade. I could hear a few upstairs but most were in the basement. Taking a candlestick, I worked the hidden spring of the concealed door to the basement. I could hear the rats below.

The stair was longer than I remembered it. The basement was larger than I recalled it being. The corners were dim in the candlelight. The spectral brigade was upstairs, of course. Still no dust or spider webs. I nearly dropped the candle in shock when I saw it. There was a table in the corner. I knew that the basement had been empty. Bare stone.

My curiosity led me cautiously to the table. It had on it a candlestick with a burned-out stub of candle, a box of papers, and six largish portfolios of leather, each labeled with the name of a continent. They also were filled with papers. A cursory examination revealed that I had found Hiram’s correspondence. There was a lot of it. It was clear that he had the habit of making copies of his missives and attaching the replies to the letters for easy reference. He may have been messy but his mind had been well organized. Taking the folder marked Australia because it was the smallest, I went back up the stairs. I placed the folio on the desk in the study to read by tomorrow̓s daylight. In checking my calendar, I noticed that tomorrow was the day of the new moon.

Bed was welcome, after the tension and labors of the day, but not a relief. My night passed in troubled dreams. It was a place of incomprehensible, invisible obstacles and wind. The wind blew at me from all directions at once, forcing me away in a direction that was not a direction. Resisting the wind caused it to go away. It came back with gold for me. As I refused the gold, my frustration mounted. It was not what I wanted. My tears spilt forth in a flood. I wanted something else - and I could not remember what.

The morning light awakened me on sweat-drenched sheets. Slowly, as dreams will, the terrors faded. I got up and began my day.

As I had begun to expect, the books did not materialize. None of the books in the library was a rebound Necronomicon or Black Book. I reshelved the last book with a sigh. The precious books appeared have eluded me.

I turned my attention to the Australia folder. Its pages yielding information for the first time in about a hundred and twenty years. Apparently, Hiram had a number of correspondents in Australia. His questions ranged from searches for rumored ‘houses of stone’ in the outback to tracing the aboriginal folk carvings and paintings and asking about the most secret rituals and ceremonies of the aboriginal Australians. His questions, piercing and analytical, illuminated every subject with stark clarity, like flashes of lightning. He had known exactly what he was looking for and was not at all afraid of finding it.

Now, with the day beginning to close, there came a knock at my door. Opening the door revealed a postman with a bulky Next Day Letter envelope. Signing for it, I noticed that it was from Miskatonic University. Uncle Gordon had responded almost the instant that he had received my letter, and by the fastest possible post. Impressed, I opened the flap of the letter. A single sheet was all that the large envelope held. Uncle Gordon̓s hasty scrawl read:

Dear John:

It is with simple horror that I have read that you have purchased the house of Hiram Wickes. Delay not an instant! Get out of that house! Leave before the new moon! I pray that this reaches you in time!

Come to me in Arkham! There, I will tell you all that I know of this matter. I hope that you are still alive and well and will come to hear my reasons for so urgent a request.

You are involved with Powers beyond imagination. Things there are that are worse than even what is in the Necronomicon. Hastur, Whose Name Must Not be Uttered, is involved, and Cuthulu, as well, whose coin you sent a tracing of.

This must sound mad to you. A very hodgepodge of fear. And it is. Fear for you. Come to me at once! Upon your life it is necessary!

In regard and fear for your life,

I remain,

Gordon Wetherbee

It was remarkable. I had never seen evidence of such agitation from uncle Gordon before. This, along with all that I had learned, made up my mind. I would take his advice. Packing my few clothes took almost no time. Seeing the Australia folder, I realized how important Hiram’s letters could be to uncle Gordon. I placed it with my bag, by the front door.

I raced to the library, took up a candlestick and plunged down the long flight of stairs to that huge gloomy vault of a basement. As I gathered the box and folders into my arms, I saw them at last! Among others, the Necronomicon and Black Book had been hidden behind the letter portfolios. Putting down the letters in the face of a far greater treasure, I examined the precious books. There was what had to be the only complete 1784 edition of the Necronomicon. Priceless. Also, there was the almost as rare 1635 edition of the Black Book. There was an apparently genuine medieval Latin Philippus Faber. Last was a hand-bound copy of a manuscript, written on a fine supple parchment of a type that I could not identify, labeled in Hiram’s now familiar script, Pnakotic Manuscripts, subtitled, “Being a Collection of Ante-human Lore.” The writing in this last volume was of a sort that I had never seen before. It was disturbing just to look at. The very notion of actually reading it made me shudder.

Knowing that I should not tarry, I placed the books with my other burdens and gathered them up. There was a sudden rushing of wind from all sides at once, forcing me away in a direction that was not a direction. The candle in my hand burned bright and unwavering, despite the wind. It did not blow out.

In a blind panic, I ran up the long, crumbling, dusty, spider-bedecked stair. I found myself back in the basement. I no longer had my load of letters and books. Two more attempts to go up the stairs left me still in the vast, dusty crypt of a basement… Raising the candle high, I looked intently up the stair, trying to see why I could not get to the top. After a few minutes, or perhaps hours, I got my eyes to work properly and the nausea stopped. The stairs offered no escape.

In searching for a way out of this vast stone lined vault of a basement, I found all of the fifty nine other people who had vanished. They are all dead. They have dried to sere brown mummies. Many still show signs of bleeding from eyes, nose or ears, as if their brains had burst within their skulls. It seems that transport to wherever this is, killed the others outright. Some were in bed, others at table, some at other tasks. Each family or person seems to have their own area. The next group is in a different spot. It helps me to sort them out. All of my goods are by the stair.

Examining the bodies so closely may seem to be a ghoulish exercise but it gives me something to do.

I do not need the candle. There is a pale sourceless illumination everywhere. Dust is thick on the floor and everything else. Cobwebs shroud everything.

There, in the corner lies what was Hiram Wickes. The notes and papers with him tell the story. Unable to stand his own mess, he had the house cleaned attic to basement. The yard was manicured to perfection. He then made the simple blunder that has cost so many lives and so much misery.

He bound Hastur of the Winds, Whose Name Must Not be Uttered, to keep his house and grounds exactly as it was on that day in 1866. Every new moon, everything that does not fit goes to the basement but that too gets cleaned. Hastur has no choice but to sweep the excess to someplace else…

I am lucky. I have the opportunity to starve. I was in the basement when the cleaning came. I was pushed through a distance too short to kill. The unvarying light seems to erase time, except that I am getting hungry.

Uncle Gordon has solved many occult mysteries and seems to know something of this one. I know that he will come soon. I wonder if he can do anything.

I found a pen among my things and paper from the possessions of the many dead. I have determined to make this account.

I leave my curse on Flocking Bay Realty. They knew that this would happen. They have sold the house many times, without warning. They have been battening on this evil since 1908.

I have found the rats. They are everywhere here. They do not touch the bodies or Hiram’s books and papers. They are disgusting. If I get hungry enough, I shall eat them.

-THE END-

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#THE HOUSE #Part 3 of 3 #flocking bay #Written by De Writer

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gold-from-straw · 5 years

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Frozen Heart

Loki's Jotun roots show themselves at the worst possible time - in the middle of Thor's coronation. Odin's last act before falling into the Odinsleep is to hurl Loki to Midgard, deactivating the Bifrost in the process. Panicking and alone, Loki hides in a mountain cave, his powers out of control.

That's where Tony Stark finds him.

Based on an anonymous prompt on @frost-iron

Read on AO3 if you prefer! Updates every week ^_^

Loki was still simmering when he walked out into the coronation crowd, his head held high, step sure and confident, nothing like the petulant rejection he felt inside. Thor could never know how his words hurt - how they always hurt. He’d be doing so well, and then bang, Thor would say something like that.

Others just do tricks indeed. He’d like to see how the five idiots survived on their suicide missions without him and his tricks. Maybe next time he’d stay home. Maybe next time he’d refuse to accompany them.

Maybe next time they’d ask in the first place.

As he reached the dais, bowed to his father and stepped aside to stand with Mother, he knew it was all irrelevant. There would be no more spur of the moment trips to Nornheim, no glorious quests to a distant Vanir village to battle a dragon. Thor hadn’t accepted it himself, yet, but as King, even if only temporarily while Father slept, he would be tied to the palace.

Loki shifted imperceptibly under the weight of his helmet. The blasted thing was so heavy, and his formal armour was so hot. Usually he could handle it, but he’d also had a migraine creeping up on him, the bright light reflecting off the gold piercing into his eyes and stabbing against his brain. His back ached. He took a deep breath and held it, tightening up sore muscles.

Perhaps he was coming down with something. Just typical. Right when he was about to get front row tickets to Thor failing at something, he was going to get one of his hateful illnesses and be trapped in the healing wards for weeks on end.

Thor came in and Loki maintained his perfect posture, a nice counterpoint to his stupid brother’s showboating and arrogance. He saw his mother’s lips tighten in disapproval - yes, Thor was definitely going to fail at this. And for once Loki wouldn’t even have to do anything to make his brother look like an oaf. Sure, he could have staged a disruption. He could even now trip Thor up on his own robes, make him a laughing stock. He’d even, for a short while after he found that pathway between the realms, considered letting the Jotnar into the palace. That would have been sure to show everyone how spoilt and overdramatic Thor was. But the first time he’d ventured through, he’d been attacked by a great beast of some sort and nearly lost an arm. By the time he’d recovered, he’d lost his nerve.

Thor knelt at the foot of the dais and grinned up at Father, completely oblivious to the irritation rolling off Father’s shoulders. Thor had never cared a whit what Father thought of him. That had always been Loki’s job. But then again, Loki had always been the one to attract Father’s disapproval.

Loki cleared his throat, a wheezing breath rattling in his lungs and making that momentary panic flare when he couldn’t quite get enough oxygen. The air felt thick and overheated, and he closed his eyes, trying to gather his composure.

Thor was repeating the oath after Father, and Loki slowly drew his breath in, trying to suppress the panic rising in his throat. His head ached so much, he could feel himself sweating, trembling under the weight of the armour, the world going red behind his closed eyelids…

He heard a gasp rippling out from the dais and struggled to hold in his nausea, to stay poised, but he was on his knees, oh Norns, how embarrassing! What was wrong with him? He could hear his family calling his name, Thor would be furious, he would think it was a trick. His hands seemed to be burning against the usually cold stone floor, and he retched violently, bringing nothing up. What was wrong with him?

He pulled his helmet off and almost instantly groaned in relief as his skull stopped feeling like it was splitting in two.

But then the screams started. He raised his head, where was the danger? Was mother protected?

There was ice across the floor, frost blossoming into strangely beautiful fractals and ferns and radiating out in a circle from… from him. The crowd were staring in horror at him.

He glanced down at himself, at his hands - blue, with white raised lines, and “what trickery is this?” he asked, his voice hoarse. A small hysterical part of him laughed to hear his brother’s words, so oft used against Loki’s magic, from his own lips. “What… what’s happening?” he cried, turning imploringly to Mother and Father.

“A Frost Giant,” someone said from the crowd, a hushed voice. Then someone else said it, louder, and another and another, until the crowd rang out as one voice, “Frost Giant, disguised as the prince, kill it!”

Loki looked to Thor at once, terrified, reaching out. Thor flinched back, and then so did Loki to see his own black-clawed hands. “Mother? Father?” he said, his voice young and small.

“Kill it!” roared the crowd, and Thor turned to snarl our at them, fisting Mjolnir. Loki caught a flash of motion from the corner of his eyes and turning in instinctive defence, he threw his hand out.

The crowd screamed and roared and weapons appeared in every hand. Because a ring of razor sharp ice spikes appeared around Loki at the arc of his hand.

He stumbled back, breathing fast, the air still hot and thick in his lungs. He stared at his hands in rising sickness. What had happened to him?! He’d never been any good at elemental magic, what was this?

“Enough!” roared Father, the hilt of Gungnir thundering against the floor. The room stilled, and Loki turned to him in terror, because what if he was blamed for this? Father would be furious, he wouldn’t believe -

“Loki, with me,” he said, his deep voice reverberating around the room with absolute authority.

“But sire, the Frost Giant—“

Odin roared at the guard, silencing him with his wordless fury. “Everyone, leave!” he shouted. “Out, now! Loki, with me.”

Loki followed without thought, his legs obeying his father’s command even as his mind screamed disorder and panic. He was still staring at the palms of his blue hands as he heard the door to Father’s office slam shut behind him.

“Am I cursed?” he asked, his voice a croak.

Father didn’t reply, pacing up and down, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Father…” Loki started.

“You are not cursed, Loki.”

“Then what…”

“In the last days of the war with the Frost Giants, I came upon a temple. There I found a baby, a tiny one, just a runt. He had clearly been left to die for his small size.” Father sighed heavily and sat at last in his chair. “My hands were stained with the blood of hundreds, but when I picked you up--”

Loki’s ears filled with a high pitched ringing sound. It couldn’t be true, he couldn’t be… he couldn’t be one of them, he was too small, he was… he was Aesir. He started to breathe fast, his chest heaving, his head pounding once more.

“Loki. Loki!”

His head snapped up. Father was standing close, his hand outstretched but not touching him. Not touching him, because he couldn’t. Why would he want to? “I’m… I’m the monster people tell their children about at night.”

“No, no--”

“Why did you take me?”

Odin closed his eye, pain lining his face. “I thought… I thought we could make peace, I thought--”

“So I am just another stolen relic?” His voice raised high at the end, childish and petulant and risible.

“Loki--”

“And now… now I am to be paraded on the streets, a curiosity under guard every moment lest someone lose their head and destroy-- oh, Norns, Thor… Thor has sworn - did he know?”

“Loki…”

“Tell me!” Loki screamed, the pain in his heart making him almost double over. “Tell me who knew! Who has hated me from my infancy because they knew-- Mother! Was she--”

“We do not have time for this,” Odin snapped. “You will no longer be safe in Asgard, we must send you away--”

“No! You cannot send me back there, you cannot send me to Jotunheim, I will not--”

Odin roared at him, and it was so normal that something which would usually set his heart beating in shame and panic and rejection was actually a sanctuary he clung to. “Be silent, boy,” Odin said. “Let me think.” He pressed his hands to his head. “Somewhere they will not find you, yes… yes, it must be.”

He turned to him, drawing himself up to his full height. “I shall send you to Midgard. This is for your own safety. You must stay, until… until…”

“What? No! You cannot… Father, please, just take this skin from me! You did it once before, you turned me to Aesir once, please, I can keep it a secret, I’ll… I’ll go…” He breathed fast once more, because where would he go? It was no longer a secret, how could he… “I’ll tell them it was an illusion… to disrupt the ceremony.”

“I’m sorry, Loki.” Odin shook his head.

“No! No, Father… Allfather, please!”

Loki could feel the power gathering, pooling from the direction of the Bifrost towards Gungnir, and in his panic he threw out his hands in front of him. The last thing he saw before the stars warped in front of his eyes was his father falling to the ground.

Thank you so much to STARSdidathing for helping me with the plot and @rabentochter for beta-ing!! @aurora-nerin, @victoriagreenleaf and @nivael I promised to tag you ^_^ I will update every Monday on AO3 and on here!

#My writing #Frozen Heart #frozen AU #frostiron #tony x loki

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philippmichelreichold · 5 years

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The Idea of Order in the Poetry of Stevens, Thomas and Eliot #essay

The Idea of Order in the Poetry of Stevens, Thomas and Eliot

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In "The Idea of Order at Key West," Stevens explores the modern theme of people creating their own universe. His beautiful imagery of the shore of Key West and a woman singing captivates the reader's imagination and transports the reader into a magical world where all things seem possible. Two observers watch as the singer transforms the sea and sky about them into a vision of wonderment. Stevens writes that nature alone would have been "meaningless plungings" and that "it was her voice that made the sky acutest at its vanishing." Clearly the dominant force present is the human voice-- "when she sang, the sea, || Whatever self it had, became the self || That was her song." Astonishment causes one of the observers to question the other, asking, "Ramon Fernandez , tell me, if you know, || Why . . . the glassy lights . . . || Mastered the night and portioned out the sea." Profoundly moved in an almost religious manner, and The hearer of the song praises the "Blessed rage for order." Although the mood of the poem is one of wondrous amazement, the question of whether the final result has been for good or ill is not answered in the poem. In the same way, Stevens and other poets question the results of mankind's attempts to bring order to the world.

Stevens uses images of the human voice and the sea in "Sunday Morning" to a different purpose in "Sunday Morning." The sea represents the emotional distance between a woman and past religious notions. Much physical distance lies between her parlor and Palestine. A greater emotional distance lies between her feelings and the grave of Christ. Stevens uses a dream-voyage to measure the distances and clarify the woman's feelings. This allows her to cover ground she could not otherwise readily reach. As she dreams, she passes "Over the seas, to silent Palestine, || Dominion of the blood and sepulchre." Yet she is not traveling to a Yeatsian Byzantium where all was beautiful certainty. Rather than accept "silent Palestine," she questions the usefulness of a divinity that comes only when she sleeps. Stevens deepens the dream and creates a pagan Eden, mixing classical and pastoral scenes. In this land of fruit, sun, and dancers, the woman's conception of the relationship between man and God is turned onto its side. At the point where all has been called into question, a voice of clarity cries, "The tomb in Palestine || Is not the porch of spirits lingering. || It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay." This voice goes on to restore order to the woman's mind as it describes a lush and beautiful land with a lyricism reminiscent of Sappho's invitation to Aphrodite.

In Thomas's "Fern Hill," the role of human voice and the sea are diminished in favor of the pagan Eden. This romantically naturalist landscape forms the backdrop for "Fern Hill" in much the way the sea forms the back drop for "Key West." It differs from the landscape of "Sunday Morning" in that it is a vision not of what life might be, but of what it has been for the poem's narrator, an Adam-like hunter/farmer. Fern Hill's farmer-hunter has lived the carefree life of a Robin of the Green Wood in which "the calves || Sang to [his] horn, the foxes on the hill barked clear and cold, || And the sabbath rang slowly || In the pebbles of the holy streams." Unlike the woman in "Key West," the narrator is a part of nature, not an external force acting to redefine the natural order of things. The naturalness and order of the narrator's life and destined death are seen throughout the poem's idyllic idealism, but especially in the poem's final two lines: "Time held me green and dying || Though I sang in my chains as the sea." In these two lines, the human voice is not one of evocation or advice, but the simple outpouring of a joyous spirit. The sea serves as a simile strengthening the natural order of the narrator's life and death. "Fern Hill" reveals a romantic view naturalism in which the hunter/farmer is "honoured among foxes and pheasants" and "happy as the heart is long." Conspicuously absent from the idyll are the wolves, droughts and blighted crops against which a real farmer-hunter would strive.

In Eliot's megalithic work, The Waste Land, the reader hears a cacophony of conflicting voices, and he is treated not only to a sea voyage, but to a journey through the desert as well. There is, however, no Eden, pagan or otherwise, in "The Waste Land." As in "Sunday Morning, the sea in this poem operates symbolically, representing the emotions. It also goes deeper to represent intimacy and emotional engagement. The voices, some of them inhuman, do not create as in "Order." They do exhort and advise at times. Sometimes their advice is faulty. One of these faulty voices is Madame Sosotris. She has advised Eliot to "fear a death by water." That is, to fear the dangers of emotional commitment. In the Unreal City of Eliot's London, this seems wise advice. The denizens of this city are bereft of any semblance of life emotionally and spiritually. Madame Sosotris, however, cannot see some things that are important. Significantly, she cannot see one of the cards of the Major Arcana, the Hanged Man, who is a Christ figure. She is blind to Christ and his message; she cannot advise responses based on empathy. Better to risk nothing than to risk everything. After all, "one must be so careful these days."

Eliot thoroughly explores the dangers of involvement as he likens the ultimate emotional commitment, sexual intimacy, to a game of chess. To Eliot, sex, intimacy and involvement are dangerous and destructive. The dangers of sexual pursuit are underscored by the evocation of Philomel and Tereus. The cries of the nightingale, Philomel echo through history as the hoopoe, Tereus pursues her through eternity. Eliot drives home the destructiveness of human sexuality in a heartrending scene in a pub. Two women discuss the impending return of one woman's husband from the army. Lil has borne several children, and her last pregnancy ended in an abortion. Her companion does not understand that the traditional sexual/intimacy role is destroying Lil. Lil's life and health are in decay; she's lost her teeth and appears aged and haggard. "She's had five [children] already and nearly died of young George." Much more intimacy could kill her. Despite all of this wreckage and Eliot's terror, total disengagement seems even worse to him. The danger of "a death by water" is as nothing compared with the emotional desert created by his fear of "water."

Standing in stark and cataclysmic contrast to Thomas's fertile Fern Hill is the sterile harshness of Eliot's Ganga valley. Eliot's sea has too much water; his desert has too little. This desert is devoid of feeling, emotional commitment or compassion. No one "[sings] like the sea," one only hears the "murmur of maternal lamentation." Those "who were living are now dying ||With a little patience." Suffering in this harshness finds no surcease: "If there were water we should stop and drink || Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think." Two travelers walk through this harshness. Though they walk beside the Christ, like Madame Sosotris, they do not see him or his message of love. They and the land thirst for Christ's commandment of empathy. Finally, the lightning falls from heaven, and the rain begins to fall. in a language older than Christ, the heretofore sterile thunder gives three commands: give, have compassion, be restrained. But the poem ends before Eliot can apply the lesson and "put his lands in order." He lacks the power to create a "Key West." He lacks the repose to find a "Fern Hill." He cannot survive in the desert or in the sea and remains trapped between two hells.

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waywardsparrownz · 6 years

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OVER THE RIVER & UNDER THE WATERFALLS ~

I suppose I neglected mentioning, Finchly & I each had our own reasons for visiting. The sparrow’s former girlfriend apparently hadn’t gotten on well with the German backpacker she’d dumped Finchly for. He’d heard she was somewhere round town & had grand plans for winning her back. My openly stated opinion this was a terrible idea fell on very deaf ears. Oh well.

I was in town on very different business: paying homage to my greatest hero. Laura Dekker is a young woman who sailed round the world at 14 years old. Solo no less. I’d met her very briefly nearly a year ago when she did a talk not far form my home town. Since the voyage, she’s settled in Whangarei, New Zealand, & continues to inspire with occasional blog posts. I’d heard she was selling her famous boat Guppy, & wanted to get a look before Guppy was gone for good. Laura Dekker was the person who’d gotten me started dreaming about travel, so this stop was something of a must.

Stumbled across her mooring (quite lucky, considering Whangarei harbor is on the river & very spread out), took a couple photos & continued on towards Parahaki mountain thinking that was that. It was not to be so, New Zealand had other plans…

The oft mentioned Isla de Muerta from Pirates of the Caribbean ”…can only be found by those who already know where it is”, & I might say the same of the trailhead up Parahaki mountain. A friendly local had given me some very specific directions without-which I should never have stumbled across the spot. Definitely caught myself asking more than once on the way through residential neighborhoods if this was the right way.

That was when the Subaru drove by. The Subaru with Laura Dekker’s logo splashed across the side in giant letters. Well that’s cool, I told myself: she must live in one of these neighborhoods. Rounding the next corner I ran smack-dab into the aforementioned Subaru, parked neatly beside Parahaki’s elusive trailhead. Disembarking from the driver’s side was a younger man with chiseled features carrying a 5 gallon water drum & good length of rope. Asked him for directions to Whangarei Falls, & wound up walking up the mountain together. Daniel was Laura Dekker’s partner as it turned out, quite an adventurous & interesting fellow. Told me a bit about his own travels, & life in Whangarei. The 5 gallon jug was for collecting water as it turned out. Daniel & Laura didn’t like how much chlorine is in NZ tap water (neither do I or anyone else for that matter), & prefer to get their drinking-water from natural springs. Best water you’ll ever find! It never hurts to carry a water purifying system, but I’ll happily testify that the water in NZ springs (esp on the south island) is better than anything you’ll ever get from a faucet.

The conversation wound it’s way to glowworms, with Daniel telling me about one or two rather off-the-beaten-path spots one might find them. Too bad I was leaving so soon or he’d have shown me some. Alas… an adventure for another day. You never know who you’re gonna meet in New Zealand, let alone the cool adventures they’ll take you on…

Parting ways I headed up to the summit, leaving Daniel to his quest for freshwater. Maybe I’d go glowworm hunting tonite… The view from Parahaki’s summit is nothing short of breathtaking. Whangarei sprawled out across a wide river valley coastline. Jungle covered hills frame & contain the small city, rolling away in the distance to ancient volcanos at the horizon’s edge. The Hatea river greets the ocean somewhere at the edge of the opposite horizon. This landscape dissolving into a confused coastline of a thousand scattered inlets. My eyes wandered between the two, well away lost in the contours of this magical land.

Off & away! Whangarei falls were calling & having seen many photos I’d been wanting to see them since landing in New Zealand. Daniel had given me some pretty solid directions, which I had (in typical fashion) totally forgotten by now. Also in typical fashion I figured there was probably a shortcut somewhere along the way (aka - unmarked trails). That assumption proved incorrect - leading to a speedy dash down an 82 degree incline, followed shortly by a resigned slough 1/2 a mile back up said 82 degree incline trail. The idea had seemed so promising…

Some two hours later the falls were in sight at last! Wild, roaring & powerful, they stood in stark contrast to an otherwise peaceful river. I scrambled up as close as I could get, & ducked behind the curtain of rushing water. What a sound! Treacherously slippery, but utterly magical. I stood beneath the cascading falls as long as I could before getting soaked, feeling absolutely ecstatic to be alive. Spent as long as I could crawling around the falls before heading back. This time, down through the valley via the highway; rather than back over Parahaki mountain via that convoluted trail system. Got a ride back to the harbor after a few miles walking & caught up with Finchly over early dinner back at the hostel.

His day hadn’t gone nearly so well. Not too surprising, as few ex-girlfriends welcome the overtures of a former lover who’s just barged noisily into the middle of their peaceful (& expensive) meditation retreat. Finchly was still at a loss for where he’d gone wrong on that one. Offering to cheer him up I suggested we go glowworm hunting at one of the spots Daniel had mentioned. This then had to be quickly followed with an explanation that: No, hunting did not mean for eating purposes! Sometimes I forget these sort of subtle distinctions when in the company of birds. Trust me: none of my slip-ups have ever gotten anyone eaten or in trouble (insert wink emoji here).

I brought my camera for this trip. Climbing Parahaki for the second time that day, we were nearly eaten alive by mosquitos (sparrows don’t like how the pests taste, so Finchly wasn’t very helpful warding them off), but rewarded for our efforts in the most spectacular view of Whangarei at dusk. Wandering towards the supposed glowworm sight, I started to wonder if there were any here at all. Then Finchly spotted something glowing in a faint, flickery, teal. So faint we weren’t sure if we imagined it or not. Then I glimpsed another one, & another… Three more! Ten more! Suddenly we were surrounded. Thousands of them popping into existence as darkness fell upon us. If you’ve seen the movie “Avatar,” that should give you a vague idea what the forest around us looked like. Except ten-thousand-times more beautiful for all it’s realness. Absolute magic! A sea of teal stars lighting up the ferns & cliff walls in ghostly beams. The photos I managed to get don’t do my memories one ounce of justice, but they’ll have to do until you’re inspired enough for your own glowworm seeking adventure.

Coincidently (or maybe not: I’m believing in coincidences less & less these days) we ran into Daniel a little farther down the trail. He was out showing some friends the hidden treasures of Whangarei forest at night. Wound up joining the party, hunting for giant Wetas in the nearby caves. A night to remember! Still smiling thinking about it…

#new zealand #hiking #glowworm #forest #adventure #laura dekker #sailor #birds #yoga birds #nomad of nowhere #nomadlife

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dunmerofskyrim · 7 years

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The hamlet was on none of Simra’s maps, nor any map he could remember seeing. Not the faded and fingermarked Imperial Cartographic Society print; proud on the front two pages of his Third Era almanac; showing Morrowind as it had been. Not the dog-eared bundle of smaller scale charts he’d gathered down the years. ‘Stonefalls…Southern Deshaan…Narsis & City Limits…Ascadian Isles & Azura’s Coast…Holdings of the Mainland & Zafirbel Telvanni.’ The maps and sketches that showed Morrowind, piece by piece, as it was now.

It was easy to reckon out any number of reasons. Harder was choosing between two whys. Was the hamlet missed off from the maps because it was too new, or still too much of a nothing? The same story and the same questions shaded over any number of villages and outposts in Morrowind.

Half a handful of buildings in packed earth and brick, raised up on platforms from the riverfork’s damp. A handful more of wooden trellis and stretched hide, roofs and lintels blue-black and green with moss. Snagged plots of shortbeans and leafy watergreens grew in the damplogged dirt. And that was all. The people here were fisherfolk, or people waiting for their chance to leave.

Old women in tarred leather coracles floated the river’s broad splay, barb-spears poised to snatch up fish, or whatever else lived in the water. Skinny children wrestled and fixed nets on the far muddy bank. All of them were swaddled against the cold, despite the pale afternoon sun.

The boatmer scowled and fixed his mouth like there was a smell to this place more foul by far than his boat and its baskets. To Simra there was no difference. He’d be glad to put both to his back. Upwind if his luck ran kind, but when did it ever?

The boat passed at a distance, then shunted against the southernmost bank.

“That piece?”

The boatmer cornered Noor as she came outside from the cabin. His dialect was thick, murky and rural. Hard to understand for any of them. For Simra it wasn’t so much the words he used that were difficult. In themselves Simra knew most if not all. It was how he put them together into sentences. Put across his meaning — or didn’t.

“This piece, that piece,” he said, slow to Noor, as if she were simple. “This piece is gift ago. That piece is no. That piece is where? We together an agree.”

Simra strapped into his bags. Satchel, book-bag, gathersack. Swordbelt and the pouch that hung from it. No matter that he was the one who’d treated with the boatmer all this while. Arranged payment. Haggled a discount when he told the older mer he’d be more protection than passenger, showing him the sword he carried. The boatmer always spoke to Noor first when he had something to say. The eldest of them, Simra supposed. Determined by tradition.

“Isn’t this were you step in, usually?” Simra turned to the boatmer’s daughter. Her Dunmeris had a broader catch to it, grown by necessity like thorns from a fern — a short lifetime of translating for her father must’ve done that.

She wrinkled her pug-nose and spat, past the boat’s side and into the water. “Please.” When she looked back to Simra, she wore a small grin. “Will rescue when they stop being funny.”

Simra gave a rattling sigh in the back of his throat and crossed to the boat’s far side. The boatmer fixed him with another scowl. An interruption; torn decorum. But what was the use in caring now? This was as far as their paths went together.

“This piece, I’ve given you,” Simra said, jutting a thumb over his shoulder and into the past. “That piece…” He rummaged in the pouch at his swordbelt and hooked out three jangling strings of shils. That had been the deal: four then and three now. “Happy?”

“Happy,” the boatmer nodded. A look of sheepish discomfort in his face as he took the last three yera of his pay.

Simra raised his brows at Noor, a lean cut of smile crossing his face. Satisfaction, but only shortlived. It’d be sweeter to know he held the pursestrings of their venture if it didn’t mean opening his own purse so often. He’d paid their passage – she and Tammunei – and provisioned them this far. Tammunei, he knew, carried no money at all. Noor had shown no signs of being any different. At another kind of time, with another kind of head on his shoulders, Simra might have asked her.

Instead they flopped from the boat’s beached prow and onto the bank. Tammunei first, who helped Noor down. Then Simra, alone, with a leap to get clear from the worst of the mud. A moment later he doubled back, remembering something, cursing as the bank sucked at his boots.

He filled his waterskin at the riverside. No regard for the dirt and scum afloat in what he gathered. Not these days. He had something for that. He reached into his satchel and brought out a leather cord, tied round a small tarnished bronze medallion, scratched with a single sigil. He slipped it into his waterskin’s mouth a moment. When he pulled it back, the medallion gleamed wet, though the tarnish had grown worse.

Noor stood a ways from the bank, long hair turned whiplike by wind. A covered basket was strapped to her back, hunching her. Every bit the crone, Simra thought, but there was no knowing how old or young she truly was. No polite way to find out — but when had politeness ever been a concern of hers? Only in her ashlander way. Gift and ritual; the right words, and the wit to improvise round them.

“Best to get on,” she called out over the breeze. “There’s daylight yet, but less than there might be.” Her voice had grown stronger of late. For better or worse was still to be seen.

Simra glanced behind them, over the wide river, across to the hamlet. “Supplies first?”

Noor gave him a pitying look. “More?” she said. “After so long wasted in Bodram? Getting and spending… Bread and grains…”

Wasted? Thanks to her it was time lost to them already. Time that Simra had put to as good a use as he could. Saving what’s wasted from going to waste — a necromancer ought to’ve understood that, he thought.

Something stormy and sour must have crossed his face. When Noor spoke again, she spoke softer:

“We’ll travel faster burdened by less. You want to travel fast, don’t you?”

Simra gave a reluctant nod.

“Good. Can you hunt? Trap?”

And there it was again. A moment’s kindness, and then the crush of a question: Are you enough, Simra Hishkari? “Not as such,” he said.

“No matter.” Noor’s voice was sunny, strange and bright. “Tammu and I will forage as we go.” She paused. Cocked her head at him, with a look like someone trying to tongue something from between their backmost teeth. “What are you, Simra Hishkari?”

Simra’s face stiffened. His cheeks hollowed. The same question again, given voice this time. The urge to deflect struck fast as instinct. “The proud owner of the longest legs among us,” he said. “Try to keep up.”

And all the rest was hard pacing. Cross-country, at least until Ouadabridge. On foot. There was no point disputing it now they’d set out. And he was no wisewoman. Hardly an ashlander. Couldn’t hunt, couldn’t herd, hated to ride except when he’d hate walking worse. What did he know, then? Only that this seemed a bad trade. He’d tell them. First one to cry footsore, he’d tell them, and next time they’d listen to him. Next time, he’d have will to form the words. But for now they’d follow Noor’s wisdom. Like playing at cards, Simra saved his hand.

The land as they travelled stretched open. First the mountains of Stonefalls faded behind them, then the foothills too. After there was only starkness, steppe, shreds of scrub or seams of wet black dirt. Long grey-green grass, occasional as cresting waves in a sea of shorter blue-green grazing.

They travelled a rough southing course. One league, two leagues, three, trusting in Noor’s memory to see them right. For all Simra walked fastest among them, she was the one that led.

He had journeyed through the Northern Deshaan before, but never this part, and never off-road. Here was a gape of emptiness, featured only on the oldest and most outdated of his maps. Even then it was only a stretch of empty paper, equated by a black writhe of river: the Dathan. And there was an itching fear in that. Like staring into pitch-blackness, sure you feel things staring back. Who’s to say what an emptiness might turn out to be full of? Or why it should ever be anything pleasant?

“We safe to have a fire?” Simra asked as the sun began setting.

“I can make us safe,” Noor answered.

Simra kissed his teeth. By sword and spell, he could make them safe too. Difference was, he’d rather not have cause. He remembered the Rift, and the risk of showing yourself on the steppe. Lighting a cookfire was good as lighting a beacon in the open. Light by night, or the lure of smoke by day.

Still, in the last hour of light they had, he gathered what brush he saw. Spindly windfalls and dry spreads of fern. Knotted bulbs, half-hidden by grass. A dusty tumble of weed and straw, blown along in the breeze. Whatever he reckoned would burn.

As they began they were nowhere at all. A river and mountains for placemarks. Since then they’d left them behind. Now, as night closed in, the world grew tight, and where they were seemed a deeper nowhere still.

“Here,” said Noor. “We stop here.” She was breathless as she called it.

Simra dropped his bundle of brush and fuel.

Tammunei took the arm-long shape of hides and struts they carried from their back, and planted one picket-pointed end in the ground. Leaning close, they murmured something to it. A strange and pitchy line of song. A spell. And the yurt began to unfold.

Simra had seen it before. Countless times on countless nights, and in reverse come morning. But the process was soothing, subtle but impressive. A great and everyday magic of the kind that came natural in Morrowind. In Skyrim it’d be just as natural to see it as some outlandish excess. Weakness, decadence, witchcraft. To Simra it seemed like common sense.

Like some uncanny tree, the yurt spread roots from its central stem. Spider’s legs of twitching creaking growing bone that spread out to form a floor. Between them, hide stretched itself, like the leather of a bat’s wings, going from lustrous dark to pale cream-brown as it warped and spread wider. Limbs of wood reached up and out to form eaves, then wall-frames. The bones arched up and met to make a door. And from the yurt’s domed apex, yet more skin unfurled and stretched, to cover its slow-grown skeleton.

It was small. Room enough for one to sit and shelter in comfort. For two, Simra knew it, was cramped. For three..?

He muddled his fuel into a shallow-sided pyramid, built round a heart of dry grass. With outheld hands, he lit the heap in a rise and spray of sparks.

Noor by then was pacing a circle round their camp. A warbling husky song flowed from her as she walked. Round and round, head down, then up-bucked to the sky.

Magic, Simra supposed. She’d said she could make them safe. He crouched by the growing light of his fire and brought out his almanac, untucking the right chart from its pages. Stonefalls. He found the fork of the river they’d left, marked it, and wrote in a careful hand: ‘Fisher’s Fork’. If the place had no name before, it did now.

He placed his kettle on the fire, filled with enough water to cook mountain millet.

Abrupt as a change in the breeze, Noor finished her song. Trying to keep a stumble from her step, she came into the firelight and slumped to sit.

Something had changed. The night was darker, more enclosed. Frowning, Simra cricked back his neck to look at the sky. The moons and stars were gone.

“Safe,” breathed Noor.

#TES #Morrowind #Dunmer #Simra Hishkari #SH Forth and Back #SH New Canon #Noor Jedhredzuk

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