#I really hope I did Artorius justice in this

[jenna-uther-pendragon]

@arthur-rex

Artorius had a secret.

The twin of Camelot’s King--older by seven minutes, but once Arthur and Guinevere had wed, he had chosen to give his brother full right to rule--Prince of the Pendragon line, lauded warrior, commander of the kingdom’s knights and army, beloved by his men and his people just as much as his twin. With the life he led, there was little the man could want for.

And he had a secret. A secret companion, at that.

For quite some time--years, in fact, perhaps close to a decade--a creature of magic had been following him around, keeping him company, hidden from all but himself.

This creature? A tiny, lavender will-o’-the-whisp.

Just a tiny little ball of lavender light, warm as a summer’s day, that floated always just within his reach. The whisp even seemed to have a personality to match its warmth and its light. It spoke to him in a sort of bell-like voice, almost a song with every syllable. When others were near, the whisp darted to hide beneath Artorius’ collar, tinkling with soft laughter, like a mischievous child.

And the whisp protected him--not only from loneliness, but from physical danger as well. For such a small being, this little creature of magic was powerful.

Of course, Artorius’ martial prowess was nothing to scoff at. But there were dangers even he could not fight off on his own.

Dangers such as an attack from behind in the midst of a battle. A cowardly blow that ought to have been a mortal one.

Camlann.

That battle could easily have been Artorius’ last, had it not been for his secret friend.

Laughing in the face of Death, victory had been achieved. The Knights of Camelot set out on their journey home.

But the little whisp grew quiet, seeming almost...anxious.

When asked what was the matter, the whisp nuzzled up against Artorius’ cheek. “I must leave you now, Artie,” the little creature whispered. After years of constant companionship, the will-o’-the-whisp was leaving his side. “But worry not. We’ll meet again soon. No more than a year from now, for certain.”

And the whisp was gone.

Some months after the victory at Camlann, an announcement was made that the Queen was with child.

Half a year and a day from then, the new Heir was born: a beautiful baby girl, already with a full head of dark curls, bright green eyes, and a bell-like, pealing giggle.

Jenna Uther Pendragon.

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but there was a brief flash of gold in the infant princess’ green eyes when she beheld her uncle for the first time. Upon being carefully handed to Artorius, little Jenna nuzzled into his shoulder and promptly fell asleep, calm and content as though she knew without a doubt that he would keep her safe.

-------

Just a little ficlet inspired by a headcanon I came up with earlier today.

The idea of platonic soulmates has always been of interest to me, and the thought that Jenna and her uncle Artorius could be soulmates in that way just felt right. As did her being a little will-o’-the-whisp protecting him prior to her conception.

((Please do not reblog unless you are the person tagged above. Thank you.))

[likecastle]

re: Witcher femslash: hi there! would you consider some Philippa/Tissaia for your witcher femslash prompts? Or even some Philippa/Tissaia/Yennefer? I'm truly obsessed with your wonderful fics!

OK, I’m not sure I really got Philippa right here, but I tried! Also, goddamn, Philippa/Tissaia/Yennefer is such a concept, but I’m going to have to give it some more thought. I just reread Blood of Elves and it feels like there’s something there, but I haven’t quite figured out how to get there. Maybe next time!  Anyway, all of that is to say that I went for Philippa/Tissaia here. I hope I did it justice!

“For the last time,” Tissaia snaps, unable to contain her mounting annoyance, “Aretuza is not a training ground for one of your spy rings. Recruit all you want from the lecture halls of Oxenfurt and the laboratories of Ban Ard. My girls are here to study magic, not to waste their talents fighting for foolish kings.”

Philippa leans back against one of the long couches in Tissaia’s office, taking in Tissaia’s irritation with the same bored indifference as if she were watching the clouds move across the sky outside the open window behind Tissaia’s head. “And yet you have no objection to sending your girls off to serve in the courts of royal fools all over the Continent.”

“You know very well that we place graduates where they will be of the greatest use to the Chapter,” Tissaia replies between clenched teeth. Why does Philippa always manage to bring out the worst in her? Why does she end every conversation with the urge to sweep everything off her desk and scream like a first-year adept in the middle of a tantrum?

“Has anyone thought to mention that to Artorius Vigo, I wonder? Or Stregobor, perhaps?” Philippa drawls, a mocking smile playing at the corners of her lips.

“Of course there are those who will strive to advance their own aims.” Tissaia can hear her voice rising, her temper slipping further out of her control. “But we must trust we are all ultimately united in serving the Brotherhood’s aims, or else there is no point in maintaining our alliance at all!”

Philippa gives her a pitying look, and Tissaia’s anger flares hotter still. “You’re so close to apprehending the problem, Tissaia, it’s almost a wonder that you’ve managed to miss it.”

Tissaia takes a deep breath, trying one last time to reign in her anger. “Our priority must be what is in the best interest of magic, Philippa. Surely you can see that anything less is a distraction.”

“And you think magic is not my priority?” Philippa asks.

The infuriating woman—as if there could be any doubt when she and Dijkstra spend their days pulling the strings of Redania’s court like a pair of merry puppeteers. “If it is,” she retorts, “your dalliance with Dijkstra certainly does a good job of concealing the fact!” Tissaia regrets it as soon as she says it, but it’s too late to take it back.

But far from being offended, Philippa seems amused. “Ah,” she says, smirk crossing her stern and lovely face, “now, I see, we’ve struck at the heart of the matter at last.”

Tissaia clenches her jaw, but says nothing. She should know better than to dig herself any deeper.

The smile on Philippa’s lips widens. It’s not a pleasant expression—Philippa is not in the habit of doing things to please others, which makes her beauty all the more fearsome to behold. “I wouldn’t have expected this of you, Tissaia, I must say.” She unfolds herself from her reclining position on the couch, planting her feet on the floor and leaning forward to study Tissaia with keen attention. “You, who always holds herself so high above the fray.”

“Better than debasing myself for men who are so obviously below me,” Tissaia says, unable to prevent herself from saying it.

“Yes,” Philippa says slowly, rising from the couch. “I suppose that’s true.” She walks slowly around the table, though Tissaia thinks it would be more correct to say she stalks towards her. “Dijkstra is a canny strategist, you must give him that, but in the end he’ll never truly be my equal. Still, he has his uses. Although . . .” She stops half a step away from Tissaia’s chair, and pauses, as if considering a philosophical question. “. . . in my experience, there isn’t much men can offer that women like us can’t manage on our own.”

Tissaia can feel the back of her chair cutting into her shoulders, she’s pressed against it so hard—as if Philippa were exerting some great pressure on her entire body. She feels rooted to the spot, struck silent by anticipation.

“You can act as if you’re better than me because you don’t get those lovely hands of yours dirty,” Philippa says, the mocking smile in her voice almost too much to bear, “but I think you’d jump at the chance to take a risk you hadn’t cross-referenced in seven different sources first.”

With another one of her dangerous smiles, Philippa leans forward, bracing her hands on the back of Tissaia’s chair. The smell of her—something crisp and clear as the scent of cold night air—envelops Tissaia as she closes in, and Tissaia squeezes her thighs together. Philippa chuckles low in the back of her throat like Tissaia has just proved her point, and says, “You don’t lock yourself up in this tower because you’re above it all. You want it so badly you can’t trust what you would do if you had it.”

When she leans in to capture Tissaia’s mouth with her own, Tissaia’s back arches, and a moan works its way out from somewhere deep inside her. She feels dizzied just by the touch of Philippa’s lips, all her anger turning molten at her core.

“Admit it,” Philippa says between kisses. “Tell me what I want to hear—” She transfers her attention to Tissaia’s throat, and Tissaia’s thighs fall open by reflex, heat rushing through her. “—and I’ll give you everything you want.”

Tissaia throws back her head, panting hard. She reaches out to grasp a handful of Philippa’s glossy, dark hair, and pulls her back up to kiss her once more. She leans into the velvet pressure of Philippa’s lips and says, “No.”

Before Tissaia can blink, the air shifts between them and Philippa is gone. She breaths in the cool scent of the forest at night and listens to the owl’s wings beating their retreat behind her.