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wing-ed-thing · 3 days

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... And the Beast (Yonji Vinsmoke x Reader) Part II

Synopsis: You thought your little crush on Prince Yonji was a well-kept secret. Yonji is mean enough to exploit your eagerness to please in the face of his unrelenting cruelty; the thought of actually developing a soft spot for you never even crossed his mind.

Word Count: 4.5k

Tags/Warnings: Naive!Servant!Reader, No Reader Pronouns, Canonically Mean Vinsmokes, But Reader is Kinda Into It, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Wall Punching, Language, Reader Falls First, Yonji Falls Harder

Part I Part II Part III

Notes: My draft of this story in it's entirety is over 14k... and I haven't even gotten to the scene I wanted to write.

The two of you met by mere happenstance, and it was even rarer that the library was ever docked onto an important area of Germa. Spring marked the time for a seasonal cleaning. So, like every year before, the laboratory grunts were to store old accounts in the library and perform an overhaul of laboratory references, guarded by one of Judge’s children.

Yonji had been assigned guard duty this year, although the responsibility didn’t include much besides docking his fleet around the two storage snails. The men working in the laboratory would march back and forth carrying records and books, and you would assist in arranging your new inventory.

Aside from the one bulky book tower, the library ship didn't comprise much. The impressive structure took up nearly the entirety of the support snail, sporting several conical turrets and a grand archway in the center. The stone arch formed a closed bridge-like structure connecting the two towers. The northern wing housed important but dated scientific records, while the southern wing stored traditional texts.

With the bridge sitting near the eyestalks and the crew’s quarters located in the disconnected basement of the southern tower, paper took up more of the library snail than people did.

Given how little traffic typically went through the library tower, inventory day marked your snail’s busiest day of the year. Approximately five ships anchored around you, not including the laboratory, which was attached directly to your snail. You considered yourself lucky to have soldiers and technicians helping with the sheer volume of inventory, which had been shipped in bulk and hauled onto the library snail via a lift.

Yonji’s ship had docked directly onto the library snail. You remembered when you spotted his green raid suit from the library’s grand window, barking orders and taking command of the troops below. The ensuing wave of emotion nearly knocked you off your feet, a pit of fluttering anxiety festering at the pit of your stomach as you retreated outside to greet him.

You could recall every stone step down from the second tower and into the arch, and before you knew it, you were across the short yard. You greeted him formally and bowed. You were sure you were shaking.

Every other member of Germa 66 had served as a guard for you in the past during this occasion. Ichiji and Niji had been assigned to you once each, while Reiju had been several times in the past. But Yonji, in all the time you had been acting as the royal library attendant, had never made an appearance before this past spring.

He didn’t regard you with much, his indifference a stark contract to your acute, starstruck trembling. You bowed politely, blathering something about your job and a promise to do it well. Yonji stared you down with nothing less than annoyance and slight disgust, which, unbeknownst to you, would mark a recurring theme. And that had been your unremarkable first meeting with the fourth prince of Germa.

Like his siblings before him, Yonji didn’t involve himself much in your affairs. He seemed just about as interested in the reorganization process as he was in you, and you doubted that he’d even do a walkthrough when everything was finished, like Ichiji or Reiju. Instead, he busied himself with what you could only assume was his usual training regiment on the extended courtyard just outside the library window of the southern tower.

You saw him occasionally, catching a glimpse of green as you walked back and forth between the northern and southern towers with the inventory. And to your surprise, Yonji and his men remained active from the time the library organization team began in the morning until sunset, far later than even the inventory team worked. (The inventory team rose early and stopped in the mid-afternoon.)

You sat in your usual plush chair by the window, the commotion just outside becoming a part of your nightly routine as you read your book in the glow of the sunset. You didn’t even catch yourself staring, drifting off in thought as you watched Yonji interact with the men outside.

A little voice squeaked your name. You blinked to yourself, trying not to appear as caught off guard as you felt. The cook’s twin children sat on the velvet rug at your feet, eyes squinting in the setting sun's light. The little girl sat hunched, her hands gripping the ankles of her crossed legs, while the little boy lay sprawled out on the rug.

“Sorry, I thought I saw something outside,” you muttered a quick apology before clearing your throat to start again. “‘Well, Father, said Beauty, ‘as the Beast will accept either you or one of your daughters, I will give myself up to his fury, as it is on my account you have been involved in this trouble…’”

You continued to read aloud. Due to the archive ship’s distance from most of the larger snails, the library housed a single cook in a single, below-deck kitchen to support the small staff of you and a handful of soldiers and crew. And, like a surprising amount of non-combatant employees of Germa, the cook had children.

However, children under the age of twelve were not allowed to roam freely within their respective parts of the caste, and once they were of working age, they were expected to learn servant’s skills. But considering the isolation of the library snail and the few staff members who stepped into the archive at all, you could afford to bend the rules a bit. But with a member of the royal family visiting, one of your many priorities was keeping the children quiet and occupied, especially after dinner.

By the time you closed your book, your voice was beginning to sound hoarse, and the sun had completely set outside. The kids on your rug yawned with drooping eyes. You peered at the clock. You had kept them for far later than you intended to, but you supposed it was better that they were a bit late to bedtime rather than getting into trouble around the ship when the prince was visiting.

“Why can’t we play outside? We usually play outside after stories, and we haven’t been outside in weeks.” the boy groaned, tensing his arms and legs in a full-body stretch before letting them hit the rug below. “We’re gonna get vitamin D deficiency and die.”

“Nice try. It’s been two days, and it’s nighttime.”

The two children huffed. The girl stood and moved to the window to look out at the makeshift courtyard from the windowsill. She stood on her toes, barely able to peer out the glass. The boy rolled onto his stomach before pushing himself to his feet to join her.

You quickly bolted up with them, ready to pull the two from the window. While you had no issue with the twins listening to a story in the library as the archive’s sole keeper, you anticipated that Prince Yonji might not take terribly well to being ogled at by small, unwelcome children as his battalion trained.

But to your surprise, all of the soldiers were gone. You glanced at the clock again. You supposed that even people like Yonji had to sleep at some point.

“C’mon, shark bites.” You set the book of stories on the round table next to your chair. “Let’s get you back downstairs.”

The twins protested but were too tired to put up much of a fight. You scooped the boy up into your arms. He tucked his head into the nape of your neck, just about falling asleep instantly. You took the girl by the hand, ready to lead them out of the second tower and around the back to the two cellar doors leading to the servant’s quarters.

Just as you pushed open the doors with your foot to corral the two into the hallway, you could have sworn you heard movement. You were too focused to pay it any mind.

***

It took several days for the books and files to be properly organized into their respective archives—and several evenings of extended, after-dinner storytime sessions—but as had happened every year before, the operation went smoothly. The moment he heard that everything was finished, Yonji immediately called all his men back to their respective ships to depart.

“Master Yonji?” You trailed behind him, attempting to keep up with his wide-paced stride. Yonji paid no mind to you as he barked orders across the deck. “I don’t mean to insert myself into your affairs, but might I ask if you intend on performing a walk-through inspection? Mistress Reiju often likes to make notes concerning the new orientation to communicate with Lord Judge. And we’ve actually reoriented the delta files a level down this year—”

Yonji suddenly turned on his heel, causing you to smack into him. You recoiled, trying to resist the urge to grab at your nose. You might as well have walked straight into a wall.

“I don’t remember asking for direction from you.”

The two of you stopped in the middle of the archway, his form barely shaded by its shadow. Yonji stared you down with his dark irises. You took a file out from under your arm.

“I—”

Yonji’s fist swiftly struck the wall next to your head. He had backed you up against the wall, now towering over you. The stone behind you crumbled as your knees locked together. Yonji hovered over you, letting out a steady stream of hot, irritated air from his nose.

You were unaware of how his lips pulled slightly down and of Yonji’s rapid analysis of your face. Instead, your gaze remained solely on the gloved fist next to your head.

That was the first time Yonji saw that spark in your eye. Your lips formed a passive line, but the shine of authentic amazement that glimmered in your gaze betrayed you. You held a crushing grip on the files in both hands, and neither you nor Yonji mistook the beat your heart skipped as fearful.

He withdrew his fist, leaving the large divot in the stone. More fractured pieces fell, clacking on the solid ground below.

Neither of you moved, nor did you say a word.

You weren’t afraid of him, and Yonji should have been angered. If it were anyone else, he would have been. He stared down at you; his mouth contorted into a wolfish grin as he quickly decided he could make an exception for that stupid gleam of admiration in your eyes. You knew your place, Yonji considered, and it was marveling at his strength.

Your fate was sealed.

***

Yonji hadn’t wanted you at his quarters the morning of his mission in Speleothem, nor did he call for you for the rest of the day. And so, for the first time in the last few months, you spent your time in the library, tending to the archive.

You stood in the middle of the largest chamber of the southern tower, basking in the sunlight that flooded through the large window with a few books in your arms. You breathed in the smell of paper and sea air. It was a clean scent and one that you missed now that you spent so much of your time in the main castle.

You wheeled over the rolling ladder, positioning it right next to the gap you could see a few shelves up. With the three texts tucked into your elbow, you climbed the rungs. The encyclopedias had been slightly stained by dirt and significantly roughed up by the Vinsmoke princes’ target practice, but the damage was nothing a rebinding couldn’t fix.

The first book filled the gap on the shelf perfectly. Ichiji spent some time picking out his selection when the three princes entered your library. His intention to use the book as a part of his target practice didn’t stop him from picking out a pragmatic option: a collection of writings about early forms and types of gunpowder.

You ventured up the steps to the balcony, finding your next spot near the ceiling by the window. Niji had selected the bulkiest and hardest-to-reach text he could find within reach with the help of his jet-propelled boots. However, his efforts stopped at the very top of the stairs. Despite his intentions to torment you, his apparent curiosity seemed to fade with the effort of venturing up to the balcony. You placed the book in its spot, the compilation of weather patterns, maps, and navigational information making for a tight fit.

Yonji had selected the last book, although his choice didn’t appear to have much reason behind it. You were sure he was going to take the book you already had out. A piece of the late queen’s collection, the completed set of folk stories and fairy tales from all four blues had a near-permanent residence next to your usual reading chair. You pulled it enough to read to the twins, if not to yourself, for nostalgia’s sake.

You remembered how he stopped, head tilted downward, to read the book’s cover. With the two tips of his fingers, Yonji gently turned the book to face him. He had stared at it with his weight shifted to his back leg as he looped a thumb into the front belt loops of his slacks. He looked handsome, you had decided, as he stood posed in the afternoon light.

But Yonji left the book be, instead opting for the first text he saw on the adjacent shelf: a detailed encyclopedia about birds native to the North Blue. It fit right into the space left for it.

A gruff rumble sounded behind you. Your heart nearly jumped as you turned on your heel to see Yonji leaning against the open double doors. He cleared his throat again, pushing off the wall with his shoulder.

“Prince Yonji!” you exclaimed, quickly bowing. “How might I be of service?”

Your heart pounded as you wondered if your eyes were deceiving you. You had been convinced that talking out of term had banished you back to the library for good, but you couldn’t help the deep pang of excited dread that came with Yonji’s rare presence in your archive.

His eyes narrowed to the side as he approached you. The slightest pout played on his lips as he glanced around. His gaze traveled up the curved staircase to your left and along the balcony as far as his peripheral would allow. You rose from your bow.

“What information do you have on Rivulette?” he asked, and his question filled the air.

You replayed his words in your head, wondering if you heard him right. You tilted your head to the side, blinking as you tried to process what he asked of you. Of all people, Prince Yonji Vinsmoke couldn’t possibly be asking for a book— at least not in person or when he could easily search his own electronic database. (It was likely far more accessible than anything in your library, anyway. The library was extensive, but it was an archive at the end of the day.)

“Rivulette, as in, the island?” you questioned. Yonji scoffed. With a few shakes of his head, his lashes fluttered closed.

“Obviously.” He lifted an arm and rotated his shoulder backward to readjust how his usual white, short-sleeved button-up sat around his biceps. Yonji looked off somewhere into the room again with teeth gritted. “Do you have it or not?”

“I think we have some texts on Rivulette, but I don’t know if they’ll be what you’re looking for.” You scurried over to the rolling ladder. Yonji followed indifferently behind you, his scowl still ever-present. “It’s mostly basic geographical—”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he gruffed, standing directly beside where you moved the ladder. He did not hold it for you as you climbed the rungs.

You stopped three steps up, conscious of his watchful gaze, as you pulled a collection of texts from one of the upper shelves. Yonji watched silently from below, although you weren’t too far above his head. At his height, you were sure that Yonji could have pulled the books himself even without the ladder.

“I have a geographical account from about a hundred years ago, an autobiography from Rivulette’s eighth president, Brooke Waters…” You trailed off, tilting the shelved texts to allow Yonji to read the spines. You continued to rattle off the titles of the few books you had, all undoubtedly useless, especially considering the context. Yonji had to have a more extensive and relevant wealth of knowledge in his computer system.

“What’s that one?” Yonji gestured to a text at the very end of the compilation. The spine was easily four inches thick and partially obscured behind a section of your ladder.

“This one?” You pointed to it, glancing down at— or more accurately toward— Yonji, who rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, that one.”

“It’s an encyclopedia with information on native geography, plants, and animals—”

“Give me a summary.”

You blinked at him. Yonji stared back at you, awaiting an answer.

Oh, he was being serious.

“A summary of all the landmarks and wildlife on Rivulette… from the beginning of time?”

Yonji huffed, shifting his weight to his back leg as he pivoted slightly away from you. He ran a hand up his face into his hair with a shake of his head. When he turned back to you, he appeared to do so reluctantly, folding his fingers on his palm in a waving gesture.

“Just… bring ‘em all down,” he groaned again. Yonji placed his hands near the back of his hips, rotating his torso to stretch as he waited for you to complete your task.

You eyed the collection of books. While the amount wasn’t necessarily as extensive as some of your other accumulations, the sum of all the spines easily amounted to an arm’s length. You began at the far end, taking two sizeable texts in your hand. You collected them in the crook of your opposite elbow before reaching back for more.

Yonji observed your efforts with a creased brow and a judgemental dip of his lip. His hands still settled on his hips, although they had balled into scrutinous fists.

The ladder wobbled beneath you as you piled a total of five books into your elbow, balancing yourself only by the strength in your legs. You missed Yonji’s deep scowl as he stepped toward you.

“This is ridiculous” was about all the warning you received before you were scooped off the ladder altogether. Yonji lifted you from below, wrapping a singular, muscular arm diagonally around your hips as he effortlessly placed you on the ground below. He did so unceremoniously and easily, like your body weight— along with the small mountain of books that you nearly dropped on the floor in shock— was nothing.

Yonji moved the ladder out of the way and reached up to grab the rest of the stack with little exertion. Much like how he had forced you out of the way, his actions were straightforward as he supported the pile under his arm. He brushed past you toward the ornate table situated (and screwed down to the floor) just a short distance behind you.

Yonji placed his sizeable stack on the shiny wooden finish, and you put your smaller collection next to his, seeming to be playing catch-up as Yonji took a seat at the head of the table.

“Prince Yonji—?”

“Sit.”

You immediately did as you were told, pulling out a chair adjacent to his as Yonji began to separate the books. He appeared deep in thought, studying the covers briefly before spreading them across the immediate surface. Every so often, he would flick one open to thumb through the pages, grumbling to himself before placing the text in its designated pile.

You studied him, trying to hide your acute surprise as he craned his neck over the encyclopedia from before, his eyes pouring over the glossary. He looked out of place hunched over a large book. For his appearance and general demeanor, you had never thought Yonji to be one for the quiet accumulation of knowledge.

He was, after all, a physical being in all senses of the word. Yonji boasted a bulky build, which strained most of his clothes, and referring to him as tall was a drastic understatement. It wasn’t difficult to see how much pride he took in being Germa 66’s offensive tank, nor was it hard to notice his immense pride in his physical prowess above all things. You didn’t recall ever seeing Yonji eager to sit still very long for anything, more interested in finding nearly anything else as an excuse to test his strength and power.

You should know. You had been the one tending to his every whim for the past few months.

And so he sat at the edge of his chair, his forearm reaching across the top corner of his book to grip the top open and flat with a wide, sturdy grip to read. Yonji slung an ankle over his opposite knee, tilting his head at an awkward angle as he sank further into his light research.

“Commentary.” The word carried a downward inflection like a mix between a demand and a question, but you knew better than to take it as anything less than a command.

The single word stalled your thoughts. Yonji glanced up, his posture gradually reverting upright as he gripped the page he was on to guide the book closed slowly. Your lips parted to speak, but nothing came out. Yonji’s dark irises stared curiously into yours.

“Commentary on…?”

He leaned back in his chair and coiled his arms over his chest. The hem on the cuff of his short sleeves strained on his biceps. The hems of his clothes were always a bit too small for him, but you supposed that Germa 66 went through too many textiles to put much stake into personal tailoring.

“I bet you’ve read every book in this goddamn room,” he said, but his words were spoken like an accusation. Yonji gestured loosely with the bob of his shoulder, glancing briefly at the thousands of books that lined the walls.

You stared down at the encyclopedia, eyes slightly widened as you pondered the best way to answer him.

“I can’t say I’ve read an encyclopedia cover to cover, Prince Yonji,” you spoke quietly.

Yonji let out a bellowing laugh, letting his mouth hang open wide as he threw his head back. But he cut his laughter short, reassuming his almost hunched-over position at the table with a foxlike glint in his eye. Yonji slid the large book over to you before resting his cheek in his palm. His right hand gripped the armrest of his chair, his elbow creating a ninety-degree angle.

“What do ya remember about this one?”

The corners of his lips were upturned, not too dissimilar to how he looked when he was up to something mischievous. But the milliseconds you spent trying to figure him out only revealed the true seriousness that lingered just below the surface.

“Sparking sparrows,” you answered quickly, still unsure as to what he was getting at. Yonji’s frame visibly sunk. The upturned corner of his lips faltered as he glanced off to the side with a deep heave of his chest.

“Birds?” he spat.

“They’re very small but have very sharp beaks,” you offered. Yonji grew less amused by the second, although you didn’t quite understand why. But despite his evident dismay, he motioned for you to continue. You flipped through the pages quickly, pulling up the entry you were looking for. “They let off little sparks, um, and they use this electricity to terrorize wild snails. There are several accounts of them sticking their heads into transponder snail shells. They’ll actually go out of their way to—”

He shook his head with a deepening frown.

“No, what do you remember about the geography?”

You sat at the edge of your seat, your lips pursed into a slight line. One of Yonji’s brows twitched in annoyance, and while you weren’t quite sure what he was looking for, you knew at your very core that your answer was not it.

“It’s very pretty?” You unconsciously shrunk farther away from him, which only served to sharpen your posture. You held a death grip on the lap of your uniform, pooling the fabric in your fingers.

“Ugh, forget it.” Yonji stood suddenly and harshly, causing you to to nearly recoil back into your seat. He slammed his chair into the table, the two hard wooden surfaces coming together with a loud bang before he stalked off. He gestured to the table behind him. “Clean this shit up.”

***

Yonji didn’t like feeling stupid, although he didn’t know what to do with that information other than work off the steam. After an evening of training that was a bit more destructive than it needed to be, dinner, and then a post-workout workout, Yonji finally felt like he had reached an equilibrium.

Yonji didn’t know what he had been thinking. And your eagerness to please, the very trait that Yonji kept you around for, had vexed him that day. You tried to piece together his ambiguous requests, but each question only served to heat his demeanor little by little in annoyance. He didn’t even know what he was looking for when he visited you in the archive, and your simple questions did little more than call attention to how silly he felt in coming to you.

In fact, by the end of his last gym session, he was convinced that it had all been a waste of time. Yonji, a top commander in Germa’s military force, had followed a lead that turned out to be a fluke.

He could make peace with a fluke, he decided. But he had wanted to listen to his gut, and with the memories of Speleothem constantly ruminating in his head since the job, Yonji had always followed his instincts.

But now, he stood in the penthouse office on Rivulette with his siblings. Ichiji and Niji bickered over how to best crack the encrypted snails the client hadn’t told them about in the background. Yonji couldn’t help the heavy pang that reverberated through his chest as he locked onto the window on the opposite end of the room.

He thought he had been shot by something.

“Keep it together, Yonji,” Ichiji gritted. The room was still.

Yonji hardly heard him. His entire focus was on the small bird he spotted perched just outside the window. The bird pecked at the glass, leaving slight scratches with its shallow electric sparks. He walked over to the window, stopping just before the glass. The bird continued to peck, undaunted by the figure that loomed on the other side. The hand that Yonji held over his chest slowly rose to his mouth and over his right eye.

“Oh, man,” he breathed, glancing behind him. Ichiji and Niji continued to bicker.

Yonji turned back toward the bird, and suddenly, a whole night’s worth of thought spiraled down the drain.

Yonji opened the window.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

Notes: It would be my honor and privilege to remind everyone that Yonji stands at a whopping 194 cm (6'4"), so no one better come at me for the size difference. That man is a beast (pun intended).

And I spent an obscene amount of time making gifs to use for this series. It's not even funny.

Also, I use a grammar checker that completely messed up and started deleting random words/parts of words in the middle of the text. Please let me know if there's a crazy typo somewhere.

Part I Part II Part III

#yonji x reader #yonji vinsmoke x reader #germa 66 x reader #op x reader #one piece x reader #yonji #yonji vinsmoke #one piece fanfic #one piece fanfiction #op fanfic #x reader #x you #reader insert #germa 66

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ltwilliammowett · 5 months

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Today we are travelling to the New World with the Kalmar Nyckel. A beautiful pinas with an eye-catching design and super cute ship's cats

Kalmar Nyckel, 2014

Her history here:

The original Kalmar Nyckel was one of the great ships of the American colonial era. Built in Amsterdam in 1627, Kalmar Nyckel was an ordinary Dutch Pinnace (Pinas) of about 300 tons and 100 feet on deck, just one of a couple thousand similar small warships and gun-armed merchantmen built by the Dutch in this period.

In 1629, she was purchased by the Swedish Skeppskompaniet (Ship Company) with tax revenue from the strategic harbor town of Kalmar, on Sweden’s southeast coast, and renamed Kalmar Nyckel (“Key of Kalmar”). When not sailing on colonial voyages for the New Sweden Company, she served the Swedish Navy as an auxiliary warship until 1651. She was part of Gustav II Adolf’s famous invasion fleet at Peenemünde on the German coast of Pomerania in 1630, which marked Sweden’s entry into the Thirty Years’ War (1618-48).

Swedish Admiralty records from 1634 list her as carrying a crew of 55 men and 12 six-pounder cannon – probably typical of her wartime strength. Toward the end of her career, she saw bloody action in Torstenson’s War against the Danes in 1645 and transported Swedish diplomats across the Baltic during the negotiations that led to the Peace of Westphalia in 1648. Kalmar Nyckel is best remembered today as a colonial ship for the New Sweden Company. She launched the colony of New Sweden in 1638 as Governor Peter Minuit’s flagship, bringing the colonists who established the first permanent European settlement in the Delaware Valley – little Fort Christina, which would grow to become the city of Wilmington, Delaware.

An exceptional ship with an extraordinary record of endurance, Kalmar Nyckel would make eight successful crossings of the Atlantic (four roundtrips between Gothenburg and Fort Christina from 1637 to 1644) more than any documented colonial ship of the era. Kalmar Nyckel was decommissioned from the Swedish Navy on June 19, 1651, by order of Queen Christina herself, and sold to a Dutch merchant living in Stockholm, Cornelis Roelofsen. An inspection by the Swedish Admiralty had determined that her aging condition would make her unsuitable for a fifth voyage across the Atlantic for the New Sweden Company.

Her new owner, Roelofsen had Kalmar Nyckel – now called by her Dutch name, Kalmar Sleutel (“Sleutel” is Dutch for “Nyckel,” which both mean “Key” in English) refitted and up-gunned to 24 six-pounder cannons. She was anchored in Amsterdam harbor by April 22, 1652, just in time to be leased as a naval escort by the Dutch Navies, which were looking to acquire 150 warships in preparation for a looming war against the English. Kalmar Sleutel (Nyckel) soon joined 15 ships of the escort squadron that was guarding the Dutch herring fleet in the North Sea off the east coast of Scotland. On July 22, 1652, she would be sunk in the bloody Battle of Buchan Ness, gallantly defending the fishing fleet against a fleet of 66 English ships in the first engagement of what would be called the First Anglo-Dutch War (1652-1654).

Source

#naval history #naval artifacts #kalmar nyckel #17th century #advent calendar #day 15 #age of sail replica

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greenlyren12 · 2 years

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The Mask You Wear

Chapter II

Find Chapter I here

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

warnings: smut, fingering, thigh riding, physical violence

word count: 3.1k

Summary: What type of feelings will your returning to King's landing bring out in you?

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Where your Princess went you followed close behind, the strings of allegiance clinging to the flesh of your palms.

Dragonstone had turned you into resilient woman, your fingertips as calloused as your character was. As if the waves had pummeled at your being instead at the shore cliffs. The romanticism of girlhood had departed from your soul years ago. Living transformed into existing, every month becoming grayer than the previous one.

Face swept by dragon fire and turned to cold stone. Experiences hardly moved you nowadays, violence bled into every corner of your lusterless life. You did what was expected of you, perform your duties and nothing more. Heart locked deep within, allowing no one the proximity of your intimacy.

Everything you cherished seemed to always slip from your grasp, so you cherished no more. Princess Rhaenyra the anchor of your existence. Her children you once cared for as if they were your own siblings, were now pushed away. As the oldest from the bunch, Jacaerys respected your wishes, whereas Luke had the difficulty to understand.

At first the stoicism you had ingrained in yourself by force wasn’t easy, but what was? Your once fond memories of your real family, little Aemond, had now faded. Little bits you remembered, pained you too greatly to be relived again.

Now standing behind your Princess, mind blank, you listened. As she was Informing her beloved children on the departure for King’s Landing, you felt a bolt in your heart.

You stilled, vigilant. Face an impenetrable wall but at your core you shook. The despised sorrow of feeling small filled your heart. As if immune to decision, you were flaunted around on a minute’s notice. Feeling like you were 13 again, fingers trembling, you stood silent.

Life had begun to feel normal again after years of endurance. Dragonstone was your home, now once again, you had to take your leave. The holes that the Red Keep had left in you, had been patched up with such precise care. A fortress now lied around your heart.

You thought of how different things would be. Had it been years ago, you would’ve cowered in fear. Yet you remained quiet.

Aemond crossed your mind numerous times but you shoved it away. There were no possible reality in which you would allow yourself such feelings, after so many years. Only if you’d known that denying their existence was futile.

Anger poisoned your mind, caused by great fear of rejection. Could you face your Aemond?

==============================================================

The sail to the capital was troublesome. With each mile the weather seemed to worsen, grim clouds above your weary head. Situated on the bow of the ship, palms tied behind your back, you stared. Children laughter echoed in your ears, longing in your eyes. The rhythmic waves, which rumbled below your feet, brought your thought to fond memories.

“How could I try to forget?” Rang in your head.

A tear escaped your cold eyes and joined the mass of water below, forgotten.

The fear of what he was now seeped into your bones. Would he remember?

Doubt and salt made you sick, removing your gaze from the Castle in the horizon you faltered.

=================================

Being in your Princess’ chambers after such long time had the taste of nostalgia on your tongue. In contrast to Dragonstone’s cold colors, the Castle bristled with orange hues. Warm lights from lit candles, you took care of Rhaenyra’s moonlight locks.

Carefully putting each strand over the other, you exhaled. This task had become your favorite over the years, it helped you calm down your nerves. Being in such close proximity to the Princess gave you a piece of mind, though conversation always came to an end, due to your concentration. You enjoyed the quiet which you rarely had.

Now determination fueled your being, to not think about him. Putting all the care into fitting the Princess into her inky coloured dress.

Avoiding all eye contact, you attentively put a necklace around your Princess’ neck. Timidness was unlike you and she noticed.

“What’s the matter?” Giving you a crooked smile, Rhaenyra tenderly stroked your shoulder.

“Nothing, my Princess.” Returning a forced one, eyes gluing to the ground below you once again.

Your Princess pushed no more, knowing you would not be honest.

=================================

Following behind your family, Rhaenyra and Daemon leading, you looked around the halls. The walls seemed to judge the change in you, they remained the same, unmoved.

With back straightened you entered the room last, King Viserys catching your eye first. Your King was rotting from the inside out, mask hiding the left side of his decaying face. He was brought in already in his chair, which was placed in the middle of the table.

Turning your head away to find your position, back facing the Royal family, you could feel it.

Taking your place by the wall, ready to assist your Princess, hands glued to your back, you gazed straight ahead.

He was clear in the corner of your eye. While everyone was busy with sitting on their places you found the bravery to look at him.

What was supposed to be a quick glance turned into a longing stare, your throat acting as a cage to your breath.

Your Prince sat right there, this was no little Aemond.

A man full grown, elongated face and sculpted jaw. Hair now twice the length it used to be, the strands which framed his handsome face kept in a knot behind. Eye concealed by a contrasting patch, lips formed a beckoning smile.

Violet eye already boring back at you, greed in his gaze. Jaw clenching, your Prince would not move. As if a sculpture carved out by the Gods themselves, he remained still, face illuminated by candles.

You felt naked, not in a dishonorable way for a lady of your position, but bare. Clean, as you came from your Mother’s womb. No walls and no shells remained unpenetrated by Aemond’s unwavering intent. Years spent to protect yourself, to constructing endless soul barricading layers. In spite of that, he now held you in the small of his palm, little and sincere.

The connection was too intense for you, especially during responsibility, so you broke the seal first.

Hard eyes set ahead of you, a shivering exhale left your lips. Seeing him in the edge of your eye, the devil had a smirk plastered across his enchanting features. He had bewitched you, in a trance you felt his pull to you.

He had grown a substantial amount, probably two heads above you. His childish clumsiness had transformed into an elegance that draped around his lean posture. The intensity you remember him containing deep inside was now plastered for all of Westeros to see. The hideous cut that used to slash trough the half of his face, now served as a menacing warning.

He was divine. A being closer to God, as the common folk said.

The next hour was spent in silent suffering, sweat breaking out on your forehead. It was clear your assistance would not be needed tonight, nevertheless your presence was obligated.

His Grace, the King moved you to tears with his speech. Peace was enjoyed for a few more blissful hours. Your heart fluttered at the sight in front of you. Tranquility quietly sat upon in the air, laughter accompanying it. The family you thought was shattered forever, seemed to succeed in being orderly.

Until a certain silver head decided to charge the air with tension. Jacaerys managed to put out Aegon’s assertions while Aemond’s one eye was on the mission to set your face on fire. But you dared not glance back, afraid of the repercussions.

Four servants entered the room with a roasted pig, decorated with goods served on a platter, and placed it in front of Aemond.

You knew it before it even began.

You felt the sweat between your limp fingers when they twitched with stress.

Luke laughed in the Prince’s direction and you shamed him in your mind for his lack of tact. You found it difficult to understand what humor the situation possessed. Giving the brunette boy a venomous look for disrespecting his uncle.

A hard slam on the wooden table made you jump in your place. Aemond was the focal point of attention. His hair swung forward, falling over the leather on his chest. Hunched over, fist firmly ingrained in the mahogany surface, eye clouded by malevolence. A predator seeking pray, Luke was a fool for tugging on his insecurities.

As if you were a rabbit in front of him, ready for him to swallow whole you froze in place.

“Final toast.” Aemond spat out.

It was the first time he honored the room with his voice. You shivered, velvet enlaced with callousness.

Though you could never possibly admit, you were proud of his speech. The kid you once knew, who came crying to you, was now grown and ready to defend. Never breaking the imposing image, cruel and precise he apparently managed to hit the right nerve in Jace.

The brunette hit first and Aemond’s reaction made something twist inside of you. Unwavering, piercing stare and a mocking laugh was all he graced Jacaerys with. As if to ridicule Rhaenyra’s oldest even more, he hit him off balance and made him fall.

If it weren’t for the years of practice you would not have been able to stifle your laugh. Yet Aemond had caught the glimpse in your eye, remembering it from all that time ago. He knew you from the inside out.

Daemon put the end to the conflict before it had escalated even more and Aemond took his leave.

=================================

After attending to the Princess’ nightly necessities, you were dismissed to your own chambers.

Slowly crossing the Castle aisles, you took in everything around you. Comparing your memories to reality. A rare fondness set deep in you, allowing the ghost of a smile appear on your lips.

Until you heard the faint steps of someone behind you. Not too close but near enough for it to be intentional. You knew exactly who it was. Only one person in the Red Keep possessed that threatening intensity.

As if preying on you, he toyed. You could almost feel his wicked smile on the back of your neck.

You would enjoy yourself as well. Quickening your pace a bit, you strode in the dimly lit corridors.

“Hm.” A quiet, guttural sound was stated behind your back.

Something sick stirred your insides, shivers followed close. The amount of steps increasing behind you.

You wouldn’t dare turn your head, partially scared of what your eyes would see.

It excited you.

Stopping in front of your room’s doors you remained that way. A shadow following close behind, now right behind you.

A sigh escaped past your lips and in the drowning quietness it sounded as loud as bells.

Unsurely, you gradually turned on your hill to face your perpetrator.

A sinful smile plastered on his face followed by a half lidded probing eye welcomed you. The Prince studied you, trying to decipher the new persona you had put on.

“You’ve changed.” Silk out of his mouth.

“And you haven’t? My Prince.” A mischievous grin across your face.

“Don’t do that.” The man almost whined, gaze never leaving your lips. As if you pulled him by some otherworldly force, he came closer and had difficulty with constraint. A finger ghosted over your wrist.

“Careful, Aemond.” His name, honey leaking off your tongue for him.

He didn’t entertain you with an answer, just proceeded to intensify his already burning stare.

Granting his wish, you grasped him by the sleeve and pulled him inside your chambers. Now in the privacy provided by closed doors, only for the Gods to judge you, Aemond closed the space between you even more.

Not wanting to break, he allowed himself to put his hands below your elbows, gently holding you in place. Noses dancing in synchrony, inhaling each other, eye contact unbreakable, he spoke between the vulnerability of the two of you.

“Has there been anyone?” A firm whisper you swallowed.

“Only you.” Exhaling.

“It will always be you.”

A grunt from his chest escaped his throat. His palm climbed upward and spasmed on your skin when he registered your response.

“Please,” Desperation spilling from his gaze, which never left your mouth.

The softness you knew him by could be seen on his face now, a stark comparison to his escapades in the dining hall. The prince nudged your nose with his and marveled at you with fondness. As if you were a bird in his hard embrace, about to fly away any second.

The desire to trifle with him grew by the second. Cupping the side of his face, you positioned his lips by your cheek and you quietly said.

“Kiss me, Aemond”

The Prince planted his lips below your cheekbone with such sentiment you melted into his touch. Meeting his eye with a half lidded, lustful look you took a moment to take his beauty in.

“Kiss me.” Aemond almost childishly insisted. His hands gripped at your sleeves with whatever control remained in him.

You grabbed both sides of his face and planted a chaste kiss on the tip of his nose. Your Prince granted you with a vexed look. You were getting to him.

All kind of courtesy had been thrown out the window now, his palm travelled up your arm and found its designated place. With a firm hold on your jaw, he angled your face upwards and enveloped your lips in a kiss. With his other arm he pressed your bodies even more, two fingers between your chin, he pulled away to look you dead in the eyes.

As if the start had been set or maybe it was the way you clung to him, he devoured you. Palm traversing to the base of your neck, forbidding distance. It was hungry, full of need. Teeth clunked and hands roamed. You found the back of his head and grabbed a fistful of silky hair, resulting in a moan from the man before you.

As if not by your own control you grinded against the leather of his pants. Lips never leaving yours, he clutched you by the hips and fixed you upon his thigh. Your moan was used as an entrance to go deeper into your mouth. Feeling a bite on your lip, you turned to liquid in his embrace. Pulling away for air, you gasped in each other’s faces, foreheads pressed together. You could not contain your adoration just for yourself anymore.

“You’re beautiful.” You muttered against his disheveled appearance.

Aemond growled and grabbed you below your ass, hands kneading at the flesh, mouth attacking below your ear. He started moving towards the cushions by your bed. Already drunk on his touch, every move made you squirm and whimper, which excited the beast who held you even more.

Your Prince gently placed you on top of a bunch of pillows. Continuing his attack on the front of your neck, sloppily marking you as his. Palm found the base of your breast and experimentally squeezed, followed by wanton moan from your mouth which rang in the air. Studying your reactions and committing everything to mind, every crevice and reaction. You were his treasure to explore.

Mouth travelling south, leaving sinful trails behind, Aemond paused and looked at you.

“Where did my nickname disappear, love?” He slyly remarked. Hands travelling below to bunch your skirts up.

“You think yourself little, my Prince?” You played his game.

Receiving a bite below your breast as an answer. Your hands clung to his hair, pulling and loving.

While Aemond took to tend to your other breast, twirling your nipple between slender fingers, he found himself under your chemise, pressing two digits against your core.

A lecherous moan fell from your mouth, lids closing.

“One would think you were excited to see me, my lady.” He huffed while bumping his knuckle against your clit.

“You’re already so excited.” Promiscuousness laced in his tone.

You were a tangled mess, huffing and breathing heavily, hands taped to his body, desperately trying to find friction.

“Please, Aemond.” You pleaded.

The Prince was close to receiving what he so desired.

“It is impolite to not use your words, my lady.”

You grabbed him by the collar around his neck and whispered into his mouth.

“Touch me, my Prince, it is unknown to you for how long I have desired this.” Kissing him hard as to prove your point.

It was all he needed.

“You will have to excuse me for the rudeness later, love” He plainly stated then proceeded to rip your dress open. Mouth latching to your already red nipples and giving it all the love it deserves.

He moved your undergarments aside and pressed a thumb to your pearl. All the moans and pleads which left your mouth spur him on more. Palm dug into your side, while he inserted a finger into you.

“I missed you so much” True sadness in his tone.

Finger pumped in and from your heat.

“And why is it you looked at me only once during dinner?”

His tongue travelled to the sensitive spot below your ear, sucking hard. Adding a second digit he continued massaging your clit.

No coherent thoughts were left inside your mind so an answer he did not receive. Feeling you clamp around his fingers, he pulled them out. A gasp of protest escaped you but you were quickly shut down. The digits which glistened with your arousal were now inside his mouth, savoring them.

“Sit up.” He commanded and you obliged your Prince.

He made you sit on his lap. Firm grasp on your hips held you down. His length prominent against your heat, you moved against him. Receiving a hiss, you perked up against Aemond even more.

“I want to watch you come undone on top of me,” Placing a hand on your chin making you look him in the eye. “..and for you to look me in the eye”

Anchoring on his slender shoulders, you started grinding against his thigh. Your mewls fusing with his grunts, he kissed you sloppily. It didn’t take you long to come close, so you latched off his mouth, cupped his cheek.

“I need you, my Aemond.” You puffed, out of breath.

You reached your peak and collapsed on top of him. Trying to catch your breath, you stroked silver strands which fell over his chest. Feeling whole again, as if life had color again.

“You will always have me.” Your Prince longfully expressed.

==============================================================

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#hotd aemond #prince aemond #house of the dragon aemond #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #game of thrones #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #hotd imagine

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emilykaldwen · 3 months

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The Maiden and the Drowning Boy

Rating: Explicit Chapters: 12/25, part 1 of 3 Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong, Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

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Chapter Twelve- Bastard on the Burning Sea

Before him was King’s Landing. The Red Keep high atop Aegon’s Hill was a monument of epic proportions, bright as a beacon compared to the dark stone that made up the fortress of Dragonstone. Gulls cried and flew across the water, the bay teaming with ships heading out to sea and trade ships bearing banners of Pentos and Lys, of Braavos and even a dark ship from Asshai coming in to drop off their trade. Behind him, the crew of Laena’s Song hollered to and fro, preparing to drop anchor. His stomach knotted uncomfortably with nerves and he rolled his shoulders beneath the bleached linen of his shirt. His black and red jerkin was tossed negligently over a barrel and Jace looked over his shoulder at the sailors moving across deck and wished he could simply stay rather than step back on land. Or better yet he could take to the sky. Vermax let out another shriek and dove towards the wave to scoop up a mouthful of fish, dodging past Moondancer’s attempt to steal them. His jade scales covered in gold markings gleamed and glimmered in the sunlight like a gem, like the jade that his mother called him. Little jadeling. His lavender eyes were drawn behind him in the direction of Dragonstone, too far for him to see, and too far to relieve the ache of homesickness in his chest.

@fyeahhotdocs, @ocappreciation, @stannisfactions, @fragilestorm, @starcrossedjedis, @darkwolf76, @arrthurpendragon, @dopedaegus, @hiddenqveendom, @mantillon, @lightofthearrow, @songsonacliffside, @acrossthesestars, @insabecs, @moireia, @dragonsbone, @corporalicent, @jadore-andor, @selfproclaimedunicorn, @gwenllian-in-the-abbey, @notbloodraven, @impales, @arcielee, @thesunfyre4446, @duxbelisarius, @thatmagickjuju, @dream-beyond-the-fantasy, @qyburnsghost, @godswood-girl, @randomdragonfires, @mimikoflamemaker, @murmel-malt, @rainwingmarvel7, @solisarium, @tremendouswolfsaladranch

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usafphantom2 · 6 months

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Why, 100 years later, the power of aircraft carriers is still incomparable

The U.S. response to the recent attack on Israel highlights the lasting usefulness of aircraft carriers.

Fernando Valduga By Fernando Valduga 12/11/2023 - 18:57in Military, War Zones

On October 8, a few hours after the unprecedented attack on Israel, the Pentagon publicly resorted to its greatest military resource. While the clashes between Israeli forces and Hamas terrorists continued throughout southern Israel, Secretary of Defense Lloyd Austin ordered the aircraft carrier USS Gerald R. Ford to enter the eastern Mediterranean Sea.

The mobilization made it very clear that the U.S. had become aware of the crisis and was preparing to respond. He also made it clear that - despite recent pronouncements that question their value, given their surprising cost and vulnerability - aircraft carriers are still part of modern war.

HMS Argus, widely considered the first aircraft carrier in the world in the 1920s.

The aircraft carrier is just over a hundred years old. Initially conceived as a warship scout to locate the enemy fleet with its aircraft, the Imperial Japanese Navy demolished this concept during World War II, uniting several aircraft carriers to create an attack force with greater range and heavier attack capacity than a line of warships.

The attack on Pearl Harbor, when six aircraft carriers attacked the U.S. Pacific Fleet in Hawaii, catapulted the aircraft carrier to the top as the dominant weapons system in the seas.

When a weapon reaches the top of your domain, it is natural to assume that someday your reign will end. The Greek phalanx, the knight, the battleship, the warship and other weapons dominated the land and the sea, only to be set aside - violently and unceremoniously - by a new and innovative weapon. Aircraft carriers have remained at the top of the war in multiple domains for more than 80 years, and not even a new weapon has been designed that could replace them.

USS Liscome Bay transporting aircraft to San Diego on September 20, 1943. (Photo: U.S. Navy)

Admirals like to point out that a Nimitz or Ford class aircraft carrier represents "4.5 acres of American sovereign territory". Aircraft carriers are owned by the U.S. government and are so large that they are effectively American territory - a floating island of American power that can move anywhere in the world's oceans. In addition, wherever they go, American territory remains, and their actions are not limited by anyone except the U.S. government... and the enemy.

This advantage is particularly evident in the Israel-Gaza crisis. The U.S. military maintains air bases around the world, but coverage is irregular. The closest American air base to Israel is the Incirlik air base in Turkey, at a distance of 300 miles away. Aircraft flying from Turkey to Israel would also have to fly over Syria, a hostile country with its own air force. Giving Syria ample space would require flying about 160 extra kilometers and fighter escorts, increasing the complexity of reaching Israel. Another layer of complexity is that the Turkish host government may not be politically in agreement with the U.S. government on the mission.

The aircraft carrier USS Gerald R. Ford, on the other hand, can anchor in international waters off the coast of Israel and get as close as it wants (although not very close, since Hezbollah operates anti-ship missiles). Ford's four F/A-18E/F attack fighter squadrons have a straight and uninterrupted line to any point on the eastern Mediterranean coast. The U.S. government can order Ford to do everything it wants, including ordering it to combat, without the need for coordination with a host government. This ensures that the U.S. government, which is not exactly known for making quick decisions, can quickly take unilateral measures when necessary.

The current role of aircraft carriers includes the carrying out of air strikes against terrorist groups such as ISIS, Hezbollah and Hamas, and the dropping of guided bombs on enemies who cannot really react. This was true 20 years ago, when the end of the Cold War and September 11 changed the Pentagon's focus from the war between great powers to counter-insurgency. But although the mission has changed, the broad capabilities have remained the same and the aircraft carriers are still able to face threats on a broad spectrum, from ISIS to the People's Liberation Army of China.

Combat is not the only mission that aircraft carriers can perform. Aircraft carriers can carry out humanitarian assistance and humanitarian aid missions in real time, such as those carried out by the USS Ronald Reagan after the Fukushima earthquake in 2011. While Japan and the United States mobilized to rescue survivors and assess the damage, the Reagan served as a floating helipad for helicopters from both countries in an area where local airports and airfields were destroyed by earthquakes and tsunamis. Nothing else can function as a mobile and disaster-proof airfield as an aircraft carrier.

The U.S. government uses aircraft carriers to communicate with both friends and enemies, both as an instrument of assurance and intimidation. Although the aircraft carriers had not yet been invented when Teddy Roosevelt first said, "speak softly and carry a big club", they are the great club exemplified. Nothing draws more attention than a full-fledged aircraft carrier attack group arriving in the neighborhood, with 44 attack fighters, a cruiser and two destroyers in tow, and a nuclear-powered attack submarine prowling somewhere nearby.

Aircraft carriers can signal the intention like no other weapons system. If an attack submarine appears on your shore, you will probably have no idea that it is there. If a B-2 stealth bomber crew is training to attack targets in your country, you won't know unless they execute the mission. But if an aircraft carrier appears on your coast, it's impossible not to know. It is also a clear sign that you are on Washington's radar - and not in a good way.

From time to time the usefulness of aircraft carriers is questioned. Usually, it is only a matter of months before something, such as the ongoing crisis in Israel and Gaza, proves its usefulness again.

Aircraft carriers have their problems: they are expensive to buy, expensive to operate and expensive to discard when they end their useful life. Still, in a crisis, there is no other weapon system that can do so much before even firing a shot. Someday, something will replace the aircraft carrier - but that day is not today.

Source: Popular Mechanics

Tags: Military Aviationaircraft carrierUSN - United States Navy/U.S. NavyWar Zones - Middle East

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Fernando Valduga

Aviation photographer and pilot since 1992, has participated in several events and air operations, such as Cruzex, AirVenture, Dayton Airshow and FIDAE. He has work published in specialized aviation magazines in Brazil and abroad. Uses Canon equipment during his photographic work in the world of aviation.

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lullabyes22-blog · 6 months

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Mal de Mer - A Silco x Mel Piece - Ch: 1~ A Tide, Rising

Summary:

A high-seas honeymoon. Two adversaries, bound by matrimony. A future full of peril and possibility. And a word that neither enjoys adding to their lexicon: Compromise.

War was simpler business…

Part of the 'Forward But Never Forget/XOXO' AU. Can be read as a standalone series.

Mal de Mer on AO3

Mal de Mer on FFnet

CHAPTER

I - II - III - IV

꧁꧂

A honeymoon, they say, seldom sets the tenor for matrimony.

Rather, that tenor is set by the bride: her willingness to be wooed by the ebbs and flows of fate—indifference, infidelity, intrigue. Or, the tenor is set by the groom: his readiness to weather the storms—dejection, disharmony, despair. But in time, they say, life anchors itself to safe harbors. The sky may darken; the waves may crash the hull and splinter the timber. But soon a path is carved out and a safe berth is reached.

And, at long last, the ship of marriage settles to a staid old couple, side by side on the porch, rocking together as the evening of life slides, like the day before it, into the gentleness of that good night.

In time, they say.

They, whoever they are, say a lot, don't they?

They say even less that's worth hearing.

꧁꧂

For Mel Medarda, there was no they. There was only she: Ambessa of House Medarda, its illustrious lineage stretching back, unbroken, for three hundred years.

There was only her glory as the Immortal Bastion's most celebrated military strategist and its de facto Commander General. There was only her legacy of victories, from the Battle of the Black Mast, where she'd sent the Zhyunian warships fleeing with their prows between their legs, to the Siege of the Bel' Zhun, where, at the head of one thousand troops, she'd broken through the great sandstone gates of the Shuriman city like a knife through butter. There was only her legend, doused in blood and lit with flames, spreading as far as the sun, and as deep as the tides.

She, the warrior. She, the victor. She, the conqueror.

She, Mel's mother.

Since the nursery, Mel—who'd been schooled by the Grand Matron herself in the arts of Noxian womanhood—was dutybound to uphold her mother's heritage, to keep it burnished and blazing as a sun-stone. And, when the time came, she would pass the glory down to the next generation, and so forth, ad infinitum.

Pass down, too, her mother's lessons.

"I am your mother, little one," she'd say, after catching Mel sobbing into a pillow after a tiring day of mastering the art of the Fallgren blade. "I am your liege, not your friend. I am not here to kiss your tears or dry your sorrows. I am here to see that you survive life’s hardships, and one day, rise to greatness."

Or:

"There is no love in the world, child," she'd say, after catching Mel sighing over a Morrinese portrait of two young men, embracing beneath a trellis of flowering white magnolia. "There is only the prettied-up lie to hide the hungers we dare not bare, except behind the locked door of a bedchamber."

Or:

"War is the natural order, girl," she'd say, as Mel stood trembling on the deck of her mother's favorite frigate, overlooking the Kalmanda port, its streets despoiled by Noxian soldiers eager to take and, when the taking was done, take some more. "It is the way of all things to grow, expand, consume. The only difference between the war of man and the war of nature is the tools wielded."

And, always:

"Men will come, and go," she'd say, after Mel's first, second, third suitor had fled to the ends of Runeterra to avoid her mother's ire, leaving her wed to her work and her books, her art and her ambition, her loneliness and the long, sleepless nights where she'd cry into her pillow, having learned to do so without sound. "They will leave you for a pink-cheeked handmaid. Or a round-arsed boy. Or they will die on the field, leaving their seed in a stranger's belly. They will leave you because your beauty has faded. Or your body has failed. Or, worst of all, your power has outgrown theirs. They will always leave."

"But I won't," Ambessa would add, tipping Mel's chin up, her eyes alight with a pride that warmed her daughter from crown to soles—and yet left her cold, as if a ghost had passed through her. "I will always be here. And my lessons will always stand. So, too, must you. Stand, daughter. And carry on our lineage."

And, Mel, with a smile of spotless serenity, and a fire for better hidden deep in her heart, would say, "Yes, Mother."

And, on the eve of her wedding, Ambessa, her shadow filling the entire room, towered over Mel—who sat before her vanity, daubing her lips with blood-red Fallgren cosmetic, her bedroom wall adorned with Morrinese paintings of lovers' trysts in flower gardens, her carved-mahogany wardrobe stocked with sumptuous gowns of Kalamanda silk brocade, her escritoire heaped with dozens of letters from suitors devastated by her upcoming nuptials, her bedsheets still scented with her husband-to-be's cologne, before he'd dressed and departed with a kiss that hadn't left her skin for the remainder of the day—and she said:

"You will regret this."

"Perhaps." Mel stared into the mirror, her smooth visage and her mother's scarred one, twinned. "But I will never regret that the choice was mine."

"He is not worthy of you."

"He is the leader of a nation. A king—though Zaunites detest the term."

"If he's a king, then his kingdom's a cesspool."

"A cesspool of gold and gems." Mel dipped her brush into the pot and dabbed it, expertly, across her lips. "The wealthiest cesspool in Runeterra."

"And he, an upjumped thug who'd slit your throat if the wind blew the wrong way."

"The wind only blows one way, Mother. Forward."

Ambessa's shadow grew taller. "Then I will sweep him off the board."

"You would start a war over a wedding?"

"You would shackle yourself to a shark to avoid it? I taught you better, child."

"You taught me wrong."

Ambessa's shadow darkened the whole room, like a moon eclipsing the sun. Mel's smile did not dim.

"We have shared interests, Mother," she said, setting the brush down: lips painted, poise perfect. "Shared enemies, too. We work well together. We understand each other. United, we'd protect our borders. Strengthen our cities. Secure our future."

"Future?" Ambessa scoffed. "What's a future steeped in slime, and tainted with soot? That's the world he will leave behind. And you, his willing accomplice."

"A world of equity instead of elitism. Of cooperation instead of conquest."

"So, you'd sell us to the lowest bidder, is that it?"

"I would unite us under a single banner."

Ambessa's eyes, two golden rings in the dark, glowed searingly hot.

"Marriage is not a merger, Mel. It does not seal two souls together. Marriage is a sea unto itself. Its tides are fickle. Its depths are unplumbed. There are dangers in the currents, and monsters in the murk. If you try to tame it, it will swallow you."

"I'm a strong swimmer, Mother."

"Your husband will be stronger. A shark never slithers to the surface to breathe. He stays, silent, waiting for the prey to come to him."

Rising, Mel smoothed out the folds of her gown. "We do have a ceremony scheduled today."

"That is not what I meant!"

"Then what did you mean, Mother?!"

Mel swiveled to face her. The general, the warrior, the legend. And she, the girl again: no more than a living vessel to hold the Medardas' lessons. Lessons too great for her small body to contain. Lessons that left cracks in the heart, and scars on the psyche.

But the mind and heart are strong muscles. They grow, through hardship and heartbreak.

And Mel's had grown to equal Ambessa's in every dimension.

"The sea," Mel said, "is no dark morass. It connects us all, shore to shore. Marriage is the same. It doesn't just bring two halves together. It takes them to horizons beyond anything you can imagine."

"I have imagined everything, Mel. I've seen all the horrors the world can conjure, and survived."

"And yet, you've learned nothing."

Silence. Her mother's eyes bored into hers. Searching for weakness; finding nothing. Mel's spine had grown equal to her mother's, too. She was, strangely, proud of that.

Nothing Ambessa had taught her would be forgotten. And nothing Ambessa had done would be repeated. For better or worse, Mel had learned her mother's lessons.

And now, she'd make them her own.

"Mark me, child," Ambessa said, her deep voice charged as thunder, "This is no victory. You're sailing into uncharted waters. And he will drag you down until you never resurface."

"Then we will go together."

"To the grave?"

"To the future."

Ambessa's shadow shrank. Her smile was a thin, brittle thing. Sad, almost. A glimpse of the woman beneath the legend. "As you say, Councilor Medarda of Piltover."

"As I say."

"But remember. When you are drowning, and he leaves you, gasping, to die. Remember that I did not wish it to end like this."

"It won't."

"Remember."

"It won't, Mother."

"And remember, also," Ambessa stepped closer. With a callused hand, she cupped Mel's chin, the way she'd done when Mel was a child, and her touch was the only anchor in a storm, "if he leaves, as men always do, you will still have a home. With me. With our legacy. That, no one can take from you."

"I know, Mother."

"Remember."

And, saying so, she swept out of the room. And Mel, alone, was left to stare into the mirror: the bride’s serene smile a mask for the churning sea below.

꧁꧂

That was three weeks ago.

Now, Mel is a married woman, navigating the sea, with its currents, and its depths, and its monsters.

And the waters, she admits, are choppier than expected.

The SS Woe Betide—("A fitting name," her new husband declared, "for a ship bound for a honeymoon.")—is an ironclad warship built for the mercantile fleet of a Piltovan privateer, long deceased. After her owner's demise, the vessel was repurposed for diplomatic missions and state functions.

She is outfitted with the finest appointments: elegant cabins, sumptuous dining halls, and a grand ballroom for entertaining foreign dignitaries. The interior is decorated in the Art Nouveau style, which was all the rage in Piltover in those days: hand-etched moldings; marble and onyx floors; and a glass domed ceiling that evoked a celestial firmament, its colors changing with the time of day.

It is also, by Mel's count, a floating deathtrap.

She'd boarded the ship in the bloom of health. By high tide, they'd slipped past the Hex-Gates, and were southbound along the coastline. Their destination was a remote Ionian archipelago: a place of white sands, swaying palms, and aquamarine seas, where a private villa awaited the newlyweds.

The retreat was no passionate debauch. Rather, it was an overture to Piltover's long-standing allies. To that effect, Mel had chosen invitations with the same care as Ambessa's military campaigns chose artillery. Each passenger was a heavy hitter hailing from the high-society circles of Piltover, Demacia, Ionia and Noxus.

They'd be joining her and Silco at the villa, where, over the course of a fortnight, they'd feast on the finest fare, toast to the sweetest wines, and, in time, forge lasting bonds of amity and alliance between Piltover—and Zaun.

She'd planned every detail: the itinerary, the entertainment, the ambience.

By nightfall, it had all gone to hell.

The onset was subtle. A touch of nausea. An ache behind the eyes. A fatigue she'd attributed to nerves—or temper. For years, she'd navigated the glittering circles of statecraft like a waltz. She knew better than most how treacherous the steps could be.

But she'd not anticipated her guests' antipathy toward Silco.

Her husband's reception into their exalted sphere has been decidedly antagonistic. Most of Mel's clique were accustomed to dealing with new money. New power was another matter entirely. For many, Zaun remained a mere extraction colony. The rest: its culture, its art, its innovations, was either begrudged or belittled.

Sometimes right in Silco's earshot.

Of course, they know his history as a firebrand. To some, it was an amusing eccentricity, something they'd boast about encountering in the same vein as a savage tribe from the jungles of the Targonian Steppes. To others, it was an affront to their stations, and a portent of just how close the world was to tipping out of balance.

On his part, Silco kept his temper. He'd played the part of the polished politician for a half-decade by now. In a social sphere where the smallest slip of etiquette could signal an irredeemable descent in station, his bearing was so faultless as to verge on parodic. He relished taking the elite's rules, and twisting them to his ends, like a street urchin filching food off a banquet table.

There's little to learn, he's often sneered to Mel, from a roomful of fools so far up their own arses, they'd mistake their wind for incense.

Zaunites, Mel thinks dryly, have a gift for metaphor.

He'd held his composure admirably throughout the banquet. But when an over-served Noxian baron had slurred a disparagement about Jinx, spurred on by a tableful of sycophants, she'd seen that telltale switch in Silco's eyes: that flicker that transformed them from precision instruments to lethal crosshairs.

His reply was languidly polite. But the subtext was a dagger: barely felt until blood seeped through the doublet. Most guests were too thickheaded to pick up on it. The Baron and his retinue, on the other hand, took umbrage and returned the thrust, clumsily.

By the night's end, they'd made fools of themselves, and had to be escorted out—to Silco's dark satisfaction.

But the damage was done.

A chill set over the rest of the dinner. It lingered long after the final course was served. By the time dessert was cleared away, Mel had felt the tension, like a lit fuse. Silco had retired early, citing a headache. And she'd let him go: a costly mistake.

They were married. She should have gone with him. Stood by his side, and shown solidarity—as a wife ought to.

Instead, she'd stayed to mitigate the fallout—as a diplomat must.

She'd smoothed ruffled feathers with a mot juste and doused smoldering tempers with a coy anecdote. She'd spun circles around the room, as a circus star spins plates, keeping fragile alliances from collapsing and precarious friendships from falling apart. She'd danced the dance she'd perfected, and won applause. Won handshakes, and smiles, and pledges of support.

All while the room spun, the lights dimmed, and the air thinned like a drowning breath.

By midnight, she'd retired to their suite.

Silco was idling by the porthole, a silhouette against the starless night. His cigarette cherry glowed and died with each drag. In the glow, his left eye was a depthless black.

That was the first sign, she'd learned. In his worst rages, the bad eye went dead.

A void that sucked in all light, and spat out nothing.

Mel, daughter of Ambessa Medarda, was no coward. She was born to a family of warmongers. Her own temper was a high-spirited thing: quick to flare, quicker to fizzle. But years of playing politics had taught her the fine art of deflection. In a spar, it wasn't the force of the blow that counted; it was the grace of the parry. Her precision strikes, sheathed in cool courtesy, could disarm the strongest opponent. And her shield of charm, backed by steel conviction, could deflect the nastiest volley.

As a stateswoman, she'd cut down men twice her size, with nothing but a well-chosen word.

Her husband was no ordinary man.

In public, he was a study of calm. In private, he was a raging sea. Mel could neither deflect, nor disarm. The harder she pushed, the more he unbalanced her. The tighter she held, the more he slipped through her fingers. And when she let him go, she'd lose him for days: to schemes, to silence, to shadows.

His anger was like his city. It took root and grew in darkness. And, once ignited, it consumed everything. It was the pyre that'd left hundreds dead in the wake of his revolution. It was the fire that'd kept his nation alive, against all odds.

And her guests, Mel knew, were the tinder that lit the flame.

Now his city was a rising inferno, and their hostility was colored by fear. Fear of what they could not control. Fear of what they didn't understand. Fear that the world's tectonic plates were cracking beneath their feet, and the devils in the depths, ready to drag them down.

And I will, Silco's eyes vowed. I will.

Marriage, Ambessa always said, is a tilted territory. If you don't stake your claim, the ground will slide out from under you.

And instead of a husband, you'll have an enemy in your bed.

And she, Mel, had failed to stake her claim. She'd let him down. Chosen sides when there should have been none.

Now she must weather the storm.

So, shoulders squared, she'd stepped into the cabin.

And they'd fought.

Fought like they'd never fought before. Not the fights that've become a kind of foreplay: the static between them, of sparring and subterfuge, melting into pure sensation. Not the fights that've defined their alliance: political posturing and personal grievance tangling into a web of illicit trust. Not the fights that've forged their bond: betrayal and blackmail spun in the dark, and the forgiveness that comes with the dawn.

This was a fight to the death. A fight, conversely, for their very survival. The lastingness of their marriage. The legitimacy of their union. Their lives, and the future.

And it was a fight she'd lost.

By one o'clock, her head was spinning. By two, the room was spinning. By three, the room was gone. She'd collapsed on the carpet in a heap of velvet and taffeta. Her last waking memory was Silco, kneeling over her, calling her name. She'd wanted to answer him. She'd tried.

And failed that, too.

Afterward, she'd learned that Silco had carried her to bed, and summoned the ship's physician. He was a stolid gray Yordle who'd outlived the Void Wars: more adept at patching up gunshot wounds than the ills of the mind. He'd checked her vitals, prodded and probed, and made dire pronouncements in his quaint parlance.

Mel had drifted in and out. But from the back-and-forth between Silco and the doctor, she'd gathered the gist:

—Mal de Mer.

—What in Kindred's name is that?

—You know: seasickness.

—The treacherous bitch.

—Your wife?

—The sea. We never should've crossed her.

Mel, half-drowning, choked on the irony. For weeks, she'd prepared for their journey. She'd reviewed the manifest, vetted the menu, stockpiled the supplies. She'd known, in advance, what each guest's preferences were: aversions, allergies, indulgences. The Demacian dowager's penchant for sugar cubes. The Noxian duchess's fondness for a good red. The Piltovan Exchequer's craving for a dirty blonde.

She'd accounted for every contingency.

Except her own.

The doctor's prescription was straightforward: a week of bedrest. No wine, no spirits, no salted fare. Only silence and sleep.

A bride, Mel thinks, bedridden on her honeymoon.

Her mother would've laughed herself sick.

Politics and warfare, Ambessa always said, are zero-sum games.

So, Mel is learning, is marriage.

In both cases, the honeymoon is the loser.

꧁꧂

The SS Woe Betide is in its last leg, a day away from the archipelago.

The slant of evening sunrays fills the promenade deck. The air is balmy; the scent of frangipani wafts in the breeze. Tinkling music floats up from the ballroom. The revelry of the passengers, enjoying the last night of their cruise, is in full swing.

Inside the cabin, Mel's body is a languid starfish on cool sheets. Her ivory chemise—which she'd packed with the full understanding that it'd be worn precisely once, before her new husband ripped the gauzy lace to shreds between his teeth—has been reduced to a makeshift hospital gown. Her hair—loosely swaddled in a silk scarf to keep her locs off the pillow—is a frizzy nimbus. Her complexion is ashen; her eyes dulled to a feverish sheen.

Three weeks ago, she'd wedded the lord of Zaun's underbelly.

Now she's the color of the underworld.

The porthole window admits the barest golden streaks of light. They fall across the foot of the bed, leaving the rest of the chamber in shadow. Not an hour's conjugal bliss has passed between the elegant paneled walls. Not a single sigh has echoed off the brocaded wallpaper.

The groom's devotions—shockingly—have gone unsung.

He'd left at noon, as he does every afternoon, to oversee the ship's affairs. Her husband is a hands-on taskmaster. Or, put differently, a tyrant. Never once does he raise his voice. Yet he steers the voyage as surely as the tides. Everyone, from the quartermaster to the chief of security, snaps to attention at his barest word.

His command of the ship is absolute. But so is his competence. If there's trouble to be sorted, he's the first to wade in and the last to leave. He's a man accustomed to a degree of chaos; wrangling a hundred souls in a single vessel is a breeze compared to keeping a city alive.

The crew, habituated to the idleness of aristocracy, are shocked by his exacting standards. But in short order, they've come to respect him.

And, Mel suspects, fear him.

Fear, Ambessa always said, is the most efficient way to run a household.

Or an empire.

By daytime, her husband's a force to be reckoned with. By nightfall, he's a presence without form. He comes and goes; sometimes slipping in before midnight, other times gone until dawn. In her absence, he's taken over her social duties. At dinner, he greets her guests, engaging in small talk and steering conversation adroitly through the minefield of snobbery and class politics. He fends off inquiries about her condition. When pressed, he demurs, citing privacy.

The gossip, Mel's certain, is that she's either with child—or dying.

Silco's behavior doesn't dispel the rumors. Once the night's agenda runs late, he retreats, like a shadow slipping through cracks. No cigars. No card games. No after-dinner drinks. No company, save his own.

Which, Mel knows, is a dangerous sign indeed.

A tide, rising.

And yet, in its own way, the tide is tender. He never coddles or cossets her. But his vigilance is unceasing. Every morning, she awakens to the scent of sweet teas and steaming broths. He keeps her carafe filled with fresh lemon-water and the fruit basket stocked with her favorites: tangerines, pomegranates, figs. Thrice a day, he's by her bedside, plying her with strange Zaunite tonics: bitter rosemary tinctures; pungent eucalyptus balms; salves of aloe vera that leave cool tingles wherever his fingers trace.

His touch—gentle, impersonal—is that of a medic, not a lover. And yet Mel can't help but be aware of him, in this space, in these hours.

His rage is a slow burn.

But so is his devotion.

Her own mother, Mel thinks ruefully, would've jettisoned her to the closest shore. She would've left Mel to the mercy of the doctors, and the ministrations of her servants.

Or, lacking either, to fend for herself.

Adversity, Ambessa always said, is an education. It hardens the character. Steels the will.

And, above all, breeds success.

Since the cradle, Mel has been bred for success. Now she's the color of failure. Five days of fever, and her marriage is yet in its infancy. She can't afford to let it falter. Not when so much rides on it. Her career. Her reputation. Her city.

The weight of a world.

And yet, for all that, she feels so very light. Her only constants are the sway of the ship, and her husband's return.

At the porthole, the glass glows gold. The last wisp of sun sinks into the sea. Mel's eyes are drawn to a flash of light on the horizon. A streak of red brightens the twilit skies. A signal flare, launched by the SS Woe Betide, alerting a nearby freighter of their approach. A beat later, a second flare rises in the distance.

The call-and-response is an old one, shared by ships everywhere:

I am here.

"Mel."

She starts.

A silhouette fills the doorway. A lean man: sharp-cut, spare. The angular peaks of his shoulderblades jut beneath his suit jacket. His eyes, like two-toned crosshairs, catch the flare's dying light like an inferno on calm sea.

The Devil, cometh.

With her supper.

"You're back," Mel says, a little muzzy.

"I am."

"It's not yet six."

"We're a day from the island. All's in order."

"But—"

"Hungry? Here's soup."

The soft click as the door shuts. The softer sound of his footfalls. The rest is shadow. But Mel's senses, attuned, feel his proximity the way a compass feels the North. Instinctively, her body shifts, seeking. The hairs on her nape rise. Her skin pebbles.

A primordial instinct that whispers: Beware.

She'd felt the same sensation during their first meeting, in Zaun's fire-gutted harbor. In a single step, he'd filled the space. And she'd looked him in the eye, and known:

This man will change everything.

Including me.

Now, here he is, changing her again. His silhouette reappears at the vanity, then the bedside. His movements are languid, liquid, predatory. There's a rustle of fabric, then the delicious scent of tobacco, bergamot, and of him. A moment later, something is set down on the side table: a tray, judging by the clink.

The lamp clicks on. In the sudden buttery glow, Mel blinks. There he is: a loom of living color.

The Eye of Zaun.

And, as of three weeks, her husband.

He's dressed with his usual sleek austerity: a sable-dark suit, a silver-embroidered waistcoat, and a white cravat pinned with a crooked blue jewel in the Zaunite fashion. His good eye, with its glowing twin in the scoured socket, is a half-lidded blue-green. The rest of him is a cipher.

Before their first meeting, Mel had read his dossier, cover to cover. A Fissure-bred industrialist with a chip on his shoulder. A criminal kingpin with a taste for bloodshed. A ruthless, uncompromising zealot who'd razed a city, and reclaimed its ruins as an independent state.

Not a man, she'd been warned. A monster.

A warning, Ambessa always said, is often an invitation.

And the devil is in the details.

Mel's first impression was of a man whose life had left its marks. Her second was of a man who wore the marks well. Her third was of a man who'd lay his own. Across her city, her skin, her self. Marks that would sear, and stay, and shape her future.

Her fourth impression—her last—was:

I want this.

I want him.

And I will have him.

Now, she watches as he lifts the lid off the tray. Steam spirals. Supper, unveiled, is a light fare. Fish broth. Steamed dumplings. Fresh mangoes. From a tall carafe, he pours a drink—hot lemon-water infused with honey.

Placing the glass in Mel's hands, he perches at the edge of the bed.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, in those silk-on-gravel tones.

"I believe Jinx has a term for it."

"Oh?"

"The blahs."

He smiles. She likes his smile, the barely-there crook of lips. Likes his lips, cool and dry, and how they feel against her skin. She'd like to feel them now. One touch, and she's sure her fever would break. One taste, and she'd be anything but blah.

Except she can't recall the last time they kissed.

Not since—well, her collapse.

"I've a few terms myself," Silco says. "Profane ones."

"I suspect you and Jinx have that in common."

"We've a mutual dislike for doctors."

"They do tend to be tedious."

"Especially the incompetents."

He presses a hand against her breastbone. Mel hitches a breath. It's a light touch, but his palm is heavy. The coolness seeps deliciously into her skin.

"I believe," he says, "the doctor has misdiagnosed your malady."

"Has he?"

"Your seasickness is not the root. It is the symptom."

"Of what?"

"Marriage."

She laughs, weakly. He does not.

"Marriage," she repeats, "has given me Mal de Mer?"

"Mal de Matrimonium."

"I don't understand."

"Marriage," he says, "is a singular affliction. You'll find the symptoms vary. For some, the first sign is a case of jitters. For others, the it is the absence of jitters. For the rest, there are no signs at all. Just a quick drop, and a sudden death."

"You're being dramatic."

"Am I? You believe you took ill the moment we set sail. You didn't. You've been in a fit of nerves for weeks. I should've understood sooner."

"Medardas are not known for nerves," Mel retorts. "We are a very steely stock."

"Even steel has limits." He drops his palm. "Fortunately, there's a cure."

"What?"

He's already up and off. From the nightstand, he fetches a vial of Shimmer. Medicinal—a special dose distilled by his chemist for treating tropical fevers. Deftly, he uncorks it, then pours three drops into her glass. The liquid turns a pale shade of violet, and begins to fizz.

"Drink up," he says. "That'll put color into those wax cheeks."

"And a roiling stomach. No, thank you."

"It's not a request."

He's so very serious, her husband. All his features are sharpened and elongated, as if drawn to extremes. It's not a handsome countenance, or a tender one. But there is something compelling about the asymmetry of it.

"If," Mel counters, "my ailment is Mal de Matrimonium, as you've diagnosed, then why aren't you affected?"

"Because I'm an old hand."

"You've never once been married."

"I've known my share of bondage. Poverty's an institution. So is matrimony. Your choices, your freedom, your fate. All bound, as surely as Zaun's old chains."

"The chains of Zaun, if I recall, were made of gold."

"So's your ring."

It is. Twenty-four-carat gold, to be exact. It is from Zaun's richest seams; cast into its first bullion. The band is engraved with the sigil of her family crest, and Zaun's dagger-winged emblem. A union of two cultures, forged in blood. The setting is a brilliant cut of emerald, tinted blue, the same hue as his eyes.

The symbol, Mel knows, of loyalty.

Silco's own, a cool platinum band, is a near twin. The only difference: the gemstone. A deep, iridescent ruby. It's a Medarda heirloom—her great-grandfather's. Ambessa had gifted it to Mel on her sixteenth birthday.

A symbol, she'd said gravely, of your proud heritage.

Mel had never worn it, much less coveted it. The Medardas' legacy of strife, treachery, and warfare wasn't one she wanted weighing on her finger.

Or her soul.

And yet, when she'd met Silco, it had felt fitting. His was a world of hard choices and harder lines. A world, like the Medardas, where blood was the currency. But a world, unlike the Medardas, where the true bonds were not blood, but will.

Hers, and his, entwined.

She hadn't expected him to accept the ring. He was a proud man, and not one for trinkets. But when she'd slipped it on his finger, it'd fit as if made for him. And she, Mel, had felt a heady thrill she could only liken to how Ambessa must've felt after a battle: the sheer, sublime pleasure of conquest.

I have him, she'd thought. He is mine.

And I am his.

"If matrimony's the affliction," she muses, "perhaps the cure's more of the same."

"Hair of dog?"

"No dogs," she purrs, a hand straying across the coverlet, to his thigh. "Just the man."

He catches her wrist.

"Drink the potion."

"Not even a kiss?"

"Your lips are chapped enough to start a brushfire."

"So?"

"So, you need to replenish your fluids. Drink."

Checkmated, Mel sullenly takes the glass.

He's an unyielding opponent, her husband. Her wiles have little effect. And it's frustrating, when the prize is so close. So close that she can see his pulse, ticking slowly in the hollow of his pale throat. So close his body-heat bleeds between them. So close her temperature spikes, a sweet throb low in her belly.

She wants to be touched. To be held. To be made love to.

She's never been a woman in thrall to her appetites. She's certainly never pined for a man. Seduction is her art, but sex is merely the medium. The satisfaction comes not from the act, but its orchestration: the first chords of desire plucked, the leitmotif of longing threaded imperceptibly through the words, then rising in pitch, octave by octave, until it crests in a crescendo of erupted passion, followed by a coda of mutual relief.

Only then does she claim her prize.

Her husband bypasses the prelude altogether. He hits a raw, primal nerve: one that sings at his barest touch. It's not a dynamic Mel is accustomed to, let alone one she can account for.

But the aftermath is real as her desire.

Except he'd rather nurse her fever than her fantasies. He'd rather sit by her bedside, plying her with illicit potions, than slide under the sheets, and give her a taste of his own. Worse, she can't tell if the denial stems from pure perversity—or if he is playing the long game.

A Medarda, Ambessa always said, revels in a good challenge.

And she, Mel, will revel in her victory, when she has it.

She always does.

"You're smiling," Silco says, a touch suspiciously.

"Simply appreciating the humor of my predicament."

"Sick wives are a feature of tragedies, not comedies."

"I'm a wife of great contradictions."

"That, I knew."

"What? That I'm your wife?"

He laughs. She likes his smile; she loves his laugh. It's a once-in-a-blue-moon bassline: dark, deep, full of grit. Like his city. But it's his eyes that intrigue her most. The red one, all brimstone and shadow, unblinking in its web of scars. The blue one, the ordinary one, that, when the light catches it, is in fact extraordinary.

The window of the soul, the ancients used to say.

Mel believes it. She can see his, even if it's a window to the underworld. When he's guarded, it's a cold and twisting maze. But when he laughs, she glimpses the best parts of him: his ferocity, his ambition, his wit.

He's no fairytale prince. Not by half. More a subterranean beast, his cruel visage shed only by slow degrees. And yet, there's a delight in each discovery. She's always adored puzzles.

And Silco, by law and oath, is all hers.

"I'm thinking," she says, "that the guests likely believe we're locked inside, making mad, passionate love."

"More fool them."

"Oh?"

"You're weak as a kitten," he says flatly. "I'd get more action out of a washrag."

"A washrag? What a thing to say!"

"And yet the washrag proves sturdier, when pressed for service."

"If such was the only service I could offer, I'd give it."

"The only thing you'll give me," he rejoins, "is your empty glass."

"Or?"

"Or—" He looms in, "—I'll pin you down and pour the lot down your gullet."

It's no idle threat. He's a singleminded man, her husband. Once his course is set, he sails it, no matter the obstacles.

A good strategist, Ambessa always said, knows when to pivot.

Mel holds his stare, and lifts the glass. Tipping her head back, she downs the drink in three gulps. The Shimmer hits like a thunderbolt. Lights pop before her eyes. Retching, she doubles over.

The room deliquesces. The bed disappears. She slips, and is suddenly enfolded in a steady embrace.

"Well," Silco says, somewhere above her, "I've seen that look before."

"You—you have?" she says dazedly.

"In the mirror."

Her laugh is nearly a sigh. The warmth spread outward. From her gut, to her fingers, to her toes. From her skin into her blood. Nuzzling Silco's neck, she threads her arms around his waist. He's all hard angles and taut lines, her husband. A man without an ounce of give.

But he's giving her this: the cool cradle of his arms, and his cool palm circling her nape, and his cool breath on her temple.

"Better?"

"I don't know." She licks her lips, a dark sweetness lingering. "It tastes... like you."

"Does it?"

"Mmm. I like it."

His stare goes a little dark, a little eerie. "Never say you've a taste for Shimmer."

"Isn't it Zaun's proudest innovation?"

"For the desperate, it's also bondage. Worse than Mal de Matrimonium. I'd see you die before I see you addicted."

There is no gentleness in his voice. But the graveled intensity pours down her spine. She shivers, eyes closing. She wants, nothing more, than to stay like this, her cheek nestled in the smooth curve of his neck.

By nature, she's tactile; they both are. It's only in the intensity that they differ. He's a man who holds on to his desires, like his rage, like his city: a grip that relinquishes nothing. And she's a woman who's always had her desires at her fingertips: her pleasures, her power.

Betwixt them, there's no middle ground. Only a question of the inevitable: her will, or his.

Against a well-matched opponent, Ambessa always said, your only ally is patience.

Hold your ground, and wait for the tide to turn.

"We have all night," she says, stroking his lapel, "to test your theory."

He doesn't stir. But his voice drops a decibel. "What theory is that?"

"The cure for Mal de Matrimonium."

"There's no antidote to marriage." His notched lip twists. "I only know Shimmer works because I've seen worse cases."

"Of?"

"The blahs."

"Jinx?" she guesses.

The barest nod.

"Was she..." Mel hesitates, "ill, often?"

She senses his withdrawal. It's a subtle thing, the slithering retreat. He's no longer in the room with her, though his body hasn't moved an inch.

It is how he gets when his family is mentioned.

Slowly, he breaks the embrace. She clings, but weakly. The languor is bone-deep. Laying her against the pillows, he nudges the tray closer. The message is plain: Eat.

She does, if only to appease him. The broth is light, satisfying. The dumplings are a burst of ginger and chives. The mangoes, juicy morsels.

It's an intriguing paradox. A full belly and an empty need: coexisting.

Compromising.

Silco, rising, crosses the room. He doesn't go far. At the sideboard, he pours himself a measure of brandy. In the umbra of the lamplight, his features are remote. But he stays, and that, too, is a compromise. It means something.

Something, Mel hopes, that will bridge the gap of fury before her collapse.

"Jinx," he says, "was a strong girl. But not always. Not at first."

Mel waits. She doesn't want to miss a word. His past is a private space, and Jinx, his most precious sanctuary. To breach that sanctity is a risk. To be granted a glimpse is a gift. One she dares not squander.

A single misstep, and he'll close off completely.

"There were... episodes. The first one, I didn't recognize. Or refused to." He swirls the glass. "She'd been in my care a month. She was yet a shadow. Skittish. Sad. Never smiled. Rarely spoke. But the night the sickness took hold, she was a shrieking banshee. I was out. I came home to her thrashing and raving in a fevered stupor."

"What was it?"

"The illness? Mild pneumonia. But the root was something else. Her mind was a battleground. She'd fought, night after night. A war without end. Now she'd succumbed to the wounds, and was losing. I sat by her bedside, and made sure she didn't."

"You took care of her?"

"Who else? Sevika's a competent right-hand. But her maternal streak's as pleasant as my face is pretty. The crew? They're loyal. But they've their limits." He knocks back the brandy, and kisses his teeth. "A child, a girl, alone in the world. That's a degree of vulnerability that invites exploitation."

"By the wrong sort."

He nods. "And there I was: the worst. The only difference was that I understood what she could become. How she could thrive. So I took her in. And when she fell ill, I did whatever was necessary. I fed her, cleaned her, comforted her. When the fever spiked, I kept her cool. When the night terrors came, I chased them away. I did it all for her."

He stops, the shadows gathering.

"And, I confess, I did it for me."

"Silco..."

"It was selfish, really. But when her fever broke, it was the first time I felt... at peace. She was so small. So vulnerable. I'd keep her tucked against my chest, her heartbeat to mine. I'd watch over her, hour after hour. I'd feel her breathe, and I'd breathe, too. In that moment, she was my world. My little universe. My everything."

He stops, refilling the glass.

Mel, touched, imagines young Jinx. A little girl, with scabbed knees and tangled blue braids, and a gap between her teeth. She'd have been a dynamo of energy. An exhausting one, too. Nursing her at her sickbed would've been an act of monumental forbearance.

And love.

"She was lucky to have you," she whispers.

"I was lucky to have her." He shrugs, with the air of a man who's stopped parsing out the threads of fate. "A daughter's a rare thing. It took me time to understand. To see past the complications, and accept what I had. She was a gift. Unexpected. Unlooked for. But she was mine."

His eyes, both, seem to drift. He might be looking at the portrait above the mantle. Or his reflection in the mirror beyond. Or nothing at all.

Nothing but Jinx.

"Her fevers," he says, "were a symptom of her grief. It took time, but she fought them off. The closer we grew, the stronger she became. And soon she'd outgrown the spells. Soon, the nightmares were just that: nightmares. Now she's a grown woman. A capable one. She's still my world, but she's also her own."

He downs his drink: a solo toast.

Something constricts in Mel's chest, affection and envy tugging the same strings. She's never been the maternal sort. Too selfish; too headstrong. Too much her mother's daughter. She's better at finding loopholes in trade disputes than untangling knots in little girls' hair. Better at wielding power like a bonbon on a tray, than baking a birthday cake or kissing a skinned knee.

And yet, Silco makes it seem easy.

He's a father in the same sense that Ambessa is a mother: a force of nature, implacable. He's shielded Jinx, as she's shielded Mel. And yet, for him, fatherhood is neither a foible nor a liability. It's an extension of his steeliest self.

He's a man who, once he loves, loves with everything in him. Even the darkest parts. On the backbone of that darkness, he's forged his city. He's stopped at nothing to give his child everything.

And, the past week, he's shown Mel the same devotion, if only a drop.

But a drop, like any, turns the tide.

Mel whispers, "Thank you."

"What for?"

"For staying. For... taking care of me." She bites her lip. "And, yes, for the Shimmer. It's working, I think. My head is clearer."

"Good." He's silent a moment, as if debating whether to add more. Then: "It's funny."

"What is?"

"When Jinx fell ill, she'd always apologize profusely. As if she thought I'd be angry at the time and trouble. As if a father, doing his damn duty, requires an apology."

"It's a hard lesson to learn." Mel shivers, and not from fever. "Believe me. My mother taught me the same."

"Not tolerant of sniffles, was she?"

Her fingers pluck at the coverlet; a girlhood tic bubbling to the surface. "Not a single tear. I learned, very early, not to cry. And if I fell ill, not to let it show. Else she'd take the pain, and make it worse." A shadow of Ambessa passes over her: a ghost-chill. "She had a way of doing that. She'd twist everything—my hurts, my fears, my failures. Until the pain was the worst thing I knew."

A shadow crosses Silco's face too. The bad eye gleams like old blood.

"How old were you?" he asks. "When she twisted your first fear?"

"Old enough to remember. Young enough to never forget." She smiles wanly. "I'd helped my handmaid hide a stray kitten in my chambers. It was a sweet thing, a tiny tabby. But in our household, there was a rule: no strays. They carried vermin. Plagues. Sometimes, a rival house would slip a sickly mouser into the Medarda stables. The next thing we knew, death was on the hoof." Her smile fades. "I'd found the kitten in the garden. He was caught in the stablehand's trap. Taking pity, I'd freed the poor thing, and given him a hiding place. My handmaid, bless her, even smuggled in a little dish of milk."

She takes a shuddering breath. "I was clever enough to keep it a secret. And foolish enough to pay the price. Soon, the handmaid fell ill. A fortnight later, she was dead. Poisoned, our chemists found, by a toxin in the kitten's claws. I'd survived only because he'd never scratched me. When Mother learnt what I'd done, she was furious. I'd put our family at risk, for a silly whim. I'd cost a loyal servant her life." The bedclothes twist in her fists. "She had the stablehand put the kitten down. Then she made me watch as they burned the handmaid's body. Afterward, I cried myself sick. When I'd finished, she told me: Remember, child. There is a cost to kindness. If you cannot bear to pay it, don't be kind. For the kind are fools. Only the cruel survive."

"Kindred's bones."

Silco looks the way he always does when she talks of Ambessa. Like he isn't sure whether to gut the woman, or to shake her hand. Half-revulsion, half-recognition.

Ambessa, Mel knows, feels the same. Their antipathy is mutual, but so is their respect. Two monsters on opposite polarities, who will not cede an inch to the other. And who, yet, understand each other as no one else can.

And here I am, Mel thinks.

Trying to navigate my way between them.

"Don't misunderstand," she says. "I'm grateful for my childhood. Whatever the cost." For a moment, she smells the ash of her handmaid's funeral pyre. She sees the smoke curling like a black halo around her mother's silhouette. "I had everything a child from a noble family could desire. Clothing. Servants. Luxury." The barest smile. "All the things, as you say, A right proper bitch is bred for."

"Yet here you are," Silco says. "On the far side of proper."

"Here I am." She cradles her elbows in her palms. "My mother is a warrior. A survivor. And the survival of a dynasty is a hard-won thing. In her eyes, my softness could be its downfall. That's why she tried, so hard, to mold me. Why she pushed me, and pressured me, and punished me. So I'd survive." A breath. "And I did. Just not the way she'd hoped."

Silco is silent. He does not do mercy. But he listens. And it's the same, in its way.

"Small wonder," he muses.

"Small wonder, what?"

"Small wonder you turned out the way you did." He tips his near-empty glass. "All that pressure. It can either crush a spirit, or forge it into diamond. It's the same with Jinx. You're as different as night and day. And yet, you're a similar breed."

Mel's smile wavers. "Are we?"

"Driven. Strong. Willful. But you've the same void. All the glitter poured inside won't fill it." He sets the glass down. "Fortunately, the cure's simpler than you'd think."

"Is it?"

"A full belly, and a full night's sleep."

Her tray of supper is taken away. From her armoire, he removes a silk paisley blanket. The fabric, midnight blue, shimmers as it unfolds. It's her favorite; imported from Kalamanda. The weave is impregnated with hyacinth oil, rose hips, tea leaves, sea-salt and spilled ink.

It's the scent of Piltover: her city. Her newfound heart.

She'd packed it with a vague fantasy of sprawling across it, a picnic blanket on a sun-drenched Ionian hillside. With her husband's arm draped around her, his cool palm cupping her skull. His cooler fingers tangling in her hair. The rest of him, tangled in her.

Now, they're together, and there's no fantasy. Only pragmatic hands and a practiced touch. He enfolds her in the blanket, not like a babe but like a meal left to cool. His lips are cool too. They avoid her mouth, drop a kiss to her temple, then withdraw before she can thread her arms around him.

"Rest," he says. "The night's a balmy one."

"Where are you going?"

"To bath, and ready myself for dinner."

He turns, and begins unthreading his cuffs. The vest follows, tossed onto the vanity chair. The cravat is tugged free; the buttons at his collar undone. A pale triangle of skin bares itself. There's no deliberation to the strip-tease. Just a man, methodically disrobing.

And the sight, Mel thinks, is almost unbearably intimate.

The Shimmer is a pooling heat in her body. The silk of her blanket—a light thing—teases her skin. His nearness torments the rest.

She is still a little sore. A little achy. But it's a savoring ache.

A hunger that needs filling.

Catching her ogling, Silco quirks a brow. "Eyes up."

"Can't I admire the view?"

"No." His tone is stern. "This is not a performance. You're meant to rest."

"And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Five days of nothing. And you've not once complained." She lets her lashes fan down and up. "Surely you don't expect me to believe the washrag's proving equal?"

"Not yet," he says, a bitter crook to his lips, "but it's not a bad substitute."

"Is that why you're hurrying? To take matters into your own hands?"

"Better my hand than a guest's."

"A guest?" This is a perturbing pivot. She half-sits up; her chemise strap slips down her left shoulder. "Have you been propositioned?"

"With a missing bride, the groom's fair game."

"Let me guess. The Demacian Countess, dripping in diamonds and innuendo—"

"—a vapid harridan, of whom I am thoroughly sick."

"—the Piltovan exchequer's wife, who's not above a bit of bed-hopping—"

"—an insufferable busybody, whom I plan to toss overboard."

"—the Vastayan princeling, who's famously partial to men with scars."

"That one's partial to anything with a prick." He stops, a glint of slyness in his eyes. "Why? Are you jealous?"

She shouldn't be. It's irrational and foolish and beneath her. She is not a woman easily threatened. Her desirability is her stock-in-trade. She is used to being measured as the superior of the most celebrated sirens, and the brains of the outfit, besides. It's a point of pride.

Yet there is a gut-wrench of possessiveness. The thought of someone's hands on Silco. Of him, touching someone else. A stranger undeserving of the gift.

My husband, Mel thinks, and it's a fierce and terrible burn.

Home territory, Ambessa always said, is to be defended to the last drop.

Else the rot sets in, and the foundation crumbles.

Softly, Mel says, "And if I were jealous?"

Silco's hands still on his buttons. His good eye, in the lamplight, is a green-lit spark.

"I'd tell you," he says, equally soft, "that you're mad."

"With jealousy?"

"With fever."

"Mal de Matrimonium, after all."

"A shared affliction, I can abide." Wryly, he shakes his head. "The clap's a different matter."

"Silco—"

"Sleep it off, petal. Tomorrow, you'll laugh at your silliness."

The endearment—a rarity outside of their pillow talk—pierces through her. She dares a smile: a little teasing, a little raw.

A lot wanting.

"You could," she stretches languidly, and a smooth thigh bares itself from under the coverlet, "join me?"

"The party will start soon."

"Not to sleep. Just to talk."

"About what?"

Silco sits, again, at the foot of the bed. It dips beneath his weight. The mattress, a wide affair, is more than big enough for the both of them.

His palm rests on her ankle. The touch, impersonal before, lingers. Emboldened by this small intimacy, Mel lets her fingers itsy-bitsy-spider up the cuff of his shirtsleeve. The weave is cool; the arm beneath deceptively lean in an armature of sinew and bone.

She thinks of the rapiers her mother kept on display in the gallery: honed, fine, deadly.

But a deft touch, she knows, can disarm even the sharpest blade.

"We could," she says, "talk about our itinerary. The island we'll be staying at is renowned for its beauty. There are waterfalls a stone's throw from our camp. And ruins, where the locals say the gods themselves used to frolic. Or the villa itself: designed to merge nature with civilization. The rooms are like gardens, each with their own sunrooms and fountains. All of it, with a view of the turquoise seas." She toys with his cuff, and watches his face. "I know you like the water."

"I'd like it better if I weren't sharing the villa with a half-dozen parasites."

"Don't think of them," she says coaxingly. "Think of me. Think of you. Think of the possibilities."

"Their security detail? Paid for by my dime. Their staff? Paid for by yours. And the bill?" A scoff. "We're footing that together"

"It's a modest bill. Barely a pittance." Mel's fingertips skitter up his forearm. "Meanwhile, we'll have a wing entirely to ourselves. The most luxurious in the villa. Its own beach, white as snow. Its own grotto, with a natural sauna. Its own garden, full of exotic blooms and birdsong."

"And mites, and mosquitoes, and yet more parasites."

She ignores that, continues to speak in that satiny tone she uses for closing deals. "At night, we could light the bonfire and dine beneath the stars. We could take the yawl out and anchor offshore." Her fingers creep higher, and so does her smile. "We'd make love on the deck, and listen to the sea, and make love again, and listen to the sea."

"And all our guests, with their telescopes, would watch, and lay bets on the size of my cock."

"Let them," she husks. "They'll be most impressed."

His mouth, the unscarred side, crooks. He can smell the game a mile away.

"And in the morning," he says, "if the yawl's not capsized, we'll row ashore. Where we'll join our guests for a breakfast of freshly-squeezed Navori plums, and rashers of smoked Sudaro pig. And you, glowing like a sun goddess from your night under the stars, will query the Demacian countess on her favorite spots for birdwatching. And the Noxian baron, eager to ply his charms, will offer to guide you along the nature trails. And you, with your far superior wiles, will steer the talk toward the fresh air, and the healing properties of the ocean, and how healthy living is the key to a long life. And then, while everyone's chiming their agreement, you'll ask if the guests will be so kind as to invest in Zaun's new filtration plant. The plant you've banked so much coin on." His stare, heavy, settles on her. "Am I wrong?"

Her fingers go still. "How did you know?"

"Because I know you." His thumb circles the jut of her anklebone. "Because I know the playbook. A good con needs three things. The place, the pitch, and the pigeon. You've got the first: a tropical paradise full of freshwater and sunbeams. You've got the second: a roomful of rich marks high off their gourds on said freshwater and sunbeams. And the third, well—" His circling slows. "The third is the least obvious."

"Is it?"

"And the most difficult."

"How?"

"Because he's no pigeon. He's a sly sumpraker who's never tasted freshwater, and is immune to sunbeams. And who's already been played, and paid in full." His fingers curl around her calf. "Am I wrong?"

Their eyes meet. His bad one is edged black. It's the smallest, most subtle shift. The first ripple of the tide. His moods, his temper, his impulses: they're all beyond her. Only the undercurrents are tangible, the secret push and pull.

Mel feels it now. A warning.

Her pulse stumbles, nearly slipping. Her smile does not. "Pigeon? Hardly. You are my husband."

"And the difference? You invited our guests to show them Zaun's a rising star in the constellation of Progress. But you'd not anticipated the frosty reception. They're not ready for the union between Piltover and Zaun. Much less the honeymoon. That night—the night you took ill—it hit you like a gut punch. You realized your sea-legs weren't ready for the voyage. And so, the Mal de Matrimonium set in." He tilts his head. "Or am I wrong about that too?"

His gaze is like his grip: a soft, cool pressure. The heat of her chagrin congeals between them.

"It isn't like that," she says. "Not exactly."

"Tell me how it is, then."

"That night... I should've handled it better. I should've taken a stand. For you." The admission is like an anchor lifted. All at once she's unmoored. "I know I made a mess of things. And you were... upset. The past week, you've cared for me, and now I need to pay you back. I'd planned our stay at the villa to be a diplomatic mission. For you. For your city. But if I can sweeten the deal with a few charitable donations, well—" Her teeth scrape her lip. "It's a bargain, I'd say."

"You'd say?" He seems almost darkly titillated. "Or your mother?"

"Does it matter?" she retorts, a little sharply. "You'll have your honeymoon. Your city will have coin."

"And I, Mel? What's my role to be?"

"Nothing." Her fingertips rest on his knuckles. "Only... play nice? Turn the charm on, a little? Let them see the side of you that I do."

He does not withdraw. But his fist, unmoving, feels suddenly like iron.

"You," he says, "want me to play your pigeon."

"I—"

"An exercise of social reform." His bad eye flickers, the red inked black. "Take the sumpraker to the villa. Where the blue skies will temper him, and the sun will burn away his shadows. And at breakfast, you'll show them the tamed beast, and how civilized he is. You'll make your sales pitch: Invest in Zaun. Turn the hellhole into your next holiday destination. And if they refuse, well, at least they'll go home, and spread the word that Medarda, Janna bless her, keeps that lowborn beast on a short leash."

Mel, stung, drops her hand. "That's not true—"

"Isn't it? These guests you're so eager for me to impress: they're the ones who made a mint off the Council's neglect. They've profited for years from the Fissures' degradation. They'd have let us die, if we hadn't fought tooth and nail for our freedom. And now you expect me to not only play their game, but pretend their coin—their condescension—holds value?" His scoff is sibilant as a slit throat. "It's a fine world where you believe I owe those rats anything but a gutting."

"It's a world," Mel retorts, "that's made of trade."

"Trade is an accommodation. A negotiation between equal parties. My city is not a thing to be traded."

"Your city, or your pride?"

"My city!" he erupts. "The city we built from the ground up, with our bare hands. Now it's a jewel, and they'd try to make it a bauble. Their notion of investment is the same as their notion of progress. They'll buy up acres of real estate where Zaunites live, and overhaul it into luxury condos. They'll bulldoze the bazaars where our commerce thrives, and erect monuments. They'll flood our markets with their gewgaws and bury our goods in the dirt. Until every last inch of Zaun's soul is sold, and its body is a carcass, and its corpse is turned into a carnival!"

The words echo like a thunderclap. He is the sea. He is the storm. And Mel, who is neither of those things, still knows that if the world were the two of them, and only the two, she'd hold her ground.

In safeguarding their cities, they are equal. He is the Eye of Zaun. And she is the vanguard of Piltover. It's a duty she'd embraced from the beginning. But it's been a forked road, full of twists and temptations. A path where her own ambitions were at odds with her duty.

And those who've suffered are those she'd hoped most ardently to save.

People like Jinx, cast to the bottom of the pit. People like Silco, risen up from the dregs.

She's seen the underbelly of Zaun: the sickness and squalor. But she's also seen its beauty. The resilience of spirit. The creativity that burns like a bonfire. Silco and Jinx are living proof. Their survival is a triumph against the odds.

But the odds, sometimes, need a helping hand.

She can be that hand. Silco has the drive to take, and the cunning to hold. But not the pliancy to wield. Whereas she, with all her guile, can take, and hold, and wield. She can be ruthless, but not cruel. She can temper the fires, and sweeten tempers, without the horizons set ablaze.

She can be the force that holds Silco steady, and keeps his city safe.

She believes that. Truly. But if she cannot persuade him to believe too, then she will have no recourse but to fight.

Diplomacy, Ambessa always said. Works best with a large sword at the enemy's throat.

"They'll do none of those things," she says. "Not if I have a say."

"You mean your word? Or your name?"

"One and the same."

"Ah, but what's in a name?" Silco drawls, without rancor. "A word, by itself, is meaningless. A drop in the ocean. Even marriage, my dear, is just a paper bobbing on the waves. There are no contracts beyond the ink. Water will always seep through."

This jabs a sore spot between her ribs. Her mother's voice rings, an ironclad echo:

"When you are drowning, and he leaves you, gasping, to die. Remember that I did not wish it to end like this."

And her reply: "It won't."

"Ours isn't a contract," she says quietly. "It's a partnership."

"A partnership, like trade, is between equals." His voice, too, is quiet. But it is an icy quiet. "We'll never be equals if you keep thinking of me as the shark who's scales need sanding."

"I don't."

She squeezes his hand in both hers. It is a gesture she uses to soften a hard sell. But never has she been so earnest in her entreaty.

"Zaun is not the problem," she says. "Nor are you. But the two of you are caught in a bind. What was done in the past was wrong. But what will be done is right. I'll see it done, by changing hearts and minds. Because that is true progress. Once the upper echelons are educated, they'll see the wisdom in change, too. They'll understand that Zaun's wellbeing is theirs. That the pollution is their pollution, and the sickness is their sickness. If only you meet them halfway, they'll see the future. And they'll want to join you."

"Diplomacy in action, hm?"

"Diplomacy is compromise. And compromise, by definition, is a dilution of what you set out to do. The question is not whether you'll compromise. It's how far. At least, if your cards are played right, there's the chance of a mutual win."

"The chance. Never the certainty."

"Nothing is certain." She summons a smile. "But I believe in our chances. I believe in us. Do you?"

Silco says nothing. In his eyes, the void is banked. But still there. Still hungry. Sometimes she thinks he's staring down, not the past, but a path yet to come. The future, where his daughter will grow up in a city resurrected. Where his people will live without humiliation or hunger.

Where they will truly be free.

"Belief is a luxury," he says at last. "In Zaun, the first step is survival. Everything else is a bridge to be crossed. Or burned." He leans in, a cold, dark flame. "So: no. I don't believe. I act. And it's not by prostrating myself before the privileged. Their pity will not keep my city alive. Their profit will not keep it safe. For Zaun to survive, it must upend their rules, and play by a different set."

"You've done that once," Mel cautions. "And it nearly burned down both our cities."

"Fire is a cleansing force."

"Fire is a monster, with no regard for who it consumes."

Their stares clash. The air crackles.

Deliberately, Mel softens her tone.

"There was a time when I was a girl full of ideals. But ideals are fragile company. All it took was a single stroke of my mother's sword, and they broke. All I had left were the splinters. And they hurt. Oh, how they hurt. If I can save a person, even one, from enduring that hurt, then it will have been worth it. It will have been worth the compromise, the dilution, the diplomacy."

Silco smiles. It is a strange smile: soft and yet utterly devoid of softness.

Her mother, Mel thinks, would've smiled the same way.

"Compromise," he says. "A beautiful fever. Like Mal de Mer."

"What?"

He kisses her.

It's a quick, fierce thing. Like the snap of a blade. The air cuts from Mel's lungs. His mouth is cool, his tongue hot. When he draws away, she finds herself clutching his shirt, her fingers knotted in the lapels. His hands, likewise, slide beneath the hem of her chemise.

"Beautiful," he breathes against her lips. "Like the idea that two cities, and two souls, can be one."

He kisses her again. The next thing Mel knows, he's on her, a long leg sliding between hers. And she is already liquid. Already aching. She can't help it. The fever was only a fever. But his distance was hell. Always a footstep away. Always was a thousand miles beyond reach.

And she, cut adrift: a shipwreck in the night.

Now he's here, and the tide has turned. His body, lean and hard, is an anchor. And his stare, unblinking, is an ocean's depth.

"I've seen the truth," he murmurs. "Of the world. Of its heart. And it's always torn in two. It has a thousand wants. And it wants them all at once. There's no middle ground. No compromise." He palms her breast through the chemise. She bites back a gasp. "Only a war, fought until one side burns the other. And the victor? Gets the spoils."

"It's not the only way." Mel's lips find his throat. His jaw. His mouth. "We can—"

"There is no 'we.'"

"What—?"

"I've lived in a city of we's. Piltover and Zaun. Two cities. Both bound together, and yet pulling apart." His teeth trace her earlobe. She whimpers, and his thumb, deftly, circles. "The only 'we' is the two of us. Not because of our marriage. Not because of vows, or trust, or fairydust. This will work only if we make it. And we can't make it if you take my ring, then trade my city for a price."

"I did not take your ring for a price!" Mel snaps, her temper fraying. "I took it because I wanted a future with you. Whatever that future holds!"

He pushes her back. Pins her wrist to the mattress. It's a gentle manacling, and yet the effect is electric. His eyes take their time, moving languidly up her body—the hem riding high on her thighs, the silk taut across her breasts, the tendrils of her hair a corkscrewing darkness on the pillow.

Mel's skin hums beneath the scrutiny. She's been looked at a thousand times: by artists, by admirers, by aesthetes. But never, she thinks, so closely. As if her flesh were pure gold. As if she were something worth coveting.

Worth keeping.

He meets her eyes, with something like witfulness. And then, with a sigh, he kisses her, everywhere through the silk. His lips on first one breast, then the other, weighing them in his hands. Mel sighs, her fingers tangling in his hair. His kisses drift lower. Down her belly, across her navel, then down further still, soft kisses pressed in a circle around the place that aches the most. Mel's thighs fall open. Her sighs unravel on a moan.

She's missed this. She's missed him. His skin on hers is a balm.

Then his mouth reverses its journey. Higher, higher, higher, until he reaches her throat. Its soft, unguarded pulse. He kisses there: a hint of teeth like a brand. Mel hopes he will go further. Bite deeper. That this, the barest tease of friction, is not all he's willing to offer.

But it is.

He drops a parting kiss to her forehead. Then he is gone.

Mel, bereft, opens her eyes. "Silco?"

"You're still feverish."

"But—"

He's already rising. His shadow, cutting across the wall, is a shark's fin.

"Sleep," he says. "Dream of a future. For me. For you. Full of spoils, and no compromise."

"Where are you going?"

"Dinner's begun. Your precious guests await." He begins unbuttoning his cuffs. "I'll make sure to play nice."

"But—"

"As it happens, I have an inkling how they can be made to play nice too. Zaun's version of nice. Industrial-grade, chemically-clogged, toxin-fueled."

Mel, warily, "What do you mean?"

"An excursion."

"Where?"

"Why spoil the surprise?"

Stripping his shirt, he steps toward the adjoining bath. The lamplight limns the dips and angles of his torso. He's a lean man, her husband, and the delineations of his body is stark as whipcord. The skin is lashed with old scars. A life in the streets etched into his flesh.

Mel knows every inch. And every inch fascinates her.

"Tomorrow," he says, "We'll dock on the island. With luck, you'll be well, with roses in your cheeks, instead of sealing wax. We'll dine at the villa, all our cabbages and kings. But before—"

"Before?"

"Before," he says, a sideways flick of red and black, "we'll see whether pigs have wings."

The door swings shut. The sound of running water starts.

Mel, propped on her elbow, is left to simmer in the silence.

Her new husband, it must be said, is like Mal de Mer, too. He creeps in: sly, stealthy, secret. And before she knows it, her body is aflame.

Except she can't say whether tomorrow bodes a cleansing cure.

Or a blaze that leaves nothing but ash.

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #forward but never forget/xoxo #silco #forward (never forget)/xoxo #arcane jinx #jinx #arcane ambessa #ambessa medarda #arcane mel #mel medarda #silco x mel #melco

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