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[novaursa]

The Price of Fire (8)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: For all the parts to this story, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (Aerys is warning on his own)

- Word count: 7 000+

- Previous part: 7

- Next part: 9

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy @hajmola-vs-aamchaska

The night is amassed with shadows, the kind that seem to creep from every corner, swallowing the light, until only a faint glimmer of moonlight filters through the cracks in the curtains. The air in your chamber is heavy, stifling, clinging to your skin like a second layer, and you toss restlessly in your bed, caught between sleep and wakefulness. The events of the day have left a mark deeper than any wound, a scar on your very soul, and even in sleep, you find no escape from them.

The dream begins innocuously enough—an echo of familiar places and faces. The Red Keep looms before you, its towers stretching into a sky darkened with storm clouds. You walk through its halls, but something is wrong. The walls seem to shift, to warp around you as if the castle itself were alive, breathing, watching. You pass a mirror, and in it, you see yourself, but your reflection's eyes are not your own—they are molten gold, like the eyes of the dragon that hatched from your blood.

Then the voices begin, disembodied whispers that slither into your mind like vipers.

"Make the tallow from the fat of a hangman."

You spin around, searching for the source, but the corridor is empty, save for the flickering shadows that dance along the walls. Your heart pounds, a drumbeat of fear, as the whispers grow louder, more insistent.

"Sealed with the kiss of swine."

The words curl around you, filling your ears, your head, until they are all you can hear. They are followed by images—horrifying, grotesque images that sear themselves into your mind. You see a man, faceless and featureless, his body twisting and contorting as if consumed by fire, and beside him, a grotesque beast with the head of a pig and the wings of a dragon.

"Whishes and words sprout from the same seed."

The final whisper is the most haunting, carrying with it a truth you cannot yet comprehend. You feel a pull, a deep, visceral pull, towards something—or someone—just beyond your reach. The air around you crackles with heat, with the scent of burning flesh, and you realize with a start that you are no longer in the Red Keep but in the throne room. The Iron Throne looms before you, and at its base lies the dragon, your dragon, with its golden eyes fixed on you. There is a chain around its neck, heavy and cruel, and as you step closer, you see that it is not just a chain—it is a part of you, binding you to the beast, to the throne, to your father’s madness.

You try to scream, to pull away, but the chain tightens, digging into your flesh, and the dragon roars, a sound that shakes the very foundations of the dream. 

With a gasp, you wake, bolting upright in your bed. Your heart races, pounding against your ribcage as if it might burst free at any moment. Your skin is slick with sweat, your hands trembling as they clutch the sheets. It takes a moment for the familiar surroundings of your chamber to come into focus, for reality to assert itself over the lingering terror of the dream.

But the fear does not dissipate; it clings to you, wrapping around your bones like a cold, suffocating shroud. You cannot shake the feeling that the dream was not just a product of your mind, but something more—a premonition, a warning. You fear that you are now bound to your father’s madness in ways you cannot yet understand.

The door to your chamber creaks open, and you instinctively reach for the dagger hidden beneath your pillow. But it is only Arthur, his face drawn with concern as he steps into the room, the soft glow of a candle casting shadows across his features. 

"Y/N," he says softly, his voice a balm to your frayed nerves. He crosses the room in a few long strides and kneels by your bedside, reaching out to brush a strand of damp hair from your face. "You cried out in your sleep. What happened?"

You stare at him, struggling to find the words. How can you explain the horrors you witnessed in your dream? How can you tell him of the chain that binds you, of the dragon’s eyes that haunt you?

"It was just a dream," you say finally, though the words feel hollow, a poor attempt to convince yourself more than him. "But it felt… so real."

Arthur’s hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin. There is something in his eyes, a sadness, a fear that mirrors your own. He knows the weight you carry, the burden of your bloodline, and it tears at him as much as it does you.

"You are stronger than any dream, Y/N," he says, his voice firm yet gentle. "Whatever darkness your father has unleashed, it will not claim you. I won’t let it."

His words should comfort you, but the fear lingers, gnawing at the edges of your mind. You close your eyes, leaning into his touch, drawing strength from the warmth of his hand, the steady beat of his heart. But even as he holds you, a part of you cannot shake the feeling that something has changed, that the dragon now bound in chains is not the only one tethered to the Iron Throne.

"And the dragon?" you whisper, your voice barely audible. "What of him?"

Arthur hesitates, and in that moment, you see the truth in his eyes. He knows as well as you do that the dragon is not just a creature born of fire and blood, but something more—something that ties you inexorably to your father’s will.

"He is strong," Arthur replies after a moment, his voice laced with the same uncertainty that plagues your own thoughts. "But he is yours, Y/N, not your father’s. Remember that."

You nod, though doubt still lingers in your heart. You can feel the pull of the dragon, the bond forged in blood, and you wonder if it is a bond you will ever truly break.

Arthur pulls you close then, wrapping his arms around you as if he could shield you from the darkness that stands on the horizon. You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, and for a moment, you allow yourself to believe that he might be right, that you might be able to defy the fate that seems to be tightening its grip around you.

But deep down, you know that the dragon has awakened something within you, something that cannot be so easily silenced. And as you drift back to sleep in Arthur’s arms, you can’t help but wonder if that something is the same madness that has consumed your father—or if it is something far, far worse.

The echo of Rhaegar’s footsteps resonates through the darkened corridors of the Red Keep, each step a reminder of the burden weighing heavily on his shoulders. The scent of wildfire still lingers faintly in the air, mingling with the stale, musty odor that always seemed to cling to the throne room and its cursed Iron Throne. Rhaegar pauses before the door, taking a moment to steady his breath, knowing full well the volatility that could await him on the other side.

The door creaks open, revealing King Aerys II sitting at a large wooden table, papers strewn about, and a goblet of wine in his hand. His hair, once silver like the moon, now hangs in greasy strands, framing a face etched with madness but, at this moment, unusually calm. His eyes, however, still gleam with the dangerous fire that had consumed him over the years, a fire that now burned brighter with the hatching of the dragon.

"Father," Rhaegar begins, his voice soft, measured. He steps into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Aerys does not immediately acknowledge him, his gaze fixed on the flames crackling in the hearth. Rhaegar can feel the tension in the air, the precarious balance of his father’s mind. He must tread carefully.

"Rhaegar, my son," Aerys finally speaks, his voice surprisingly even. "Have you come to see our child? My dragon... our creation?" The king's voice carries an unsettling blend of pride and possessiveness, his eyes shifting to meet Rhaegar's with an intensity that makes his son’s heart tighten.

Rhaegar inclines his head slightly. "I have, Father. The dragon is a magnificent creature, a symbol of House Targaryen’s strength, of our blood." He chooses his words carefully, keeping his tone respectful. "But it is not just the dragon that concerns me."

Aerys narrows his eyes, suspicion flickering across his features. "What concerns you, my son? The dragon is ours by right. It will be the weapon that ensures our enemies bow before us."

Rhaegar takes a breath, steadying himself. "It is Y/N that concerns me, Father," he says, his voice steady but laced with concern. "She is still weak from the ritual, and Pycelle says her wounds will take time to heal. She needs rest, care. We cannot risk her health, not when she is so important to us… to you."

Aerys’s gaze sharpens at the mention of you. "She is important, yes. More important than any of them realize," he murmurs, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "She brought forth the dragon. She is its mother, its rightful queen. No harm must come to her, do you hear me?"

Rhaegar nods, carefully concealing his relief that, for now, Aerys seems focused on your well-being. "Of course, Father. No harm will come to her, I swear it. But she needs time away from the chaos of the court, away from prying eyes and those who might seek to use her or the dragon for their own ends."

Aerys frowns, suspicion clouding his features once more. "What are you suggesting, Rhaegar? That she be hidden away? That she be kept from me?"

"No, Father," Rhaegar says quickly. "I would never suggest such a thing. Only that she be allowed to recover in peace. Perhaps at Dragonstone, where she can be close to her dragon but away from the eyes of those who might seek to control her... or it."

The mention of Dragonstone seems to catch Aerys’s interest, and Rhaegar seizes the opportunity. "Dragonstone is a place of power, a place where our ancestors ruled and raised their dragons. It would be fitting for Y/N to be there, with the dragon, away from the prying eyes of the court. There, she can grow stronger, and the dragon can be raised in the safety and secrecy it deserves."

Aerys considers this for a long moment, his eyes flickering with the flames of the hearth. "Dragonstone," he muses, the word rolling off his tongue as if tasting its possibilities. "Yes… yes, it is a place of power. She will be safe there. But I must see the dragon, must know that it is truly ours."

Rhaegar bows his head. "Of course, Father. The dragon will be brought to you, but it must be done carefully, slowly. It is still young, still growing. It needs time, as does Y/N."

Aerys nods, seemingly satisfied with this answer. "Yes, yes, you are right, my son. But remember this, Rhaegar," he says, his voice suddenly cold, his eyes locking onto his son's with a ferocity that makes Rhaegar’s blood run cold. "She is mine. The dragon is mine. They are my legacy. Do not forget that."

Rhaegar swallows, his throat dry. "I will not forget, Father."

Aerys's gaze lingers on him for a moment longer before he turns his attention back to the fire, dismissing Rhaegar with a wave of his hand. "Go now. Ensure that my dragon is well cared for. And see to it that Y/N is taken to Dragonstone, where she will be safe... and where she will remember her place."

Rhaegar bows low, retreating from the room with a sense of urgency. Once outside, he allows himself a breath of relief, though the weight of his father's obsession with you and the dragon still presses heavily on his chest. He must speak with Arthur, ensure that you are protected, hidden away from the madness that now grips Aerys.

As he walks back through the dimly lit corridors, his mind is consumed with thoughts of you—of your safety, of the secret you share with Ser Arthur Dayne. Rhaegar knows he must act swiftly, for the shadow of his father’s madness is long and ever-reaching, and it is only a matter of time before it threatens to engulf you both.

The salty breeze tugs at your hair as you stand on the edge of the harbor, the morning sun glinting off the choppy waters of Blackwater Bay. The sight of the ship bobbing gently at anchor fills you with a sense of unease, the iron cage being carefully loaded onto its deck a pogient reminder of the strange and terrible events that have led you here. Inside the cage, your dragon, the one born of death, lets out a low, restless growl. His golden eyes, now a little larger, still burning with the same fierce intelligence that haunts your dreams. You feel a strange pull in your chest, as though something within you is tethered to the creature, a bond that tightens with every beat of your heart.

Your hand instinctively rises to your chest, pressing against the spot where you can feel the faintest echo of warmth, as if your own blood still burns with the wildfire that hatched the dragon. The world around you seems distant, your focus narrowing to the creature in the cage, to the strange connection you share. A soft, persistent whisper at the back of your mind urges you to draw closer, to reach out and touch the iron bars that keep him confined, but the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you back to reality.

"Y/N," Rhaegar’s voice is gentle but firm, grounding you. He appears beside you, his presence solid and reassuring amidst the swirling chaos of your thoughts. His arm slips around your shoulders, pulling you into a comforting embrace. The warmth of his touch dispels the strange pull you felt toward the dragon, anchoring you firmly in the present.

"You will be safe at Dragonstone," Rhaegar murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. "I wish I could go with you, but I will see you again soon. I promise." He pulls back slightly, his violet eyes searching yours for any sign of distress. "And I will make sure our father remains... distracted for as long as possible."

You nod, though words seem to fail you in the face of all that has happened. The sight of the dragon, your dragon, being locked away, the very creature that should have been a symbol of your family's strength, instead treated as a dangerous secret to be hidden away—it all weighs heavily on your mind.

Before you can voice your concerns, another presence joins you. Queen Rhaella, your mother, approaches, her face pale but composed, as if she has steeled herself for what is to come. Her gaze is tender as she looks at you, though it is clouded with the same sorrow that has shadowed her for years. "Y/N, Rhaegar," she says softly, her voice carrying the weight of a mother’s love and the pain of long-endured suffering.

"Mother," Rhaegar greets her with a bow of his head, stepping back to allow her to stand beside you.

Rhaella’s hand finds yours, squeezing it gently. "Aerys has allowed me to accompany you to Dragonstone," she says, her voice tinged with both relief and resignation. "He... he sees no use for me here any longer."

The words hang in the air, a bitter reminder of how far your father has fallen, how little regard he holds for those who were once dearest to him. Rhaella’s gaze flickers to the dragon in its cage, a flash of fear and sadness passing over her features before she turns back to Rhaegar. "Take care of yourself, my son," she says, her voice wavering slightly. "You carry the hopes of our house."

Rhaegar nods, his expression softening. "And you carry its future," he replies, his gaze lingering on you. "This is likely temporary, as you well know. Father will not be content to let you remain away from him for long. And when the time comes... the small council's debate may soon become more than mere words. Our marriage may no longer be just a possibility, Y/N."

Your heart tightens at his words. The idea of marrying Rhaegar has always been one tangled with duty, obligation, and the preservation of your house. Yet, there is another side to this—a secret part of you that yearns for someone else, for Ser Arthur Dayne, whose presence you can feel even now, standing at a respectful distance near the Queen’s retinue.

Your gaze drifts to where Ser Arthur waits, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his helm, though his eyes—those familiar, intense eyes—never leave you. Beside him, Ser Lewyn Martell stands ready, prepared to accompany you and your mother to Dragonstone. The two of them, Arthur especially, have been your protectors in more ways than one, and you feel a sense of calm knowing they will be by your side during this exile.

But before you can take a step toward them, a sudden shift in the atmosphere halts you. The harbor grows quiet, the bustling activity of sailors and dockworkers falling away as Aerys, your father, arrives with the Kingsguard and his entourage. The sight of him makes your blood run cold, the sharp contrast between the man he once was and the mad king he has become all too clear in the daylight.

Aerys’s presence is unsettling, a mix of unpredictability and danger that makes everyone around him tense, as though they are all walking on the edge of a knife. You straighten your posture, reminding yourself not to show any sign of weakness, any sign that might provoke him into changing his mind about letting you go.

Your mother, however, is less successful in hiding her fear. As Aerys approaches, she takes a small step back, her eyes lowering to the ground, her entire demeanor shrinking as though trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. You sense her anxiety, feel it in the way her hand trembles in yours before she quickly releases her grip, folding her hands in front of her as she stares at the ground.

"Y/N, you are my daughter, my blood. The mother of my dragon.” Aerys croons, his voice unexpectedly warm, though there is a manic edge to it that makes your skin crawl. He steps closer, his eyes—once sharp and clear—now filled with the flames of his own madness. Without warning, he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, the touch of his lips cold and unsettling.

As soon as his lips make contact, a voice—a dark, twisted whisper—echoes in your mind, repeating the words from the nightmare that has plagued you ever since the ritual: "Sealed with the kiss of swine."

The words send a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, the world seems to tilt, the harbor, the ship, the dragon, all fading into the background as the voice reverberates through your thoughts. But you force yourself to remain still, to show no sign of the terror that grips you.

Aerys pulls back, his smile unsettling as he examines your face as though searching for something only he can see. "Remember, my child, the dragon is ours—yours and mine. We are bound by fire and blood."

You manage a stiff nod, your voice catching in your throat. "Yes, Father," you reply, keeping your tone as even as possible.

Before Aerys can say anything further, Tywin Lannister steps forward, his eyes gleaming with that cold calculation that always unnerved you. "Safe travels, my lady," he says, offering you a bow that seems more like a formality than a genuine gesture of respect.

As he straightens, the voice in your mind returns, louder this time, dripping with malice: "It has two mouths to lick from."

The words almost make you recoil, but you manage to keep your composure, nodding at Tywin in acknowledgment. The tension in the air is suffocating, the weight of all that is unspoken hanging between you and everyone present. But you know this is not the time or place to question the meaning of these strange, disturbing messages. Not when so many eyes are upon you, waiting for any sign of weakness, any reason to doubt your loyalty to the crown.

Finally, with a nod from Aerys, the entourage begins to withdraw, allowing you, Rhaella, and your escorts to make your way toward the waiting ship. Rhaegar lingers for a moment longer, his gaze meeting yours, filled with a mixture of worry and determination.

"This will not be forever," he says quietly, his voice meant only for your ears. "I will do everything in my power to protect you, to bring you back safely."

You nod, though the certainty in his words does little to quell the unease that churns within you. As you turn to follow your mother and the Kingsguard toward the ship, your gaze once again finds Arthur. His presence, as always, brings a small measure of comfort, even as the weight of the future presses heavily on your shoulders.

But as you step onto the gangplank, the whisper in your mind returns once more, a final chilling reminder of the darkness that shadows your path: "Two mouths, one kiss."

You force the voice back, focusing on the solidity of the wooden planks beneath your feet, the sound of the waves against the hull of the ship. Soon, you tell yourself, you will be at Dragonstone, far from the madness of King.

The wind fills the sails of the ship as it cuts through the waves, the rhythmic rise and fall of the sea a steady backdrop to the tension that hangs in the air. The sun is dipping lower in the sky, casting the waters in a warm, golden hue, but the beauty of the scene does little to calm the storm within you. You stand on the deck, your gaze fixed on the iron cage where your dragon, your bond, waits restlessly.

The creature paces within the confines of its prison, its golden eyes flicking toward you with an almost knowing look, as if it can sense your inner turmoil, the conflict between duty and the strange, irresistible pull that has been growing ever stronger since you first laid eyes on it.

Beside you, Ser Arthur Dayne stands silently, his presence a comforting weight, a reminder that you are not alone in this. His silver armor gleams in the fading light, the sword at his side a symbol of the protection he has always offered you, even in the most dire of circumstances. Behind you, your mother, Queen Rhaella, stands with Ser Lewyn Martell and a handful of retainers, all of whom have chosen to accompany you and the queen on this journey to Dragonstone. Their expressions are a mix of concern and uncertainty, none of them quite sure what will happen next.

Arthur’s voice breaks the silence, soft but firm. "Are you sure about this, Y/N?"

You turn to him, meeting his gaze. The concern in his eyes is evident, but there is also a trust there, a belief in you that gives you strength. You nod, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you. "Yes, Arthur. This is something I must do."

He studies you for a moment longer, as if searching for any sign of hesitation, but when he finds none, he nods, stepping back slightly to give you space. You take a deep breath, feeling the salt air fill your lungs, the cool breeze against your skin. The moment has come, and you know there is no turning back.

With slow, deliberate steps, you approach the iron cage. The dragon inside, still young but already formidable, stops its pacing and watches you, its golden eyes locking onto yours. The connection between you flares to life, that strange bond you share surging with intensity. You feel it in your blood, in your very soul, a pull that goes beyond words or reason.

You reach out, your fingers brushing against the cold iron bars. The dragon shifts, lowering its head slightly, as if in acknowledgment. Your heart pounds in your chest, but there is a sense of rightness in this moment, a clarity that cuts through the fear and uncertainty.

Slowly, you unlatch the cage, the metal clanging softly as you pull the door open. The dragon hesitates for just a moment, as if testing the air, before it steps out, its movements fluid and graceful. The others on the deck watch in stunned silence, the anticipation is visible as they wait to see what will happen next.

As the dragon emerges fully from the cage, it spreads its wings, shaking them out as if testing their strength. It lets out a low, rumbling growl, more a sound of satisfaction than threat, and then it turns to you, its eyes glowing with that same golden light.

You feel the bond tighten, that pull in your chest growing stronger until it is almost overwhelming. And then, suddenly, you hear it again—that voice in your mind, the one that has haunted you ever since the ritual, the one that whispered dark and terrible things. But this time, the voice is different. It is clearer, more certain, and it speaks a single word: Terrax.

The name echoes in your mind, filling you with a strange sense of completion, as if something that was always meant to be has finally fallen into place. You whisper the name aloud, your voice trembling slightly. "Terrax."

The dragon’s eyes flash, and you feel a surge of recognition, a deep, primal understanding that passes between you. This is his name, the name that binds him to you, the name that seals the bond.

Arthur steps forward cautiously, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, though his posture is more protective than threatening. "What did you say?"

"Terrax," you repeat, your voice stronger now. "That is his name."

Arthur’s gaze shifts to the dragon, his expression a mix of awe and concern. "You named him?"

You shake your head slightly, still trying to process the enormity of what just happened. "No... he named himself. I just... I just heard it."

Arthur’s brow furrows, but he does not question you further. He knows better than anyone how deeply intertwined your fate is with this creature, how the ritual that brought Terrax into the world also bound you to him in ways that neither of you fully understand.

Rhaella, who has been silent until now, steps closer, her eyes wide with both fear and wonder. "Y/N... what have you done?" she whispers, though there is no accusation in her tone, only a mother’s concern for her child.

"I’ve released him, Mother," you say, turning to face her. "I couldn’t keep him caged. He... he’s a part of me."

Rhaella’s expression softens, and she reaches out to touch your cheek, her hand trembling slightly. "You are so much like your father, in ways that both terrify and amaze me," she murmurs. "But you must be careful, Y/N. There are forces at work here that we do not fully understand."

"I know," you reply, your voice quiet but firm. "But I can’t ignore this. Terrax is mine, and I am his."

Ser Lewyn, who has been watching with wary eyes, steps forward, his voice calm but laced with concern. "Your Grace, if the dragon is to remain free, we must ensure he is properly guarded. Dragonstone is a place of power, but it is not without its dangers."

"Terrax will not be caged again," you say, your tone leaving no room for argument. "But he will not harm anyone unless provoked. I feel it... he knows who his enemies are."

Arthur exchanges a glance with Ser Lewyn, and then he nods. "We will keep him safe, Y/N. And we will keep you safe, too."

The tension eases slightly at his words, and you offer him a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Arthur."

As the ship sails on toward Dragonstone, the sun sinking lower on the horizon, you stand beside Terrax who is perched on taffrail, your hand resting on his small, scaled flank. The bond between you is stronger than ever, a living connection that pulses with the rhythm of the sea and the beat of your heart.

You are no longer just a princess of House Targaryen. You are the mother of a dragon, and your fate is now entwined with his, bound together by the ancient forces of old Valyria.

The streets of King’s Landing are alive with the hum of daily life, the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread mingling with the less pleasant odors of the bustling city. The setting sun casts long shadows across the cobblestones, painting the world in shades of gold and orange. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen walks among his people, his presence alone enough to draw hushed whispers and admiring glances from the smallfolk. His silver hair catches the light, making him appear almost otherworldly, a living embodiment of the storied Valyrian bloodline.

Though he often brings his harp on such walks, today it remains in the Red Keep, for Rhaegar’s mind is heavy with thoughts too dark and tangled to be soothed by music. At his side, Ser Barristan Selmy, the most loyal of his Kingsguard, walks with a steady, measured pace, his watchful eyes scanning the crowd. Even in the heart of the city, danger is never far, and Barristan’s duty is to ensure that no harm befalls the prince.

As they move through the narrow streets, Rhaegar can hear the murmur of conversation, snatches of talk that filter through the air like the wind. The people adore him, even now, when the shadow of his father’s madness looms large over the realm. They speak of his kindness, his wisdom, and, more recently, his possible marriage to you, his sister. The idea of such a union has stirred a mix of hope and curiosity among the smallfolk, who see it as holding true to the old ways, a reaffirmation of House Targaryen’s ancient customs.

Rhaegar’s thoughts turn to you, the sister he has sworn to protect. He pictures your face, the strength you’ve shown despite everything, and the bond you now share with the dragon. One that ties you both to the darkest aspects of your family’s legacy. He remembers Varys’s words, spoken in the shadows of the Red Keep: “If the nature of her relationship with Ser Arthur becomes known, it will not just be Aerys’s wrath you need fear, but the whispers of treason, the seeds of rebellion. Even the gods cannot save her from the court’s judgment if this becomes public knowledge.”

A chill runs through him at the thought. He knows Varys speaks the truth; the court is a nest of vipers, and the truth of your relationship with Ser Arthur would be more than enough to destroy you—and by extension, him. He cannot let that happen. He will do whatever it takes to protect you, even if it means denying his own desires.

As they turn onto a broader avenue, the crowd parts slightly, and Rhaegar catches sight of a familiar figure moving toward them. Cersei Lannister, her golden hair shining like a beacon, approaches with a small entourage of Lannister guards and retainers. She is dressed in rich red and gold, the colors of her house, and she wears a smile that is both charming and calculating.

“Prince Rhaegar,” she greets him warmly, inclining her head with just the right amount of deference. “It is a pleasure to see you out among the people. They adore you, as well they should.”

Rhaegar offers a polite nod, though his expression remains distant. “Lady Cersei. It is always a pleasure to see you.”

Cersei steps closer, her green eyes gleaming with a mixture of ambition and something else—something deeper, more personal. “I heard the most delightful rumor today,” she says, her voice smooth and honeyed. “They say that you may soon be betrothed. To your sister, Y/N. How... traditional.”

Rhaegar inclines his head slightly. “Rumors often carry more weight than truth within the walls of the Red Keep,” he replies, his tone noncommittal.

Cersei’s smile widens, though there is a hint of steel beneath the sweetness. “Perhaps. But some rumors hold the promise of great alliances. The smallfolk are not the only ones interested in your future, my prince. There are many who believe a strong union could secure the stability of the realm—especially in these troubled times.”

She moves even closer, her voice lowering so that only Rhaegar can hear her next words. “House Lannister, for instance, has always stood ready to support the crown. We are the wealthiest house in Westeros, and our influence could be invaluable to your father... and to you, when the time comes.”

Rhaegar meets her gaze, recognizing the offer for what it is: a calculated move to entwine her family’s power with his own. Cersei’s ambition is as bright as her beauty, and while he understands the allure of such a match, his heart remains steadfast in its devotion. Not to her, but to you, and to the dangerous game he must now play to protect you.

“I appreciate the loyalty of House Lannister,” he replies, keeping his tone neutral. “The realm benefits greatly from your family’s wealth and influence.”

Cersei’s smile falters for just a fraction of a second, a flicker of frustration crossing her features before she recovers. “And it could benefit even more from a closer alliance,” she presses. “Together, our houses could usher in a new era of prosperity and peace. A union between us would be celebrated across the Seven Kingdoms.”

But Rhaegar’s mind is elsewhere, replaying Varys’s warnings, the weight of his responsibility to you, the unspoken truth that lies between you and Ser Arthur Dayne. He cannot allow himself to be swayed by Cersei’s words, no matter how tempting the prospect of a secure and powerful future might be.

“My duty is to the realm, Lady Cersei,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “And I must consider what is best for it. The future is uncertain, but I will always act in the interest of peace and stability.”

Cersei’s expression tightens, the charm slipping away to reveal a flash of cold determination. “Of course, my prince,” she replies, though the sweetness in her voice has turned brittle. “But remember, peace and stability often require strong alliances. And some alliances are stronger than others.”

Rhaegar nods, signaling the end of their conversation. “I thank you for your counsel, Lady Cersei. I will give it the consideration it deserves.”

She offers him one last smile, though it no longer reaches her eyes. “I hope you do, my prince. For all our sakes.”

With that, she turns and sweeps away, her Lannister entourage following in her wake like a pack of gilded lions. Rhaegar watches her go, a sense of unease settling over him. He knows Cersei will not give up easily, but his heart is resolute. His duty to the realm, to his sister, and to the truth is clear.

Ser Barristan, who has remained silent throughout the exchange, steps closer. “She is not one to be underestimated, my prince.”

“I know,” Rhaegar replies, his gaze distant. “But my path is already set. Whatever the cost, I must protect my sister, and ensure that our house survives the storm to come.”

Barristan nods, his respect for the prince evident in his eyes. “Then we shall be ready, whatever may come.”

Rhaegar resumes his walk through the city, though his thoughts remain troubled. The weight of the crown feels heavier with each passing day, and the future looms uncertain and dark. But he knows that, for now, his course is clear. He must guard the secrets that could destroy his family, even if it means walking a perilous line between duty and desire.

And above all, he must ensure that when the time comes, he is ready to face whatever challenges lie ahead—with or without the support of the lions of Lannister.

The wind whips through your hair as you stand on the balcony of your chambers, the salt air of the Narrow Sea filling your lungs. Below, the waves crash against the rocky shores of Dragonstone, their rhythm a constant reminder of the power and isolation of this ancient seat of your ancestors. The sky is overcast, but the clouds part just enough to allow slivers of sunlight to dance on the waters, turning the sea into a shimmering expanse of silver and gray.

Far in the distance, soaring above the waves, is Terrax. His black scales glisten in the weak sunlight, and his wings beat with a powerful grace that makes your heart swell with a mixture of pride and fear. No longer the size of a hound, Terrax has grown in the past months, now large enough to be mistaken for a small horse. He has claimed the fiery caverns of Dragonmont as his lair, where the heat of the volcano suits his nature. The dragon is fed a steady supply of cattle, and though he still has much growing to do, his presence has already brought a renewed sense of awe and reverence to this ancient fortress.

Yet despite the majesty of the dragon, a shadow hangs over your thoughts. The voices in your nightmares have returned, whispering dark and twisted things that leave you shaken and fearful. You clutch the stone balustrade of the balcony, trying to draw strength from the solidness of the ancient castle, but the whispers are persistent, gnawing at the edges of your sanity.

A soft sound from behind you draws your attention, and you turn to see Ser Arthur Dayne stepping out onto the balcony. His presence is a balm to your troubled mind, and for a moment, the tension in your shoulders eases. Here on Dragonstone, away from the prying eyes of the court, you can afford a small measure of relaxation in each other’s presence. But even here, you must remain vigilant; the risk of discovery is always lurking in the back of your mind.

Arthur’s expression softens as he approaches, his lilac-gray eyes searching your face. "You’ve been out here for a while," he says quietly, his voice filled with concern. "Is everything all right?"

You offer him a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. "I find the sea calming," you reply, turning your gaze back to the horizon where Terrax is now a distant silhouette against the sky. "But even here, it’s hard to escape... the nightmares."

Arthur steps closer, his hand resting on the small of your back. The touch is gentle, comforting, and you lean into it, grateful for the warmth of his presence. "The nightmares are back?" he asks, his voice tinged with worry.

You nod, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. "Yes. The same voices, whispering in my ear. I... I fear I’m going mad, Arthur. Just like him." You don’t need to say your father’s name; the fear of Aerys’s madness running through your veins is a constant shadow that you’ve never been able to shake.

Arthur’s brow furrows, and he gently turns you to face him, his hands resting on your shoulders. "You are not going mad, Y/N," he says firmly, his voice grounding you in the moment. "You’ve been through more than anyone should have to endure, but you are strong. You’ve always been strong."

You shake your head, frustration and fear bubbling to the surface. "But these dreams, these voices... they feel so real. They say things that make my skin crawl, that make me doubt everything I know. Sometimes I think I can hear them even when I’m awake."

Arthur’s hands tighten slightly on your shoulders, a silent offer of support. "You are not your father, Y/N," he insists, his gaze never leaving yours. "Whatever these voices are, they do not define you. They do not control you."

"But what if they do?" you whisper, your voice trembling. "What if I’m losing myself, just like he did? What if Terrax is more than just a dragon to me? What if... what if he’s part of this madness?"

Arthur’s expression hardens, and he cups your face in his hands, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Listen to me," he says, his voice low and intense. "Terrax is not a curse. He is a part of you, yes, but he does not dictate who you are. You have a bond with him, a bond that is forged in something deeper than the madness of your father. It is your strength, not your weakness."

You search his eyes, finding only sincerity and the unshakable belief he has in you. The warmth of his hands against your skin anchors you, and slowly, the cold knot of fear in your chest begins to loosen.

"You’re not alone in this," Arthur continues, his voice softer now. "I’m here, and I will do whatever it takes to help you through this. We will find a way to silence these voices, to banish these nightmares."

A tear escapes the corner of your eye, and you lean into his touch, drawing comfort from the man who has been your steadfast protector, your secret love, in the midst of all the chaos. "Thank you, Arthur," you murmur, your voice barely more than a breath.

He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, a gesture that is both tender and filled with unspoken promises. "Always," he replies.

For a moment, you allow yourself to close your eyes and simply breathe, the sound of the sea and the distant cry of Terrax filling your senses. Here, with Arthur by your side, the voices seem further away, their power over you diminished. You can still feel them at the edges of your mind, but they are no longer overwhelming. 

When you finally open your eyes, the fear is still there, but it is tempered by the knowledge that you are not facing this alone. You have Arthur, you have Terrax, and you have your own strength—strength that you will need to draw on in the days and months to come.

"We should go back inside," Arthur says softly, though there is a reluctance in his voice. "It wouldn’t do for someone to see us out here alone for too long."

You nod, though you linger for a moment longer, casting one last glance at Terrax, who is now circling back toward the island, his powerful wings cutting through the air with ease. There is something majestic, something undeniable about the dragon, and despite your fears, you can’t help but feel a deep connection to him, one that transcends the nightmares and the whispers.

With a final sigh, you allow Arthur to lead you back inside, where the warmth of the castle wraps around you like a comforting embrace. The darkness of your fears may still lurk, but here, within these ancient walls, you have found something to hold onto—hope. 

[ladythornofrivia]

Kingdom of Fire & Blood || (Part Seven)

🐉 MASTERLIST 🐉

Next Chapter

summary: lady greenstar’s ceremony is all but merry, and the offer that could change the course of her life forever.

pair: aemond x reader

warnings: smut, violence, p in v sex, sexual content, aemond being arrogant, modern reader doesn’t know how the world of GOT works but is a Aemond stan, praise kink, breeding kink, spitting kink, voice kink, fluff, angst—family drama, oral sex, hate sex, stalking, jealousy, virginity loss, obsession, reader is neutral; neither a green or black supporter, reader being sassy and aroused, sweet moments with reader and aemond. Reader is a huge GOT & HOTD fan. Aemond becomes king instead of Aegon. (P.S. Alys who? I only know Aemond x Reader)

a/n: sorry it took forever to write the chapter! It’s finally here! Woo! Reader’s backstory is finally revealed! Woo! If you enjoy, please leave a comment.

Chapter Seven: The Price of Heart

On the proclamation from the Iron Throne, King Viserys granted a ceremony and anointed a young maiden to unite both factions, Blacks and Greens, and renamed her as Lady Greenstar, a star that befell and shook the cores of Westeros, to which have known for causing disruption and awakened in the realm.

Apart from previous accomplishment on saving Princess Helaena and Prince Jacaerys, Lady Greenstar, a newcomer to Westeros, has its gaze is as deadly as a thorn. Upon a gaze of a maiden, men’s hearts fickle in delight, and women’s hearts enraged with fright. And among others, she is nothing but an air of mystery, but her appearance is no more than averagely simple and unimpressive (claimed by Mushroom). Lady Greenstar, whose maiden name is unknown, the time of Viserys’s reign may have yet to be remain, as Lady Greenstar is in an absolute self-merry and encourage the nobles and commoners alike to a celebrate at her unimportant arrival at a tedious ceremony.

~Your POV~

The nightmare hadn’t stopped.

You want to destroy—set ablaze everything into ashes.

In a soundless blight rising in your chest, you managed to gather yourself in the midst of ceremony. You wanted to scream. Heating anger risen within you; you are nowhere near happy with the proceedings. You just wanted to go home, anticipated that this no more than a fever dream, a weirdly filter episodic moment that is meant to be unseen.

Unable to gaze upon the crowd, despite your head is held high, your roundish headpiece wrapped atop your tucked hairstyle; your hairline styled and slicked back, yet your longish manes flowed and adorned your figure, clad in a floor length ivory gown, your arms heavies a wide bishop sleeves, but your forearms are fitted, ends of your v-pointed sleeves rested on the back of your hands. Your bodice, from bust to waist, the ivory corset is encrusted in pearls and gold embroidery, aligned and patterned with black and green stones as your long skirts in mermaid-shaped flowing, not strictly.

Bowing to Blacks and Greens, the ever so watchful gazes on the crowd are perplexed, yet so many spectators are grateful for your deeds. Some women’s gaze directly lanced at your direction with envy, perhaps displeasure of King Viserys’s announcement. As for men, however, it’s unreadable for you, but with unknown gazes may have yet proceed to either have notable rancor or the deepest of illest intentions.

In Westeros, you knew that you could trust no man. For now, trusting the Targaryens is your only option, a sole bargain, a wager to your existence. Nothing has ever come to simple or as festive. All you wanted was to stay in the sidelines, watching the events unfold, not to be a part of one. The real question is: who sent you here, and what was the real purpose? Of course not, you’re just a simple and honest modern woman—or at least what anyone thought of your outward appearance, which prevailed by the designed precision of Queen Alicent and Lady Rhaenyra’s plan of softening image.

You weren’t meant to be here.

The scream emerged.

All eyes snapped away from your direction. One man grabbed—dragged away and pointed it’s knife at Princess Helaena’s throat at the centered floor, the guards had their swords up, as one of them demanded for the man to release the princess.

“None should accept a woman as a knight on the throne,” the man spattered, yellow teeth gleaming, his voice grating with delight, continuing to drag the princess away bit by bit.

“Mother,” Helaena pleaded quietly, the knife pressed onto her ivory skin, trying not to flail.

“It’s either the cause for the great nobles, or the cause of the war.”

Alicent is frightened for her daughter’s fate.

And so, you watched, palm clenched and unclenched. Hands behind your back, your body veiled with a silver sparkling cloak, but one hand seized the spare knife—your knife you had in your clutched purse, moving with caution as you descend the steps without anyone spotting your intentions.

“Let her go,” you said, before turning your eyes to theirs.

Soothe the realm.

The men flabbergasted at your appeased state. “What?”

“Did I stutter,” you said, ambling, the cloak floated a little. “You’re ruining the King’s celebration. Do you want to be executed? You’re in the presence of Targaryens.”

“I won’t lay rest until I see no woman standing beside the Iron Throne. I won’t serve by the likes of you!”

Shaking your head as you said, “Who said it’s about me?”

The man uttered no response but a heaving breath, near Helaena, furrowed with concern.

Unblinking, your head tilted to the side. “You want me, right?”

The man carefully laid his eyes on you.

“You don’t want the princess,” you resumed, drew nearer. “You want me.”

Soothe the realm.

Your eyes indicated to one of the guards to hold him down, but none succeeded on reading your body language. Looking at your side, Queen Alicent’s widened eyes glazed with warning, a reminder to soften the image. Prince Aemond still abide, his violet eye gleamed, his eye stated something more, wanting more of the anticipation of what you’ll do next.

“Let her go, and I’ll give you what you want,” you negotiated.

“What makes you think I could negotiate with such a pathetic woman?”

“Because I’m not a liar,” you declared, hand stretched. “Release her.”

After moments of hesitation, Princess Helaena has been freed into your arms, shaking. You lightly shoved her towards Alicent as you walked onward without looking elsewhere.

And before you knew it, a knife stabbed behind your belly.

The gasps ensued as the fight broke out, leaving the Blacks and Greens emerged with apprehension, still safe and guarded.

Turning around, the knife you held plunged into the backstabber’s throat, but missed—instead it became a slight deep scratch on the cheek and his hand smacked against your cheekbone. Falling down, you pulled yourself back up again and knocked him out unconscious and rushed to Helaena’s side again and escorted her out, leaving the guards to assign fate to the intruders.

The fate became crueler; the man separated you and Helaena, shoving Helaena aside the intruder hooked you by the arms, trapped. When another opponent came, you lifted yourself in the air, and punted the opponent’s chest with both of your feet, leaving you and the large man collapsed. Rolling back, you gathered yourself again and escorted Helaena back at the corridor.

A young boy screamed—Prince Lucerys—his arm being yanked through the crowd. Briskly, you aid to their side, shoving the crowd apart, you casted your cloak—aiming at the foe, and lanced the man’s neck, trails of blood exploded, smearing the young prince’s face and placed him back Rhaenyra’s side.

A tall figure suddenly shielded you; the knife flew at your direction; Aemond deflected the attempted shot with his spare dagger. Queen Alicent and Lady Rhaenyra rushed altogether—guards protected all and ushered back into the corridor, leaving you breathless.

The pain has been numbed due to the shock implanted.

Far back at the pillar, you watched Rhaenyra and Alicent exchanging with altercation while you find yourself leaning on the stoned pillar with your left hand clutched your bleeding waist beneath the white dress.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Rhaenyra stated in shaky breath.

“Of course not,” Alicent seethed. “King Viserys should’ve thought of bringing Lady Greenstar to the Iron Throne to soothe the realm before the commotion erupts.”

“I hadn’t known,” Rhaenyra argued back, cradling Lucerys in her arms.

“You did this. Lady Greenstar warned that this would happen. A private ceremony should’ve been suffice.”

“We need Lady Greenstar to unite both factions—father suggested to that.”

“Your ideas may influence others, but you’ll never influence with me from the misguidance of your indulgence.”

“I have made no declarations and decisions—it is my father who has done it so!”

Bellows of altercation continued as Prince Jaecerys stood nearby you, given you an awkward tight-lipped expression with his hands laid rest upfront.

Blacks and Greens watched two ladies quarreled with venom as your chest heaving. Gazing below onto your hand, the gold ring sparked on your fourth finger; you brought it up to your lips and kissed it.

Everything will be alright, a gentle voice reminded.

Lidded eyes hazed as the hand placed on your back shoulder; Princess Helaena walked over to your side and consoled you with diminutive smile.

Instead of returning the offer, you patted Helaena’s hand your half-lidded eyes in a suggestion that everything is alright. The concentration in your mind has been misplaced that Helaena began to tie your strands to tiny braids. You’ve inspected everyone. So far, it went smoothly—you’ve found no wounds, but when your eyes meet Green sons, your head inclined to a subtle bow. While Prince Aegon bowed back with his smugness, Prince Aemond is as elegant and unreadable. His eye still lay onto you as you faced back, watching the princess and the queen.

Altercations and debate went ongoing.

The aggravating pain hadn’t ceased.

“Stop,” you groaned.

The abrasion struck you so hard that you let a long groan, your head hung back, relied on a cold pillar.

“Lady Greenstar,” Jacaerys said.

“I’m fine,” you assured, eyes watery. “I’m fine.”

Daemon, no doubt, is suspicious. Shielding Helaena with your might, you held onto her spare hand.

The quarrel wasn’t far from over as you sauntered, the belly scorched again, pinching your nerves and coiled your stomach to a point of punishment you couldn’t withstand.

The cough unleashed, veiling the spots of blood.

Someone…

And collapsed onto your knees, trembling with cold sweat, fell onward.

“Lady Greenstar,” Jacaerys called aloud, as he caught you into arms, soon follow by your feet, your body weakened, slipped away.

“You’re safe now,” you said, darting at Aemond, offering him your sweetest expression laid on your lips.

Gradually, your eyes fluttered with slow blinks, choking. Then your vision faded to nothing.

~Aemond’s POV~

“My Queen, Lady Greenstar has collapsed,” Criston announced.

Queen Alicent and Lady Rhaenyra halted, and veered back to your lifeless body in Jacaerys’s arms.

Both women’s anger replaced with fear. “No…” Rhaenyra uttered.

“Take her to the Maester at this instant. We can’t afford to lose her,” Alicent ordered.

All the while, Aemond, the king’s second son, is devastated, powerless and hopeless as the life slipped between your parted lips. Piqued as he was eyeing on the golden ring rested on your fourth finger.

~Your POV~

What the hell was that?

“The life flashes before your eyes,” it said.

Your head snapped to the noise.

“Poor little woman, who’s life has been tormented one after the other,” a voice rang into your ears in a darkened void. “A life of a woman is no ordinary, but will soon be free.”

“Who are you?”

“My, you’re just a thing of beauty. A shame that comes price with it—ever so ethereal but with a demonic spirit residing in you since your childhood, all but bad luck,” it taunted. “You have killed and tortured the mundane, both men and women, especially in your days where you were trying to save your dying lover—born a thief and a liar—the evil men have taught you well.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“I want to make an offer, an offer to which it might entice you. Right now, your very soul is on the bridge between life and death.”

“I know that!”

“Of course you knew. But you didn’t believe that we exist.”

“All are anything but real.”

The voice’s rang into your ears with its taunting laugh. “But if you wish to remain alive and well, I offered you choices, one which the cost of your life to be rekindled. One which you cannot turn your back into—and I offer you this; stay in Westeros and serve the realm, serve the dynasty and find a new purpose and bond. Even if it means of forgetting your dead lover. Or, the Gods will offer a sweet and merciful death—your pathetic and tragic life will soon meet its end and face your maker.”

“I want to go home,” you objected.

“Going home is no longer an option; if you go there, chances are your death will be as quickly repulsive and vile; death is near at your doorstep as soon as your consciousness blurred.”

“What do you mean?”

“The men from your former clan are hunting you down. They have found you. You thought running away from a syndicate after burning everything to ashes would be simple.”

“Why Westeros? Why send me there? Who sent me here?”

“Those questions are irrelevant; time is ticking.”

“At what cost?”

“The price you’ll pay, it’s either your eyes, ear or mouth. Or I will decide for you.”

Goosebumps flooded over you, heart struck with quiver.

“I can’t,” you whimpered. “I can’t!” Fell onto the ground, hands veiled your face, walls you’ve built tarnished as your cries echoed through the void, cried longer than you should’ve.

“Sweet summer child,” it cooed. “Time is running short. The elder man of Hightower wants to burn your body.”

Another shiver ran.

“I know everything. Submit yourself to me, and I shall grant the desire—the offer I gave you—your life will start anew. What do we say to the God of Death?”

“Not today.”

“Good!” the voice rang, enchant. “I knew you have come to made your decision.”

The green light sprang and ran into your heart—your voice reached high into bellows and wails. Nails digging into your chest firmly, nails dragged with blood, already on the floor, knees on your chest. Ears rang in high-pitched noise; ears bleed as nose, and mouth drained in red flow, crying in agony.

“Don’t worry, child, you’ll soon meet the fate that you’ve been longing for,” it said. “You’ll find your purpose here. The history of Fire & Blood, alongside yours, will be rewritten.”

In that moment, you knew the unknown being wasn’t lying.

@ aemondswifffeeeyyy - all rights reserved

Taglist: @daonenonlysandman @toodlesxcuddles @kittendoll05 @omgsuperstarg @xcharlottemikaelsonx @paninisstuff @danika1994 @angeljcca @taintedlovesworld @kukulyarva @namelesslosers @heavenly1927 @snh96 @herathedreamer @fandom-maniac-anime @httpsmenace @velunis @nananeptune @domithebomi @moonseye @valeskafics @faesspace @rxixo31 @tm-starr @xinthia19 @popsycles @naiaaramena @aleemendoza2425-blog @letmehavemyfictionalmen @aracelipf @ammo23 @blackswxnn @buccini555 @watercolorskyy @taangie @wolfdressedinlace @qardasngan @justyelena @jolixtreesunn @runekisses @jmii722 @colored-tr-panels @evergreen9083 @foggypeacestarlight @dixie-elocin @galactict3a @momowhoo @saturnssrings @dani5216

[darkinclinations]

I love slip dresses. They’re wonderfully easy (at least in my experience) to get for a good price, secondhand! I get mine on eBay. Then I wash them, often with white vinegar because they all have the same odd, overwhelming smell. You can add vinegar to your usual cycle or you can do one cycle with vinegar instead of detergent. Next, do a regular cycle with detergent. Once dry, the vinegar smell will be gone, and the former odor will either be gone or fainter. You can do more vinegar cycles, or soak in a vinegar/water ratio. If the items are satin, I iron them, and hang them straight so as not to wrinkle them. Upon wearing, I accessorize lots. I wear a black cami and black shorts for the base layer. Those are my tips for easy romantic, gothic, vampiric fashion. I wear a 3X or 22/24 in most brands, I filter my eBay search results by ‘pre-owned,’ and I give sellers a chance to send me a discount after showing interest in the item :)

eBay is also great for corsets and other lingerie to incorporate into your outfits. Torrid, Lane Bryant, and Frederick’s of Hollywood have plus size items like these that pop up on eBay. If the seller includes the brand’s name, try looking up that brand’s size chart online to see if the garment will work for you. Buying a beautiful garment only to have it be too small is very disappointing.

Thanks for coming to today’s “Nobody Asked, But I Tell You Anyway!”

[dead-lights]

the old guard: first day of school

I really like doing everyone-goes-to-high-school-together AUs and I've been working with Century Conflict-era sims recently, so what better way for me to get in the mood for my Simblreen renders than to send the old guard to Copperdale together?

We've got a full house - Tess, Ethren, Keisha, Inna, Elle, Vlad, Dillon, and Maria Volkov. I aged them down to teenagers, gave them teen ambitions, reset all of their powers, and moved them into the Price family's house. Don't ask what happened to the Prices.

As expected, Maria started with negative relationships with all of the vampires. Despite that, the very first thing Inna did when I hit play was walk over to Maria to start making jokes. Despite their initially negative relationship, they were friends by lunchtime. They both have the good trait - I think that really helped.

Inna's getting into photography, and Maria is happy to model for her.

I turned one of the bedrooms into a little lounge for them. I really like making study clubs, so I had Inna set one up. By the time they were done with their homework, almost everybody was on good terms, except for Vlad, who is Vlad, and Tess, who was practicing magic outside and missed all the fun.

The next morning was their first day at school. The game kinda bugged out a bit and only Inna got event goals (and only Inna had any performance increased from going to school) but I had no time to worry about that - while the other vampires spent the previous day exploring vampire lore and were able to buy plasma packs, Vlad decided to wait for a live meal. The first thing he did was ambush the janitor.

Apparently this awakened something within Vlad, because at that moment he stated experiencing the onset of puberty.

Poor thing.

The students filtered into class - with 8 teens from one household all attending school at the same time, they took up the entire classroom. Most of them made it on time, with Ethren slipping in just in time for class to start. Maria and Vlad, on the other hand, were nowhere to be found.

Maria, as it turned out, was pumping iron in the basement. She took her sweet time getting to class - she has the genius trait, so I guess she doesn't think she needs lectures. Still, she did make it to class, even if she missed the first half.

Vlad, on the other hand, was really struggling with the whole onset of puberty thing. He flew to the bathroom and tried to give himself a pep talk. When that didn't make him feel better, he decided, fuck going to class! and flew down to the computer room to troll teh forums.

He's going through some stuff, okay

Keisha, true to form, couldn't help getting a bit silly.

Though Elle and Dillon almost maxed out their relationship the first night (they stayed up playing chess while the mortals slept) Elle has a crush on Inna. A crush that seems to be causing her actual physical pain. Not sure if it's the agony of watching Inna beaming at her werewolf bestie or just the discomfort of all those teenage hormones, but poor Elle is not having a good time. She flew off to the bathroom to give herself a pep talk.

It was at this point that I realized that Ethren was in the bathroom stall, trying to go about his business. Normally vampire bathroom ambushes involve the vampire doing the ambushing, but ok.

Elle, I know you don't show up in mirrors, but Ethren can definitely still see you.

ok maybe he can't see you. dude just straight-up walked through her, washed his hands, and went to play football with Tess.

Vlad, in the meantime, decided it was time to learn to play the violin. Elle, who actually does know how to play violin, tried to be supportive of his efforts, but ultimately couldn't take it.

I don't think he blames her.

[frankenfran]

why would the crone be lonely? a precession of maidens filter into her home daily like a flock of beautiful songbirds, each innocently asking for something that might help them. each maiden the main character of some sprawling fairy tail taking place beyond the confines of her dusty home. surely being a character in such romantic stories is the best she could hope for, no?

they come to her seeking countless things. her knowledge on this thing, a tome to help with that thing, an artifact to assist with this other thing, advice they'll ignore for another thing, and so on and so forth. even her obtuse sense of humour and unique way of speaking goes with them. pieces of her they can take and use on their journey like good luck charms. no payment is expected, no ironic fate awaits them. they expect such an outcome but it never comes.

these pieces of her scatter across the world like seeds blown by the wind. they endear people to the maiden wielding them, often leading to good fortune and even romance. the innocent maidens assume some sort of enchantment, a blessing or spell cast on them by the frightening old hag with a surprisingly kind heart?

but no such sorcery is at play. no shocking twist in the final hour that reveals the hag to be some long lost heir to the throne, or a beautiful woman placed under a disfiguring curse. all that remains is the truth of her personality, her desires and her many interests, gifted to these young women so they can achieve their goals. in this way, countless people have fallen in love with her. the mannerisms they find irresistible when they come from a maiden, the knowledge they wield proudly, the newfound appreciation for a previously forgotten thing. they love her without knowing.

she remembers all too well her youthful days of romance and heartbreak. her charm that once got her into as much trouble as it got her out of now comes off as a sarcastic joke to most. the hag knows how she looks to the bright eyed maidens pleading like children in front of her. they wince at her flirtatiousness, recoil at her playfulness, and rebuff probable advances.

after all, why wouldn't she be trying to seduce them? this lonely, fat old hag with her leering eyes. her honeyed words like a teaspoon of sugar to help the bitter medicine down their tight throats. a joke of a woman. her desire seen only as a threat and always assumed. they assume her gifts come at a price. her kind words drip with disdain to their ears and her hearty laugh is the shrill cackle of an evil witch with ill intentions.

yet still, they come to her, and still she helps them. perhaps some day they'll take every last piece of her until there's nothing left to take. motes of dust will dance in the rays of light filtering through the window illuminating her now empty shelves. "i have nothing left to give but my company" she'll say to some poor girl seeking her help. "some great witch you are" the girl will say before storming out of her empty home. the page turns and the story continues all the same.

[mlmxreader]

Parc Cenedlaethol Arfordir Penfro | John Price x gn!reader

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↳ ❝ “face it, we’re lost” john price x gn!reader but it’s a camping trip and price is a stubborn man 😭 - @mockerycrow ❞

: ̗̀➛ you and Price try to have a nice holiday whilst visiting Parc Cenedlaethol Afordir Penfro, but unfortunately, Price has far too much English arrogance.

: ̗̀➛ swearing, smoking

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It was your idea, initially. Going to Parc Cenedlaethol and then travelling to Bannau Brycheiniog and Eryri.

You wanted to show Price the beautiful landscapes that could be seen and taken in; from the gorgeous sandy beaches through to the wild inland hills and all the way up to the mountains where the falcons didn't even dare to fly.

Price was on board at first, and was more than happy to arrange the necessities; tents, sleeping bags, food, drinks. Tobacco, papers, filters and at least two lighters plus spares.

He insisted on taking his car, as it was bigger and more suited to the roadtrip; a large, black estate car, it managed to fit everything in the boot and still have room to spare.

It wasn't anything like England, Price had to admit.

It wasn't stained with bird shit on every street and coated in cigarette butts; it wasn't ruined by uncaring councils who left dangerous pot holes in the roads, it wasn't dominated by middle class idiots who flew England flags and refused to admit that they don't know their own history. It wasn't covered in litter and filled to the brim with disgusting smells and far too much noise.

No, it was beautiful. Bae Sain Ffraid was stunning. Quiet and peaceful, not a single England flag in sight. It wasn't coated in litter, there were no cigarette butts every two steps. No pot holes. The flag of Cymru flew high, but with pride and resilience instead of dominance and an iron fist.

The air was fresh and crisp, and the way you walked along rocks made Price pause in his steps as he smiled to himself. You looked regal, if he was honest. Like you should have had a sword in your hand, bestowed upon you by a lady that lived in a lake. Like you should have had a great red dragon by your side as your co-commander.

He watched you for a moment, tilting his head to the side as he hummed. You looked like you truly belonged there, with the wind in your face and the sunshine in your eyes; you were confident and when you returned to his side, grinning, he could see that it was the perfect idea.

"So," you beamed. "What'd you think?"

Price shrugged as he looked around; the salty air in his face as he took a deep breath and nodded. For miles, he couldn't see another soul; Bae Sain Ffraid was deserted, leaving just you and him stranded on the quaint and quiet beach. The tide rolling lazily as it softly sang along with the gentle breeze.

"Yeah, it ain't half bad," he admitted with approval, a curt nod. "Nothing on Merseyside, but y'know."

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head fondly as you gently nudged him. "You could be taken to fucking paradise and you'd still say it's got nothing on Merseyside."

Price grinned as he pulled you into his side, humming softly. "So, where's the campsite again?"

"It's already loaded on the map," you told him. "Once we're in the car, it'll be easy to find."

He nodded slowly, slowly starting to walk back to the car with you, crushing you against his side; he was a confident enough driver, but he had never really been good at taking directions from the satnav.

Convinced he knew better thanks to years of military training exposing him to various maps and terrains, he always assumed that he knew better. It never failed to make him laugh when you joked about it being down to English arrogance.

But still, Price never let anyone else drive his car, and that included you - he loved you, of course he did, and when you reached the campsite at Eryri, he did plan on giving you a little surprise that he had hidden in his backpack. But just because he loved you didn't mean he trusted you with his car.

Nobody had that privilege. Not even his own adopted daughter, Farah, had that.

Sitting in the passenger seat, you lit a cigarette and took a long drag, clearing your throat softly. "I wonder how Gaz is getting on."

Price let his hand drop to your thigh as he hummed. "What'd you mean?"

"He's got his test today," you reminded. "He's trying out for Lieutenant, remember?"

"Oh ah! I'm sure he'll do fine," he told you, gently patting your thigh. "He's smart. I don't doubt he'll pass with flying colours."

"I should hope so," you mused. "He's a good lad, he's Captain material, if anything."

"Oi," Price warned. "Don't."

"I'm just saying," you smiled. "Gaz got a good head on his shoulders, he'd be a fine Captain."

"And what about me?"

"You could retire," you pointed out. "We could live off of your pension, it'd pay enough."

Price scoffed as he rolled his eyes. "You really think we're ready for that?"

You nodded as you grabbed his CD collection from the globe box. "You don't?"

He hummed as he paused at the traffic lights. "I'm not sure... used to think I'd retire once I married, if anything."

"What changed?" You asked, pulling out a Sabaton CD and inserting it into the disc player.

Price glanced at you for a moment, then smiled. "I'm not sure you'd marry me just yet."

"I'd marry you almost immediately if you weren't English," you joked softly, making him grin as he shook his head fondly. "But now? I'd marry you now."

He felt his chest swell a bit, confirming that you would say yes when he asked. He knew it would be easy to get everything together; he had his family's chuppah, and he knew that the local rabbi had plenty of time for signing the ketubah.

Laswell and her wife had agreed to be witnesses, whilst Gaz, Farah, Ghost and Alex had all eagerly asked to be present as well. Alejandro and Rodolfo agreed that they would be there and secure time off once they knew the date, as well.

It made Price giddy to think about; knowing that one day, you would be his spouse and he could happily and comfortably call himself your husband. You turned the car volume up, singing along to 'En Livstid I Krig'.

"För kriget det kan, förgöra en man, jag ger mitt liv för mitt fosterland, men vem saknar mig? Så se mig som den, en make, en vän, fader och son som aldrig kommer hem, men vem sörjer mig? Gick ut i strid för Sverige, blev döpt i blod, där ute väntar döden, inte hjältemod, I fält där fränder faller, hörs ingen sång, utmanar våra öden, ännu en gång!"

Oh, how he loved the sound of your voice. Years of being in a choir had clearly done you justice, as there was nothing that Price could listen to for hours on end like the sound of you singing; he smiled.

It was all too rare for him to hear you sing. He missed it above all else when he was deployed, and hearing it over the phone or on video calls simply wasn't enough, it was never enough. He stayed silent, taking in the gorgeous sound of your voice; it matched the landscape well, if he was honest. You belonged there. He knew that.

But in his clear distraction, he had missed the turning, and it wasn't long before the song faded out, and you took a glimpse out of the window.

"John," you hummed. "Where the fuck are we?"

"Erm," he looked at the satnav. "Bollocks."

"You didn't get us lost, did you?" You asked with a scoff.

Price shook his head. "Nah, of course not. Just took a different route."

"Uh-huh," you sat back, raising a brow. "Face it, we're lost."

"No, we're not," he hummed, looking at the little screen for a second and then nodding. "It's just an alternate route."

"John."

"I'm telling the truth!" He whined. "You've no faith in me."

"Not when you're driving, no," you laughed softly. "You're cocky. You got that English arrogance, cariad."

He rolled his eyes, trying not to laugh. That cemented it for him, if he was honest. It cemented the fact that he wanted, needed, to marry you; you were the best thing in his life, and he wanted to make it known to everybody and everything, that he loved you as much as he adored you.

"We're not lost," he insisted. "Trust me."

"I think I won't this time."

[senjutsunade]

~Unhinged~

✣Character Drabble✣

Shizune always asks what she is looking at, each time she catches the blonde staring out the window.

Tsunade is always startled—though never lets anyone see that—blinks to cover up how lost she had been, shrugs, and returns to the table, whining about more work, needing sake, or Kakashi being late. Again.

And the whole thing is forgotten for a few days until it happens again—when the cycle repeats. At times she gives a vague answer. At times just a sheepish smile. At times no response at all.

Tsunade wonders what Shizune thinks. Concern is always present in her apprentice’s eyes. Though she remains quiet. For which Tsunade is grateful.

The most meaningful discussion she has ever had with Kakashi had been when he inquired whether, when she looked at the picture outside the window, did she see a burden or possibilities? His solemn tone had made her remain quiet for a long time—knowing he wouldn’t want the answer she has to give. Instead, she gives one that will satisfy them both…yet not be an answer. She says she sees a dream.

She knows he expects her to elaborate. But she holds her silence and he chooses to respect her decision to not say more. Maybe he does understand. He is, after all, in a similar position to.

Ironically…the person who understands her need to look out is the one person she has clashed with constantly since her return to Konoha. Danzo, arriving unexpectedly, catches her by surprise, asking how often she sees the present when she looks outside? He doesn’t comment on her shock. Nor does he seem to expect an answer. That’s the only time his gaze tells her that for once, they are the same. Then he turns away and she follows. The past can wait after all.

What does it matter to Konoha that the window shows her not the present generation, but all the faces that are missing? That she sees the ones long gone, left only in her memories. That even when she sees the present, she still looks for the smiling face of her brother or a glimpse of white and black hair. She looks for all the faces she knows have not stepped into the village in decades.

The present day does not care that she is the last of a generation that sacrificed itself so that Konoha may still exist today.

And she questions whether it’s a blessing or a curse that she still remains there, to remember those who aren’t.

Outside the window, the world is a kaleidoscope of colors she once loved. The azure sky, the emerald leaves rustling in the wind, the vibrant reds and yellows—all are muted in her eyes, overshadowed by the ghosts of the past. The bustling streets are filled with laughter and life, yet all she can hear is the silence of those who have fallen.

Each day, the sunlight filters through the window, casting long shadows across her desk. She watches as the light dances, trying to find warmth in its touch, but it only serves to highlight the emptiness within her. The silhouettes of the villagers move about their daily lives, oblivious to the weight she carries, the history etched into her very soul.

Tsunade often catches herself tracing the lines of the glass with her fingertips, as if she could reach through it and touch the memories held on the other side. The window has become her silent confidant, bearing witness to her silent grief, her unspoken fears, and the relentless march of time.

She sees Nawaki’s youthful grin, always full of dreams too grand for his small frame. She sees Dan, with his kind eyes and the promise of a future that was stolen away. She sees Jiraiya, always a step behind, yet forever loyal. She sees Orochimaru, his serpentine gaze ever calculating, a reminder of the fine line between brilliance and madness. Their faces blend with the living, creating a tapestry of what was and what is, a constant reminder of the price of peace.

Every so often, a familiar face from her childhood appears in the crowd, now older, wearier. They nod to her, a silent acknowledgment of shared loss, but their eyes quickly move on, focusing on the future she struggles to embrace.

The seasons change outside, painting the village in different hues, but inside her office, it remains winter. The coldness of her reality, the stark white of her solitude, contrasts sharply with the life outside. She knows the village thrives, rebuilt from the ashes of war, but the cost is written in every invisible line of her face, every scar on her heart.

As the day fades into twilight, the sky outside her window turns a deep orange, then purple, then black. The stars emerge, one by one, distant and cold. Tsunade remains at her desk, the glow of the moon casting a pale light into the room. She sighs, the weight of the past and the burden of the present pressing heavily upon her.

In these quiet moments, when the world outside is cloaked in darkness, she allows herself to feel the full extent of her sorrow. Tears may fall, unseen and silent, but they are hers alone. For as long as she remains, so too will the memories, the ghosts, and the unending question of what might have been.

[kurlyfrasier]

5) Bleeding Heart: A Chronologue (part 2/2)

Pairing: Mand'alor!Din Djarin x Reader

Synopsis: Din left you and Grogu at Fett's Palace and regrets it.

Word Count: 1300-ish

Warnings: Um, improper use of Mando'a, I'm sure. And blood. Um, Darksaber stuff? Near death experience.

Disclaimer: I do not own any Mandalorian/Star Wars anything. I find all Mando’a translations and pronunciations at mandoa.org.

A/N: Been a long time coming, folks! Honestly, I'm a little surprised I finished this part lol BUT IT IS FINALLY HERE! Sorry it took so freaking long....This thing was a total nightmare for the longest time, let me tell you. I feel so accomplished now that this piece is OVER. Anyway, ENJOY! (:

Also, this takes place during Beskar Kisses & Grime, if you need to recap lol

Day Four:

Din woke up in a dark, unfamiliar room with a start, gasping for breath.

“Ah,” dim light filtered through the room. “You’re awake, Mand’alor.”

Din whirled out of the cot, cape tangling through his legs, blaster pointed at the man who entered.

The man held his hands up in surrender, lantern in hand casting shadows in the small space. A small smile on his wrinkled face. “Please, we mean you no harm.”

Slowly, Din holstered his blaster, his cape untangling with the movement. “I’m looking for someone. A bounty.” His voice was rough, throat dry.

“We get many travelers through our small village,” said the man. “Describe your bounty and I will ask around. If anyone has seen them, we would be more than happy to tell you.”

The words made Din wary, wondering what price he would need to pay for the information. “Why.”

“You are our Mand’alor,” the man stated, matter-of-fact.

With a sigh, Din sat down on the cot, utterly exhausted even though it seemed he got some sleep. It groaned under his weight. “You wear no armor.”

“We have been hiding,” he said, giving nothing away, gaze never leaving the visor before him.

“I see,” Din did not see, but his brain had felt muddled and confused for at least a day now. He figured it was the curse of his Kar’ta. The room was spinning, spinning, spinning. His gloved hands gripped the edge of the cot with strength he didn’t feel.

“Mand’alor?”

“Please- uh-” Din shook his head as though that would clear it and groaned, eyes screwed shut. He had no idea what he was going to say, so he went with the next thing on his mind. “Why- back to?” His body swayed. “Mandalore.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather rest?” The man’s concern reached Din’s ears, but just barely over the ringing that now suddenly plagued him.

“Can’t,” he shook his head petulantly and landed hard on his side, eyes opening to find the older man hovering above him. The cot was hardly softer than the ground itself. “Ner Kar’ta.”

“Go back,” the familiar voice cracked, heartbroken and weary.

“Your heart?”

“Go back,” it wailed.

“The bounty,” Din mumbled, moving to sit back up, but the man’s hands held him in place. “I have to get back to her.”

“Go back,” it seethed. “You call yourself Mand’alor and yet you leave your heart.”

A weak cackle made its way out of his vocoder. Finally, the darksaber speaks its mind. “Says the one who gave me no choice.”

“You make no sense, Mand’alor,” the words sounded far away, blowing past him in a strong breeze, getting farther and farther away.

Day Unknown

Din awoke in a fog, the taste of iron filling his mouth. Blood splattered the inside of the helmet before he was able to rip it off, blinding his sight. Silently, not knowing where he was, he slowly sat up and removed his helmet. The air was cool and damp, a cold sweat made his flight suit cling to his body in an uncomfortable way.

Spitting more blood on the ground, he took in his surroundings. A small lantern sat on a small wooden table by the door. The walls, he noticed, were made of stick and mud. Above was straw, which explained absolutely nothing.

Where was he?

What was he doing here?

“You’re awake!” An over-excited voice said, scurrying past before Din could see who they were. “I’ll go get grandpapa.”

Din stood to follow, hand reaching out to the wall as the room spun. Slowly, he grabbed his bag laying on the ground and his bloodied helmet. Finally, he stepped forward, ignoring the ache in his chest as he settled the beskar on his head. Ignoring the murmur of the Darksaber in his mind when he fell to his knees, coughing, sputtering blood until he couldn’t see anything but red. The bag dropped from his feeble grip, one hand moving to clutch the center of his chest while the other fumbled for the mechanism to remove his helmet. Around him, footfalls were heard, thumping, pounding, surrounding him. Someone spoke. A shout. Cries.

Darkness enveloped him.

“If you’re going to be this stupid, Din Djarin, chosen Mand’alor,” the voice spat, disappointment ringing through the many voices. “Then it is time we take over.”

“Take,” Din heaved, chest heavy, as though the Razor Crest sat on it. Every breath tasting, smelling, of copper. Vaguely, he wondered if this was the end for him. “Over?”

“Elek,” it’s voice became stronger, more firm, turning into a physical thing he couldn’t see. As though it had moved from inside of his mind to a person standing right next to him. It’s next words were clipped, “We chose you as our true heir. The one who will bring peace to Mandalore. The one who will always do right by his people. The one we gave the most precious thing to,” the voice paused, waiting. When Din didn’t- couldn’t- respond, it continued, voice reverberating reverence, “Gar Kar’ta.”

“Kar-”

“But we see you do not deserve her-”

“I kno-”

“We see you are not keen to stay in her presence-”

“I do-” Din panted, voice sounding strangled. In a panic, he attempted to explain. To tell the past Mand’alors that you were the only thing he could think of, only thing he needed to survive. He needed them to know that you were everything to him, that all he wanted to do was keep you safe. That it had agreed with him before, that taking you on hunts was unsafe. That anything could happen. There were too many variables, remember? When had a fight ever gone his way? Doesn’t the Darksaber remember that? “Not safe-”

“Yet you must live,” the once-ghostly voices stated over him as though he hadn’t said a word. As though he was nothing but a speck of sand on Tatooine. As if every breath didn’t feel like his last. “We will get you back to her.”

“But-”

“Do not worry, Mand’alor,” the voice turned gentle, understanding. “You are still worthy of your crown. Of us,” the Darksaber sounded sad with it’s next words. “More worthy than most who were chosen before you.”

Silence reigned, high-pitched and screaming. 

Shutting his eyes tight against the surrounding darkness, Din focused on breathing. Honing in on counting; one… two… three… four… five, as he breathed in and out. For minutes, hours, days, he breathed as the metallic scent that could only be blood, filled his lungs. Still, he kept breathing. It was the only thing he could do. The only thing he was capable of. The only thing that kept his mind occupied from the pressure, the burning, the squeezing, in his chest.

The Last Day

The ramp of the Crest screeched open. Blinding light from the double suns forced Din to squint through his visor. Confused, he moved forward, stepping down the ramp as it landed on the sands of Tatooine at Fett’s Palace. Behind him was the hum of floating frozen carbonite following him. Ahead of him, you stood waiting, eyes filled with worry.

He didn’t understand how he was still alive.

He didn’t understand how he got back to the same planet your presence graced.

He didn’t- couldn’t remember anything past the forever darkness. A black so dark he thought for sure he wouldn’t survive. A familiar voice echoed deep in his mind. His head hurt just thinking about it. So he didn’t. Instead, he strode toward you with purposeful strides, using strength he didn’t feel.

“Mesh’la,” he whispered, voice raspy, as he gently laid his helmeted head on yours.

“Gar Kar’ta cuyir morut’yc,” a barely there voice whispered in the depths of his mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tags: @againstacecilia @djarinslove @bxmxtx @takeyour-pants-off

THANKS FOR READING!

[theladyofbloodshed]

A Court of Tangled Flames - Chapter 11

The village was nestled between two towns. It was close enough to the Summer Court that the weather was influenced by it. A crisp day befell them with blue skies and a golden sun that warmed the skin. When they passed through the wards, Nesta released a small gasp, finally able to see the sprawling village. More and more houses were being built from brick or wood as Eris shifted more to the area. It was filled with his loyalists. Ones who opposed Beron’s rule. There were many females here too that he and Orla had helped to relocate.

It was an idyll. Some days. Other days, headaches came.

Farmers groused that the neighbouring towns were undercutting the price of crops or the lesser fae grew uneasy with so many high fae beginning to filter in. Managing the tensions in all of these pockets was a constant juggling act. Eris could be like his father with a divine rule. Any opposition found their tongues cut out or heads chopped off. No, an iron fist was not the way to be. It did mean long hours of listening to farmers rant about the price of turnips or teachers complaining that their students didn’t listen – as if Eris could control either of these things. In his long years of moulding these sanctuaries, Eris had learnt that people simply wanted to be heard. They wanted somebody to listen rather than solutions, but if he could offer those too, that was better.

Eris was accosted by a cross, hairy male who – as expected – launched into a tirade about his neighbour’s children stealing pumpkins or smashing them on his land. Eris let him grumble and grumble then the male reasoned with himself that children will be children before wandering off to settle it with his neighbour.

'He was a lesser faerie?'

'A hob. Rather than risking offending him, which is the worst thing one can do with a hob, I find it’s better to let him talk himself into a circle.’

Nesta’s brows raised in surprise. ‘I’ve heard of hobs. My mother said they did the housework instead of servants.’

At that, Eris laughed heartily. ‘Never say such a thing to a hob. They’ll put ashes on your clothes or smash your plates. They have been enslaved in the past, but they’re very proud. They work on favours rather than gold.’

‘And there are more of these hobs?’

‘Yes and no. They don’t do well together so there aren’t many living here. But there are many in the Autumn Court and Spring. We have many types of lesser fae. Piskies are very common here. They are wonderful with horses – the male you saw at the stables is one. Spriggans are the third most common but I would recommend not interacting with them if you can avoid it.'

‘Why so?’

‘They’re incredibly strong.’ Eris checked the area to ensure none were around. ‘They also delight in mischief and misery. They’re spiteful. Ugly, crooked things.’

‘All of them?’

Eris shrugged. ‘As a rule.’

Throughout their afternoon, Eris and Nesta were jostled between people desperate to give their well-wishes on the wedding as well as to interrogate him on what he’d do about the weak bridge in the east and the rising numbers of bears that we moving south from the Winter Court. In these moments, Nesta was often drawn away into new conversation but Eris kept an eye on her. Although the village was safe, he still would not be complacent with her.

Many elder females examined her to see if she was up to standard then when they were seemingly satisfied, Nesta was offered a never-ending supply of teas, cakes, and biscuits. Each one desperate to seek the approval of the future lady of the court with their baking. For the duration, Eris had been locked into conversation with a group who were inciting tensions in one of his father’s strongholds to cause Beron a headache, but he kept his eyes flickering back to Nesta. By some miraculous feat, she ate one of everything that was presented to her. He didn’t know how she wasn’t sick. Or how her teeth hadn’t fallen out from the sugar.

Later in the afternoon, many began heading for the temple perched atop the hill. It was an ancient thing, built centuries ago.

‘Are we attending?’

Eris’ heart jolted from that small word. We. As if they were part of something together.

‘No. I won’t force you through it.’ He aimed to take Nesta by the elbow and wheel her around towards the river where many lesser fae made homes on the water in long, narrow boats painted bright colours.

‘Tell me honestly, if I wasn’t here would you attend the service?’

Eris pushed out a breath. ‘Yes.’

‘Then let us attend.’ Nesta gestured for him to lead the way to the modest temple perched atop the hill.

‘I don’t want to influence you or force you when you don’t believe,’ he explained carefully as they began their climb up the hill. Faith was a personal thing.

Nesta shook her head dismissively. ‘I don’t believe because it was never explained to me. Let me attend before I cast judgement. I must admit that I like the idea of something greater watching over me.’

It was strange for Eris to think of mortals existing without a higher being to guide them. No Cauldron or Mother. Then again, they likely had nothing to give thanks for. Their lives were brief and bleak. It wasn’t the Mother that parents scared their children with stories of to keep them in line, it was the fae.

‘Forgive me if this is presumptuous, but I didn’t imagine you to be a fervent worshipper.’

‘Because of my questionable morals?’ He teased. It was true. He was not the type. Many times, Eris had squirmed in a service when priestesses had spoken of goodness and purity – all of the things that he lacked. ‘Fervent maybe is not the correct word. We all need something to believe in, some more than others. After the service, I will tell you exactly why I have faith.’

Eris led the way to a space on one of the pews. Many had already come for the service while more filed in afterwards. All recognised him. That was fine – Eris did frequent this temple. Nesta was not a secret. The village was safe. Some gave a murmured greeting in the almost silent temple while others who hadn’t met her yet craned their necks from their benches to scrutinise Nesta. The female pretended she didn’t notice the curious eyes or whispers. She had done well today. Excellent even. She hadn’t coveted friends, but those who had approached her were met with a female of quick wits and honest words. That was far better than honeyed words that hid their falseness.

The service flowed through hymns and prayers. There was a lot of rising then kneeling then sitting then rising once more. Eris always thought it was to counteract the drowsiness that came from a warm temple littered with cosy candles.

Nesta listened devoutly, soaking in every word to understand the teachings. He could not have felt prouder that she had chosen to be here. If Nesta decided it was not for her, Eris would not begrudge her decision. It was foreign to her. But she had tried to understand and that was crucial to her life as a faerie. And it mattered a lot to Eris.  

‘You didn’t sing,’ Nesta murmured as the service came to an end.

He let out a soft snort. ‘I never sing.’

A few fae shook Eris’ hand at the end of the service as they filed out. They filled him in on their farms or families. A few more wanted to greet Nesta too. She nodded and listened, asking them to repeat their names as she committed faces to memory. There were many types of lesser fae in the village. Poor Nesta had likely never seen their sort, but to her credit, she hadn’t shown any outward alarm or surprise.  

‘My lord,’ a soft voice said.

Eris was greeted with a pair of brown eyes, as large and innocent as a fawn’s. The female wound a lock of her auburn hair around her fingers as she offered a polite curtsey to him. How the ribbons of her stay hadn’t snapped from how tightly they’d been pulled to push up her bust, Eris would never know.

‘It has been so long since we have seen you, I had almost forgotten your face.’

‘Life has a habit of running away with me.’

She tittered out a laugh then stroked a hand along his arm. ‘Tell life that I am jealous.’ 

Eris pulled his arm free of Aurelia’s claws and stepped away. ‘I’ll be sure to send you my vast number of reports to file if you are jealous. Aurelia’s father is the male I rely on to keep Altor Hay turning. This is my wife, Nesta.’ He slipped an arm around her lower back, drawing her closer.

Disappointment pinched at Aurelia’s features. ‘I had heard a rumour. We were all disappointed you did not wed an Autumn Court female. Does a Night Court female not pale next to one of your own?’

Eris did not like her tone. Aurelia had been pushed for many years by her father to lock him into marriage. There was nothing unpleasant about her – apart from her rabid ambition that was desperate for a Vanserra surname and nothing more in life. She always made a beeline for him – and always ended up spraining an ankle or feeling faint in order to lean on him. It was irksome and transparent.

‘You are being incredibly disrespectful to my wife. I have only ever wanted the best – regardless of court, Aurelia – and that is who I have. I would not have entered a marriage to any but my equal.’

Her brown eyes went to his hand spread across Nesta’s hip where his tattoo lay. Bitterness was swallowed down as Aurelia remembered that one day, Eris would be high lord – and Nesta would be the female at his side, not her.

‘Forgive me. My emotions overpowered my sense.’

Nesta smiled sweetly. ‘It can happen when it is in short supply.’

Before the blow could land, Nesta turned to leave – and Eris followed whilst trying to suppress a laugh. Her wit would be the death of him.

The last rays of sun clung to the sky so Nesta drew her cloak tighter around her. She retrieved her gloves from a pocket to slip them on then laced her arm through his once more as if she belonged there.

‘Thank you for defending me.’

Eris blinked. ‘You’re my wife. I won’t let anybody speak poorly of you.’

‘You don’t even know me.’

They headed towards the stable where his horse had been kept for the day. His stomach was beginning to rumble but Nesta had been exposed to enough people for the day. She’d want to recede back to her own company to decompress. They could eat in his rooms, away from more strangers.

‘I promised not to lie to you. The truth is that any disrespect towards you reflects upon me. We are seen as equal. To many here, they see you as my possession. If I let it slide, I lose control. I let them think they have the ability to criticise my decisions.’ Eris puffed out a breath. ‘But it feels like a lie to tell you that. I defended you because you are brilliant no matter what court you come from. I defended you because I do not want anybody to make you feel as if you are not good enough. Put your foot in,’ he said, pointing to the stirrup. ‘I do know you. Some of you. I know that you are likely itching to get back to privacy and are hoping I leave you alone for the evening. I know that you save your favourite part of the meal to the end and eat the parts you like least first to get rid of them.’

Eris helped Nesta into the saddle with a smooth lift then he swung himself up behind her.

‘I know that you’d put your friends’ safety above your own, that you read a book in two sittings and sometimes mouth the words, and you sleep with two pairs of socks on because you always have cold feet.’

Nesta spluttered a reply. He’d learnt to be observant. It helped read his father’s moods. It had taught Eris when to stay out of his father’s way or when to take cover entirely.

‘And I know that it shocked you when I defended you in front of Aurelia which makes me feel quite cross that it wasn’t done in the past.’

The horse went at a trot towards the black forest. He didn’t know if he’d pushed Nesta too far or terrified her by revealing that much information. It wasn’t that he stared, he just tended to notice things. The little things made up the big things. They deserved attention.

‘Was she a past lover?’

Was that jealously that Eris heard in her tone? The thought did something to him. He pressed his lips together to stop a smile forming as they rode.

‘Would you care if she was?’

‘I’d like to know how many ex-lovers will confront me.’

Nesta sank back in the saddle, leaning against him rather than holding herself rigid.

‘Aurelia’s father has tried for many years to make me realise what a good wife his daughter would make. I’ve never been inclined to listen. She wants my surname. And probably the vast hoard of treasure beneath the vaults of the Forest House.’ Eris wasn’t sure whether to tell Nesta that the law also stipulated that upon his death, she would inherit his wealth. She might kill him. ‘Aurelia is not a lover. You will meet females like her again though – ones whose ambition comes from a desire to please a nagging parent.’

‘I know the sort.’

The eldest daughter of a wealthy merchant from the mortal lands… Yes, Nesta had likely been primed for marriage too. He remembered Feyre being unable to read beneath the mountain and yet Nesta swallowed books on every topic. How could two daughters experience such a difference in education?

Eris knew that he should have winnowed them closer to the Forest House, that he risked both of them by being out in the dark with no smokehounds or his own sentries canvassing the area. He was a fool. A fool who relished the warmth of her body knocking against his as the horse trotted onwards.

***

They were taking the long way back to the Forest House, Nesta was sure of it. She didn’t mind too much. Although the encroaching night was cold, Eris’s body was warm against hers. It was the darkness that Nesta struggled with. She couldn’t see the path that the horse found. Her only guess was that Eris had spent so much time in the vast forests that he could seemingly craft a way back with little light. If she spent too long in silence, the shadows began to warp into horrors. Each rustle of a branch was an assailant of the Night Court sent to retrieve her.  

‘You’ve gone all tense. Are you alright?’

Nesta forced her lungs to exhale rather than remain locked like a cage. A trembling hand slid on top of his around the reins to ground herself.

‘The forest is fearsome at night.’

She had heard mention of bears in the village earlier. Maybe Nesta could spin that as the reason for her fears.

‘I will winnow us.’

‘No,’ Nesta said quickly. It was her own imagination running away with her, but she was not in a hurry to be close to Beron again. She wanted more than anything to be in the comfort of the little cottage or even Orla’s home. ‘Darkness.’

That was all Nesta could manage.

‘I have an idea.’

The unpleasant sensation of winnowing seized her as if she was being forced into a place that was too small. The air was suddenly colder. The sharpness of it made her gasp.

‘I will show you the jewel of my court.’

They dismounted, tethering the horse where the trees were sparse despite Nesta’s worries that some harm could befall it. Eris waved it away, claiming the horse knew how to kick.

Together they walked out of the trees into a barren area. It was cold enough for Nesta to see her breath in the dark. Sensing her discomfort, Eris kindled fire to his palm and brought her close so she could reap the benefits of it.

Snow dusted the mountain range that she knew spread across to the Winter Court. They weren’t as massive as the ones in the Night Court but they were still impressive. To a sheltered once-mortal who hadn’t seen beyond her town, anything ignited her wonder.

On they went into a cave that felt warmer without the wind whipping at them, but still Eris kept his fire going to light their way. It should have set alarm bells ringing that Eris Vanserra was leading her into a cave, but none came. Eris had not given her reason to fear him. After seeing him in the temple, Nesta did not believe he would make vows to the Mother to protect and love Nesta if he planned to hurt her. There were some lines that even Eris would not cross.

‘You never told me why you have faith.’

‘I always feel safe in temples. When I was a boy, I smashed something on my father’s desk. It was accidental but I shouldn’t have been in there. I knew he’d beat me. I ran and ran until I found a temple. They offer sanctuary. Even here, their devotion to the Mother trumps that of the high lord. They never gave me up to him. I think they’d have kept me there my whole life rather than surrender me.’ Eris shrugged carelessly. ‘I’ve never been able to repay the kindness of three elderly females who sheltered a scared, little boy from his father.’

Nesta could not imagine it - a father so cruel – but after meeting Beron, she supposed she could. He had a way of dominating the space he was in, of taking away all of the air, the light, so it was only him. The way that Eris had said he knew his father would beat him was too casual, too common. She had seen the scars on his back. All of Beron’s sons were his possessions to mould and squash however he wanted. Lucien had been evidence of that.

‘Did your father beat you?’

The corner of Eris’ mouth ticked up. ‘I prayed and prayed to the Mother to protect me. My father was called away on urgent business at the Winter border. It kept him there for two weeks – and caused many issues. The broken ornament was forgotten.’

‘Can’t deny the Mother with a divine intervention like that,’ Nesta said, a wry smile tugging at her lips too.

‘You cannot. I’ll always owe her.’

They paused. The cave was nothing spectacular. Nesta stared up at the ceiling then canvassed the walls around them, searching for the reason why Eris had brought her to the place. His fire extinguished, plunging them into a darkness where she could see nothing. Warm hands tugged at hers, bringing Nesta into a slow walk.

‘How do you see anything?’

‘I eat so many carrots,’ Eris teased. ‘Isn’t that what mortals say?’

One day, Nesta would ask him how he knew so much about mortals or why he was so invested in them. He knew their sayings, read their books. At her stumbling, Eris tightened his grip to steady her. Her feet shuffled over the stone until they came to a stop.

The roof of the cave glittered and glowed with a marvellous light that was almost blue.  As Nesta examined it closely, the lights moved. They wiggled and flickered in a strange show of light. 

But Nesta couldn’t marvel at it. Her eyes had moved to the ground. Stone gave way to a lake within the cave. A slow trickle of water sounded somewhere far in the blackness. Her heart clenched. Her whole body seized with a blind panic.

Run. She needed to run. 

Nesta broke free of Eris’ hand to retreat into the tunnel, as far from the water as she could go. 

‘Nesta?’

Her throat had closed up. Only a rasp came as she breathed. She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t be there. 

Fear had her squeezing her eyes shut and not pulling away when Eris wrapped his arms around her. Her breaths hissed between her teeth as she tried to calm herself. But they were still so close to the water. Still in reach. 

‘They’re just glow worms. An insect. Nothing magical or cursed. They can’t hurt you.’

His voice was gentle, spoken almost reverently in the darkness not to disturb the strange lights. 

‘The water.’

Nesta felt as if the kelpie was crawling towards them. That at that very moment it could be dragging its long body towards them, ready to drag them down to its lair. 

She wrenched her face away from Eris’ chest, as if she might catch that pair of black eyes staring at her from the surface. To give her fear a justification. 

‘It’s quite safe. There are a few eels but other than that there’s nothing else.’

Eris moved so that he stood behind her, arms laced around her front. 

‘I’ll dive in there to prove it, if that makes you feel better.’ His breath tickled against her ear lobe.

It sounded like a joke but Nesta had a feeling he probably would just to prove his words weren’t empty. 

She tried to focus on the beauty of the cave. Never had Nesta ever seen anything of the type before. It ought to have stunned her. But that worry was still there. 

Oddly, the weight of Eris’ body behind hers, together with the warmth of it, was a comfort. She should have been reviled by him. Repulsed by the Vanserra reputation. Against her back, she could feel the stable thumping of his heart. It tethered her to the present. Slowly, her wave of anxiety receded. Nesta still could not help her eyes from flickering back to the water to make sure nothing watched them, that nothing crept closer to take vengeance.

For a long while, they stood in silence, gazing up at the cave. It was a rare moment of peace in Nesta’s ever changing world. She imagined that if she asked Eris if they could stay there forever, he’d try to make it happen. Not one part of her could explain why he cared so much. A voice in her head still rationalised that she was simply a pawn for him to use against the Night Court – but she had seen the anger in his eyes over her treatment. That could not be faked. He wouldn’t bring Gwyn and Emerie to visit, risking himself, for anything other than her own happiness. She couldn’t figure him out. Maybe there was nothing to figure out. He was a male who tried to be good. A male who was earnest in his attempts, but a male who was in a place where he couldn’t let his goodness out in the open.

When his stomach refused to stop growling, so much so that it gave Nesta the giggles, they departed back to the forest. She was overjoyed to see the horse was still in one piece, happily grazing in the moonlight.

It would be a lie to deny that Nesta enjoyed the care that Eris took with her. He offered her the independence to try and mount the horse, but his steady hands were ready to help. They were always so delightfully warm. Eris was only ever respectful too. His hands stayed where they were needed, and let go once they were not. Once they were settled in the saddle, Eris ensured that her cloak was drawn around her shoulders to chase away the chill before he dug his heels into the horse’s flank and led them on.

The horse whinnied then reared back.

Eris sent his fire to blaze in a circle around them, while one hand clung to the reins. Nesta clung to his arms too.

Azriel peered at them in the darkened forest, his shadows skittering away from the fire.

‘You are trespassing, Shadowsinger.’

Winnow us to safety, Nesta thought. She did not imagine that Azriel was above dragging her back to Velaris on Rhysand’s command. Or Cassian’s. He was always the one to do the most unpleasant tasks that nobody else could bear to do.

She clung to Eris’ arms tighter as if it might anchor her. Could he hear how painfully her heart beat in her chest?

‘I haven’t come here for an argument,’ he said, voice like ice. ‘I need the truth.’

The steady heartbeat now pulsed rapidly against her shoulder as Eris held her close.

‘You know better than to come here.’

Azriel gritted his teeth. ‘I’m not here on an order. Under the Mountain. I need to know what Rhys did.’

‘One night would not be enough to tell you all the vile things your high lord did for fifty years.’

Nesta could not explain why Azriel deserved the truth. She supposed that he had never said a bad word about her – at least to her face. Perhaps that twisted part of her wanted him to know exactly the sort of male Rhysand was, so his vision of his high lord would be ruined. He was not pious. He did not deserve the worship he received from his cult.

Begrudgingly, Eris told Azriel how, night after night, Rhysand had trotted her sister out in scraps of fabric, her skin tattooed, whilst she was intoxicated. How she was forced to writhe in his lap and dance for their entertainment. How fun it must have been for the fae to use a simple mortal for their play thing. He spoke of Clare Beddor and the horrible way she’d died. It wasn’t easy to listen to. It hadn’t been the first time, but now Nesta became angrier. It burnt inside her like embers, smouldering within. He’d punished her for not hunting. She would punish him for the degradation he put Feyre through. That he still put her through.

‘Rhys probably did it to protect her.’

Eris snorted. ‘Amarantha did not give a shit about her. Feyre had a broken arm. She was dirty. Starving. My mother brought her water. She was ready to die. Then Rhysand made a deal with her. After his little shows, Amarantha wondered why he was so interested in her. His intervention changed Amarantha’s interest.’

‘They’re mates.’

‘And that excuses his behaviour? Ask yourself what your high lord would have done to her if Feyre Archeron had not been his mate?’

Nesta waited for Azriel to justify Rhysand’s behaviour again. To seek a reason why he did it. Rhysand could not possibly do wrong. When he didn’t answer, Eris shook his head. ‘It was all to get back at Tamlin. Everything he did was to slight the male.’

‘There had to be a reason.’

‘My goodness, you just believe everything he does must be altruistic,’ Nesta said, her frustration growing. ‘Is it so difficult to believe that he has done bad things? The Winter Court children-’

‘-Were not killed by him.’

‘Really?’ Eris said incredulously. ‘You believe the lie he spun that there was a mystery daemati who Amarantha never used except for this purpose?’

‘Who is the daemati in this court?’

Eris let out a mocking laugh. ‘What a talent for interrogation you have, Shadowsinger.’

Azriel snapped his attention to Nesta, taking in the closeness to Eris. The way he did not let go of Nesta so Azriel could not winnow her without dragging Eris along to. ‘How can you stand near him, knowing what he did to Mor?’

Morrigan who had taken every opportunity to wedge herself between Nesta and Cassian, who had never liked Nesta and made no secret of it.

‘Eris did nothing to her. It was her family who hurt her. Not Eris. What do I owe Mor? Mor who told me I belonged with the people who hammered nails into her? Mor who wanted me dumped in the mortal lands? I owe her nothing, certainly not my loyalty.’  

‘Eris Vanserra is a liar and a villain, Nesta. If you stay with him, you will be hurt.’

‘Is it so impossible for you to imagine that others wear masks? How can it be that only Rhysand masquerades?’

Azriel pinched the bridge of his nose, the conversation not going the direction he wanted it to. ‘What about Cassian?’

‘What about Cassian?’ Nesta spat back. The embers had been kindled into a flame that devoured her from the inside out. ‘Do you think Cassian cared about me when he forced me to march behind him for hours every day? Did he care about me when he told me everybody hated me or when he told me he couldn’t understand why my sisters loved me? Why should I give a damn about Cassian when it’s clear that all he has ever seen me as is something to fuck?’

Nesta saw every blow land on Azriel and she was glad for it. Her anger was not with him, but he carried his court’s loyalties too brashly here. Nesta was in a place where she could release her fury. She knew Eris would protect her.

‘What about your sister? Where are your loyalties to Feyre?’

‘Feyre locked me up. Took my home and locked me up. Her mate made us keep the secret that she was going to die, and I’m the villain for telling my sister? That’s what I get for being loyal to her? When was Feyre loyal to me? When has she ever chosen me over Rhys?’

‘They’re mates,’ he repeated as if that was a reason that trumped all overs. Being mates give them a divine right to do what they wanted to each other.

‘When would Cassian ever chose me over Rhysand?’

The words hung in the air. Neither of them wanted to suggest that her and Cassian could be mates. She had thought about it often. Those thoughts now were nightmares. She did not want to imagine a life shackled to him, playing second fiddle to his beloved high lord or Morrigan.

Azriel composed himself. The leaking of fury that had infiltrated his beautiful face had been subdued. ‘And Elain?’

It was a low blow, even for Azriel, to bring up Elain.

Nesta could not talk herself down from the ledge she found herself on. Could not force her anger away. They all thought she was a nasty piece of work, why not lean into it? Why not remind them exactly why she didn’t covet friends?

‘When Tamlin broke down our door, I shielded Elain with my body. I’d have sold my body to keep her from starving.’ Her voice cracked with emotion. Feyre had always been desperate for love. Her affections were fickle. Elain turning her back on Nesta was the worst betrayal she had ever experienced. Her hurt bled like a wound, leaking out for all to see.

‘Years, I protected her. Cared for her. Loved her. Years. For weeks, I sat by her side when we were made fae. I didn’t have time to grieve for what I’d lost because Elain needed me. For weeks, I fed her, bathed her, clothed her. I kept Elain alive. I paused my life because I loved her so much. Do not talk to me about Elain. She is a selfish little madam who is too cowardly to stand up for anything. She hides in the skirts of others. She will never get her hands dirty. Never ever ask me to change my life for Elain again. I am done being her shield.’

Silver flames engulfed her hands, but Nesta didn’t care. Her eyes prickled with tears. The first betrayer rolled down her face.

Eris sent a ring of fire blazing around the pair of them. It sent Azriel scurrying away.

‘For a male who is afraid of fire, you step too boldly into my court.’ A hand lay against the small of Nesta’s back, the thumb rubbing up and down in a soothing motion. ‘You wanted the truth and you have it. All of it. If you dare upset my wife again, I will string you up from the dungeon and light a fire beneath you then we will discover if you truly sing.’

The dark eyes of the shadow singer found hers. ‘We only ever wanted to help you, Nesta.’

Neither of them spoke on the journey back to the Forest House. Nesta kept her jaw clamped shut. They winnowed just outside the metal gates then rode towards the stables. Thankfully, they saw nobody of note save for wearied sentries or the odd servant. If Nesta saw Beron that night, she’d likely strike him down dead. Her mood was foul. Her face wasn’t very good at hiding that fact.

‘I’ll be here if you need me.’ Eris gestured to the living room where he’d pulled a blanket across the couch. ‘When you need me.’

‘I have never needed anybody.’

@owllover123 @rarephloxes @fanboy7794 @sugardoll22 @kitkat-writes-stuff @this-is-rochelle @sv0430

[watertreatmentplantindia]

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[heaven-s-black-box]

Cult of the Dragon- Izana x gn!Reader

Return to File

Recovery date: February 3rd, 2024

Description: Izana is the lone survivor of his village after an attack by the bishops of the old faith, will he strike a deal with Death for revenge?

Notes: I've been playing cult of the lamb... I reeeaaalllyyy like it. I might make a part two

Word count: 719

Back to directory

He’s waiting for the pain. For the blade of the ax to swing down on him. For it to sever his head from his shoulder. He’s waiting to see them again.

Shinichiro.

Mikey.

Emma.

He’ll see them soon. He’ll be dead soon.

It doesn’t hurt, at least he doesn’t think so. Maybe he’s just numb, maybe it should hurt, but he doesn’t even register the blade slicing through his skin… then the muscle… then the bone, then the nerve-

He wakes up on a cloud.

He wakes up in a land of blinding light.

He wakes up to a voice, hoarse from disuse, calling out to him.

“Come now, this is not where you die, you still may be of some use.”

His body feels heavy and his neck is stiff, the cloud beneath him reminds him of his bed; it reminds him of how Mikey and Emma would sneak in when Shin was out late into the night for work. He’s supposed to be with them now. He’s supposed to be dead.

The voice, hoarse and booming, speaks again.

“You may take however long you wish, however the longer you take, the longer it will be before you may see your family once more.”

At that he forces his eyes open, ignoring the stinging dryness and the bright light that floods his vision. His eyelids had done little to filter it, but it was even more disruptive without the dark shield.

His body stings in protest as he pushes himself up into a sitting position, his weight leaning back on his hands, and he rolls his neck out. Once he’s found some level of comfort, he takes in the being before him.

They tower above him, wrapped in tattered robes and old iron chains. Rust bleeds into the white robes leaving ugly brown streaks reminiscent of the blood that would cover his and Mikey’s knees after every tumble in the woods around their village. The torn white cloth reminds him of the old dress Shin had bought and fixed up for Emma. It reminds him of where he’s not, and why he even bothered to sit up.

“Hello,” the being speaks, voice warming up with use. “I see I’ve finally garnered your attention.”

“Who are you?”

A wry smile spreads across the beings face.

“Must you ask such obvious questions?”

“Death,” he says after a moment of thought, his brain slowly catching up with everything.

“I will give you life once more,” Izana’s brows furrowed as a scowl pulled at his lips, “in exchange you will begin a cult in my name.”

“And why would I do that?” He snapped.

The veil that shielded Death’s face did little to hide the way their face scratched in annoyance at the interruption.

“In exchange, I offer you two prizes. The first, revenge against those who slaughtered you and your family. The Heretic bishops. My… siblings.” Izana couldn’t quite decide if their tone was one of disgust or something akin to remorse. “The other, once you have eliminated them, I will return you to your siblings in the afterlife.”

Izana slowly made his way to his feet, feeling the blood flow back through his body. He stumbled in his steps, approaching a pentagram that lay before Death. Death, who was offering him both revenge and eternal rest for the price of… what? Living just a bit longer? That really was the hardest part here, wasn’t it? Being apart from his siblings just a little longer.

Starting a cult in their name wouldn’t be easy, but did he have the strength to live alone?

“Tell me, Izana Kurokawa, do we have a deal?”

Looking down, Izana finds himself at the edge of the pentagram.

How badly did he want revenge? Bad enough to leave his family waiting for him? Bad enough to make a deal with death? To run a cult in their name?

His body moves before he can stop it, stepping over the red lines into the center of the pentagram. The lines begin to glow as soon as he stills, red waves bubbling up and down as they circled him.

“Deal.”

The last thing he sees is a smug smirk on Death’s face before everything goes dark, and he wakes up on the grassy floor of a small clearing.

[jammielambie]

Please Help!

If you can't donate we understand. If you could spread this around It would mean the world! Please share, like, reblog! Thank you

On Sunday (11/19), my roommate (David) rushed his wife (Sam) to the hospital with severe pain and shortness of breath. She had a blood sugar of 44 (extremely low) and a white blood cell count of 116,000 (extremely high). She was put on a dextrose drip because her sugar simply wouldn't come up and stay up. The pain was from her spleen being so enlarged it was pressing on her stomach, heart and lung, which among other things kept her from being able to eat and digest food properly, hence the low blood glucose. The assumption was lymphoma for two whole days, during which her numbers did not improve and in some cases actually got worse. On 11/22 she was finally moved to Northside Hospital in Atlanta, to their excellent oncology center.

This is where the assumed diagnosis was changed to acute leukemia.

The sheer amount of white blood cells her body was getting swarmed with led to fluid buildup around her heart and lungs and was also the cause of the initial swelling of her spleen because it was working overtime trying to filter out all the excess. This overload also led to kidney shutdown and dialysis treatments.

As of this writing (11/26), her spleen has reduced in size, allowing her to eat, and the fluid has receded from around her heart and lungs. She remains on dialysis and ongoing treatments for the remaining fluid. The current assumption is acute lymphocytic leukemia, or ALL. We're waiting on additional biopsy results before starting more targeted treatment.

The fundraising goal right now is an estimate based off of the lost pay from Sam not being able to work, the cost to keep her insurance active, any upfront treatment payments (including the possibility of losing the insurance), plus day-to-day expenses for myself and their daughter at home. As of right now David is our sole earner. He is still working remotely from Sam's hospital room, but his paycheck is not enough for us to live off of in the interim. We have had an absolute outpouring of emotional support from family but there's only so much they can do to help with this facet of it. Other costs we have on a regular basis, excluding regular household bills, include

David's diabetic needs (insulin, needles, testing supplies)

their 11-year-old daughter's diabetic needs (insulin, needles, testing supplies, CGM sensors, a second set of supplies for school)

David's dietary requirements and supplements for his low-iron anemia

It's still very early days with everything so things like disability and FMLA are still being worked out. These are the costs as we are looking at them at this juncture.

Please donate if you can, share if you can't. We are facing a big, scary time and anything that helps ease the financial burdens is more energy we have to devote to Sam getting well.

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Grist:

Demand for steel is on the rise globally, driven by population growth and the expanding economies in developing nations. The material will also be important to the green energy transition, forming the backbone of infrastructure like wind turbines, solar panels, and hydroelectric dams. Every part of the steel supply chain is heavily polluting, and the places in the U.S. where the steel industry is concentrated are disproportionately low-income and nonwhite, highlighting yet another instance in which the promises of development and climate solutions come at a steeper cost for some communities. What’s more, the country’s steel production is dominated by just two companies: U.S. Steel and Cleveland Cliffs. 

For both companies, much of their production begins with taconite, a low-grade iron ore mined in the northeast Minnesota’s Mesabi Iron Range, which is processed into pellets that get shipped to the steel mills of Gary, Indiana. The extraction of the ore from taconite rock releases a slew of toxic pollutants into the air, including mercury, lead, and dioxins. In this region, the most concerning of these emissions is mercury. 

Studies have connected mercury to a litany of negative health effects. It’s a neurotoxin that can interfere with brain development in unborn children and an endocrine disruptor that can weaken the immune system. Scientists have yet to determine a quantity of mercury that is safe for human consumption. One recent study found that there is “no evidence” for a threshold “below which neuro-developmental effects do not occur.” And while the taconite industry releases less than a ton of mercury into the atmosphere every year, the metal is toxic in extremely small quantities: A fraction of a teaspoon can contaminate a 20-acre lake. 

The nation’s six taconite plants, all in this region of Minnesota, are owned by U.S. Steel and Cleveland Cliffs. In May 2023, the Environmental Protection Agency proposed a regulation that would require the companies to cut their mercury emissions by around 30 percent. In order to meet that standard, the companies would have to install equipment that would inject carbon atoms into their industrial chimneys so that the carbon would attach itself to the mercury atoms, making the pollution particles bigger and allowing them to get trapped in a filter before they would be released into the atmosphere. The agency estimates that its regulation would cost the industry $106 million in capital costs and $68 million per year thereafter. 

Last month, when the standards were finalized, both companies sued. They argue that the regulation would pose “irreparable harm” to the industry, because of the steep costs of implementation. They also argue that the EPA’s proposed method for reducing mercury pollution would actually be worse for public health, causing a 13 percent increase in the amount of the toxic metal deposited in the local environment. 

Jim Pew, a lawyer at Earthjustice who has litigated multiple lawsuits against the EPA for its failure to curb pollution from the taconite industry, pointed out that the costs of implementing the required equipment would be a tiny fraction of the companies’ annual sales, which totaled $40 billion in 2023. Pew noted that U.S. Steel recently initiated a $500 million stock buyback program, the mark of a healthy income revenue stream. As for the companies’ claim that the technology would increase mercury pollution, Pew called it “meritless.” The companies are “relying on a premise they know to be false” — that taconite plants would add the carbon technology without also improving their filtration system. 

“I find this reprehensible and shameful,” Pew said. “While it’s claiming that it can’t spend money to clean up historic pollution, U.S. Steel is just handing out money to its shareholders.” 

[nightlight-writes]

hey hey! Do you take anon requests? If not please lmk! Anyway i had a distant relative visit with a child and i was wondering, how would the luxiem guys be as parents? Idk, seems comical to me

Luxiem Boys as Parents

Genre: Headcanons

Warnings: slight mention of murder in Luca’s part

Notes: aaaaaa my first request! i don’t really have a father figure so this was interesting to write ^_^ I hope you find this satisfactory.

Vox Akuma

100% the affectionate, but also embarrassing type of parent.

Gives his children hugs and kisses like, every few hours.

Posts about his kids on social media and will happily show their baby pictures if asked.

Would develop a slight filter (ie. no sex jokes).

Everything else is OK though which inevitably leads to them developing a potty mouth.

Especially if they’re playing games together.

Somehow manages to keep up with all those newfangled hobbies his kids are into and wholeheartedly supports them.

That said, he does slightly wish his kids would appreciate “the classics” a teeny bit more…

Always gives out great, if sometimes unsolicited, advice.

By the time his children start moving out of the house, he’ll be in tears (and probably drunk as well).

Sure, he can return to his old lifestyle now, but he’s really gonna miss them…

Often tries to find time in his schedule to attend any important life events and host family reunions.

Whenever he appears, expect him to become the subject of constant gossip among the guests.

As long as he can spend time with his family, he’s happy.

Mysta Rias

Surprisingly, he does a decent job at being a dad.

Can often be seen eating at restaurants with his kids.

He would cook healthier meals for them if possible, but we all know how that turned out.

The only gadgets his children are allowed to own are laptops (for schoolwork) and flip phones (for texts and calls).

He’s not going to talk about his kids on social media and he’s not letting them have social media either.

Highly encourages his children to study hard and develop good financial habits.

Over time, he developed an immunity to tactics like “puppy eyes” and “claiming they REALLY need the shiny new toy”.

If it’s something both of them want though, he’ll be a VERY unbearable customer.

If his kids do well in school, he’ll host watch parties to celebrate.

These almost always end with his kids laughing at him after lots of chaotic banter.

But if anyone else insults him or his kids, they’ll be on the receiving end of a hellish roast.

When his children move out, he’ll call them once a month for life updates.

Every day, he prays that they don’t repeat any of his mistakes in life.

Luca Kaneshiro

Usually absent due to work, but when he DOES visit it’s a blast.

Spoils his kids with whatever they want if they ask nicely.

New clothes? They’re going to the most fashionable malls in town!

Spending the afternoon playing games? He’ll be down for that!

(He WILL get very competitive though.)

As long as the house is clean afterwards, anything is fine.

Speaking of cleaning, Luca would definitely teach his kids practical life skills like cooking and cleaning and fighting.

Would 100% record himself pranking his kids.

Has a massive influence on their life even when NOT present.

Those who pose even the slightest inconvenience must disappear.

No going outside without the protection of bodyguards.

And the shadow of his accomplishments shall always loom over his descendant’s heads.

But Luca would gladly pay any price to be able to create memories, however fleeting, with his family.

Ike Eveland

He’s trying his best.

Tends to fawn over how cute his favorite child is (or just his child if they have no siblings).

Spends a good chunk of the afternoon nerding out about things he liked “back in the day”.

If none of his kids end up liking Vocaloid, then he has failed as a parent.

Yes, he would un-ironically say that things were better back in HIS day.

Ike’s unhealthy eating habits are contagious and will spread to the rest of the family.

Tired to the point of falling asleep while reading bedtime stories.

Currently trying to sell any sussy things he possesses.

A good portion of his search history now consists of parenting forums, parent blogs, etc.

Tries to be patient when giving advice, but it’s surprisingly easy to bring out his blunt side.

This especially applies when he’s talking about relationships and/or sex.

As a result, he fears that he’ll make his kids cry if he tries to comfort them.

Other than that though, he’s mostly gentle when it comes to raising his kids.

Hopes that they will find something to cherish for life one day.

Shu Yamino

Chill and lax kind of parent.

As long as the kids aren’t getting hurt, anything is fine.

Owns a “World’s No. 1 Dad” mug “as a joke”.

Actually succeeds in being ✨hip with the kids✨

Would casually call himself a father on a random social media post without bringing it up ever again.

His advice usually tends to be “do want you want, but be responsible”.

He already has a hard time with romance and sexual topics and adding kids into the mix definitely doesn’t make it easier.

Probably starts leaving the house more often to spend quality time with the kids.

Open to teaching his children a bit of sorcery, but is still on the fence about passing down all of his knowledge.

After all, one’s life can only have so much magic before it stops being “normal”…