#Notes From A Sickbed

[portablecity]

panels from Tessa Brunton’s “Notes from a Sickbed” that kicked me in the face:

[theinheriteddutchess]

A Life Long

Pairing: Ivar the boneless x reader

Summary: You have a talent for storytelling, it caught the young prince's attention. It means your life isn't yours anymore.

Word count: 2135

Warnings: implied non-con, possessive behavior, Ivar's entitlement

Notes: my first online Ivar story, 🥹 hope you'll like it

Masterlist

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You watched as other girls laughed and flirted with the handsome boys around you. Watched as they got married and carried a babe or two on their hips.

You sighed inside of yourself and continued down the market and purchased fresh vegetables and fruit for the day. Mundane tasks to keep yourself busy. Excuses to go outside. Away from Ivar.

How your life could have turned differently. As a small child you enjoyed telling stories. Your parents had told you plenty, and you always begged the travellers for new tales. And so, you were the one to entertain the others at play, or at the long feasts in the Great Hall.

And then Prince Ivar heard you speak. You must’ve not been older than nine.

Surrounded by the other children, you had started your tale, building up to the most exciting part, as he pushed his way through, crawling to the front.

You continued without distraction, looking each child in the eyes as you wove your tale and captured all the attention. As soon as you were finished, they had clapped and begged for another story. You declined, telling them to wait for another time, and skipped over to your parents seeing if any sweets were left for your hungry belly.

It wasn’t until a few days later when a servant of the Queen appeared at your hut, requesting you come with them. Queen Aslaugh has asked you to distract her son from the pain coursing through him, his legs failing him again.

You had heard him scream when you were guided to his personal quarters. You had heard of his temper and you had been frightened. The Queen assured you you’d be unharmed. Ivar was in great pain and he had begged her to bring you to him to tell him a story. Anything to focus on than the agony he was experiencing.

He looked dreadful, and hissed and slapped the thralls as he growled and screamed, while they tried anything to relieve the cramping. He tried to calm down once he spotted you, but you hesitantly took a seat nearby, as his eyes focussed on you.

You hadn’t known what else to do or say so you started your story immediately, picking one full of adventure and scariness, in hopes it would lessen his suffering a bit.

It was the start of many visits to try and help him through his episodes. It seemed harmless, but one day Queen Aslaugh visited your parents. Her request quickly laid down for you to live in her household. You would be treated well, dressed as royalty, if only you would be Ivar’s playmate. Help him through his sicknesses, his moods, be his friend.

It’s not like your parents had wanted to give you up so easily, but they were just common people, and Aslaugh did not want to hear no. She would do anything for her youngest son.

Your mother urged you to be nice, while she packed a bag with a few of your belongings. Strong. Be careful. She warned you of the prince’s temper, and wanted you to be safe.

“He might bore of you. Princes are fickle, once you’ve told him all your stories, once he’s older, I’m sure he will release you. Do not worry, daughter. We will see each other.”

She was right, partially. You saw them at feasts, at market, or sometimes on free days, as rare as they might be. 

But Ivar did not tire of you.

Years went by, and he never stopped requesting your presence. At his sickbed, at his table, when he wished to go to market himself.

He still requested your stories, no matter how many times he had heard them, and seemed to favor them over any new ones you had gathered.

“I like to hear you speak,” he had told you often. Your voice was soothing to him. Your way of storytelling still captured his attention fully. People often praised you for it, but none seemed to be as enraptured as him.

In fact, there seemed to be resentment in his eyes whenever another complimented you, even if it was shared with pride.

But his attachment came with a price.

Sure, you were dressed in fine clothes, fed the best food, and being the favourite of a prince brought safety from unwanted attention. Aslaugh insisted on teaching you alongside Ivar, or perhaps he had been the one to insist on it.

However, you had no freedom to make new friends, or spend much time with those who were. You barely had time to spend alone as his request for your attention and presence became more often and longer.

You had shown interest in a boy before, and it had resulted in him being accused of stealing and being whipped. You were sure Ivar was behind it. It had made you dread your future even more.

Ivar had asked you to share his room soon after, but Queen Aslaugh had put a stop to it. 

It did not go over easily.

He had raged, insisted you were saver nearby, not your room so far from his. Would it not be simpler if you were at beck and call immediately?

She was not fooled. It might’ve been the only time she had told him no. You didn’t understand why she showed pity. Or perhaps she hoped he would choose a woman of higher status? Still, it seemed her decision protected you. She looked at you with worry in her eyes. Suddenly she seemed more present during the time spent with Ivar. Much to his annoyance.

“I am not a child,mother. We have managed without you so far.”

“Don't deny me time with my son,” she had smiled tensely. “Besides, I would like to hear the stories of our Gods again. And you speak so well.”

That was addressed to you, accompanied with a kind smile.

It had been soon after that she approached you privately.

“It seems Ivar wants to bed you.”

You gulped and did not know how to react. You had feared it, secretly, but had not wanted to truly accept it.

“Soon he's the age of marriage. And I wish him to be happy. But I know he can be hasty in his decisions, and I did not see you return his feelings.”

“I-” you stumbled to find words. “I had wished to return to my family.”

She clearly now pitied you. “I am sorry, for I love my son too dearly to cause him pain. I can’t return you, but I will try to give you the freedom to choose. If you do not wish to marry, you will have my protection.”

You did not know what she told him, but Ivar, though clearly agitated, did not treat you with contempt afterwards. He grumbled about it when he thought you were none the wiser what he was talking about, but you managed to get some answers. He had been told you were a free woman, and Aslaugh had brought you here for friendship, not as a bedmate.You were not a thrall and she wished you to be ready for marriage and your own family in your own time. He seemed to believe she had scolded him, and was under the impression he only wanted to lay with you. That the decision was his mother's, not yours.

When he played with your hair, as you sat comfortably near the window and hummed to yourself as you were mending some of your older dresses to gift to your sisters, he spoke softly. “Like you'd be a whore to me,” He tsked. “My mother thinks she knows all. You are more to me than that.”

His touch put you on edge, but he never lowered his hands, or forced you to touch him. Perhaps he had truly respected your friendship, as he did not ask you to join his room again. You hesitantly felt saver.

That did not mean he got any less possessive, however. You were still not to spend any time with a man, if you did not wish to antagonize him, or risk the poor man to be harmed.

You still were expected to sit next to him at feasts. He still asked for your stories.

And then the unfortunate day came when Queen Aslaugh was killed.

Perhaps you were supposed to be relieved, you had regained your freedom. Ivar was gone, in need to prove he was a man. Was in England with his father to raid and gain respect. And despite all her flaws, the Queen had been kind to you. She had treated you like family. Not like a daughter, no, but something close to it.

Before Lagertha had appeared, she had put her hands on your cheeks, observed you and sighed, resigned. “He needs you. I want you to look after him. You will be content.”

Words that haunted you.

When the sons finally returned things were tense. But Ragnar’s death needed to be avenged, and Ivar…there was a darkness in him that not had the chance to properly thrive before. He looked hardened, his contempt showing more and his dislike for his brothers growing.

Being away from him felt like breathing and yet, sadness took you over at all he had to suffer. You could not help the urge to comfort him whenever your eyes crossed.

He did not go to you, though. He was planning. He wanted revenge. You understood. You were in the way right now. His future only revolved around punishing those that hurt him.

Lagertha set to improving Kattegat. You all worked hard. News was few and far between. You spend time with family, tightened friendship bonds. Lived life like any other. Unseen.

The day Ivar came back, it seemed like any other day. It was not.

The battle that followed seemed quickly done once his uncle joined. Ivar was King. Like he always wanted. 

A feast was given. You had expected it, but the servant giving you Ivar’s request - and had it ever been anything less than a demand?- of your presence in the Great Hall should not have come as a surprise, yet it still filled you with dread.

You were glad he was alive. You were even happy that he had chased Lagertha away, after she had so brutally killed Aslaugh. You still remembered the soffication his dominating presence gave you, however.

Yet, you had no choice.

As soon as you arrived you were guided to the throne.

And there he sat, like he had always belonged there.

He looked different. Older. His hair was longer and braided neatly. His posture was relaxed and proud. He seemed happy.

“Come. Sit,” he smiled at you, waving to the chair next to him.

You swallowed but obeyed, as you sat down on the chair meant for his Queen.

“You look tired,” he mentioned.

“I’ve been working hard,” You replied simply.

“Yes, Lagertha worked you hard. But you don’t have to worry about that anymore. You won’t have to work ever again. I will make sure of it.”

You didn’t know how to take thay, so you hummed, not keeping your eyes off of him. It was as if you had to keep watch of his every move. 

“I have missed you,” he suddenly confessed. “But I’m glad I’m back and you’ll never have to part from me again.”

As you worried.

“I know you were not allowed here, while that bitch took over, but you will have your room here of course. And everything you’ll ever wish for.”

You were supposed to be happy so you forced a small smile on your lips.

“I’m happy you’re well and alive, Pr - King Ivar,” you murmured. That, you did mean.

“Ivar, just Ivar for you,” he insisted. Then he offered you food. 

The whole night, it was a blur or drink, food and talk. Ivar watched the celebration from his seat, occasionally grabbing your hand to kiss it affectionately. You started being nervous and drank more than you normally would.

When you couldn't stay awake you requested to retreat. And as you were guided to your room, all you thought about was getting out of the fancy dress Ivar had gifted you, and sleeping until all your worries lessened.

As you fell into a light slumber, it seemed like hours had passed until you felt movement in your bed. You woke with a startle. Blinking to see in the darkness, you heard Ivar beside you speaking.

“Even if I had to wait for years, I always knew you were going to be mine. And now, finally, the time has come where nothing is stopping me.”

As his hands crawled over your skin, you realized you were never going to be free.

[lizzyiii]

His Lady Love (3)

pairing | aemond targaryen x vampire!mikaelson!reader

word count | 3.7k words

summary | calm before the storm. the queen forces you to go to the targaryen-hightower supper where you finally sit face to face with aemond, (whilst getting interrogated by prince daemon as well.)

tags | reader is just here for the targ drama tbh, fluff, small angst/but reader comforts,

note | I just realised that both rebekah and reader fall for boys that they technically watched grow up (not really, but really tho, also would you consider this pedophilic, since rebekah and reader had mere platonic feelings, while marcel and aemond were already obsessed)

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

It had been a moon's turn since your return, and Aemond had taken to shadowing you through the sunlit halls of the Keep, his presence felt like a specter lurking just out of reach. Instead of confronting you directly, he observed, his violet gaze lingering on you with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. Meanwhile, the currents of Targaryen drama began to stir anew, this time not over the succession of the Iron Throne, but over the shores of Driftmark and the title of the Lord of Tides.

Lord Vaemond Velaryon was set to make his case, summoned to the court to argue vehemently against Lucerys Velaryon’s claim to the ancestral seat, while the King deliberated on who would wear the mantle of the next successor.

Your mind, however, was torn asunder by the weight of the situation. It was as clear as the midday sun that Rhaenyra's three sons bore the mark of bastardy, the truth hanging in the air like a bitter fog. Yet, despite their dark hair and brown eyes, they were still Princess Rhaenrya's sons, making them true Targaryens, and as long as the crown acknowledged their legitimacy, they had every right to embrace their heritage.

Yet, the specter of justice loomed heavily. They bore no true Valaryon blood in their veins, a fact that rendered their claim to Driftmark similarly disquieting. If they were to inherit such a coveted title, it would be naught but a dagger to the heart of the Velaryon legacy, erasing centuries of honor and heritage in one fell swoop.

But who were you to cast judgment on the matter? You were, after all, a bastard yourself in your own right. With no discernible features from either your father or your mother, the only tether to the Mikaelson name was the multitude of witnesses who could attest to your mother birthing you into this world.

Soon enough, the matter erupted into a grand spectacle, as the Queen had relayed with a glint of grim madness in her eye. Viserys, frail and near death, had heaved himself from his sickbed, a ghost of his former self, to proclaim the legitimacy of his grandsons. That proclamation, laden with tension and bitter truths, secured their claim to Driftmark—an act of desperation that would surely echo through the halls of history. It was not long after this madness that the Prince, Daemon Targaryen, wielded his fury like a sword, severing Vaemond Velaryon's head from his shoulders for daring to call Rhaenyra a whore.

To your great displeasure, Queen Alicent had insisted your presence at the supper of Targaryen and Hightower—a feast destined to spiral into a night of revelry or ruin, most likely the latter. You preferred the shadows, where the light of their self-destructive feud would not touch you, allowing you to observe from afar rather than be ensnared in their political webs. Yet, refusal was a luxury you could not afford.

As the time of the supper approached, you dedicated a substantial time deliberating over your choice of attire. The vibrant hues of black and green were decidedly unfit, signifying discord and allegiances you wished to avoid at all costs. Instead, you selected a gown of soft pink silk, its flowing fabric draping elegantly over your form, a symbol of innocence amidst the clamor of tensions. You wove your hair into intricate braids interspersed with delicate pearls that caught the flickering candlelight, culminating your preparation with a cherished pendant—a family heirloom adorned with the Mikaelson crest.

Stepping into the grand dining hall, you were met with the scrutinizing gazes of the Blacks. Whispers and curious glances darted in your direction as you approached the long table, poised and unwavering, choosing to disregard Aegon's lecherous leers that felt all too familiar. A frown tightened your lips when you spied that both seats beside Helaena were occupied. Resigned yet resolute, you claimed the next available chair—seated close to Aemond.

"My prince," you intoned softly, offering a nod of acknowledgment.

Aemond's violet eye bore into you, a swirl of unspoken thoughts birthing an electric tension between you. Time seemed to stretch as he regarded you, his expression inscrutable, before he replied, "My Lady," his voice low and controlled, yet laden with something you couldn't discern.

With practiced grace, you settled into your seat, the heavy air thick with unspoken politics. You leaned slightly forward, attempting to listen as King Viserys, broken and weary beneath the weight of his crown, delivered a grand speech. He spoke of unity and the bonds of family, though in truth, all you wished for was the freedom to roll your eyes, a habit you had long restrained. His words felt hollow, a poignant irony given his role in fracturing his family as much as he sought to mend it

From what Queen Alicent had confided in you, you were painfully aware of the King's heart-wrenching choice—his decisions that saw his first wife deprived of her future and life, all in favor of the male heir he hoped for. That tragic episode echoed through the halls of the Red Keep, leading to not just his wife but both her and their son's death. And now, as King Viserys eagerly sought the son he so desperately desired, he had all but disregarded Aegon, neglecting the boy from the moment of his first cry.

As the King’s voice echoed in the hall, you caught sight of Helaena, Aegon, and Aemond—each face twisted in quiet agony, a poignant testament to the empty love their father bestowed upon them. In that moment, you felt a surge of empathy and support for them — even Aegon. With a discreet but deliberate motion, you slipped your hand beneath the table, gently covering Aemond’s tightly clenched fist.

He tensed at your touch, but after a heartbeat of hesitation, Aemond relaxed and opened his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. A small squeeze passed between you—a silent token of gratitude that spoke volumes in contrast to the empty words spilling from the King's lips.

As the evening wore on, the air thick with unwelcome tension, your mind began to drift, thoughts becoming a haze as the speeches droned on around you. It was only when Aemond's hand slipped from yours, his presence withdrawing as he rose to his feet, that your gaze sharpened. You found him casting a fierce glare at Jacaerys, who was regaling the gathering with yet another toast.

However, it was Helaena's gentle voice that truly broke through the fog enveloping you. She stood, her lovely countenance illuminated by a warm, sugary smile as she raised her glass high. "I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena," she declared, her tone carrying a dreamy lightness, "They'll be married soon. It isn't so bad. Mostly he just ignores you... except when sometimes he's drunk."

Her words pierced your heart, the bittersweet truth laced within them shattering whatever sympathy you had harbored for Aegon. With a mixture of sorrow and indignation igniting within you, you cast a venomous glare towards Prince Daemon, who, aflame with mirth, laughed at Helaena’s toast. Yet you were not as discreet as you’d hoped; the piercing gaze of Prince Daemon met yours, a knowing smirk creeping upon his lips.

“I do believe I am yet to have the distinct pleasure of being introduced to our guest,” Prince Daemon declared, his voice tinged with the kind of arrogance that could curdle the blood of the unwary. The room fell silent; all attention was drawn to you, as if you were a curious creature caged among the dragons, and you suppressed the urge to sigh at the mischief brewing in his expression.

Queen Alicent cleared her throat—a notable attempt to extricate you from Daemon’s merciless gaze. “She is one of my esteemed ladies, Prince Daemon,” she interjected, her tone hinting at a subtle warning, though the sharpness of the prince’s wit remained unyielding.

“A lady, indeed?” Daemon’s voice was laced with mockery, his eyes flickering over you as if you were an intricate puzzle, “Yet here she sits, so comfortably, as if she belongs to the very blood of House Targaryen.” Daemon replied, the cunning glimmer in his eye only intensifying. He leaned forward, every inch the contemplative predator. “What is your name, my lady?”

The warmth of the hall contrasted sharply with the coolness of his gaze, yet you met it with unwavering resolve, the remnant courage of your lineage steeling your heart as you told him your name and lied about hailing from The Reach, your voice steady, resonating amidst the stillness.

"Mikaelson?" Daemon mused, his smirk as sharp as Valyrian steel. His silver hair framed a face both youthful and hardened by conflict, and his voice dripped with the playfulness of a cunning predator. "And yet you're no son."

A tight smile graced your lips, the playful banter igniting the spark of your short temper. "My father has enough sons, I assure you, Prince Daemon," you rebuffed, your tone dipped in irritation.

"How old are you? Six and ten?" he pressed, his gaze unwavering, while you caught sight of young Jacaerys approaching Helaena, asking her for a dance. If only irony were not woven into the very fabric of their fates—how you wished Queen Alicent had seen fit to unite them in a more harmonious bond than the betrothal she made with Helaena and Aegon.

But also at that moment, you recognized the precariousness of your own web of lies. Since your arrival at King's Landing, you had deceived the queen into believing you were six and ten, which in truth you were. Oh, how the centuries rolled by, yet your vampiric nature kept your visage untouched, a fragrant bloom eternally in its prime. It was a game of wit and veiled truths, and you knew well how to play.

You met Daemon’s piercing gaze anew, your expression turning steely, tinged with an edge of irritation. “No, your highness,” you replied, your voice as cool as ice. “I am three-and-twenty.”

Prince Daemon raised a silver eyebrow in surprise. “My, my, even older than Prince Aegon,” he drawled, the words rolled off his tongue like honey laced with venom, aimed to sting, "And unmarried, I presume?"

Though you longed to retort with the truth, that you were even older than him, a creature of darkness preserved by the very essence of your nature, you instead offered a demure smile, saying, “Yes. But I prefer it that way. Much more preferable than marrying whilst I was a girl." Your words, though soft-spoken, held a steel beneath their surface—a blade forged in the fires of countless unsaid anger at the world around you.

Daemon’s lips curled into an amused smirk, and he shrugged, seemingly unfazed. “And yet, that is the world we live in.” His tone was laced with the disillusionment of a man who had seen much—his own brand of charm wrapped in an air of indifference.

“Indeed, a world where old men prey upon young girls,” you countered, your voice steady and unwavering, “but I daresay you are no stranger to such tactics, your highness.” The look of amusement that had brightened Daemon’s features dimmed, his smirk wilting like a flower in winter, which you took great satisfaction in.

You jolted in your seat, when Aemond, seated beside you, suddenly slammed his fist onto the table. The cacophony of music and chatter in the hall fell silent as he rose, his goblet held aloft like a rallying cry. "Last Tribute!" he announced, a boldness in his voice that demanded attention.

You glanced around the room, and the unease reflected in the faces of his kin did not escape you. Aemond continued, "To the health of my nephews: Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… hm… strong."

A faint gasp escaped your lips as you caught the veiled insult aimed at the Velaryon boys' bastardy. The shocked expressions of the Targaryens around you were a clear indicator that Aemond’s words had struck a nerve. Queen Alicent, her composure straining against the affront to her family, attempted to intervene. "Aemond," she cautioned, her voice taut with concern.

But he paid her no heed, raising his goblet higher, a wicked gleam in his eye as he spoke, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Come… let us drain our cups to these three… Strong boys," he declared, the words echoing through the revelry like a distant thunderclap.

The hall fell silent, eyes turning to Jace Velaryon, whose face had flushed a deep crimson, betrayal etching lines into his young features. He advanced on Aemond with the fury of a dragon, fists clenched tight. "I dare you to say that again," he challenged, his words barely concealing the tempest of wrath within him.

"Why? 'Twas only a compliment." Aemond retorted with a smirk that could cut glass. "Do you not think yourself Strong?" The taunt flew from his lips like a well-bred serpent, and before the words had fully settled in the air, Jace's fist met Aemond’s cheek with a resounding smack.

Yet, to Aemond, it seemed naught but a gentle breeze, his expression barely shifting as he staggered back only a pace. His pale violet eye sparkled with mischief, unfazed by Jace's sudden fury.

In a swift motion, you rose from your place at the table, the wooden chair scraping against the stone floor as you moved to intervene. Aemond, with a dismissive shove, pushed Jace down, the young prince hitting the hard ground with a thud.

Without thinking, you stepped towards Helaena, and gently took her by the arm. “Come, boys are such immature creatures, yes,” you said softly, guiding her away from the escalating chaos that threatened to engulf them both. Her wide eyes flickered with uncertainty, but she leaned into your touch, casting a sorrowful glance back at the scene as you ushered her away.

You watched as Aemond stormed out the dining hall, his anger crackling in the air like the storm clouds that often loomed over King's Landing. As chaos settled around you, you felt an impulse, a momentary lapse in resolve, and left Helaena's side to pursue him.

He strode fiercely through the halls of the Red Keep, the glint of his silver hair catching the flickering torchlight. You hurried to match his pace, concern fluttering in your chest. "Aemond," you called out softly, "are you alright?"

The scent of his wrath surrounded him, palpable as the incense in the court. He did not glance your way, his voice a frigid whisper laced with venom. "Absolutely splendid."

Your brow furrowed at the sharpness of his words, and with a hint of naïveté, you responded, "I sense a trace of sarcasm in your tone."

Aemond exhaled sharply, quickening his steps in a feeble attempt to distance himself from your probing presence, but your determination was steady. "Did my mother send you to chastise me?" he snapped, the words like arrows loosed from a drawn bow.

"No," you responded gently, your eyes softening with empathy. "I am here of my own accord, wishing only to know if you are truly well."

His stormy glare wavered for the briefest moment, as if the floodgates within him were on the verge of breaking, as if realising it was you he was talking to. But just as swiftly, he clamped down on it, his demeanor hardening once more. Suddenly, he halted and turned to face you, the tension palpable in the air between you.

You lifted your chin defiantly, unwilling to cower beneath the intensity of his stare. "Knowing," he began, his voice low and resonant. "And yet I find I do not know you at all."

Your brow furrowed, a hint of confusion playing at the corners of your lips. "I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean."

He raised a hand, holding out three fingers as if counting off a point. "Three things," he affirmed, his tone matter-of-fact. "I now know three things about you: your name, your home, and that you have brothers."

You paused, gazing at him with wide, innocent eyes, your voice a gentle whisper, "You seem troubled by this knowledge."

He exhaled heavily, pressing a knuckle to the jagged scar that marred his skin, perhaps seeking solace from its lingering pain. A part of you longed to ease his suffering. "It is only my frustration that weighs heavily upon me," he confessed, his tone laced with a mix of irritation and longing. "You hold the knowledge of my life in your hands, yet I know naught of your story."

You crossed your arms defiantly, donning a mask of indifference, "I do not understand the depth of your frustration."

Aemond's singular violet eye bore into your soul with an intensity that made your heart race. "I suspect you do. You are well aware of the affections I hold for you."

A sharp breath caught in your throat as you shook your head, dismissing the peculiar warmth blossoming within your chest. "Those were mere whims of a boy, your grace," you retorted, attempting to cloak your uncertainty in bravado.

His gaze remained unwavering, a storm of emotion swirling within that piercing eye. "Yet here I stand, no longer a boy, and the flames of my desire for you still burn fierce."

"You mustn't speak so," you urged, desperation threading through your voice like a fraying rope.

"Why ought I to remain silent?" Aemond shrugged, a hint of defiance lacing his words. "This is but the truth of my heart."

"Which is wholly improper," you retorted fiercely, the tension between you thickening in the wake of your words.

An awkward silence enveloped you both, heavy with unspoken thoughts, until Aemond cleared his throat, shifting the fragile atmosphere. "You held your own remarkably well against my uncle's incessant probing," he remarked, seeking lighter ground.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as a tendril of chill from the nearby window touched your skin, though the coolness hardly bothered you. "There is only one man who may speak to me in such a manner," you replied with a touch of defiance, "and that is my brother."

“Mhm,” Aemond murmured, his gaze locked onto yours, an intensity in his violet eye that seemed to pierce through the very air between you. “Pray, tell me more.”

You stifled a roll of your eyes, at once annoyed and amused by his insatiable curiosity. "I am the youngest of six," you said, your tone now lighthearted yet elusive, "and my favorite color is pink. Might that suffice for your unquenchable thirst for knowledge about me?"

His lips curved in a smirk, his gaze unwavering. "No," he replied, his voice low and firm. "It shall never be enough."

With a genuine exasperation, you rolled your eyes this time, a small smile betraying your annoyance. "Well, if you must know—"

But your words were abruptly stolen by Aemond’s boldness. His strong hands cupped your face, his touch igniting a warmth that seeped through the layers of silk between you. In an instant, his warm, soft lips met yours, and time seemed to freeze. Your heart raced, an unexpected firework of emotion exploding within you as you instinctively leaned into him, responding to the kiss despite the whirlwind of confusion in your mind.

Yet reality came crashing back as your senses settled, and you hastily broke away from him, breathless and bewildered. The air in the room felt charged, and you glared at him, regaining your composure and a semblance of control

The fool wore a dopey grin, that infuriatingly charming smile that only deepened your ire. You shot him a withering look. “I was speaking,” you pointedly reminded him.

His brows knitted in confusion, a flicker of surprise on his face. “What?”

You planted your hands defiantly on your hips, your indignation brewing like a storm. “I was speaking, and you interrupted me! Not only that, but you did not seek my permission to claim my lips.”

Aemond’s laughter rang like the chiming of bells, an amused glimmer in his eye as he observed your vexation. “Very well, my lady. May I kiss you again?”

Your irritation flared, your cheeks warming with a blend of anger and embarrassment. You took a deliberate step back, confusion simmering just beneath your skin. “No, of course not. You have already stolen a kiss from me, but I shall not so easily grant you another.” You held back the childish urge to stomp your foot in frustration. With a petulant huff, you turned on your heel to storm away, your voice carrying a wisp of indignation. “This is most improper and indecent! Good night, your Highness.”

“Good night, my Lady Love,” Aemond murmured, his violet gaze lingering on you until you vanished around a distant corner. His heart swelled with an unexpected mix of hope and affection, the chaotic Targaryen supper and the impending shadows of war fading from his mind. With a tender gesture, he brushed his fingertip against the spot where your lips had just brushed against his, savoring the memory.

And as you stalked off into the dimly lit corridors of the castle, the weight of his gaze lingered, leaving you with a tumult of emotions swirling in your mind, an echo of the kiss that you could neither dismiss nor desire to forget.

[readychilledwine]

Hiii helloooo. Back with another request that popped into my brain if it interests you enough to write it into existence ✨ so Az lives in an apartment/condo in velaris that he rents from an old high fae lady who owns the building and she also lives there with her granddaughter (YN/reader/OC) who is def his mate but they dance around it for her sake (and her poor old grandmother’s lol) since she’s still young for a fae. Oh and idk why but I imagine Az having a cat that reader takes care of while he’s on missions. Once a week, without fail, Az has breakfast with the old lady and her granddaughter. If he’s going on an extended mission, he always lets them know he won’t make it and he tells them in person or sends his shadows with the message. One time, he gets severely injured before he’s able to send word that he won’t make it to breakfast. The old lady sends her granddaughter to the townhouse to look for Az and feyre or cassian answers the door and is completely baffled that a girl and her cat are asking around for the spymaster. Like “well he didn’t come for breakfast today and he ALWAYS comes for breakfast and grandma was worried and so was (insert cute cat name) and she wouldn’t stop yowling so I had to bring her to look for him too” reader is def an awkwardly endearing rambler. (And if the cat is buddies with his shadows that would be totally adorable too 🥹) and then maybe it ends off with her (gently) smacking azriel upside the head while he’s on his sickbed healing because how dare he not tell her and her grandma that he was going to get injured and miss their weekly breakfast 😡 feel free to change anything up if you end up writing it!!

The Breakfast Club

Summary - After missing breakfast unexpectedly, a hidden relationship is revealed to Azriel's family, who can't tell if they're more surprised by you or his cat.

Warnings - mentions of injury, stray kitten mentioned, fluff

💙Peep the Azriel Masterlist here💙

To say you were nervous as you approached the High Lord's townhouse was an understatement.

In the 4 all too short and unexpected years of knowing Azriel, the last of which had been spent as much more than just friends, he had never missed breakfast with you and your grandmother. And if he had, it had come with a note or prior notice.

He had not shown up today, breaking your grandma's heart as she had prepared his favorites. It had set worry into your heart, though. Worry you masked as the two of you ate in deafening silence.

You two had hidden the growing romance so well. You didn't want to ruin the illusion now and risk your grandmother becoming protective over your youth and, of course, his reputation and profession.

You held his black kitten closer to you, kissing her little white paws as she mewed softly. She had protested you leaving his apartment to look for him without her, wanting to live up to her name as you tucked her into the hooded jacket you had custom-made to carry the kitten.

The poor baby probably missed her owner, her constant companion, more than she could truly express. You were used to caring for her when he was gone, but he normally always left one or two shadows for her to play with, and today, they were gone.

You'd had a whole explanation planned, rehearsing it quietly on the walk here over and over, but it went out the window the second you opened your mouth. You rushed through the words, stumbling over them as you looked down and away from him. "EverysundayAzrielhasbreakfastwithmygrandmaandIbuthedidn'tshowuptodayandInjstwantedtoknow-"

You shook the feeling of dread building in your stomach and knocked. You would be lying if you said you were not scared when the High Lord himself answered his own door studying you like a textbook. "What can I help you with?"

Rhysand held a hand up to you, scenting the faint smell of cedar and night air that clung to you and smirking before masking it. "Breathe. Start over slower." He tilted your head up to him. "And look at me when you speak to me. You are not a mouse."

You took two deep breaths, cradling Dective Mittens closer. "My grandmother owns the apartment complex Azriel lives in," the High Lord's lip twitched, the final confirmation he needed. "And every Sunday, he had breakfast with us. The only time he doesn't, he lets us know with a shadow or a note or verbally before he leaves. He did not come today, and he was supposed to be back 3 days ago. I just wanted to know if you've heard from him?"

"You're the female he's been missing family brunch for." It wasn't a question. Just a statement. Rhysand kicked off the door frame. "Come inside. He's here. He's hurt, but he will be fine." He glared towards the small kitten in your arms. "And where did that come from?"

"Detective Mittens?" He nodded, continuing to glare. "Azriel's cat? You didn't know he had a cat? She got upset when I tried to leave her in his apartment, so I brought her with me so she'd stop crying and yowling."

Rhys pinched his noses, shoulders shaking as he chuckled. "And who named Detective Mittens?"

"Azriel? It was Detective Mittens or Princess Buttercup. She isn't a Buttercup."

His eyes were watering from laughter, shoulders fully shaking as he led you further into the house and up the stairs. He held his arms out, nodding towards the cat as he stepped in front of a room. "Stay behind me," the High lord entered with a casual grace, stopping a conversation between two deep voices. Azriel's and one you didn't know.

The black collar with a small piece of Azriel's siphon was barely visible among Mittens's long black fur. She finally freed herself, leaping into the bed and walking to lay on Azriel's chest. "How did you get here, baby?"

Mittens was immediately squirming and clawing, desperate to get to her owner and get the cuddles she had been missing. "Did you go outside and pick up a random cat, Rhysie?" A large illyrian male, Cassian, you realized, sat staring with a brow up. "Or did you steal someone's cat? It has a collar."

"Some pretty little thing was at the door. Dropped the cat off and then ran away."

A shadow had already found you, twirling into your hand and ripping you towards Azriel the best it could by itself. Soon, two more joined, then three more, then your whole arm was swallowed in darkness, pulling you to the side of the bed Cassian was not occupying. "Y/n," it came out as soft surprise, happiness underlying the tone. "Angel, what are you doing here?"

"It's Sunday." The answer hit him, and his head fell back, eyes shutting as Cassian and Rhys shared a look.

He tried to sit up, only to be stopped by Cassian's arms, guiding him back down as he winced in pain. "Angel, I'm so sorry. I-"

"Don't apologize for getting hurt," Cassian said gently. The general looked at you. "Breakfast girl?" You nodded. "One. Breakfast was mine and Azriel's thing first until you showed up," a playful glare went your way. "Two. We dropped the ball. He was hurt. Bad. And we knew he was seeing someone, but it's been kept so secret by a certain spymaster that we couldn't contact you."

"Should have just spoken to the complex owner," Rhys muttered under his breath.

You nodded. "And, will you be okay?"

Azriel was focused in Mittens, scratching her ears as she rolled over, exposing the fur of her tummy and waiting. The three of you stared in silence, watching as he cooed and baby spoke to her. Watching as a few tears slipped. "Missed you so much, my little baby. Aw, look at that belly. Y/n been doing the best job keeping it full and happy, huh?"

Rhys and Cassian both hid their smiles, the High Lord motioning for the general to leave the room. You sat on the bed, taking his free hand in yours, bringing it to your cheek and holding it there. "I was so worried."

Mittens moved to the window as if she suspected you two needed room, allowing you two alone time before she'd be back to cover Azriel in her love and warmth.

He wanted to sit up, to hold you close, but every slight movement of his core had nerves screaming in hot agony. He'd never mock Cass for being a bitch while hid guts were hanging out ever again. He settled for moving his hand to your neck, pulling you close and resting your foreheads together. "Im so sorry, y/n," he kissed your nose, eyes closing as yours did. "I got distracted, and it happened so fast I couldn't get word out."

Your hands came to rest on his bandaged chest. "What happened? You never get distracted." He smiled, a rare beautiful thong he hid from everyone but you.

"You accidently tugged the bond when you and Mittens were playing, and all I could think of was getting home to be with you two. Did you catch that stray?" He changed the subject, looking at you with hopeful eyes.

A small orange tabby had been roaming around the apartments. Short little fur "doing nothing," in Azriel's words, to protect it from the Night chill. Azriel has been smitten with it since it allowed him to feed him and get a few scratched in before a shop owner scared it away.

That was over a month ago, and you two had been playing a slow game of seduction with the kitten, praying to the cat distribution powers that they'd allow this little one to trust you both the way Mittens grew to.

"I did. He's in my apartment. Him and Mittens get along really well." As of hearing her name, a mass of black fur launched herself onto the bed, curling up on Azriel's leg that was closet to you and purring. "I named him Investigator Whiskers."

You watched Azriel melt, groaning with a smile at the matching name. You could feel through that string his growing happiness as the same family you two had accidentally made grew, too. "I love you," he whispered softly with no sign of the ice Rhys had so loudly accused him of having in his heart.

"I love you, too. I'm glad you're going to be okay." Rhys and Cassian came back in to you two resting your foreheads against each other again, eyes shut, heart beats synced in time.

It made it even more comical to them when Azriel thought nothing of your hand moving up his arm, rest in his hair before you pulled away, and smacked him. "Ow! Y/n! What the fuck!"

"That," you smirked as you caught his hand that came to playfully tug your hair, "is for worrying my grandma. She made your favorites! You broke her heart! She thinks you hate us!"

"I was hurt!"

"Excuses, excuses!" He pulled you into him, not caring if the good of you had an audience and kissed you deeply. "Mmmm, forgiven," you muttered when he pulled away.

Azriel sighed. "Rhys, can you go get grandma. I think we need to tell her some things. And have lunch."

"Lunch sounds nice," Cassian said as he took his seat and glared at you. "Breakfast theif."

"Boyfriend theif," you shot back.

The room turned into you and Cassian having a playful argument as Azriel watched, fingers scratching behind soft velvety ears. He looked at Rhys, eyes warm with joy and happiness as Rhys looked between you and Cassian, who had fallen together like a puzzle. I like her, Rhys said into his mind. Keep her.

That's the plan, Azriel replied.

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanager @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr

@elle4404

Azriel Taglist-

A/n-

Picture of my and baby daddy's kitten to pay the cat tax gods 💕

[puakaba]

Kingdon Regency AU

Find it on AO3!

Although Melissa King’s father was of notable fortune, the King sisters lived by humble means. This contradiction shone through in every aspect of their life. Their home, for example, was a grand country manor of several rooms, however the two sisters shared one room between them. The rest of the estate was largely taken up by the eldest sister’s clinic, which occupied her life in every physical and spiritual sense of the word.

Winter 1810

In December of that year, following the death of their mother, Mel’s father sent notice of the sisters’ financial station within two weeks. The only sympathies expressed at their loss came from the courier who handed over the note. The letter itself made no mention of their mother. This was no surprise to either King daughter. According to the letter, the monthly allowance that had been previously allotted to their mother would now be placed into Mel’s name. This put the King girls in a precariously unique situation of independence. Where most men of their father’s status would be reluctant to let their daughters live freely and without a male presence to govern over them, the King girls were largely left to their own devices.

This suited them, Mel felt. The few times their mother had ventured to introduce them to society, Mel seemed to melt beneath the limelight of courtly affairs. So much of proper society consisted of acting at the judgment of others, and Mel had always struggled with sensing the truth in their perfumed words. Rebecca was largely unbothered by their opinions, but that was wrong too.

So the spacious confines of their country manor suited them fine. If Mel ever sought the genuine company of society outside of her sister, she was rarely unoccupied enough to feel it.

The boarding house that their mother ran closed only briefly in the period following her death. Several boarders attended her funeral. One of them, a professor of histories at Cambridge, actually drove in for the funeral, and helped lower her casket into the ground. It was a small, private ceremony, but by the time Mel and Becca had returned home, their kitchen overflowed with bushels of prepared food and goods from last season’s harvest.

Two weeks later, the boarding house reopened its doors to new guests. By February of the next year, the King country manor had been fully transformed into a bustling medical clinic.

Spring 1811

On the occasion that a boarder or nearby tenant farmer fell ill or injured, the Kings’ boarding house had been well known to treat the needing. After the house fell into the sole ownership of the eldest Miss King, its reputation as the impromptu source of medical attention became an official position.

The chaise lounges and sofas of the foyer and drawing room became sickbeds for the townspeople of Mercy. The younger Miss King was a lively nurse, tending to their basic needs, cleaning wounds, delivering cold compresses, and doling out medicines. The older Miss King served as doctor. She was well known in the town for her patient demeanor— suturing up the rugged bites of threshing machine wounds in neat stitches and extracting careful diagnoses from the most reticent, choleric infants.

When the King women first moved to the country, their father had established a library in their new home— obviously optimistic that he might someday take permanent residence with them. That hope was long abandoned now, but his collection of medical journals and textbooks remained in the house. At the age of four, Rebecca suffered her first fit of convulsions. Mel had watched her younger sister fall to the floor of the kitchen and sat helplessly by her side, desperately pinning down her flailing tiny hands. Their mother wrote to their father, who sent a fellow physician down. The doctor hadn’t been able to identify anything particularly concerning with Rebecca to have caused it, but he carried an unspoken air of indifference, as if he had already diagnosed her with something benign and incurable. As a young woman, Mel resolved that the young doctor had been informed of Becca’s history by her father before ever coming to observe her. Following that encounter, Mel had taken to the study, engrossing herself in the other things her father had abandoned.

Her efforts over the next nearly two decades placed Mel in a particular position as a young woman. She had never been to any of the women’s colleges or finishing school, but the combined focus of her studies and the clinical practice amongst her sister and neighbors gave Miss King as near to a doctor’s station with none of the degrees or qualification. Had she been educated in a manner traditional of young, noble born women, her degree of learning would have fallen far short of what she had achieved of her own ambition. In a way, Mel felt grateful that her father had neglected her education.

The clinic had seemed like a natural step, following their mother’s death. Her mother had been soft and charming in a way fitting of a boardinghouse keeper. Although Mel and Becca tried their best to maintain it, a sweeping fit of hay fever that befell the town brought a litany of patients to her house that early spring. Within the next few weeks, their country manor slid naturally into a clinic for the sick. Even after the fits of fever had passed, Mel found it too easy to keep their practice running. By March, the clinic had blossomed.

The work came naturally to her, and Becca took to the demands of serving as a nurse. Her early fascination with botany came in handy regularly, as the King sisters often relied on foraging when an apothecarist was not easily accessible. Their reputation grew quickly, and it was soon well established in the town that, should anyone fall sick or injured, the Kings were at their disposal.

It was rewarding work. Mel had never felt more confident in her own abilities as she did now. She’d also never been so well connected with the people of Mercy. In addition to a boarding house and clinic, the King home was a nursery for town gossip.

It was in this way that Mel first heard of the young doctor who had taken up the Parkhurst estate just outside of town. According to her sources— a milkmaid whose old case of cowpox occasionally caused swelling in the larynx— the doctor was a well-bred young man who had fallen deeply ill and was bed bound for weeks now. The milkmaid whispered to her that the doctor was gravely ill, and expected to die within the week. This dark piece of irony captivated the town deeply. Mel was admittedly more confused than entertained. If the man was indeed a successful doctor from London, why would he come out here, away from the resources of the city? Surely he would’ve had a much greater chance of treatment. Mel expressed these concerns, and the milkmaid grinned wryly. “Perhaps you ought to see him, Miss King,” she said.

Mel nodded. “At the very least I should like to take a look, I might be able to make a diagnosis. Perhaps bring him something for the pain.”

Her patient nodded sagely, and added, “Not to mention, I’ve heard he’s handsome.”

The doctor’s only servant opened the door cautiously.

“Are you Miss King?” the young man asked. “Lonnie at the pub told me I could expect to see you in the next few days.”

Mel nodded. Word traveled quickly, even if she failed to see how it was word at all.

Mr. Whittaker, Mel learned, had been hired as Mr. Langdon’s valet upon his move to Parkhurst. He spoke of his master’s symptoms with a deftness that Mel suspected meant he had been educated in medicine. He had introduced himself as valet, though, and not a nurse. Mel made note of this, but followed him silently to the master chambers. The rooms were dark, with velvet curtains drawn tight to block out any daylight from the large sash windows. A four poster bed stood in the center of the room, its beddings tossed messily about. Tucked into it, a sullen figure turned restlessly.

She approached the bed. The man was pale, his dark hair wet with sweat and plastered across his pallid forehead. She turned to Mr. Whittaker to ask about the symptoms presented.

“He’s been in a state for a fortnight. Nervous fits for the first week, then nausea, headaches, fever. I’ve had him on a regiment of regular hydration and purging, but the pain…”

“Do you have any notion on what it might be?”

Whittaker paused, and conflict was clear in his anxious eyes.

“No ma’am. I only work as Mr. Langdon’s valet, you see.” Mel was confused as to why Mr. Whittaker was intent on hiding his clear medical experience, but for the sake of politeness. Furthermore, she made note of the fact that he had referred to his employer as “Mister”, rather than “Doctor”. In either case, it was none of Mel’s concern. She turned her attention back to the troubled Mr. Langdon. He shuddered slightly, his dark eyebrows were pinched tight at the center, and he let out a low moan as he shifted.

“Has he been in pain?”

Mr. Whittaker nodded. “He complains of it often.”

“And have you already treated him with Lanadum?” she asked, reaching for the small pouch she had brought along.

“No!” Mr. Whittaker barked, suddenly. He caught himself, and he readjusted his tone. “No, Miss King. No Lanadum for the sir.”

Mel took this into account, a new point of information along with his jolting shivers and pallid skin. “I see,” she said, leadingly. Mr. Whittaker gazed at her solemnly, neither confirming nor denying.

“Willow bark, then. It should ease his pain without aggravating his recovery.” Mr. Whittaker nodded, smiling slightly in relief. “I have some in my apothecary back at the clinic. If you’ll wait, I can bring it during lunch.”

“I couldn’t trouble you to travel all this way twice, Miss King. I can fetch it myself, if you’ll have my company.” For the first time since she had met Mr. Whittaker, the nervousness seemed to lift from his eyes. “I was told just to look over him during his illness and keep him from…coming into any harm on his own. But the pain he was in, I wanted to help him.”

Mel nodded. “I’m pleased you thought to call for me.” She looked to Mr. Langdon once more. His pained expression twisted, and his undershirt was translucent with sweat. He was a handsome man, Mel finally thought. She reached out and pressed her palm against his forehead. Her hand felt cool against the heat of his skin. Withdrawing, she paused to brush her fingers against his hair, pushing the wet locks away from his face. He groaned lightly and seemed to lean into her touch, his eyelashes fluttering. Mel pulled her hand away quickly, tucking it into her shirt pocket. She glanced nervously at Mr. Whittaker, who looked away with a valet’s expert discretion. Mel chastised herself for chasing whatever stray urge had pushed her to touch him. Very unprofessional, even as a non-professional doctor. She bid Mr. Whittaker goodbye and told him she’d expect him anytime that afternoon. She was on the road back to town before he could offer to pay her for her time.

——

Before taking residence at Parkhurst, Francis Langdon was a surefire candidate to be Oxford’s most prominent graduate of the medical degree. First of his class, Dr. Langdon graduated into a healthy practice and was the most highly requested physician within London’s noble houses. Months after accepting his doctoral robes, Langdon was wed to the eldest daughter of the Clifford house— a noble line whose name peppered the seats of various ministries and aristocratic houses. Dr. Langdon was the successful head of a flourishing practice, the happy husband to a wealthy young woman, and the proud father to two healthy children. He had married into wealth, in every sense of the word.

So solid was Frank Langdon’s grasp on his good luck, when he suffered a minor injury during a riding incident, it felt unlikely that this brief lapse would have any real impact on his fortune.

The sharp twinge in his back proved difficult to shake in his recovery; but upon seeing a senior doctor from his program, Frank was prescribed a schedule of heavy dose Lanadum that easily washed away the pain. Until it didn’t. When he scraped the last spoonful of powder from the bottle, it was too easy to find another helping in his medicinal cabinet. And he needed it.

Eventually, his apothecarist bill became too steep a financial burden, and like everything else, a replacement came easily. Opium was by no means unheard of or scandalous in his circles, but it flowed quietly in smoky parlor rooms and the velvety dens of London. Visits with school mates to the odd opium den in the evenings gave Frank a welcome supplement to balance out his own supplies. Life was the same— better, even. Work in the daytime, society in the evenings. But when Frank’s father-in-law and his hunting party found him collapsed in the morning room, Lanadum powder still thick on his fingers and in his throat, the unspoken opium habit became too public-- too scandalous. Within the week, word had spread around the town that Francis Langdon-- the ambitious young doctor from Oxford-- had been dipping into his own medicines. A luxurious pastime for most, a scathing habit for him.

An unassuming estate was purchased for him in the country, in a town fittingly named Mercy. A young man was hired as Langdon’s nurse, given the costume of a valet, and sworn to secrecy. He was a mousey boy who rode out to the countryside with Langdon, mopping at his forehead as he labored through withdrawals the entire carriage ride out. A small tin of opium powder burned a whole in Frank’s waistcoat pocket. They had failed to check his person before shipping him away.

He had been given the barest few hours in the small hours, just before dawn, to bid goodbye to his children. They had been distressingly calm, Langdon reflected. Even within their short lives, it was hardly a rare occasion that Langdon would be pulled away for weeks at a time for some various work or research calling. He wished he could have imparted some amount of urgency onto them— some understanding that this was a strange and wrong thing, that their father was leaving in a more consequential way. Instead, he had kissed them goodbye, and into their soft, messy hair, he whispered an apology that would only settle in once they noticed he was really gone.

His wife stood a few paces back, blinking hard at the marble floor. Langdon stepped to her, taking her hand softly. She allowed him to hold it, but the without weight or purpose. When he leaned down to kiss her, she placed a hand against his chest, stopping him. She gazed up into his eyes. She seemed to be searching for something, an indication that he was unaffected. With a sinking heart, Langdon recognized that he could not be sure. He left his family with the heavy feeling that they were only losing a great burden.

It rained the night Langdon drove into Mercy, though he hadn’t noticed until the carriage wheel bumped heavily into a pit in the country road. The carriage had careened through the mud, just far enough to strike a passing wagon. The young boy driving the wagon had been bucked from the coach box, landing in the road. The collision had jostled Langdon inside the carriage, slamming his head into the wall hard enough to startle him from his stupor, but not enough to incapacitate him. Langdon felt this was a great misfortune. His head pounded from the impact. He shoved his hand into his pocket, fingering at the metal tin. He was not necessarily opposed to recovering his sobriety, but why should he suffer?

The young man from the wagon was wailing outside, sitting brokenly in the mud. The valet— Mr. Whittaker, Frank later learned— had already leapt out. He was straightening the boy out, sloughing mud off the lad’s body to identify what injury had taken him. Langdon pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to resist what he already knew would happen. He had lost his medical license. He had broken his oath. He was under no obligation to step foot out of this carriage.

The mud came up past his shins as he leapt down to the road.

“Valet, in my case— fetch me a roll of dressing and antiseptic fluid.” Whittaker snapped to, his nursing training clear in the urgency and efficiency with which he moved.

He knelt over the collapsed driver. The boy seemed young, perhaps four or five years older than his own. “Son, my name is Doctor- Mister Langdon. I can be of some assistance. Can you tell me your name?”

The boy continued to wail, clutching at his left leg. Langdon sighed. Sweeping more mud out of the way, he pressed gently against the leg that the boy was guarding. His wailing grew with the pressure. Running his fingers along the line of his leg, Langdon felt a discrepancy in the skeleton of the boy’s shin— just below the knee.

The valet arrived at his side. “I have the dressings, sir.”

Langdon nodded. “Set them on the wagon, then come help me lift him into our carriage. We cannot treat him in the mud.”

Whittaker did as he was told, then awaited further direction. At Langdon’s instructions, the two men lifted the boy up, mindful to keep his leg extended. He was set up in the floor of the carriage, and Whittaker set about making him comfortable. Langdon turned back to the wagon that the boy had been tossed from and felt along the edges of the wagon itself. The undercarriage of the wagon consisted of long, thin planks of wood. As Langdon had hoped, a few were loose and easy to pull away. Langdon tugged at these slats, coming away with two straight splints of wood.

He set about working on the boy’s leg, Whittaker handing him supplies as he worked. Taking the vial of antiseptic material, Langdon washed away mud from the leg, squinting in the darkness to identify any open wounds. To the best of his ability, the majority of the outer damage were merely scrapes. After cleaning the area, Langdon wrapped the leg with the bandages and loose cotton.

“Alright man,” Langdon indicated to his valet, “hold these pieces straight.” Whittaker placed his hands on either side of the leg. The rain was picking up, the horses nickering with anxiety, and the boy continued to bawl. Langdon’s head screamed with pain. “Hold it steady, now. It needs to be straight.”

Langdon took hold of his shirt hem and ripped the bottom inch off, tearing it into several thin strips.

With Whittaker holding the wooden slats tight, Langdon set about binding the splint with his makeshift cloth ties.

The boy’s leg was set and splinted within the next few minutes. Whittaker let out his breath, turning to Langdon in shaky relief. The two men stood like wet dogs in the pouring rain. Langdon ordered Whittaker to ride in the carriage with the boy and mind that he kept the leg straight. He would ride with the driver in the coach box. Although they had set the leg to heal properly, the boy continued to sob. Langdon took in a heavy breath. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the tiny tin. Whittaker eyed him as he did.

“Lanadum,” Langdon said, “Allow him half the tin now. We’ll leave it with him when we go.” He pressed it into Whittaker’s hand, feeling glass shards in his spine.

“Excellently done, sir,” Whittaker said.

“Obviously.” Langdon settled into the coach box and promptly passed out.

Upon arriving at the country house in Mercy, Langdon was tucked into a waiting bed, where he ailed for weeks on end under the nervous, watchful eye of Mr. Whittaker. Despite his being bedridden for the greater part of the Spring season, the entirety of Mercy knew that a handsome young doctor had arrived from the city and chosen to make his home in their humble country town.

[snzcaretaker]

𝕳𝖆𝖞𝖋𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗

Below are Edwin’s journal entries from his time suffering from hayfever - and realizing he's in love <3 He's pining again...when will he get it through his head that he matters to Ambrose??

March 4th - Curse it all! Spring is the worst sort of season! For a few short weeks, I had been well, and even had some hope of enjoying the good weather. Then the March wind tore the pollen from the head of every blooming thing, and stuffed it directly up my sinuses. Head so clogged I can hardly speak without someone tittering at the sound of muffled consonants. Constantly dripping, and at the same time burning like the devil himself has taken up residence inside my nose. I should know by now that this is my luck. If it's not the damn cold, it's the flu, and if it's not the flu, it's hayfever. I am wretched, as a definition.

The worst of it is that I dare not say a word to Ambrose. I began to really hope, when he was caring for me. I felt such strange feelings…a kind of safety. With him, I can bare not only my heart, but every ailment of my body, even the most disgusting. His eye will behold everything and make it beautiful. I felt soft and open and happy when he was here.

But I can't bring him back. It's one thing to have a friend wait by one's sickbed, but to call for help over hayfever? Just because of a little discomfort? There's no excuse for it. So the state of my nose puts me in mind of illness, without any of the comforts afforded to someone facing real danger. For the first time, Ambrose made me capable of thinking of myself as attractive when I'm in this state. A creature worthy of being touched. And now every sneeze fills my mind with affectionate daydreams and impacts my body in the most humiliating ways. I find myself frustrated in all senses of the word. But I've said more than enough of that.

March 6th - If I could stop sneezing for five minutes together, I would be in better spirits. But as I cannot, I have been cross all day, and the servants make every effort not to place themselves in my warpath.

I know I'm intolerable, and for no good reason. It's all just a nuisance, and to speak of it as anything worthy of note is both disgusting and alarmist. I am NOT dying, much as I feel like it, and so I have no excuse at all to be held or to be - no, I won't finish a sentence like that. God, what is the use in putting down such frivolous thoughts? I really will die if I ever read them back - of blushing. I need to banish such thoughts from my mind, but to see them on paper is almost worse. To anyone else reading this diary: please burn it.

March 9th - Oh god. I'm in love. That's what it is.

Took a turn up the hill behind the stables, hoping that the morning rain would have settled the pollen. Instead, it chilled the air more than I might have liked and turned the landscape maddeningly rich with colors. The blue of cornflowers, the pink of wild roses, and the gentle yellow of cowslips glowed under the re-emergent sunbeams. But there is no sunshine without my Ambrose, and my eyes dewed over to match the lingering droplets, and I couldn't help watering the flowers with many lonely sneezes and tears. How melancholy I felt!

Am I so pathetic that I want Ambrose near me even when I am not really ill? There is no danger at all, but I want…I want someone to talk to. Some company, an arm in mine… Someone to share the flowers with… Someone who will see me as the pitiful thing I am and hold me together anyway… Ugh… what nonsense. My throat is sore but not as sore as my heart. Sick or not, I am lovesick. I think I will go to bed today.

[lottiesnotebook]

Happy Thedas Weekend!!! How about the prompt "i prayed to forget you, but even the heavens refused" from the religious motifs list for Rheyah/Cassandra?

You really nailed their vibe with this prompt! I had way too much fun with this little post-Trespasser snippet that follows the disbanding of the Inquisition and Cassandra's little proposal-related meltdown within. I planned for these two to get back together by the end of the fic, but, well...

Cassandra Pentaghast/Rheyah Adaar, post-Trespasser, post-breakup, angst

@veil-song | @thedasweekend

in the afterglow of rapture with the wounds the rapture left

It is strange, to see Skyhold empty. In Cassandra’s memory, the corridors bustle with servants and scouts, the walls glimmer with the candlelight from Josephine’s clipboard, and ring with the clash of practice swords and the shouts and grunts of training soldiers. Now the only sounds are her own footsteps, the occasional clank of her armour. The only light comes from the lantern in her hand, and the thin shafts of moonlight that creep through the arrow-slits to stripe the flagstones with thin lines of silver.

There used to be a throne upon the dais — Andraste in silver, wrapped in golden flames that curved and bent improbably into a chair. Leliana’s design, as it was Leliana’s idea to melt the seat down into a statue of a woman on her knees before the Prophet. To Cassandra’s eye, it’s inaccurate, but then, to her, no depiction of Rheyah Adaar can match up to the reality of Andraste’s Herald. The statue is too small, for a start — barely beyond human in scale, her horns barely noticeable, pressed close to her head, rather than curling into great, ram-like spirals like a fine lady’s crispinette. She’s dressed in a modest gown, too, not the antaam-saar that bared her stomach, the curves of her shoulder muscles, the silvery shine of her skin and horns like that of an illuminated manuscript.

The art fails utterly to capture the spirit of its inspiration, who is inelegantly sprawled on the dais steps, her cheek pillowed in the crook of her elbow, her long, long hair pooling across the stones in rivulets and spirals of silver, free from its long braid. She looks like the illustration in a storybook Cassandra can barely remember, more a princess than Cassandra has ever felt herself to be — lovely and regal and bright, still possessed of beauty on a scale that does not quite seem of this world. She looks as soft and innocent as a child asleep at her prayers. Cassandra can distantly remember being that child, when there were people who would check on her in her room, and carry her to bed in the certain, steady warmth of their arms, and later, when there had been nobody left, how she’d wake shivering with stiff knees, and begin her prayer again before she’d allow herself to climb into bed. She does not know, now, if the bed she and Rheyah so briefly shared remains, or if it was stripped along with all the castle’s other glories. Nobody is meant to sleep here anymore. Skyhold is a monument. It was never meant to be a home. And yet-

And yet, Rheyah stirs at her approach, rolls her shoulders in that too-familiar gesture upon waking, and briefly (too briefly) her lips curve into a familiar, dreamy smile, before it vanishes. The soft-featured girl becomes iron and steel in moments, an accelerated rendering of the changes that the years since they met have wrought upon her.

“You.” There is an alien note of disdain in her voice that Cassandra has never heard before, but she supposes if anyone has earned such disdain, it is her. “What are you doing here, your highness?”

“I could ask you the same question. Rheyah, the Exalted Council-”

“Ordered the Inquisition disbanded, and Skyhold abandoned. I was there, remember?”

Cassandra cannot forget, however hard she has tried — she remembers too clearly how the council had dragged Rheyah from her sickbed, the stump of her arm still wrapped in bloodied bandages, her face still drawn with pain, and demanded her decision even as she swayed with exhaustion and bloodloss. How Rheyah’s eyes had turned to her, wide and pleading and bright as violets, and she had not been able to meet them.

Those same eyes are fixed upon her now, glinting with all the vicious brightness of a cornered animal from between loose strands of her silvery hair. Cassandra is used to seeing it bound up in a braid that falls to her hips, wound with flowers or studded with jewel-headed pins, and to see it flowing loose now feels almost indecent, a sight she is no longer worthy of. A sight she surrendered when she surrendered Rheyah.

“They took everything from me,” Rheyah says, soft and deadly, “and you thought I might have forgotten?”

“You know I did not mean-”

“What do I know, Cassandra?” She rises to her feet, a little stiffness in her motions where once there was none, and it is terrible that even now, Cassandra knows her every movement so well. “I thought I knew you, I thought I knew what you wanted from me — a living saint, a glorious leader, a beacon of hope for all the world, and I became it all, I became it for you.” She has stalked closer with every word, and now she looks down at Cassandra like a saint in silver, but she knows her well enough to see the shadows at her eyes, the crows-feet at the corners of her eyes, the furrow between her brows. It seems terribly cruel that she should already bear such marks of time, when she is not yet thirty. “And then, when it was all over, and they took everything from me, you didn’t even want me any more.”

“That isn’t- I did not mean-”

“You thought I was going to propose to you,” Rheyah says, with the crystal clarity of a woman who bears a memory like a brand upon her skin, unerasable, and Cassandra can read the wound of it in her eyes, the scar of first heartbreak she’s left so carelessly on the girl this woman has become. “You said it was impossible, that how it would appear was-”

“I did not mean-”

“For once, Seeker, will you listen to me?” she snaps. “Not Andraste, or the Herald, or the fucking Inquistor, or any of the other things you made me into, but me? I know I was never enough for you without the titles, but-”

She is so lovely, even now, and so wrong that Cassandra cannot still her tongue, even at her request: “You were more than enough as you were- as you are!” she corrects, because time and its cruelty have done nothing to diminish Rheyah, only made her more impossibly lovely. “Rheyah, for months I have prayed to forget you, but even the heavens refused. You were never too little, you were- too much!”

“Don’t I know it?” There is an old, deadened bitterness in her voice, and Rheyah was never bitter before, but the Maker knows that she has had plenty of cause to learn it, to allow it to seep into her bones. “Too Qunari, too Vashoth, too ignorant, too poor, too female-”

“Too beautiful,” Cassandra corrects her, and dares to reach for her hand, and Rheyah — too startled, perhaps — does not pull away. “Too brave. Sweet Mother of Sorrows, Rheyah, too young for me! Did you never think-?”

Rheyah comes back to herself, all at once, and yanks her hands away as if burned. “Every day, Cassandra!” she snaps. “Every day, I have wondered why the world would be so cruel as to take me from my home and my family every time I have built a new one. This time, I thought- I thought I could survive it, if only I had you, and instead, you said that anything more between us would be-”

“Impossible,” Cassandra finishes for her. “Everything about you, about us, has always been impossible, Rheyah, and I- the world has never given me anything impossible before. I assumed, when this was over, you would return to your people-”

“My family?” she retorts, “The Valo-Kas are mercenaries, and I am a soldier without a sword-arm, a mage who struggles to wield a spellblade single-handed. I’d be fit for nothing but rearing my younger siblings, and that- when people come to hunt me down, I could not protect them! Do none of you understand what you did? I can never go home again, so I made a home of this place, of your Inquisition, and then you let them take it from me like- like-”

Her voice breaks then, into the ugly sob that she did not allow to escape her at the Council, when she stood in her shift and her bandages and her unbreakable pride, and let them strip all she had built down to its bones. Cassandra had thought, then, that it would be a burden off her shoulders, a shackle loosed from around her neck, but in this, they have never been alike.

“Rheyah,” she says, and even now, her name feels holy in her mouth. “If I could have spared you that-”

“You would have had me become Leliana’s saint, while you served as her sword-hand.” She had meant the idea as a proposal, of sorts. On Rheyah’s lips, it sounds like a damnation. “You always liked me best when I stayed on the pedestal you set me on, but when they came to tip me off-”

“I thought they were freeing you.” It is more admission of guilt than any kind of defence, but it is still true, and it is the only truth she has left for her. “This place, those titles- I could see how they were becoming a cage for you, and you are so young, Rheyah. You deserved a life unshackled by them- by me.” She is fifteen years Rheyah’s senior, and had felt every one of them at that accursed council. Now, the years between them seem as incremental as the space between one breath and the next.

Rheyah reaches out, and in a single swift motion captures both of Cassandra’s wrists in her one great hand. She is the only person Cassandra has ever met who managed to make her feel small or fragile or delicate, the things she has failed to be all her life. Perhaps that’s why it was so easy to imagine her unbreakable. Perhaps that’s why it was so easy to overcorrect, to assume she was still the girl in the cell with wide, frightened eyes and a hand that was slowly killing her. She had never looked more like that girl than she had as she stood before the Council in her bare feet and bloody bandages, and Cassandra had suddenly seen the impossible weight heaped upon her, and not how her shoulders had broadened to bear it.

“What if,” Rheyah asks, “I told you I’d come to enjoy my shackles, my gilded cage? Would that have mattered to you, more than what people would think, more than how it would appear?”

Cassandra knows what her answer would have been then: Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. But there are two years of pain and heartbreak between then and now, and they are two ghosts in a haunted castle, Leliana’s words emblazoned in the steps beneath they stand on: Know that Skyhold remains, its fires bright. Forevermore it is where you are from, not where you are bound. Attempt no travel there.

[moonflower91]

i need more saerah!!! (im begging you 🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️)

Ask, and I will! (takes place directly after season 2 episode 8)

The Queen Dowager's Daughter

It began as a whisper, a rumor whispered to her closely by one of the Kingsguard at the Council table. She only sat at it, listening to the dwindling members of their Small Council, because Aemond instead chose to rage at his own humiliation and her mother had taken ill. 

Or so she’d been told by Maester Orwyle. She had no reason to question him, for what reason could there be? 

But, her mother’s ladies maids told differently, that the Queen Dowager could not be found, not in the Keep nor the Great Sept, (though the entire royal family had avoided the place since that wretched riot). Quietly, she had them look elsewhere, to the kitchens and rookeries and library and gardens, but still, the Queen Dowager was not found. 

Saerah kept her face tight, and calm, casting a look about the table. She would not fret, not before these men, not while she was alone. Truly, she had no one. Aegon was abed, and her husband was away on Vhagar. 

Only two remained of their once strong council…the rest had gone, to the sickbed or to war, or even banished, like her poor grandfather. But, her eyes remained fixed on Maester Orwyle, watching as his hands worried themselves together, his eyes locked on anything but the Prince Regent’s wife. Only two moons past, he had been the one to confirm that her husband’s seed had taken root, and now she watched him, heart growing sick with suspicion. 

Who else must they lose in this war? Already, Otto and Aegon and Criston and half of Aegon’s guardsmen to the Wall. The commonfolk’s loyalty was starting to waver in the face of starvation thanks to Rhaenyra, and yet it was the Greens they blamed. 

“You look uncomfortable, Grand Maester.” She noted, straightening in her chair–the king’s chair, which had previously been held by her husband, and before that, her mother. “Could it be the same illness of the belly you found in my mother?” She tilted her head, and with a strike of fear, Maester Orwyle saw how much like her brother-husband she looked. Sharp and dangerous, like a cat who plays with their prey well before striking the killing blow. He knew well it would not serve him to lie to her a second time. But the truth laid thick on his tongue. 

 “Your Grace, I...I have served House Targaryen under the service of the Hightowers for two generations.” 

“Yes, you have. You have our thanks, and more directly, you have mine.” And that was true, she did feel grateful for his service. The man had always been kind to her, and he had attended her mangled brother most diligently and saved his life, however shortened it might be now. “And I do not doubt your good intentions. But I ask you, where is my mother?” 

----------------------

It was nearly a fortnight since Alicent’s retreat to Dragonstone, and the moment Saerah heard of a ship arriving in the harbor, a woman with rich brown hair and a fine blue cloak aboard, Saerah found herself watching from the battlements. She watched the ship breaking into the bay, slowing its sail towards the docks, rooting itself to the iron moors, its passengers disembarking. The scowl never left her face. 

Saerah waited a day and night to see her fool mother, part of her not wanting to look upon her for fear of what unkindness may escape her mouth, the other, wanting the Queen Dowager to wonder what Saerah might be plotting. 

When she finally arrived at Alicent’s chambers, she ordered her maids to leave without any preamble. Then, she asked where she had taken off without her permission to go. 

“I am your mother, girl, you do not allow me to do anything.” Although her words were harsh, Alicent’s voice carried a softness, a weariness that sunk deep into her bones. But Saerah was past caring, already stretched a hundred different ways without Aemond here to take the half of it. 

“You are my mother and I am acting ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. And we are at war. You do not leave the bedchamber without my permission.” The room was quiet, the air thick. Alicent looked at her as though she were a stranger and did not answer at once like a lesser person might. 

“I went to Rhaenyra. To broker a deal of peace between our families. This war will consume us all before it is over. It must end now, before we are all destroyed.”

“What?” Saerah murmured, too struck to truly utter anything else. A long while passed them in silence, Alicent watched warily as her daughter paced. She had always thought her youngest girl was soft and sweet, but truly, she had just as much fire as her brother. “What was said?”

“Rhaenyra will take Kings Landing, and we will allow her.” She said at last, the truth hanging heavy on her heart. “Aemond will see the war lost and surrender.”

“He would rather die in attempting to take Kings Landing back.” Saerah replied. 

“He is not a fool. He must see to reason if he wants to live to see his child born.” Saerah’s hand went to her belly then, and she stepped farther away from Alicent, as though to protect her middle. 

“How are we to trust you now, mother? You’ve gone to treat our enemies, alone spouting off gods know what to that bitch.” It was unbecoming of a woman of her station to use such coarse language, but Saerah was past caring for genteel words, especially about the woman she’d come to hate. “You know she means to kill us all, Aegon and Aemond at the very least. Your own sons, that you carried and birthed.”

Alicent’s silence cut through like a knife.   

“You do know that don’t you? Did you…did you try to stay her hand at all?” More silence, and Saerah’s heart broke in a way she had never thought possible. “You didn’t.” Horror rose like bile within Saerah. “You…you agreed to let that woman  kill my brother, already laying broken in his bed, and my husband too?”

“I agreed to an arrangement that will end the pain and bloodshed being wrought throughout the lands. Amongst the smallfolk and our family.” 

“By taking the heads of even more members of our family? Was Jaehaerys not enough!? Do you hate your own children  that much? I know Father humiliated you for twenty years, but I never thought that anger and resentment would bleed down to your own children!” 

“It has–it has not.” Alicent pleaded, her voice choked and tears welling in her eyes. Still, she would not face Saerah, not yet. “I love all of my children with all my heart, and would fight to the last to defend them.”

“Except you haven’t! That bitch will march on us soon, and I doubt the blood of little Jaehaerys will have been enough to slake her desire for blood.”  Saerah shook her head, turned away from her mother, muttering as she did. “No, no, she is proud and arrogant, wanting Aemond tortured for saying what we all know is the truth about her litter of brown haired mongrels.” She turned back to her mother. “She will kill us all in our beds! Cut my babe from my womb!” 

“It will not come to that. There is time still before then, for Rhaenyra to change her mind.” 

“You have such faith in that woman, that woman just a year past you named a whore with naught but bastards and ill-sired trueborns. How quickly the winds change when the object of your hatred is gone and only his forgotten children remain.” 

“I do.” The Queen Dowager’s head snapped to face her daughter, but even then, her eyes were filled with a sadness none could heal. “I do love you. Just as much as I love Aegon. And Aemond. As much as Helaena and Daeron. Each of you owns a piece of my heart.”

Saerah sighed. Somehow, her vow made her heart ache even more, so much so that to cut the damned organ out would have been kinder. “And yet you toss us aside for what? Peace?” She sneered the word like a vile curse. “What peace will you know once all your children are dead? Daemon and Rhaenyra and even foolish, sullen little Jacerys cannot allow us to live to challenge them. It is as you always said. Always told us, and  now it will come to pass.”

“Rhaenyra is not cruel. She will turn to reason, to cease further pain. She is her father’s daughter.”

“She is also Daemon’s wife. The man who beat a woman to death with his bare hands. Mercy will not come for Aegon, nor for Aemond. You know this well, you’ve been talking about it my entire life and before. And me and Helaena, who bore our husbands children? They will either kill us quietly or sell us to the lowest bidder. We shall be forced into other men’s beds, either far from court or forced to suffer beneath the eyes of those who once called paid us deference as princesses and queens.”

Alicent turned away. Her daughter had just spoken all the fears she had no heart to put into words and it broke her heart. The faith she had in Rhaenyra and her promises were  all she had left to cling to. What she must cleave to so she could believe her choices, the sacrifices she had made, would be worth the cost. All she wanted for her family, her daughters and their children at the very least, was the chance to live in peace until they were old and gray, far from Court, far from dangers and plots and marriages they did not want. 

In this hope, there existed something sweet, something fresh and pure that she had not tasted since she was a girl. Freedom. 

But what if her faith failed her once more? Well, Saerah had already laid bare what could be expected then. 

“You say you love us, that each of us owns a part of your heart. But it is Rhaenyra who owns the whole of it isn’t she? That is why you hated her so long, because you loved her still”.

“I love you, daughter. I may not always have loved you as you deserved, and I have many failings to my name, but do not doubt that you, and your brothers and sister, own more of my heart than any other in this world.” Finally, Alicent  turned to her child, her little Saerah, softly swelling with her own child. She had always worn her hair down, she noted then. Her silver hair brushed the very top of her belly, and gave her a sweet look of innocence about her. Even her eyes, which were filled with sadness and tears, held a softness about them, a child full of assurance from their mother. 

Alicent wanted to feel happy, to feel proud of the woman she’d grown into. But truly, she had no hand in it. Saerah had grown into a woman without her, but always she would remember the first moment she’d heard her cry. The first moment she held her in her arms. The first moment the little babe  smiled up at her. 

Her baby, her daughter. And now the woman that babe had become looked at her with such malice, like she wished to burn Alicent with the dragon flame all the Targaryens wielded as threat and sword.

“You are no mother of mine.” Saerah whispered, her eyes welling with tears. When she spoke next, her words sounded strangled as she struggled to talk past the lump in her throat. “My child will not die for your weakness. Or, rather worse, your foolish love for that woman. A childhood fantasy you value so much more than the children you brought forth into this world. Rhaenrya, at least, stood unyielding in defending her bastards. But you, you abandon your true born sons and daughters so easily for her.” Saerah shook her head, as though shaking away the hurt as a duck does to water from its wing. “You understand then, why it is so easy to think you hate us?” 

Alicent drew in a shaking breath, and reached for Saerah as the younger woman rushed past her towards the door. “Saerah…”

“Guards! Take my mother and have her confined to chambers.” At that, the men stopped and shifted from foot to foot, looking between the Queen Mother and her daughter. 

“Your Grace? She’s the queen…”

“Queen Dowager. No more important than a common lady of the court. I am the Prince Regent’s wife, who has left me to rule in his stead while he is gone from the Capitol.” Already tired, already angry and hurt, she stepped closer to the young man, fixing him with a cold, hollow look that made him turn his eyes downward. Still, Saerah did not relent. “I am ordering you to confine her to chambers for crimes against the Crown. If you hesitate again, I will make His Grace’s treatment of the worm that took his son’s life appear as mercy.” This time, the young man did not hesitate to take the former queen’s arm in hand and pull her towards the door. 

Alone once more, Saerah rested her hands on the table, letting her head drop but forced away the tears. No use weeping for a traitor. Had she been anyone else, Vexxa would have burned her. But what moral could be raised if she burned her own mother alive? 

---------

“I know you do not wish to burn anyone. I ask not that of you. But I beg you, take Dreamfyre to flight, go to Aemond, and all I ask you tell him I beg for his return.” Helaena only looked at her, neither annoyed nor angry and Saerah continued on. "The maester says I cannot fly in my condition. And someone must be here to control the masses. Please, please Helaena."

[youhideastar]

WujiWatch: CQL Rewatch Episode 23

Long time, no WujiWatch! But I’ve been reading Catching Chen Qing Ling and it’s put me in an analytical mood about The Untamed again. Picking up where we left off...

Episode 23 has at least two iconic Wangxian scenes: Lan Wangji’s visit to a recovering Wei Wuxian’s sickbed to play Clarity, and the “I am not Wen Ruohan” conversation on the same clifftop where they will meet again in the last moments of Wei Wuxian’s (first) life. One thing I didn’t realize until this rewatch is the way those two scenes are tied together; that the second one picks up, thematically, where the first one left off.

The Clarity scene is interrupted by the screams of Wens being rounded up (and perhaps killed on the spot) and the shouts of their pursuers. Wei Wuxian immediately looks disturbed and asks what’s going on; Lan Wangji says, “they’re hunting down the rest of the Wens” and looks not disturbed at all. I am very good at interpreting Wang Yibo’s microexpressions by now, and this dude is 0% bothered. That is especially striking since the very next scene is all about (among other things) Lan Xichen being very disturbed at the prospect of murdering Wen civilians. By this point in the drama, Lan Wangji has made some progress toward moral nuance—but it’s all specifically Wei Wuxian-focused. His view of the rest of the world is still very black and white. The Wens are bad, so it’s appropriate for bad things to happen to them. End of story.

That’s how the Clarity scene ends, and then, as mentioned, we have the scene where 3zun and Jin Guangshan debate the treatment of the surviving Wens. After that, we have the clifftop scene—and what I’d forgotten is that the first line of dialogue in this scene is Wei Wuxian asking Lan Wangji, “What do you think of the people here [in Nightless City]? Who is good and who is bad?” The fate of the defeated Wens is still very much on Wei Wuxian’s mind. And it’s still a matter of no concern for Lan Wangji: he ignores Wei Wuxian’s question. He doesn’t want to talk about the larger events happening in Nightless City – he only wants to talk about, and help, Wei Wuxian. This foreshadows the scene in the rain at Qiongqi Dao – the moment when the hero of the common people looks at a group of starving, abused civilians and says to Wei Wuxian, in effect, Let them die—because otherwise, I’ll lose you.

(One other note from this episode that passed me by in every prior viewing, although maybe everyone else knew it: Lan Wangji knows the Yin Tiger Seal is made out of Yin Iron, very early on. In the clifftop scene, Wei Wuxian admits the sword he found in the Xuanwu Cave was made of Yin Iron and that he refined the Yin Tiger Seal out of it (albeit in one of his bullshit “What if I told you…” phrasings), and Lan Wangji confirms that he knows by asking, “Since you knew it was Yin Iron, why did you use/refine it?” While everyone else in the drama is resorting to innuendo and suspicion—and while Wei Wuxian is denying it to everyone else—Lan Wangji knew the truth all along.)

[cassiopeia-core]

Reyna with a s/o who loves playing with her dogs

they (i) love you

reyna x apollolegacy!reader

warning(s): kind of oc reyna, blood from injury, octavian mention, not proofread

a/n: kind of turned into dating reyna hcs (this plot literally came to me in a dream) idk if camp jupiter has an infirmary like camp half-blood but for the sake of this lets just pretend there is, also pretend reyna doesn't become a hunter :)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

when reyna first met you, she thought you were too good to be true. the sunny apollo medic with an equally sunny personality, who always greeted people with a warm smile and a sweet saccharine voice. you charmed everyone you met and all the little kids in new rome loved you. reyna couldn't deny that there was something about you that made her heart flutter and her mouth go dry whenever she saw you.

even so, after a particularly rough war games, when reyna limped into the infirmary with aurum and argentum hot on her heels, she hadn't expected her loyal guard dogs to warm up to you so quick.

"hey y/n", she grimaced at you, unwrapping her blood soaked cloak from around her wounded upper arm.

you glanced up from where you where rearranging your medical supplies, not expecting patients this late into the night. "why didn't you come earlier? it could've gotten a lot worse" you scolded gently, leading her to one of the sickbeds. aurum and argentum wagged their tails as you passed by them, whining and yapping happily.

"um well, you know, praetor duties and all i was really busy and octavian wouldn't stop pestering me and - " she was rambling now, flushing from the proximity between the both of you. you were just so gentle with her, fingers dancing lightly over her injured arm.

"octavian is a bum and you know that," you tutted. "everything that comes out of his mouth belongs in the bin." you moved your fingers delicately over reyna's arm, applying a soothing ointment of sorts before wrapping a bandage around it. "there, all done."

"aurum and argentum seem to like you very much." reyna noted, nodding towards her metal dogs, who were basking in the attention you were giving them. "they usually have a hard time warming up to strangers."

you laughed. "oh, i don't think i'm a stranger. sometimes when it gets lonely in here, they like to bring me presents and just sit here for a bit while i go about my business." you scratched aurum under the chin and he thumped his tail happily against the ground.

reyna frowned. she was definitely going to be having a word with her dogs later. but right now the focus was you. she took in how you hummed happily as you flitted around the infirmary, seeming to be in your element and decided that today was the day where she would finally build up the courage to ask you out.

"so, um, y/n, would you like to grab a coffee or something sometime? i mean, youre really pretty and aurum and argentum seem to really like you and i really like you too and oh gods, im rambling - " reyna gulped at the proximity as you stepped closer to her, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek.

"of course reyna, i would love to."

***

from that moment on, people would often see her smile more when she was around you

aurum and argentum prefer hanging out in the infirmary with you rather than accompany reyna

whine and whinge when reyna summons them away

you love having aurum and argentum around

they help calm injured legionnaires as you and the medics patch them up

reyna's dogs also helped her ask you to be her girlfriend, fetching shiny things and flowers that you would like

they were also there for you and reyna's first "i love you"s

she kinda messed up at first tho lol

("y/n, i think i really love you" you two were out stargazing, aurum and argentum playfully fighting over a stick theyd found

"sorry?" you hummed, turning to face your girlfriend.

"i- um, they really love you," reyna managed. "aurum and argentum, i mean. oh look, the moon is beautiful tonight."

you give her a knowing look. "i love you too."

as if knowing what it meant aurum and argentum stopped fighting over the stick and bounded over to where you were snuggled up on the picnic mat)

whenever octavian tries to bribe or bully reyna into something, youre always there to stand up for her, backed by aurum and argentum ofc

you two are the ultimate power couple fr

[beneathashadytree]

SICKBED - MONKEY D. LUFFY X READER

Warnings : mentions of sickness and medications, reader is gender-neutral!

Genre : fluff and comfort 🫶🏽

Word count : 0.9K words

Additional notes : I always thought that activating Gear Fifth would make Luffy ill, and this is my take on it!

Tip jar if you’d like to buy me a Ko-Fi!

Masterlist

As soon as they stepped into the Thousand Sunny’s infirmary, they clicked their tongue at the rather-predictable sight. All bundled up and swathed in a million layers of thick blankets, they could spot just a few tufts of ebony hair indicating that Luffy was indeed buried underneath all the cotton.

They pulled up a chair from Chopper’s desk (they’d be sure to put it back, though) and sidled up right against Luffy’s side of the bed. He seemed to be making no moves to acknowledge their presence, only small miserable huffs and whines coming from under the blankets. It took all they had to stop themself from keeling over with laughter at that, the part feeling sorry for him winning out this time.

“Honestly, what did you expect would happen, after going all out with Gear Fifth?” They shook their head, reaching out to pull down the blankets and finally see him. His forehead was lined with beads of perspiration, and his hair was somehow both mussed and sticking to his skin. “At least you look like you’re starting to sweat your fever out.”

Bleary eyes blinked back up at them, and if he didn’t look so pitiful, they would’ve called him rather adorable. If it weren’t for the fact that he had never gotten ill before, he probably wouldn’t have been in such a terrible condition.

“Luffy, you really need to sit up and take your medicine. Chopper asked me to do it for him while he tends to Zoro’s injuries.”

With a very pronounced frown on his awfully paled skin, he sluggishly pulled himself up, blearily blinking past the unconscious of his sick sleep. His limbs flip-flopped all over the place, barely scrambling to grab onto the glass of water they handed him—despite the alarming fact that his grip seemed precariously close to slipping.

Though he hated taking medicine in the forms of sticky pills that often got glued halfway down his throat, he clearly felt terrible enough to not say anything about that and quickly gulp them down and wash them down with the entire glass in one go, before falling back against the mattress with a groan of pain, surely caused by his sore body protesting.

Whining out their name, Luffy’s hands stretched of their own accord and latched onto their arm. “I feel like shit. Make me feel better, please?”

This time they couldn’t help but chuckle. Perhaps his clinginess made him a little more demanding, but they had no qualms indulging him a little. “I’m no Chopper, but that’s why I came here.” Prying his fingers off with much difficulty—and much protesting from his end—they turned to the bedside table, where Chopper had so thoughtfully left a cold compress on a bowl of ice for them to leave on his burning forehead. “There, there, you big baby.”

Patting it on his skin only served to make him scrunch his nose up in displeasure, and reach out to clasp their wrist as firmly as a sick man can. “I don’t want you to touch that wet thing. I want you to touch my head.”

“No can do, captain. Your hair’s all greasy and shit. I’m not touching that until you shower.”

His pout only grew worse, and paired with his slightly nasally voice, it felt like a double threat to their heart. “But you always run your fingers through my hair, even when I haven’t showered.”

“There’s a difference between not showering for a few days, and not showering for almost a whole month,” they snorted, before taking pity on him and ruffling his hair; the most they would allow themself to do without having to subject themself to the trenches that were oily and grimy hair. “Happy now?”

“I guess that’ll do for now,” he grumbled, slowly blinking up at them. His grip loosened on their wrist, and they could tell from the haziness of his dark eyes and the flopping of his legs on the bed that he was quickly falling into a drowsy stupor. “Stay here, will you?”

“I intended to do that anyways,” they reassured him, taking his hands and setting them back on the bed. Then they asked a question that most probably counted as taking advantage of his half-delirious state. “Want me to read to you?”

Luffy closed his eyes for a second, before he gave a slow, sage-looking nod. “Yeah, it’ll bore me to sleep.” Opening his eyes halfway, he pointed at a book on the desk. “Robin left this here when she visited Chopper in the morning.”

They hummed in agreement as they walked over to grab it and sat back down again. “She does have the best adventure book collection amongst the crew. It’s only natural that’ll be your choice.” Readjusting their position in their chair, they tucked the blankets well under his chin, reveling in the sweet little tired smile he gave them in return.

As they cleared their throat and prepared to start reading out loud, they watched their boyfriend with all the love and affection in the world, nestling into the soft pillows, and his eyes fluttering shut once more.

“‘I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow…’”

Taglist: @stories-that-shaped-me @wifeofkyojuro @livwritesfics

[sunflowersunite]

Mother's Sickbed

from chapter 17 of "Where My Monsters Like to Hide" I present to you a doodle, product of a collab of crazy thoughts @quillsandblades and I had.

Eren stepped forward to check her temperature while Armin fussed around, arranging her pillows and asking if she needed another blanket and telling her to take better care of herself. “You gotta stay hydrated,” Eren instructed, taking up a tone Mikasa imagined he did with his patients in the emergency. “And drink chamomile tea, a warm bath would be nice too. And you have to rest so quit working for a while.” “Sure Dr Yeager,” Hange teased, then turned to Levi. “Did you note that down? We’ve got the expert’s opinion.”

so there is EMA, gathered around Hange's sickbed like Victorian children in dresses and bonnets, in agony over their mother's fate. Wretched white death disease, it has reaped hundreds this winter...

bonus: Hange's reading Dracula, totally not to compare Levi to him, nope, nuh uh.

(I just now realised that if Eren and Armin stand up they'll be a million metres tall. I messed up the measurements lmao)

(well um it's the symbolism because in canon they're titans and. yeah)

(and in case you're wondering, Mikasa does find Eren's "doctor Yeager" persona very attractive)

[fic--writer]

Butter cookies

A collection of notes and letters from Rolan to Tav, whith plot. No warnings, it's just cute fluff. SFW

Part 2/2, Part 1/2

№ 70

I know that sometimes I've rubbed you the wrong way and yelled at you and been unfair to you. And now you're still hurting, and I get it. But I want to make it up to you. Cal and Lia are going out, so why don't you and I have dinner?

I baked your favorite cookies.

Wear your cute little dress with the cleavage. If you want.

№ 71

Thanks for a magical evening Tav and for what you revealed to me in weaving, it explains a lot.

And sorry about my tail, tieflings don't always control them. But you already know this if you read the scientific works that I gave you earlier?

№ 87

I left Lia money for the two of you to go shopping. It's your day off, so don't deny yourself.

I guess it makes sense for you two to have loyalty cards?

№ 134

Tav! Please call me first when you wake up. I have been on duty at your sickbed for 5 days in a row, but my brother and sister forced me to rest and sleep while you are, as they claim, in the hands of the best healers in Baldurs Gate.

When you used the scroll to finish arming the top of the tower and fell down... I thought... I had lost you.

We used every healing spell, scroll, and potion we had, but it wasn't enough. The magic did something to you. The doctors say that you will recover and everything will be fine, but it will take time.

You will find 5 packages of butter cookies in a box under your bed.

You can sit in my book throne whenever and as long as you like, just please get well soon.

You can even draw that obscenity again with me in the lead, just, I beg you, get well.

Your Rolan.

№ 266

That night was...divine? There are no words in the world, in any language I know, to describe this and everything I feel for you, Tav.

From now on, I won’t close my eyes until you move into my bedroom.

I have drawn something for you. But I will only show this if you move in with me.

№ 278

Tav, I know how happy you were when you found all the letters and notes you wrote to me in my room. Yes, of course I saved every one of them. But I was surprised that you did the same. So I had an idea, why don't we put our collections together? Let's make an album and put them in chronological order. We'll talk about it tonight.

№ 1354

Tav, my love. You are still away and today I found this jacket, my jacket, among your things. The one you shamelessly stole from me and wore as if nothing had happened. I wanted to clean it especially for you, but I discovered that it smells like butter cookies. In general, I was never able to wash it and spent the rest of the day hugging it. Please come back as soon as you can.

Our daughter looked for you with special diligence the next day, and I calmed her down as usual, but it didn't work. Then I gave her the jacket. Everything is fine now. It seemed to work for both of us. But hurry anyway.

Kiss you. Forever yours Ro.

[murderedbyhomework]

Kinda scared to post this but

translation of the last chapter of mlc novel not including the extra here:

If anyone doesn’t want to click into google docs full translation plus an extremely lengthy translator’s note underneath the cut

Main Text:

Di Feisheng had already crossed blades with all the main sects consecutively. Except for the Shaolin1 “Empty of tricks” Abbot who insisted against fighting, and Wudang2 “Purple haze” Daozhang3, who had been in seclusion for a long time, he was nearly undefeated in this world.

25th of August.

From the day they’d plummeted into the sea, till now, 13 years had almost passed.

Di Feisheng arrived at the shore of the East Sea very early, at a little village called “Grave of Clouds”, where everyone in the village was surnamed Yun4. The beach outside the village was very clean, with pearly white sand and an aquamarine sea, its waters reflecting the cloudless blue sky.

As if recalling the weather that year, on this patch of the beach, there was a great reef named “Sun Summoning”.

On some unknown date, an unknown person carved on this rock in unrestrained and majestic handwriting. As of now, miniscule sea conches had buried themselves in the deepest nooks and crannies of the calligraphy, but they could not take away from the magnificence of those winning loops and strong strokes5.

Di Feisheng stood on this very reef, clad in green billowing robes, just as he had all those years ago. In all honesty, he could kill Li Lianhua very easily, but what he wanted to achieve victory over, was not Li Lianhua himself, but Li Xiangyi’s swordsmanship.

13 years ago, he’d won the match, only because Li Xiangyi had been severely poisoned, but even poisoned, he’d still been able to do great damage to Di Feisheng. That move “The bright moon sinks in the west sea”, and the resulting 10 years spent on a sickbed, was engraved not just in his memory but in his bones, his heart6, for the rest of his life. 

Today.

Di Feisheng felt that he could even just use half his true power to fight. He was going to kill Li Xiangyi. But not before he could crack his “The bright moon sinks in the west sea”. Besides, that man was crafty and resourceful, and in 13 years, perhaps he’d perfected maneuvers that surpassed “The bright moon sinks in the west sea”.

Di Feisheng stood on the “Sun Summoning” reef, and his heart faintly looked forward to the fight.

Beneath the reef, around 100 people stood there.  The heads of Sigu Sect of course came, which among them included Qiao Wanmian. Emei7 Sect sent some young disciples, the gang of beggars sent 3 elders, Wudang Sect had Lu Jianchi, and even Shaolin Temple had some bald young monks arriving.

Among this motley crew of unusual people, a big golden and flashy sedan was what caused people to gape in tongue-tied disbelief8. The walls of the sedan were made of golden satin, which were embroidered with colorful phoenixes. The four people carrying it may have worn simple clothes, but with their arrogant attitude and blank expressions, it was clear that they were highly trained martial artists.

Sitting in the sedan was naturally great Young Master Fang and Princess Zhaoling. Outside, there stood a blank faced scholar, whose face was quite darkly tanned. Confronted with such a strange sight, members of the martial world kept their distance from it, exchanging hurried whispers and theories.

Fang Duobjng actually wasn’t willing to ride the sedan here at all. He’d originally planned to throw his wife off his trail, climb over the wall, and leave, spending the better half of the next year free to do whatever. Unbeknownst to him, his wife knew the tune his soul strummed out9 too well, and, knowing that her husband was about to run away, cheerfully prepared a grand sedan and carriages, sorted out their duties, and came here hand to hand with her ‘good husband’.

Along with this loving couple came Yang Yunchun. He’d been curious about the legend of Li Xiangyi and Di Feisheng for long, and had practically been raised on their stories. As a practitioner of martial arts, why wouldn’t he be curious? On the reef, Di Feisheng seemed as imposing as the mountains and the abyss, his impressive aura reaching far and wide10. To Yang Yunchun, this sight greatly expanded his horizons, and he silently praised how people of the Jianghu were indeed different from the ones in court.

And yet even as Di Feisheng stood on that reef for 4hours, until it was past noon, nobody caught a glimpse of Li Xiangyi’s figure.

The crowd began exchanging theories in hushed whispers, Ji Hanfo’s forehead creased, as did Xiao Zijin. Bai Jiangchun had started to quietly order his attendants around, and Qiao Wanmian had unconsciously adopted a troubled expression.

Fang Duobing poked his head out from the sedan, “Why hasn’t he arrived after so long? Li Xiangyi wouldn’t have broken his promise right?”

Princess Zhaoling said quietly, “With an event of this magnitude, if he’s that unique among his contemporaries, a god amongst men11, how could he miss this? What if he’s had something happen to him?”

Di Feisheng stood on the reef, clear in mind and heart. Li Xiangyi was cunning, his late arrival was possibly a way for him to throw him off balance. At this moment, a large horse galloped towards the crowd, and someone called loudly from quite a distance away; “Young Master! Young Master! First Young Master!”

Fang Duobing leaped out from the sedan, brows drawn together, and asked, “What happened? During such an important moment, the Fang family somehow decides to send a messenger to yell and cause trouble, is it not really embarrassing?”

The servant boy had sped here by horse, and his breath was nearly gone, his face pale as he raised up a letter.”Young master, young master, this is a letter.”

Fang Duobing replied, not particularly good-natured in tone, “Of course I can tell that’s a letter. Hand it over!”

The servant boy handed over the crumpled up letter, turning paler by the second in fear, “This is Li Xiangyi’s letter…..”

“What kind of letter has to be delivered right now? Since when was Fang Family matters decided by this respectable one12?”

In a moment of infuriation, the phrase “this respectable one” fell from his lips, and yet Fang Duobing suddenly paused, “Li Xiangyi’s letter? His letter wasn’t sent to Sigu Sect instead? Why was it sent to me?”

He’d already been taking quite loudly, and after he said this sentence, everyone turned to look at him, and surrounded him and the servant boy quickly.

Li Xiangyi’s letter? Why would he send a letter to the Fang Family? And why wasn’t he here in person? Fang Duobing nervously opened the letter, his fingers trembling. The letter was a very commonplace piece of white paper, and on it was very familiar handwriting.

It wrote:

During the battle of the East Sea 13 years ago, this one, surnamed Li, used the advantage of concealed weaponry, and took the chance of a sinking ship to battle with you, yet was unable to emerge victorious. Your bravery and honor is near unmatched in this world, this one’s defeat graciously and gladly accepted. many years have passed, this one has succumbed to illness and cannot recover, blade broken and spirit departed, thereby unable to attend the promise of the east sea, much to this one’s regret.

Fang Duobing stared at that familiar handwriting, and only after a few sentences, he felt cold all over, and he could only see the letter say:

The mountains and rivers ever endure, ever changing. Departure follows departure, and my time has come. Today Xiao Zijin of Sigu Sect has trained with his sword valiantly for many years, and is not inferior to “the bright moon sinks in the west sea”. You pursue not a fleeting moment, not a deer in flight, but strive towards the martial world’s peak. This one has departed, and should you be dissatisfied, please request Sect Leader Xiao to take my place.

Fang Duobing’s face was deadly pale, and he looked at that last sentence:

Li Xiangyi passed on 13th July.

“What did the letter say?”

Ji Hanfo and Xiao Zijin walked over shoulder to shoulder, the crowd scattering out of their way, yet still poking their heads around in curiosity. Fang Duobing swallowed with difficulty, and when he opened his mouth his voice was hoarse. 

“He said…...”

Xiao Zijin’s gaze was filled with a fierce light, and he grabbed Fang Duobing by his robes at his chest. 

“What did he say?”

He was infuriated beyond belief, how dare Li Xiangyi break his promise to avoid a fight! This shameless type of vile character practically took Sigu Sect’s face and threw it out of the nine heavens13! If he did show up later, even if Di Feisheng didn’t kill him, he would!

“He said….. .he said…...” Fang Duobing looked at Xiao Zijin blearily, “He said he was already dead, so he can’t come, and he asked you……he asked you to take his place.”

“What?” Ji Hanfo exclaimed, and snatched the letter.

Xiao Zijin blinked, startled.

“What?”

“He said he’s already dead, so he can’t come, and that he regrets it a lot……” Fang Duobing mumbled. “He said…... he said your sword skill was very good, better than his, so he asked you to take his place.

The flame of fury burning in Xiao Zijin’s chest shot up into the heavens in an instant. 

“What do you mean he’s already dead? Why does he want me to take his place? This is his oath of battle! This is his place! Why do I have to take his place?”

“He said…….” Fang Duobing said dazedly.

“Because you’re Sigu Sect Leader. Di Feisheng…….. is here to duel the Sigu Sect Leader, is he not?”

Xiao Zijin paused, dazed by the words.

“Why didn’t he come? If he came…... If he came I’d have….... returned the position to him….... returned it to him……”

He didn’t know why he said this, but somehow it came out so smoothly and naturally, as if he’d already said it in his heart a hundred million times. Fang Duobing shook his head. 

“He said his blade was broken and his spirit was gone……. He’s already…....” 

His voice was soft.

“He’s already dead.”

After that, he paid Xiao Zijin no more attention, and shakily walked back to his sedan.

“What is it?” Princess Zhaoling looked at him in concern.

Fang Duobing stood dazedly next to the sedan, and after what seemed like an eternity, the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Say……Darned Lianhua isn’t Li Xiangyi right?”

Next to the sedan, Shi Wenjue had watched as he became near dumb after reading the letter, and he hmphed.

“Pah! This respectable one told you ages ago, Li Lianhua is Li Xiangyi, Li Xiangyi is Li Lianhua, it was you who’d die rather than believing it. What is it? He sent you a letter? Now you believe it? Hahahahaha, he tricked us both so many years, it really is entertaining.”

Fang Duobing shook his head.

“Tell me— Darned Lianhua isn’t Li Xiangyi—“ Shi Wenjue was taken back.

“What is it?” Fang Duobing lifted his head.

“He sent a letter to Di Feisheng, he said…... he said he’s already dead, so he asked Xiao Zijin to take his place in the duel today.”

Shi Wenjue stared at Fang Duobing, as if in that instant, he’d become a piece of rock or a monster. Fang Duobing stared back in dazed confusion.

“Why did he have to send a letter to me? How nice would it have been if he hadn’t sent it?” 

If he hadn’t sent it, I would never have known the truth.

Shi Wenjue dumbly looked back at Fang Duobing. All around them were so many people, yet in his eyes, they were but stone. Li Xiangyi was dead? That liar was dead? Why would he die? Wasn’t he Li Xiangyi? Li Xiangyi should’ve been…….undying.

“Was it really because of…… those injuries?” Shi Wenjue mumbled.

“Skies above…... I’d clearly known, yet…… yet I left— Skies above—”

Fang Duobing turned around, grabbing him all of a sudden and lifting him up, and snarled,

“What did you know?”

Shi Wenjue’s smile was more terrible than if he’d started crying.

“The liar has a lot of injuries, really severe old injuries…..probably remnants from when he fell into the sea…….”

Fang Duobing paused for asecond, and he wanted to continue yelling, but instead loosened his grip and put Shi Wenjue down.

“Whatever” He murmured, “Whatever whatever…...” He lifted his head to look at the turquoise sea and cerulean sky. 

“This respectable one has known him for so many years, we ate and drank and even relieved ourselves in front of each other, but didn’t I end up knowing nothing about him anyway?”

“Is he really dead?” Shi Wenjue stood back up. “Who knows, maybe he lied, and to avoid coming to the duel, he’d pull something of this magnitude.”

Fang Duobing dazedly looked at the clear sunny sky, and shoke his head.

“He’s not pulling a trick. He might be a liar and a trickster, but he never really did trick anyone much……. not really, it’s just that you and I didn’t understand…....” His voice faded into a murmur.

“We just……. we just never took him seriously.”

On the reef, Di Feisheng had also heard about Li Xiangyi’s last letter, where he requested Xiao Zijin to take his place. After listening, he calmly tilted his head towards the sunlight and flew away, too disdainful to even cross blades with Xiao Zijin.

Yet Xiao Zijin was also unwilling to fight with him. He still couldn’t think it through, as to why Li Lianhua would rather run away than kill him that day, but suddenly died without a trace?

He’d said blade broken and spirit departed. Was it really that back then, when he’d shattered Wenjing, he’d also destroyed his chance of staying alive? Xiao Zijin felt horrified. What if….. what if it really was himself……. who had forced Li Xiangyi to death? He’d wanted him dead with singleminded passion, yet now when he really seemed to be dead, Xiang Zijin felt it was incomprehensible and unacceptable. Li Xiangyi was undying, he was undefeatable. He was supposed to be a godly presence, and no matter how Xiao Zijin treated him, how he spat hateful words or pointed swords at him, he should’ve never faded away and ceased to exist.

How could he just…... actually die? Was it because of the severe injuries he’d suffered years ago? When he’d been unwilling to kill, unwilling to end his own life that day, was it because—

Xiao Zijin’s face paled in an instant— could it be that Li Xiangyi didn’t want the former to kill him by his own hand! He didn’t want Xiao ZIjin to do someone he’d regret, or let Wanmian know he’d tried to force him to end his own life— so he couldn’t die at that moment! If he’d died then, Wanmian would’ve never forgiven Zijin.

So he’d jumped onto a fishing boat, to go…... to another place…... to die alone.

Xiao Zijin’s eyes reddened. He’d died alone, but when he died, was anyone there for him? Was there anyone who’d buried him, who’d given his corpse proper respects?

On the other end, the shore was silent in desolation, interspersed only by a few sobs, which were let out by some blue robed women in the corner. Ji Hanfo’s face was deathly pale to to extent of appearing gray, Bai Jiangchun collapsed to sit on the ground, and Shi Shui walked away silently. Xiao Zijin lifted his head to shout out sternly.

“Where did you die, Li Xiangyi? If you’re alive I’ll find you in person, if you’re dead I need to see your corpse. Even if I have to travel all over the world and overturn every inch of the ground, I will find you!”

Translator notes:

A sect for martial artists. One of the biggest, most prominent, most diverse martial arts sects with one of the longest histories in irl China. Present in reality and therefore referenced in a lot of works of literature as a martial arts sect

Wudang is a fictional martial arts school that’s often present in wuxia works of fiction

Daozhang, which might be familiar if you’ve read mdzs, is a title for very knowledgeable and spiritual people in Taoist believes. It can be extended to be used as a title of respect for any high up member of religion. In Taiwan it is also an address of respect between lawyers

Yun2 云 is the mandarin pronunciation for the words cloud. In the ancient times, entire tribes in China would often share the same surname and live together, and they’d often name the place they settled in after their own surname.

The chinese idiom used here was 银钩铁画 which refers to majestic calligraphy that deserves to win prizes essentially. The characters literally translated are silver, hooks/ticks, steel/metal, and strokes, so I went with half the idiom meaning and half the literal meaning.

Another chinese idiom (the author uses a lot honestly I’m just explaining the ones that I think deserve it) 刻骨銘心, which refers to a memory or experience being so unforgettable, it’s like it’s engraved into your bones and carved into your heart. 刻 and 銘 both mean carve/engrave, while 骨 is bone and 心 is heart.

The sect is called 峨嵋 sect, which sounds perfectly fine in in chinese, and in fact is named after a place in Taiwan, but unfortunately if you translate it literally it’s something like “mountain peak” and “brows” respectively, which sounds weird so I left it as the pinyin instead. Know that I tried. 

Yet another idiom (Tengping I admire your literary ability and degree of culture, but please have mercy on the people translating ty <3) 瞠目结舌 which literally translated means to stare unblinking and unwaveringly, with your tongue tied. Mostly used to express great shock or disbelief.

The exact expression was zhiyin 知音, a term which anyone here who likes watching ‘bromance’ dramas will undoubtedly be familiar with. It actually doesn’t mean soulmate completely. Zhiji means something like “the one who knows me and my soul, my self utterly”, with zhi 知 being “to know/understand/comprehend” and ji 己 meaning “self”. Zhiyin therefore means something similar, but yin 音 means “sound”, or in this case “music”, so the meaning of this term would be “the one who understands the music my soul makes”. It originates from a very interesting story between friends Zhong Ziqi and Boya, and to summarize, Boya was a musician and Ziqi his friend, who despite his lack of formal education compared to Boya, could understand what Boya wanted to convey with every melody he performed, which is where the term zhiyin came from. 

The idioms in question are 岳峙淵渟，氣象磅礡´. The first idiom 岳峙淵渟 means that someone is as silent as an abyss(淵渟) and as tall and imposing as mountains(岳峙), and is a metaphor for one’s upstanding and noble character (岳峙 part), as well as how great their tolerance is (淵渟). For 氣象磅礡´, 氣象mostly refers to weather, but in this case refers to one’s aura, while 磅礴 means expansive and endless. 

Original idiom is 绝代謫仙, 絕代 means for one to be unique among one’s contemporaries, or to be the best within your generation. 謫仙 refers to gods who have been cast down into the mortal world, which extends to being a metaphor for people who are both noble in character and extremely talented, so much so that they seem otherworldly and unattached to the rest of the mortal world. God among men/mortals was the best translation I could condense this into.

The name Fang Duobing calls himself by is 老子 which can mean father, but in this case is a way for men to call themselves if they feel highly about themselves. Essentially it’s a pretty arrogant way to call yourself, because the title in the end can also mean father, so its a bit like someone saying “I’m your father” as in they have authority over/are senior compared to you

There’s a chinese saying 丢脸面which means to lose face. Xiao Zijin essentially wants to say that Li Xiangyi made Sigu Sect lose face so badly they can’t regain said “face” because it's 9 realms/heavens away. 

[frog-necromancer]

Loquats and a bottle of liquor

WangXian angst

Summary:

Wei Wuxian and Lan WangJi break free from the cultivation world and their clans. Wei Wuxian is heavily injured. Lan WangJi can’t let him go.

Tags: #hurt no comfort #heavy angst #no happy ending #main character death #this is sad #some fluff #depression #delusions #alcohol abuse #kissing #blood and injuries #major character injury

Read on Ao3

Note:

This fanfiction is heavily inspired by "Blackberries in the Morning" by TinyWinterSnake on Ao3, which is based on William Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily." You can find the fanfiction here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23441596 I've never read "A Rose for Emily."

Lan WangJi was supporting Wei Wuxian’s body as well as he could, but even his, almost inhumanly strength, would soon leave him. They had a long journey behind them and only heaven knew how long they would have to keep going.

The residents of the small village had spoken of a vacant house in this area. Lan WangJi fervently hoped that they would find shelter there. It was already dawn, and the two cultivators desperately needed a place to rest and tend to their wounds.

Finally, Lan WangJi spotted a building in the distance. Hidden among trees and overgrown with shrubs stood a small, old cottage. The perfect place to hide from the lurking gaze of the cultivation world.

Lan WangJi exhaled deeply in relief when he saw the dilapidated house. It was nothing special, but it would do for now.

As gingerly as his aching limbs would allow, he dragged Wei Wuxian inside. The smell of dust and dirt was in the air, but at least it was dry.

In one of the two rooms of the hut, WangJi found an old, simple bed. With the last of his strength, he lowered Wei Wuxian onto it. Bichen was carelessly tossed into a corner. Nothing mattered right now, but his Wei Ying.

Beads of sweat glistened on Wei Wuxian's pale forehead. His wounds were heavy, too deep, but WangJi did not hesitate to share his Spiritual Energy with him. He had just taken Wei Wuxian's clammy hand in his when he faltered, his bright eyes widening.

How could he have been so blind, so ignorant? Wei Wuxian was his friend, his partner, his life, and yet he had not seen it.

Maybe he didn't want to see it.

Maybe he didn't want to admit it.

How on earth had he not noticed that Wei Wuxian, his Wei Ying, no longer had a golden core. His heart could have broken here and now. Rooted to the spot, Lan WangJi stood there, his hand tightly closed around Wei Wuxian's, unable to let go of him.

Thinking back like this, it had been clear, he should have seen the signs. How had he been so blind.

That night, Lan WangJi did not let go of Wei Wuxian's hand.

The next morning, while Wei Wuxian slept, WangJi explored the area around the house. He found a small stream and filled up their bottles with clear water. A little deeper in the forest, he found herbs to help heal wounds. When he got back to the house, Wei Wuxian was still sleeping. His fever was persistent, but no longer life-threatening. In the hut WangJi found some old, dried herbs. Together with the ones he had collected before, he mixed an ointment. The scent of the plants masked the faint, foul odour that seemed to have eaten itself into the old wood of the house.

Lan WangJi sat down beside the sickbed on a small, old stool. Carefully, he had applied the ointment to Wei Wuxian's wounds and now there was nothing he could do but wait for it to take effect.

"Wei Ying," his voice was low and quiet and seemed to vibrate in the dusty air. But Wei Wuxian's eyes remained firmly shut.

The melody of the Guqin continued to resound late into the night.

The next days were similar, during daytime WangJi took care of Wei Wuxian. He went to fetch water and changed his bandages and ointment. He himself hardly ate or drank. At night, he could not find sleep. He meditated and played the Guqin for Wei Wuxian's recovery.

In quiet moments he cried.

It went on like this for a while. The days began to blur. It’s probably been weeks.

But who counts the long days between sadness and hope?

A few weeks had passed when WangJi returned from fetching water one day. It had been a day like any other. Except that he had taken another way to the spring this morning and had found a small loquat tree.

Wei Ying likes loquats, he thought.

A basket filled to the brim with yellow fruits in his hand, he opened the door of their shared house. Immediately he stopped as he heard soft footsteps. "Wei Ying?" he asked in a firm voice. Silence. Only the rustling of the wind that brushed through the leaves of the trees. Then a soft voice, so soft that WangJi almost thought he had imagined it: "Lan Zhan?".

Wei Wuxian now sat upright in his bed, his face pale and sunken. Lan Zahn regarded him warily. He would not ask him about his golden core, not now. Perhaps never.

"Are you hungry?" Wei Wuxian nodded. "Loquats?" Wei Wuxian nodded again.

WangJi brought him a bowl of the sweet fruits and a cup full of water. "Get well, Wei Ying," he said softly. Wei Wuxian nodded imperceptibly, his gaze blank.

That night, WangJi cried and Wuxian dried his tears with his sleeve.

WangJi took care of Wei Wuxian and day by day he seemed to be getting better. It was an uneven and long road, but they were united and that was what mattered.

WangJi started mending the house, repairing and cleaning where he could, but he couldn't get rid of the foul smell.

Wei Wuxian smiled tentatively as WangJi brought him a bowl of fresh loquats and he couldn't help but smile too, his eyes full of love. His Wei Ying was a lot quieter than usual and a little thinner than before, but the colour had finally returned to his face.

He was still his Wei Ying. It would be all right.

WangJi played the Guqin and Wei Wuxian sat in his bed reading a letter.

"What does Wen Ning write?" but Wei Wuxian just shook his head and put the piece of parchment aside. It didn't matter. They had turned away from the world of cultivators and their clans. It was the two of them against the rest of the world.

WangJi missed his friend's voice, his laughter. But he practiced patience, "Would you like something to eat? Rice and chicken? I'm going to the market in the village." Wei Wuxian shook his head. WangJi smiled gently. Loquats, it is.

At the market in the village, WangJi bought some particularly beautiful loquats from a small stall. More beautiful and juicy than any he had ever found on the tree behind their hut. The saleswoman smiled kindly at him, "Is there anything else I can do for you?". At first WangJi shook his head, but then hesitated: "Do you sell liquor?" The woman's smile grew: "Oh yes! The best in the village" Lan WangJi nodded: "My friend… loves liquor. I'll take two bottles, please." "Of course," smiling, the saleswoman took out two jugs.

Back at the hut, WangJi handed the loquats to Wuxian. He smiled gently. WangJi sat down beside him on the bed, "I brought us something else" carefully he took out the two bottles. Wei Wuxian's smile instantly widened. Mischief sparkled in his eyes.

Wei Wuxian had an empty bottle in front of him and Lan WangJi also had an empty bottle in front of him.

"Lan Zhan," The person addressed looked up, his expression glazed. "Thank you Lan Zhan. For everything you've done for me."

It had been months since Lan WangJi had heard that voice. And now in his befuddled state, he couldn't help but embrace his Wei Ying. Wei Wuxian Laughed, clear as bells, as WangJi hugged him, "My Lan Zhan, my world, my everything." WangJi held him even closer: "My soul mate."

WangJi awoke the next morning in his partner's arms. Smiling softly, he pressed a kiss to Wei Wuxian's temple. His eyes opened slowly, still sleepy he smiled at WangJi, "Morning."

They shared a kiss and started the day with a smile.

WangJi continued to work on the house and Wei Wuxian explored the surrounding area. The next few days he helped WangJi plant a small herb garden in front of the house. They both knew they couldn't stay here forever, but that didn't mean they couldn't make themselves comfortable. It couldn't mask the smell of the house. But what did that matter.

Once again WangJi found himself at the market, he had come here frequently in the last few weeks. He greeted the loquat seller with a soft hum. "loquats for the husband?" the woman smiled, WangJi nodded, a hint of red colouring his ears.

"How about we go to the market together today?", Wei Wuxian grinned. "Too dangerous. Too flashy.", his husband replied. "Oh come on," Wei Wuxian jumped up, "Just this once! It's not like I can hide here forever" His arms wrapped around Lan WangJi's waist. His ears flushed but he smiled: "Shameless".

So the two made their way into the village. The market was especially busy today. Wei Wuxian seemed excited. He took his time strolling along and examining the numerous stalls, then reached for WangJi's hand. WangJi turned to him, "Did you find something you want?" Wei Wuxian pointed to a stall that seemed to sell jewelry, WangJi looked at him questioningly.

The salesman of the jewelry stall greeted WangJi with a broad smile, "What Can I do for you?". WangJi let his eyes wander over the numerous rings, bracelets and necklaces. Wei Wuxian finally pointed to two of the necklaces. They were made of silver and each held a gemstone. One of the stones was a soft blue like the sky above, the other a fiery red, like Wei Wuxians hair tie. Like blood. WangJi nodded with a gentle smile, "We'll take these two necklaces, please." The salesman frowned for a moment, then nodded, "Of course."

WangJi could feel the vendor's gaze on his back as they continued walking. He reached for Wei Wuxian's hand.

"Red really suits you well, Lan Zhan," WangJi nodded, "Mn. Wei Ying looks very good in blue too."

Finally, they found themselves in front of the loquat stall, "Greetings!" the saleswoman beamed. WangJi nodded. "loquats for the husband?" WangJi nodded again he vaguely gestured to Wei Wuxian and introduced him. But his husband had already moved on to the next stall. The woman smiled. The loquats were free that day.

A few days later, a letter came. From Wen Ning again.

"They are coming"

Wei Wuxian and Lan WangJi packed their things. They didn't have much, but that only made their hasty departure easier.

WangJi's left hand rested on his chest, where their necklace was hidden under his robes. By his heart. His right hand held Wei Wuxian's tightly as they stepped on Bichen and rose into the air. Without looking back, they disappeared into the night.

When Jiang Cheng entered the small hut, a foul smell shot to his nose. Someone had been living here. Had made themselves comfortable. One of the younger disciples he had taken with him was retching and coughing.

They entered the second room, the smell now unbearable.

There were bowls of rotten fruit all over the room. One full and one empty bottle of liquor stood on a small table. Flies buzzed through the air.

A figure lay on a bed, black, brittle hair on a pillow, a red ribbon beside it. A sunken, blank face. Lifeless.

A silver chain with a blue stone around his neck.

Jiang Cheng was crying.

Thank you so much for reading!

[slugtranslation-hypmic]

Hello,

Is there any way you could translate Samatoki's newest solo, Rinka/Blue Flame? I've been looking for a translation everywhere, but cannot seem to find one.

Best regards and thank you very much.

Oh my God I am desperate slug-san, please please pleaaasee tell me you know where to find a translation of Samatoki's Rinka/Blue Flame!! OTL I was so surprised a translator wasn't already linked in the wiki which is where I usually look first & then I couldn't find anything by searching on twitter or google or tumblr and I just really wanna know what his song is about!! T°T I can't believe I found a translation of Honobono's song but not of Samatoki's song?? I must be doing sth wrong.. Help :')

Hey slug-san! A follow-up of the Rinka/Blue Flame message. I've searched some more, and I think there's actually no translation of it so far anywhere.. T~T Would you be willing to translate it? A standard/literal translation with a lil clean-up like you did with Akuma no Hana would be totally alright!! Thank you so much for giving us the opportunity to engage with Hypmic in a way the official creators haven't made possible yet! :D <3

Sure. Under a cut for length.

I'm running at a speed faster than grief, going so fast I leave even the smallest bad feelings behind me. I spit on my dead-end future, spit in the dirty puddles. Now I'm clinging to the guardrail, tears tracing scribbled lines down my cheeks. I bet it looks pretty comical. C'mon, laugh at me, why don't you? Let's start somewhere around the unhappy ending. Why not? Works for me. The clear, blue sky waits for sunset; but to hell with that. I don't need that crap! Let's do whatever we damn well please, here in this vacant city. Just the thought of them makes me light up a cigarette. Look, I don't wanna tell people we gotta fight each other to get what we want. I just think we have to, because there's things out there that're worth keeping safe. There's a stray dog baying at the rain streaking down the glass, and that SOB won't shut up. Hey, fuck your umbrella. Who needs that kinda crap? Throw it away and let the rain drench you too. The beat's entrenched in my soul, a stupid requiem for this unfair world we live in, lying on its sickbed. C'mon, get in there and pay your respects to it. You don't have the time to sit around feeling sorry for yourself. You know lashing out's the answer, right? You'll be okay. And I'm not gonna tell you you're running from your responsibilities. So c'mon. Quit your sniveling and come ride with me. The brakes don't work; those emotions never get any slower. And we're burning ourselves out, but don't let that stop you from coming along with me for the ride. Ride with me through thick and thin. Ride with me all the way to the grave.

A few final notes:

Sunset is a metaphor for melancholy. When Samatoki rejects that in the third verse, he's rejecting sitting through his feelings of loss. He uses this image again later in the line I wrote as "sit around feeling sorry for yourself."

The gender and plurality of the "them" Samatoki thinks about isn't specified. While it's most likely referring to his family, the verse immediately afterward sounds like a direct reference to Ichirou and Samatoki battling to save their siblings in the TDD breakup.

"We're burning ourselves out" could also be written like "We're burning ourselves down to ash" which connects with the cigarette image.

Given the prevalence of stray dogs in hardboiled/yakuza fiction and their recurrence as an image in Samatoki's other raps, the stray dog should be understood to be Samatoki himself.