#a beautiful hoard indeed

[deeranon]

Troubling Travels | deer! Creator reader

Note: I’m kinda bad at writing fight scenes. Or…are there no fight scenes at all? :)

For @idkfitememate Hope you like it :D

╔⏤⏤⏤╝❀╚⏤⏤⏤╗

Cyno cursed like his life depended on it. Tighnari was going to kill him if he ever found out about this. That was, if he made it out alive, first.

It had started out like any other day. You were happily gathering leaves and sticks for your secret little hoard(that wasn’t very secret, Tighnari knew about everything) of weapons (that were not actually weapons) to be used on Dottore if he ever thought of stepping foot anywhere near Collei or Tighnari or any Sumeru character ever. Minus the sages, they were also going to be victims of your mighty stick-hoard if you ever saw them. (Yes, you were peaceful but some things could not be forgiven.)

Tighnari had given you the nickname “ورقة الشجر الصغيرة”, little leaf, a few weeks after you had persistently stuck around even after you had healed from the treasure hoarder attack. And it stuck surprisingly well. Now, as of today, you were unofficially-but officially in the hearts of all Gandharva Ville residents—“منظم الأوراق الرسمي وجامع الأوراق الرسمي”, the official leaf organizer and collector. As a sort of celebration for your “promotion” Tighnari had asked Cyno to come visit during your “first ever official leaf collecting mission” in a letter he had sent a few weeks back. Indeed, Tighnari had planned to promote you for some time now. But it was hard keeping you distracted while they secretly set up a surprise party. But they managed to succeed in the end.

The entire village was decorated with various flower garlands(all given the green light by Tighnari) and tables were filled to the brim with tasty food for both humans and deer. People chatted animatedly with one another as they ate and danced. You were content to stand on the sidelines with Collei, eating a delicious salad while the forest rangers weaved you and their friends flower crowns. Seeing others happy made you happy.

The promotion party went well into the evening, with multiple excursions led by you to gather more fruit from the forest.(Tighnari was so proud that you remembered which fruits he told you were safe to eat and which were not) And when Cyno arrived with his ever neutral looking beautiful face, you were sure you were about to faint from happiness.

You had pranced up to him with a specially made flower bracelet just for him. Okay-YOU didn’t make it, Collei weaved it for you because trying to make a flower bracelet with hooves is hard. Sometimes, you missed your hands. But this form had its perks. Like the headpats you got and the wonderfully therapeutic back rubs when Tighnari brushed your fur for you. But you certainly deserved points for somehow communicating to your dear friend Collei that you wanted to make a bracelet for someone. The purple flowers probably helped.

Cyno looked down at your happy doe-face, or as happy as a deer could look with a deer-face. You were preening so much Cyno swore he saw sparkles emanating from you. You held the flower bracelet on the top of your fluffy head between the place where your antlers were starting to grow in. It was made of purple dahila’s and anemones, he noted before picking the bracelet up and sliding it onto his wrist.

“Thank you, little one. I promise to keep it safe.” Cyno said, slowly reaching out a cautious hand. Like Tighnari had taught him to do with stray cats and dogs. Sure, you were a deer, but it still counted, right?

In reply, you let out a giddy bleat and shoved your head underneath his calloused hand with vigor. Cyno felt his lips twitch into a smile. This wasn’t your first time meeting Cyno, but he was always so busy enforcing the law as General Mahamatra that he rarely had time to visit. So time spent with the general was special. He was happy to know you were doing well. Tighnari wrote about you in his letters frequently.

You nuzzled into his touch for a moment longer before backing away and prancing off into the festivities, stopping to look back at him with an expectant look.

Come join me!

Cyno paused before following after you. He wasn’t one for large parties but you looked so happy that he couldn’t decline. Besides, Tighnari and Collei were chilling out somewhere, so he could always go find them after hanging out with you in the core of the festivities. Maybe then he could pick up on the Genius Invocation TCG match he was having with Tighnari and Collei last time he was here. Oh, and maybe he could teach you how to play? Wouldn’t that be something.

It was nightfall now. Everyone was tuckered out from the party, fast asleep in their beds. Well, all except for two people and a deer.

“You don’t have to see me off. You should go get some rest for tomorrow.” Cyno said, adjusting the strap that held his canteen to his belt. Both you and Tighnari sighed at this.

“It’s not like we’re forcing ourselves to see you off. We want to do this. And there’s nothing you can do to change our minds.” Tighnari huffed as he crossed his arms.

You stomped your hoof in agreement. You chose to see Cyno off in the middle of the night, even though you knew you had things to clean up tomorrow. You knew how rarely you had one on one Cyno bonding time, and Cyno was one of your favorite characters in Sumeru. His bravery and strength in the heat of battle was something you saw as admirable.

Besides, you never knew when you would see Cyno next, or if he would be okay on a mission. His job was dangerous, and sometimes that made you worry. If only you could go with him…

Wait a second.

You COULD go with Cyno!

While you were connecting the dots in your head, Cyno had gotten fully ready to head off. He gave Tighnari a nod before turning his attention to you, who stood at the fox-eared male’s side with the same happy expression you had on that evening. Cyno felt his heart squeeze at the sight. He would, admittedly, miss you while he was gone. This next mission was going to be a long one.

So, he kneeled down and gave you a gentle pat on the head. You let out a bleat and shoved your head under his chin(making him bite his tongue on accident) in a makeshift hug. Now would have been a nice time to have hands. But you were never one to complain much. Cyno gave a small smile and rubbed your back before starting to pull away. It was time for him to leave.

With a final delightful scratch behind your large fluffy deer ears, Cyno stood and started to walk away.

Only, he wasn’t alone.

You followed after him with a happy pep in your trot.

Cyno paused. Tighnari tried not to laugh. You shimmered like you had never shimmered before.

Cyno sighed and shook his head before pointing to the ground and stating “stay.” in his best commanding voice. Internally, Cyno knew it was futile attempting to order a deer around, when it obviously wasn’t going to understand him. You stared at him innocently. Cyno took it as a sign to start walking again. Only for you to follow(again).

This repeated multiple times. (Tighnari almost burst a lung from laughter, exhaustion was clearly getting to the usually calm and collected fox ranger)

“I think they want to go with you, Cyno.” Tighnari finally said. Cyno stared at Tighnari.

“Yes. I don’t think I noticed.” He huffed. You let out another call and ran circles around Cyno’s legs with excitement, and Cyno felt his heart soften. It wasn’t that he didn’t want you to come with him, it was just that the desert was an incredibly dangerous place. Especially since you had no natural defenses. Not to mention your fur. You would bake like an egg on the sidewalk in the middle of a heatstroke in a matter of minutes. Cyno knew this, because Tighnari had the exact same problem. And he didn’t want to see you suffer.

Yet you seemed adamant about staying with him. Both could see that. Cyno didn’t know what to do. Should he find a way to keep you with Tighnari? Or let you follow him into the lonely desert?

Tighnari took Cyno’s silence as his cue to become the voice of reason. “I am not one for old tales, but it’s been said for hundreds of years that animals have an innate sense of danger. A sixth sense, even. Or sometimes called premonition. Whatever you want to call it, having a companion that can sense danger early on could be an invaluable asset to your missions, Cyno.” Cyno didn’t seem fully convinced. So Tighnari continued with a bit more seriousness than before. “Deer have around 297 million olfactory receptors, meaning their nose is better than any human’s or dog’s. Their eyes are also better than a human’s at night—and they detect movement faster than people, too. Deer can also hear high frequency sounds, and can move both ears in different directions at the same time. These assets are perfect for helping to track down thieves and rouges. And I’m positive you already know how intelligent little leaf is. Their level of understanding is basically unheard of.”

Cyno nodded, but his face was blank. “I know. But the desert is unforgiving to all. I’m just skeptical about how they might respond to the temperatures of the desert. I wouldn’t want them getting hurt if they can’t fight back.” You were after all, a deer. Sure, you had multiple advantages over Cyno in tracking abilities but you were still considered prey. It was a reasonable thought.

After all, how could they know that you were a human isekai’ed into a deer’s body?

But you were determined to go with Cyno. You rubbed your head into his legs pleadingly. As if to send the message that you would be alright.

Cyno instinctively ran his calloused hand through the fur on your neck, making you preen at the attention. You could tell he was standing on the edge of agreement. He just needed one last nudge.

“Let’s put it this way. I put the little leaf under your care and protection while in the desert so that you can help me record their reactions and adaptability in a different environment. They are, after all, an unknown species of deer. No deer recorded has natural markings like theirs in any document ever, so it’s imperative that we find out as much as we can about them so that we can learn more.” Tighnari reasoned, pointing to your lush furry coat that Cyno was carding through at that very moment. And he was correct. You did have a unique design. (Description below is optional)

Small splotches that looked almost like stars littered your neck and spine, with two small white diamond-like teardrops touching the corner of your eyes. Your eyes were more focused, like there was an actual thought going on inside your head instead of the soul devouring gaze a deer usually had. Your ears were fluffy and faded in an ombre fashion to an almost unnatural pitch black colour, as did your fluffy tail-except it faded to a snowy white. There was even a white four pointed star like the ones you see on a compass rose in the middle of your fluffy forehead.

Safe to say, you didn’t exactly look like a normal deer. “They could very well be the last of their kind, or they lost their parcel in some kind of accident before Collei and I found them. Whatever the case, we need more information to understand how we can help little leaf in the best way possible. Like putting protective laws up to keep them from harm.” Tighnari finished. And that seemed to convince Cyno immediately.

“Alright. I’ll bring them with me. And I swear on my life to keep them safe.” Cyno promised with a solemn nod. Tighnari huffed as he crossed his arms, smile barely hidden.

“You better. Now get going before I change my mind.” Tighnari snapped, making a ‘shoo’ motion with his hand. Cyno stood and gave another nod of respect before turning around and walking out of Gandharva Ville with you at his side. Just as you both walked out of earshot, and out of Tighnari’s sight, he murmured “Stay safe…” before turning around and heading for his hut. So that he could sleep his worries away.

And also because it was past midnight.

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

You watched silently as Cyno set up camp behind a large rock that would block out most of the piercing grains of sand flying in the wind. It has been six days since you set off with the general mahamatra into the endless desert. And night was starting to fall. Which meant possible bandit attacks or wild animal attacks. Or maybe a mix of both. It was hard to tell these things before they happened. Minus bandit attacks. Cyno eliminated any human trouble before you could even catch a glimpse of the ruffians.

The wind howled ferociously at both you and Cyno, who seemed unfazed at the sand trying to stab into his eyes and turn him blind. And yet you almost didn’t feel the screaming wind yourself. Probably because of your wonderous coat of fur. Hopefully it wouldn’t be a headache to brush out later. It would add to Cyno’s work, which was already a hassle itself. Curse your lack of hands(once again). You watched as the sun slowly set and the sands cooled before your eyes, giving you reprieve from the sweltering heat. You were just glad you hadn’t grown your winter coat yet. That would have been a nightmare.

The night rose, eclipsing the golden sky as Cyno finished setting up the tent. Yet something felt off. Like when you glance at a picture and then leave, only to return and realize something is different about it but you can’t tell what it is. It was an unsettling feeling in the back of your head that wouldn’t go away.

Cyno seemed to feel it as well, his gaze was dead set on the hills of sand. You stared out at the vast sea, ears perked and swiveling like satellites. But there was nothing odd that you could sense, only the rising wind. You sniffed at the air next. Immediately your nose was rushed with a million different scents, all leading to something different than the last. It had greatly confused you when you first awoke to so many new smells, but over time it became easier to sort them out. Now, your nose was a valuable tool.

And right now, the air crackled with the scent of rain.

You let out a sigh of both relief and disappointment before trotting through the tarp entrance of the tent. Cyno continued to stare at the dunes with an unnerving gaze before turning to follow you inside. But not before grabbing his pike and surveying the area protectively. Just to make sure.

The wind was so angry and wild that you were almost certain your ears were going to bleed out. The rain had arrived with the sandstorm an hour after Cyno had managed to set the camp tent up, meaning you were both lucky enough to not get absolutely clobbered by the bullet-like water droplets.

You could hear nothing but the persistent rain and the raging wind of the midnight storm.

And that meant you couldn’t hear the footsteps approaching with each clap of thunder.

But Cyno knew every trick in the book. Nothing would escape his senses. Not when he had someone important to protect with him. You blearily watched as he tightened his grip on his weapon from where he sat with your fuzzy head in his lap, drowsy from exhaustion. He gently lifted your head from his legs, trading them out for the second of two blankets he had packed for the journey.

Next thing you knew, Cyno was rushing out of the tent like it had been set on fire.

Your mind was hazy from what little sleep you had mustered, so his reaction didn’t fully compute in your brain for multiple minutes before you rushed to your shaky legs. Having four legs instead of two had certainly been a challenge at first, and still was when you weren’t focused or completely energized. So you couldn’t help but berate yourself silently as you wobbled like a drunkard ready to pass out before you made it to the tent flap.

Outside, Cyno was fighting three mercenaries dressed in red in the rain at once. All had sun kissed skin and brownish-black hair, but they used different weapons, meaning Cyno had to duel three different battles all at once. One used a spear, the second had a crossbow with odd smelling arrows, while the third held a metal axe so big you were convinced it better belonged with a mitachurl.

Cyno swung his pizza paddle polearm through the air like it was an extension of himself, blocking a heavy swing coming from the axe-wielder with the shaft of his weapon that glowed amber in the dark night. A whistle sounded through the air as an arrow shot through the sky, bringing its horribly odd scent with it.

You watched, mortified at the realization that Cyno might get hit with what you now realized was an arrow tipped in poison. Time seemed to slow as Cyno turned his head at the sound of the arrow whistling while simultaneously swinging at the axe-wielder and striking him in his chest, ripping through the man’s skin like it was butter. The large man crumpled to the sand. But that wasn’t the end. Just as the arrow was about to strike Cyno’s shoulder, he let out a growl and electro crackled through the air.

“Futile!”

Cyno lunged forward and snapped the arrow into a thousand tiny pieces before leaping at the crossbow user and kicking the weapon out of his hands.

The man let out a yelp that turned into a scream as large bolts of bright purple lightning wracked his body. Cyno was holding the man’s shoulder in an iron grip, using himself like a taser. The male let out a final wail before he slumped over, either dead or unconscious.

For a single second, all was silent.

Then, there was a war cry piercing the air. The third man, the one with the spear, had jumped from the top of a rock and was plummeting down to Cyno with murderous intent.

But Cyno was not fazed.

“Your sins weigh upon your soul!”

There was a sudden explosion of light around Cyno as his vision burned bright in the endless pitch black night. His body was swathed in glowing purple binds that circled and looped into large claw-like hands sharper than any dagger or sword. Runes in an ancient unknown language were burned into the glowing cloth that snaked around his arms. The headpiece glowed with the same runes as eyes, now open and uncovered, shone with golden light. An ominous had aura surrounded Cyno as he called for the divine spirit to indwell him. Now, that aura turned into furious electricity that snapped and swatted at its enemies.

The man with the spear screamed as an elongated electro arm of Pactsworn Pathclearer reached out and grabbed him from mid air. He tried to use his spear to pierce the hand that held him, but it merely broke into minuscule shards the moment it even grazed the claws. In retaliation, it’s grip tightened significantly before it flung the man to the ground, where his head hit a rock with a sickening crack.

And just like that, the battle was over. Three bodies laid in the sand, defeated. There were no more attackers left for Cyno to defeat.

Or at least, that’s what Cyno thought in the second he had let his guard down. Electro fizzling out around him.

You knew otherwise.

Ten more figures emerged from beyond the dunes.

But you were more worried about the sniper with poison tipped arrows and a bow who was aiming right for Cyno at that very moment.

With a bleat, you rushed up the cliff side faster than you had ever run before. Rain still pelleted you like knives as thunder rumbled in the sky high above you. But you continued to run.

The sniper drew the bowstring to the tip of his mouth.

You scrambled to the top of the cliff on shaky legs, making a mad dash for the archer who was so incredibly focused on aiming he didn’t even notice the sound of your pounding hooves as they kicked up sand. Your body hidden in the blackness of night. He would never see you coming.

Cyno stood below, head whipping around as he looked for you frantically. The moon was halfway to approaching midnight but it was already almost pitch black. The rain was no help, either.

The best thing Cyno could do right now is focus on the incoming targets. Their footsteps against the sand were in no way trying to be hidden, and the sickening feeling Cyno was sensing set him on edge.

Cyno’s mind was a flurry of different emotions, but if he wanted to stay alive long enough to look for you and complete his mission, he had to focus on the fight in front of him. So he readied his spear and crouched, gathering all the energy he could into his legs as the waited for the enemies to strike.

Just like Cyno expected, they lunged for him with weapons in hand in a consecutive attack. But Cyno was more than ready. After all, what kind of general mahamatra would he be if he couldn’t defeat ten people? Admittedly, he had never fought ten on one at the same time before and in almost total darkness while it stormed heavily. But there was a first time for everything, right?

The sniper smirked, homing in on his target with horrid mirth twinkling in his eyes. His comrades had surrounded Cyno in a circle, caging him in as he jumped from one fight to another. Though many were beaten and bruised, it did not matter if they fell. For they were merely a distraction so that he may make the shot that would end the wretched general mahamatra Cyno once and for all. His heart beat giddily in his ears as his fingers started to loosen their grip on the poison tipped arrow aimed right at Cyno’s heart.

Though it will not be beating for much longer his mind purred.

Pure thrill pulsed through his veins as he his fingers slowly slip from the bowstring. His heart beat spiked just as his fingers slid from the string, only to let out a mighty howl of pain as something crashed into his shoulder, sending him teetering on the cliff face, his right hand flailing and his toes grazed air. There was a snap as the bowstring thrummed against whatever crashed into him with such force. He let out a colourful string of curses when he realized his aim had been jarred into missing Cyno’s heart.

So when he looked down at the perpetrator:

he saw a deer.

His rage increased tenfold and he let out a furious yowl, gripping onto the creature’s neck as it rushed at him once again. It cried out as they both went careening off the edge of a tall cliff. But the man only smiled manically.

If he could not kill his target, he would take with him the life that tried to protect it. Even if it meant meeting his end.

“NO!”

There was a cry, but it was swept into the whistling wind.

There was a sharp pain in the back of his head.

Then, everything went dark.

Cyno huffed, glaring at the mercenaries with cold eyes as he tightened his grip on his polearm once again. Rain had somehow made it past his visor and onto his face, but he couldn’t care less.

He readied himself to fight once again when there was a loud scream echoing through the desert.

Only seconds after, an arrow shot through the air.

Slicing off Cyno’s bracelet of flowers.

There was another cry. But it was inhuman. Cyno whipped around, heart racing as his eyes caught sight of a man dragging you off of a cliff so high he knew there was likely no chance you were going to survive the fall alive.

“NO!” He screamed, rushing forward. Maybe he could catch you before you hit the ground. But it was futile. The ring of mercenaries would not let him leave.

His wrist felt horribly bare without the bracelet there to occupy it.

Cyno cursed like his life depended on it. Tighnari was going to kill him if he ever found out about this. That was, if he made it out alive, first.

You closed your teary eyes tight as you and the man’s body tumbled through the air. The wind screamed and thunder wailed, and for a split second you could hear nothing. Everything around you was surely passing in a blur.

This was going to hurt. A lot. If you even made it out alive. But what could you do to stay alive and keep the man from getting killed? You didn’t mean to push him off the cliff!

Time seemed to slow as your mind rushed to think of any possible solution. But only scraps of a plan formed.

Whatever!

There isn’t enough time to plan!

Do something before you both die!

So you opened your eyes and winged it.

You bunched your limbs close to your chest and then kicked them straight into the insane man’s chest, making him wheeze but also sending him crashing into a miraculously small ledge head first.

You were accidentally sent flying into the open mouth of a large cave from the force you had put into the kick. A searing pain ripped into your shoulder as you started to loose altitude and fall to the cave floor. A rock had sliced your shoulder open, leaving a blood stain on the rock and a small waterfall of blood trickling down your fur. You let out a cry of pain as you tumbled into the ground blanketed by a thin layer of sand.

You were beaten, but you were alive! Hooray!

The world outside of the cave raged with almost killer intent as the storm grew worse and lightning started to strike as the wind screamed. It was best to stay in the cave until it cooled over, you wisely decided.

You lifted your head at the sound of rumbling from further within the cave, making your ears swivel and your nose twitch. If there was something dangerous deeper in the cave you would rather take your chances with the storm outside.

But all you could smell was the faint scent of dried herbs and burnt fire wood. Which wasn’t very normal for a cave at all. You knew it would be a better idea to stay near the mouth of the cave, but you were injured and your fur was uncomfortably wet and all you wanted at the moment was something to warm yourself up while you waited for the storm to end so that you could look for Cyno.

So with a great heave, you lifted yourself onto your four wobbly legs and adventured deeper into the cave. Your shoulder throbbed with spite as you moved, but you ignored it and continued on.

You limped through a long tunnel filled with iron ore and an unlit stove ,as well as crystals of all colours, making you silently awe at the sight as you passed into a wide cavern filled with luscious green trees and red vultures that hopped branch to branch. Rocks mysteriously started to float in the air the further you walked into the great cavern. As did a bright white light.

By the time you had reached the far end of the cavern, the light was almost blinding. You squinted to make out anything but the tunnel branching deeper into the earth would not yet reveal its secrets to you.

There was another rumble.

The scent of dried herbs grew stronger the longer you stood in front of the glowing tunnel, too nervous to move. A distant feeling of familiarity tickled the back of your mind as your eyes darted around the area nervously. The vultures seemed ignorant as the ground shook, so surely there was no danger nearby. You took a shaky hoof-step back as the walls started to tremble as well. Your ears went flat as you glanced back to the tunnel from whence you came.

Should you leave?

But you could still hear the roar of thunder outside, meaning the storm had yet to stop. No. You could end up getting killed in the storm if you weren’t careful. And your wound still throbbed. It was best to stay in the cave. Though maybe you should just stay near the entrance. Yes, that sounded like a good idea.

You turned your head back around only to be greeted with a long snout sniffing at your fur where the tunnel should have been.

You let out a bleat of surprise and jumped several feet in the air, heart racing.

Then, it hit you.

This was the tunnel to Apep’s den.

And right before you was Apep. Or—it’s head, at least. The tunnel was much too small for its large serpentine-like body to fully fit through.

Oh. So Apep was the one giving off the dried herb smell. That…made sense, actually.

Apep stared down at you with its large glowing eyes that lit up the earth in a gentle glow.

“It has been quite a long time since I have last seen you, Mother. I am overjoyed to know that you are alive and well after all this time.” Apep said, voice gentle and lulling. A stark contrast to what you had heard from behind a screen.

You could only stand shocked, unable to think.

Apep stared at your frozen form with a sad gaze, sighing through it’s nose sadly(if that was even possible). “Ah, I see you do not remember. But that is to be expected after all that happened back then.” Apep paused to lower it’s head to the ground and nudge your furry cheek gently with it’s own. “You are the Creator of Teyvat. So you are Divine Mother of all. Though how I see it, only the mighty dragons like myself should be allowed to call you Mother. For we were the first. But perhaps your tastes have changed over the time you were gone. Shall I call you Divine One, one of your many titles?”

Apep’s words barely made sense to you right now. But one thing you knew very well.

Apep had called you the divine creator of Teyvat.

But truly, you wanted nothing more than to just be called by your name. No tittle needed. Maybe it was because Apep’s words had yet to sink in or you didn’t wish to be put upon a pedestal. Or maybe because you were a truly kind being to all. (This was really starting to feel like one of the SAGAU! fanfictions you liked to read in your free time) (and also because you didn’t want Arlechino to come after you)

But how were you going to get that across to Apep?

You let out a bleat.

The lights all along Apep’s sides glowed in recognition as it’s eyes somehow grew kinder and happier.

“I understand. That is a lovely name. May I truly be allowed to call you by it?” Apep said. You nodded. You would like nothing more than for Apep to call your by name. “Very well. Now, how is it that we have come to meet after all this time?”

And so, you told Apep everything that happened in the past week.

And it had some very strong words to say about some things. But Apep promised that once the storm passed it would make sure you reunited with Cyno.

And you did. Cyno did not physically show the worry on his face but he never let you out of his sight for the rest of the mission. Even as he dragged an unconscious rouge researcher behind him with an iron grip.

It was also safe to say, Cyno got a good scolding from Tighnari when you returned to Gandharva Ville.

╚⏤⏤⏤╗❀╔⏤⏤⏤╝

[its-actually-minicika]

The Harshest Winters (18+)

I - II - III - IV - V;

Pairing(s): Jacaerys x Reader x bookcanon!Aemond;

Warnings: We all know what to expect by now - sexual themes, obsessive and possessive behaviour, bookcanon Aemond, angst (there is no light at the end of the tunnel ♡), semi-spoilers (but not really) for Fire&Blood;

Word Count: 23k+ (yes. yes indeed.)

Author's Note: AND I HATH RETURNED!!

Only 3 more instalments to go - this feels surreal. As always, I would like to thank all of you from the bottom of my heart for still following Lady Tully's adventures, and for being so patient with my updating schedule (or lack thereof). Without further ado, please enjoy ♡

♡♡♡ Drop me a comment if you would like to be added to the taglist! And don't forget to reblog your favourite fic writers ♡♡♡

Paths that used to interwoven thread themselves with great uncertainty. When you're free to roam again, which road will you choose to take?

When Aemond beckoned his return, Harrenhal was basked in smoke. Vhagar shuddered low beneath him, letting out enraged, rogue roars. His guts hung low inside his midriff, his heart ached hard inside his chest… his one lone thought was of his Lady – of what became of her, of them.

"Ah – My apologies, Your Grace!" The muted hues of her blue dress obscured across his measured view. Thus Aemond hummed, dissatisfied, and merely moved his gawp ahead. His eye transfixed her for a moment, yet bore through her slighter frame. Nought of what he noticed then deterred him to even bow. To even offer her the courtesy that a highborn lady would receive. He had left their clash at that – with not a singular lax word exchanged, and not a singular exultant glance. He spared no reaction. No compact feeling. And the deep courtesy she offered him was met with deplorable impassiveness. Whether or not she had felt slighted, or passed across as less compelling, was of nought of his concerns. He heard her steps, although unwilling, move fast across the vacant halls – the mousy girl with straight long locks ergo dissolved through the thin air; and as if made of feeble matter, as if diffused whole by the soil, she shed herself briskly afore. Perhaps, he thought but for a moment, the paling shade suited her well. And as she skipped her trail all proper, through the obtrusive and abstaining lanes, her gown outcast a pleasant echo – the rattled bite of a spirited woman, a proof of presence, of fair existence. He made his strides long and decided, reaching towards the damp courtyard. And as he trained, breaking his stupor, the man had thought of her quick struts. Perplexed and quite unparalleled, he deemed the dress had worn her nicely. The girl was far from an alluring beauty, standing small and slight in stature. Still the brief sweep of her garment reached for the goal it had then bared – for the Prince thought of it, admired it, and thoroughly remained somewhat impressed.

He’d been a foolish boy back then, though he remained so as a man. A roguish Prince of one and twenty, far too absorbed by pain and ire to even care about the keep. Alys’ heed had been ignored, his lungs had been filled up with ash. His headlong steps urged through the hallways, desperate to reach for the one door that served so long as their shared chamber. He screamed her name from the base of his throat, so wildly torn and fraught forlorn, that his shrieks of anguish reached for the ears of the few maids and wenches left rooted in place, all hoarded outside and taken aback by his despondent outraged display.

But that wouldn't be the last he'd see her – and the chain of humdrum meetings would thereon constantly happen. They were both quite early risers, insatiable to the seductive waves of glaring rays of humid sunsets, and devotees of the peace and quiet brought across by the luminescence. Still the synopsis would repeat – he, far too preoccupied with the handling of putrid sticks; she, far too absorbed by her dashing knight of golden armour; the Waters brute, as they so styled him, who seemed to be rooted abreast her, eternally waiting for some command which rested readily atop her lips. Though she wasn’t one of his sister’s ladies – the smirking vixens with a lacking sense of pride –, she served as a ward under Lyman Beesbury, the old Master of Coin of his father’s late Small Council. Not the particularly quiet or specifically reserved young maiden, she failed to strike up the attention of any callow man at Court. She wasn’t one for idle chatter, or flamboyant dances at Soirees. Yet he would hear her voice each morning, as she bowed low to him and slithered away.

‘Good morrow, Your Grace.’

‘Greetings, Your Grace.’

‘Good day, Your Grace.’

His hands balled up to aching fists, as the grave callouses inside his palm slid across the piece of silk. Several slices of burnt meat adorned the ground he stood atop. The mess that was made of the bed they had once slept on and the tapestries behind the grate all but pointed towards one thing – that she had made her brash escape, and effectively deceived them all. The Crown Prince sucked in a breath, and turned his head towards a rattled and alerted Alys. What was expected was for him to scream. Trash about, around the room, until his blood would cease to boil. She was ready for that. On all accounts, she had prepared for that. What was most unexpected was the lacing calmness of his evened tone.

“I don’t suppose she morphed outside, waiting submissively by the guards.” Within the first half of a drawn-out breath, the older woman shook her head. “No, my Prince.” He nodded slowly, and expelled a weighty laugh, “She started a fire and ran away.”

“Yes, my Prince.”

“Did she take a horse, as well?”

“... I don’t kn–”

“Every man, woman and child in this stronghold knows by now. Did she take a horse, as well?”

“No, my Prince. I swear she didn’t.”

“How much of this was of your doing?”

Two years she stayed inside the Keep. Two years of residence, of life, of growth. Two years of incandescent worth, during which he could have acted.

Notice her.

Court her.

Marry her.

Cruel Fate had all but laughed at him – for two years she had lived below him, right within his steady grasp. In those two years he could’ve bedded her, he could have won her horrid heart. He could have fathered her her freckled children, he could have owned her House’s flags. He could have dressed her in the finest dresses, and ripped them off her every night. He could have seen her cross stark naked – then it would have been his right. He could have kissed her, touched her, fucked her… he could have made her love him back.

A fantasy. A bitter laugh. A pang of pain, and guilt, and wrath.

The Gods spoke of their directed favour – when the Whore of Dragonstone came forth home with her misbegotten son. When his bastard nephew set his eyes on her, on the nameday of his eldest brother. When he sullied her with his abhorrent probe, and when he danced with her throughout the night. The night of which he finally saw her, twirling in her auburn dress.

“My Prince, I’ve helped you find her before – I shall help you find her again…!” Her delicate fingers entwined together in a tightened and reluctant hold, which morphed the pose of a covetous and tattered statue; a ready vision of the Maiden, praying to absolve all sin. Her slit eyes widened to two round specs of emerald sheen, and Alys opened her mouth again, only to be stopped by Aemond. “‘Tis not your barren promises I want – rather, I demand something more palpable.” She quirked her head low to the side, and almost caught herself relax her shoulders; Endless thoughts surged through her head, each more humiliating than the next. If it was her body he desired, she would promptly let him take her – disputes of the flesh she’d handle, and face proudly with a stiffened lip. His wife was gone, and though lamentable, she could still surge him back in. Shake and wake the stifled feelings that he’d once relished her into, win his favour and his grace, save her and her unborn son.

But two blind steps he took towards her, and Alys finally understood.

“You watched your home burn to its core." Aemond's tone was light and leveled, "You must have gazed into the fires.”

It had been a truth universally assumed, that he wouldn’t even look upon her. Though a first daughter, she presented as a mere third child. Loved among her Lords, ‘twas true, but with a trivial, worthless last name, who’d be of little to no use to him, and honour him no less or more than a lease daughter of Pike or Ambrose. He’d scoffed back then, under his breath, as the two conversed so freely. The graceless children of low descent, so shamelessly engrossed in the raptures of the other’s company.

If only he had loved her then. For Jace wouldn't have walked away from Aegon's nameday scrape unharmed. How many things would have played differently, if only he asked her first to dance? ... But a lowbred with a bastard was a common sight to see. Aemond thus stood at his table, playing harsh tunes with his slim fingers, whilst knocking on the table’s wood.

His hand enwrapped at the base of her throat, moving languidly over the nape of her neck, and thwarting her forward with an exponential pull. The dying logs inside the fireplace still cracked with their dispersive strokes, impelling the air with charred ashes, and softened groans of sizzled smoke. Her cheek had touched a snapping flame – the arch of her enticing lip almost pressed firmly against it. The low sputtering of her ragged breath, the agonizing scream she’d let out, the fear that seeped within her bones; they deterred her to choke out worried, terror-stricken by his dwelling words. “My Prince, please, I’m begging you –” His silk-smooth baritone came out sullen by perpetually placid waves. A clementful element to the fear and trepidation swarming about the narrow place.

“I’m merely helping you reach a conclusion.”

Her body contorted in a desperate attempt to flee him, and her hands pushed instinctively into the fires, as if to cast aside their perpetual danger, and better protect her face from the raptures of the growing heat. Fellen sobs escaped her lips, rolling down and off her cheeks, hearthing right in the blaze. “Please, please, please–”

“Well?” He sighed, calm and taciturn inside her ear, sparing her no lessened hold. And she failed once more to answer him, opting instead to let out another shrill of strangled moans. Her vision blurred throughout with horror – her gaze cast forth the lingering effect of fear, and her body stiffened in anticipation.

“Perhaps you need more help, then.” His disquieted mutter churned her guts over with dread.

Her wails of anguish pierced through his heart – yet his grip didn't uncurl.

He’d be a liar to say he thought much back then of their light and foolish prancing. The shades of orange in her dress laced his eye with milky spots of irritation, and Jace’s laughter filled him with surfeited hatred. Thus he didn’t linger past the notion of a second, and when Daeron’s warm eyes met with his, he only hummed in discontent. “You ought to dance with someone tonight,” He reminded his elder brother through the musings of a quirked-up brow, “There’s plenty of handsome ladies here tonight.”

Strenuously he looked around, though at last settled his orb on the heaving and coveted form of the latter of Helaena’s ladies. Her very own shone bright with wonder as she listened to her nearby friend, which dispersed her hands about with adorning youthful bliss. She was laughing in good spirit, whispering her minor gossip; Still, when his gape was met with hers, her slight smile instantly falthered.

Five seconds it took for her to turn and flee into the crowd – and five more it took the Prince to work through the nearest cup, by fully draining it of wine, and allowing its sharpened sting to warm and breach his stiffened limbs. His deflation would be short-lived, and the ripe pierce of rejection heal itself in a moment’s heed.

“‘Tis not their looks I’m worried of.” He pensively added to his brother.

“She had a rather awkward smile.” The youngest tried to comfort him.

“Yet she still preferred to flee.” Though his tune carried no bitter candour, Aemond sharply turned around, “You’re wasting your time with me, brother. You fail to look where you’re supposed to.”

“Your Grace, I know – I know of another way!”

Confused by his elusive words, Daeron turned his head around. “Elanour Frey has all but thrown herself at you.” He clarified slightly amused, and when Daeron’s ears piqued through with red, the corners of his mouth quriked up. “Go take the fair cunt for a whirl. Enjoy her smiles and dulling company.”

“She’s a Lady, brother! It’s wrong of you to slight her so.” Despite the youth’s endless chastising, the boy still rose to kvetch an approach.

“The spell is not without its consequences.” She drew in through a shaky breath, “B-But I can make you see her by yourself. I know the Riverlands like the back of my hand. I’ll tell you where she’s headed.” It was a risky plan. Yet it had the potential to appease Aemond, and in the process, save her life. When his iron fist had loosened, she hastily convulsed away. Her words spoke of an old ritual, one she could avid perform – one that would show him his Lady, one that would reveal her whole. “I’ll need your blood – blood from the both of you. The fresher it is, the better for the enchantment.”

Aemond solely parted with the piece of cloth used for their wedding. When the notion of shared blood was uttered, he hastily dug for the sleeve, revealing the blotches which took the front of a maroon-brown colour. “It’s two days old.”

“It’ll work for her part. But I greatly urge you to spare fresher droplets from your own share.” Her heart beat frantically inside her chest. She prayed to her God to send her lease, to grant her mercy and forgiveness for that of which she would soon do. She nicked Aemond with the sharp end of a perusing tool. Drops of thick, red-bludgeon clot surged over her waiting hands, dripping in rapid slithers from his damaged shoulder. She forged a phoney incantation, muttering it slowly for the man to hear. She then waited, and waited, for the sphagnum moss to reach its peak. “Tonight is a half-crescent moon,” She explained brashly in a lulling tune, “I’ll throw the damp cloth into a fire and we’ll see where she is headed.” Why exactly she had lied to him, and continued to do just so, eluded Alys in her steep attempts to cast her spell. Perhaps it was due to her poignant state – as her condition would begin to show erelong, and Aemond had to be reminded of the care he held for her. Perhaps it was because she’d die if his wife of chestnut hair uttered to him that she’d helped with her escape. Perhaps it was because she’d learned to like the forlong and dismissive Lady, and saw within her the potential to prevail. Perhaps his loyalists had begun to matter – as she well knew the wrath and ruin that Aemond would bring upon the boys, were he to notice that they all survived the clashing flames, and not emerged with his sweet Lady. “... But we need to leave, Your Grace, and soon.” She ergo pleaded as she sewed him shut, “Daemon Targaryen reached the gables of Maidenpool. He’s to come for us, for all of us.”

“Yet another reason not to leave without my wife.”

Perhaps she’d seen enough of death, and felt the need to reach for safety – for the reclusion brought by Oldtown, and for the one she'd felt with Aemond. The lot of troubled knights be damned down to the Seven Hells and back. Criston Cole could meet the troops, take them to increase his numbers, and march on towards the Fields of Fire, to join forces with the Lannisters.

"There is a chance he's still unaware of your union. If that be the case, she’ll be safer without you taking her back right now.”

“Are you suggesting I leave her here? To be used by the Blacks as leverage?"

"– Twirled with two Princes in a night! Gods, and the most comely of the bunch, as well…"

"How lucky she must feel right now. Having two push for her hand."

"She's not that much of an exquisite beauty. And her sewing is quite crooked." With a loud huff to calm her nerves, the Lady dared to carry onward, " I wouldn't go as far as to proclaim something like that."

His wide step fathered on the course of the narrow and secluded hallway. The maidens’ voices washed over his form like whiplash, and Aemond stood hammered in place, whilst listening to their low chirping.

The latter lady of the two shrugged her shoulders in indifference, as she jabbed her slight companion right into her bottom ribs. Her painted lips sketched to a smirk, and her thin brows rose up in wonder. “Poor Dyenne,” She snickered briefly as she paused her idle gossip, “Imagine having the One-Eyed Prince glance at you with such a stare – reckon she’ll send out a raven and beg her father to return to Pyke?” The taller redhead looked around in grave and unmistaken panic, before setting her washed eyes on her giggling accomplice. Her hands wrapped around the shawl that she wore over her gown, and she sighed in discontent, as she weighed her words inside her. “Hush now, Talia!” She ended up conducting sharply, “You shouldn't dare to speak such words. Especially in the Red Keep!”

His hands formed into light fists, as the rousing sting of shame prickled across his pale-white skin. With his jaw now tightly set and a frown upon his face, the Prince cast his long gaze downwards – vexing himself for the impropriety of eavesdropping in the first place. He’d come to terms with his mien, well before he turned a man. With how he scared the finer ladies, with how they all deemed him a cripple. But to be such crass acknowledged as a ghastly and revolting monster, so coolly and without chargin, with such ease and nonchalance.... A bitter taste caught in his mouth, as aggravation dauntly surged him – for how dare those two low women speak so freely of his face?

The shorter girl huffed out expectantly, whilst her companion rained her chastation. Her face was hidden, protected onward by her loosened golden locks. But even so, by name alone, Aemond had apputed her; She was yet another one of Helaena’s hexing ladies. “Even if someone would hear me, certainly they'd feel the same!” With her nose held high and her back all straightened, the lassie added with a perfect diction, “I, for one, would never dance with such a brute. He could be the heir to the Iron Throne itself – I would still flinch at his touch. He is such a morbid freak.”

He could feel his cheeks catch on to a shade of putrid red. His probing and now heated leathers fell tightly on his heaving chest, leaving him appalled, constricted, and resigned in his dark space.

Black spots surged and filled his vision before he could extend his arm. Heinous pain stabbed through his heart, rushing through his mustered veins. The last he felt was of his shoulder, which throbbed in place with blazing heat.

***

“Aemond? Gods, Aemond, are you alright?”

The mere softness of her distant voice sent a pleasurable thrill within him. His lilac orb opened with stupor, gazing above him at the remnants of the littered candles, which flickered both across her face and at the sobriety of the dark room. His tenebrous brow rose in surprise, as her brilliant eyes met him with love, and her reddened lips broke to a smile.

“Thank the Gods you’re awake.” She whispered with a timbre of exhilaration, as her small hand came up to brush over the arch of his unfurrowed brows and against his tired face. Her touch was light and barely proded – and, for the first time since he’d truly seen her, a refulgent smile formed on her lips; caused by and bared out for him – in all its kind and gracious nature. His chest heaved once with every turn of his lungs’ deep and churning exhales, as her vivid and concisive image allowed for a heatwave of ardour to surge through his very being. The deep purple of his eye glimmered with abstained affection – the corners of his downward mouth all but quirked into a grin.

As if burnt by dragon fire, his body rose to a quick halt – propped upwards by his left forearm, and supported through the same. The wound that caused him ached discomfort all forgotten with the notion of her brightened and reclusive face. “But –” He began feverishly, whilst turning her head from side to side, “How,” He choked out with a desperate hiss, caressing her cheeks with his rough digits, “You left. You left me.”

A soft gasp lodged from her throat, as Aemond’s hands enwrapped her whole. Her own slim limbs entwined with his, running through his silver hair and over his unyielding jaw, resting on his raucous back and grazing over his resounding heart. The tension in his rigid shoulders eased with every gaudy touch. She wordlessly reached for his eyepatch, and yanked it off in a swift move. Her lips descended on his shoulder, moving upwards to peck lightly at his jugged and immersive scar, reaching for his poignant cheekbones, and pressing softly at his mouth’s high arch.

“How,” He whispered lowly once again, as her eyes met his with glee. "Foolish boy,” She kissed him slowly, whilst aligning her hips to his, “I came back for you. We’re man and wife now, you and I.” She added with a prompt elation, “I could never truly leave you.”

“Harrenhal, the Riverlands –” He grunted meekly as he insatiably chased her mouth. His wife bit over his lower lip, and swallowed down his grouchy growl. “Shh,” She subdued him back to calmness, “We are both in Oldtown now. All is well.” She nodded once to ease his nerves, “Your brother, Daeron, took care of everything.” Before the Prince could inquire anything less or more wanting, her leg prodded in between his thighs, widdling to pry them open. She moved her attentive focus to his red and swollen lips, and gently led his heated body back into a lying pose. The woman smirked at his perplexed submission, and flummeted a listless array of sensual and loving kisses down the curve of his adonis belt. Her knees plunged into the mattress that enwrapped him in a state of lust, straddling and guiding him as she considered at that time.

“Relax, my love,” She urged him gently, “I plan to take good care of you.” For but a moment, her movement stilled. And his wife rose up her head to kiss him in pleded benevolence. “I almost lost you. Never again.” She promised him with an elusive stare. The hardness in his hazy iris softened with her every word. His digits came to touch her own, and he entwined their hands together, taking her own to his mouth. Tenderly he kissed each finger, trailing the softness of her palms with the unquaint and possessed devotion of his flectuous and awaiting lips. She relaxed into his hold, and used her thumbs to graze his cheeks, rubbing faintly at the jarring redness that was forming on his skin. “I would burn the world to ashes if it meant possessing you,” He muttered lowly as he kissed her hands, “The Gods may curse me if they will it – but I would sooner kill a thousand men, and ravock against hundreds of armies, before I should see you leave again.”

Her giggle pierced his very soul, and that alone had been enough for him to free his damning urges. He pawed at her compressing bodice, and sucked with fevervour at the apex of her thighs and neck. “I am sick with the desire to have you. I am not a man to be tamed, my Lady; ‘tis with you and only you that I will submit willingly.” Poignant yet without a hurry, her fingers threaded through his silver hair, earning a salacious moan from the lips of the perturbed. Aemond’s eye was blown with lust, and a shallow but incessive pant ached within his naked chest. Desperate to hear her voice, and maddened by her ceaseless silence, the man drove on with upstrained force. “Tis only you who makes me whole,” He whispered as he shut his eye, “Your beauty is a curse that bound me since the first day that we met. No matter where I turn to look, I cannot escape your presence.”

“Say something – say anything. Tell me that I may – may I?” The desperate edge within his tone transpired over his extended hand. Tremulous and undecided, it touched the lacings of her back, itching to reveal her skin. “Please let me touch you. Please… I need you.” A reserved smile upturned her lips, and the woman trailed her hands over the appended width of his shuddering and throbbing chest. His every muscle tensed at the feeling of her cold and sanity hands – a downy sigh beleft his throat, followed by a swallowed whine. She leaned over to his ear, and trailed a long lick to his jaw. “I love you…” She subdued to his lax face, whilst letting out a brisk exhale. Her forehead came to touch his own, as she muttered once again, “I love you, Aemond.” The sluggish roll of her scant hips deterred the Prince to drone a curse. "Don't say that, my love," His breathing came to ragged pants, "I'm going to… spend… if you say that once more…" His hand came forth to grip her thigh, pausing slightly for a moment to ensure her disposition, before leading her into him with nuanced and languid movements. His brows furrowed in concentration, as his hazy and fogged over eye trailed across her freckled face. “To hell with keeping the bloodline pure,” He gulped as he relaxed into her, “Fuck principle.” His loins ached him with elation at the promise of release. The way she looked at him was too much. “Sīkudi nopāzmi, skori ao umbagon va bē hen issa…” His speech halted with the abstinence of another guttural growl, “Qrimbrōzagon, jorrāelagon, nyke jāhor tepagon ao nykeā gār trēsi.”

Very little he could say on the wild infatuation that he felt for the slight girl. He knew that he had well surrendered his will, his mind, and his whole being to the jolting peaks of madness – of love and lust and quaint desire.

He’d been a man bound by his duty. Prepared to marry his own sister and ensure their pure volition, should his brother prove himself more or less inapt to do it. Marry the Baratheon girl, concur with her father’s banners and one day sit at Storm’s End. But then he went against his mother – against the wishes of his grandsire, against the better of the Realm; he’d married her in disheartened haste, with no quaint or real regard over what would come of them. His extended family, the premise of his purpose as a simple second son, the scarce but mandatory expectations that were laid upon him since the first conditioned moments of his cursed and unwanted birth… they’d all have grown to account to nothing in the face of her lithe form. She was, by all righteous accounts, the one woman that the poets spoke of. The inviting and mistrusting siren that would lure tired men in, the innocent and stainless maiden that drove them all insane with need. His wife, His Lady – the only woman who could drive Aemond Targaryen wild with pure fervour. With every kiss on her pale skin, the falthered licks of true devotion cascaded from his parted lips – with every promise that he uttered in his olden mother tongue, too scared and afraid to claim them in a way she’d understand. For he was nought but a damn coward. A foolish man. One that was frightened. Frightened of the situation which he himself had put her under. Frightened of being rejected by his one true love again. Frightened of loving her wholly, as if but a single touch placed upon her skin would burn him.

Scared, that he would do anything it took to have her. Scared, that he would desolate his House, renounce his titles, give up his birthright – just to be allowed to stay quaintly over by her side. The tightness of his burdened sex deterred him to writhe and moan. His hands had worked throughout without him, undressing her with a light tremour – one that would have better matched a young and senseless stable boy, than a true and balanced Prince. His mouth latched on her heaving bosom, sucking its possessive mark along the low side of her collarbones. His right hand touched upon her thigh, and she immediately spread out her legs. “Se nyke jāhor jorrāelagon hen se tolvie mēn hen zirȳ.”

His trail of open-mouthed kisses faltered in their pushed longevity, as she offered her reply in kind. Her eyes washed over with confusion, and a quivering but dainty hand came up to rest over his scar. Her mouth opened as his closed, daring to utter but one question, after what felt like an eternity of eluding and punishing silence. “Is everything alright, my King?”

As if struck by a red arrow, Aemond countered her position – though he kept her tightly on him, his own chest touching with hers. “What did you say?” Following his own accord, the Prince wrapped a hand around her, “You do not speak High Valyrian.”

Not with this level of content.

“My love…” She strained herself to finally stay, whilst the Targaryen seized up her hand, “Aemond, my heart, what are you doing?”

“This isn’t real,” His voice cracked with dissolution, “This isn’t real.” His thumb trailed where her cut should be, across the soft mound of her flesh – though the only feel against it was her soft and healed-up muscle. In vain she tried to grip his face, and make him face her eyes again. In vain her face had gotten closer, urging him to probe her skin. “Aemond…” She tried her best to reel him back.

“You couldn’t have healed in two days' time.”

“I’m here, Aemond – I’m real. I am real just as you are.”

His thumb grazed her lower lip, trailing at her cupid’s bow. “No,” He muttered with a broken tone, “No, you’re not.”

Regret washed over her fair face – though whether felt or simply mimicked, Aemond wouldn’t dare to guess. Before he could swat her away, her hands gripped urgently at his loose shirt. The sick illusion stilled her movements, and merely pressed up against his form. “What does it matter if I’m not cut?” Her gaze softened as he pulled her nether, “This can be real,” She muttered meekly, as she trailed her smaller hand down the apex of his silver hair. Shyly she encouraged him to wrap a hand around her waist, and to rest his cluching chin on the nakedness of her small chest. “You and me,” She deterred further, “We can make this whole thing work.” She nodded fervently at her own words, as she unclasped the ready dagger that remained tied to his leg. Quietly she brought it forward, presenting it in her clean palms – and smiled at him encouragingly, as she pointed it to his big hands. “We can wed each other again,” She promised with a sweet allure, “And we can make it right this time.” Roaring anguish and relenting pain was all that Aemond found he felt, as her soft digits tried to trail over the sharpness of his jaw again. She raised herself back to her knees and straddled him with a shy look. “You know the words, Aemond, come on,” She coaxed him with a shallow grind, “Father, Smith, Warrior,” Her lips descended on his neck, “Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…” A blinding array of wet kisses was panned insistently across his face. The cruel illusion pouted slightly, as her lost set of aching motions failed to be returned by Aemond. She stirred observantly in her found seat, and simply grazed his chest again. “I am his and he is mine…”

“Stop this.”

“From this day, until the end of my days.”

His hand had wrapped around her throat, holding her gently in her place – though firmly enough for her plump lips not to scoot a figment closer. His lone orb bore into her form, sending waves of apt vexation down the curve of her hicked bosom, “Enough.” He domineered his lady faintly, while swatting her off his heaving body. “Aemond,” She tried once more, thoroughly banished, and latched onto his extended arm, “Please,” Her tune had grown desperate in edge, “We can be so, so happy… I can be so good for you–”

But by then it’d been too late – for Aemond opened his eye, and was met with thorough light.

“Aemond.” A faraway voice called out for him.

His head was throbbing, his scar itching, stinging at his tightened skin with waves of blinding and deafening pain. His lips parted with the prying of a hardened groan, and the man hissed at the contact that the mattress made with him. “Shit,” He panted with a shaky exhale. The Prince’s lips pressed hard together, and a harsh frown scorned his features. As he glanced on at the man who’d dared perturb him in his sleep, his own surprise jolted him upward. “Daeron?”

As if motioned by his hiss of pain, the young Targaryen heathered closer, enwrapping his own slender fingers around his older brother’s forearm. Gentily he hoisted him better, making sure to shield his shoulder and press his back against the tall edge of his given bed. “You have slept for too long, brother.” He uttered in a sympathetic tone, “We thought that you might not wake up.”

“What happened?” Aemond jerked his whole arm forward, loosening his sibling’s hold. He winced at the grave discomfort, and Daeron breathed out a tut – though the two remained up close, even through Aemond’s conniption. Defeated or perhaps unnerved, Daeron straightened back his shoulders, broadening his slighter frame. He hummed towards him in slight admission, before resuming his known poise. “It’s good to see you, too, dear brother.” A sadenned smile played at his lips, before his eyes bore his again. “... The Riverlands have been secured two days ago by nuncle’s presence. I came and took you back to Oldtown.” His reply had been quite simple, yet Aemond’s blood surged through with ire. He almost jumped up to his feet, demanding for a hurried answer. “You mean to tell me… Harrenhal has been abandoned. The strongest keep in terms of rally.” His voice had grown huskier yet, as he strained his vocal cords to concur a neutral tone. A bludgeon red obscured his vision, as a palpable realisation hit – his wife had been abandoned, too. “The Lady of Riverrun –” He began with grave ferocity, yet Daeron’s voice befell his ears.

“What was once your prized war captive appears to have remained scot-free.” The deep purple in his eyes registered his wrathful face, “There was nothing we could do. Your shoulder blade was soberly infected. The girl could have been anywhere further South, and Daemon emerged up North with that vexing bastard filly.” As his speech came to a halt, the man expelled a briskened heave, “You’re lucky that you’re still alive, and that Ser Cole stuck out from Maidenpool to take over your share of men.” Aemond’s features turned impassive, as his bold and younger brother carried forward with his discourse. Recoil sprung inside his guts, densening his leaden body. Fury fought with better judgement, until the former struck its claim. “How long have I been asleep.” Though a poignant and illusive question, his words spewed out as a command, “How long has it been.”

“A little over three moon turns.”

“Three days,” The man spat out in disarray, “Three days,” He thus insistently repeated, as he fixed on the lowest point of the cranky wooden floor. His mind’s eye surged with hasty questions, with possibilities and made scenarios that could have feasibly played at her fate. She could not have gotten far. Walking through those fields on foot came near close to be impossible, even for the ones who worked them. She hadn’t stolen any horse, for Alys told him –

Alys Rivers.

The harlot witch who’d sworn before him that she’d find out where she would be.

“Where is the Rivers witch residing now?” Almost clearing through his trail of thought, Daeron’s body hindered forward. “Take it easy, Aemond, please. You have not yet healed your wounds.” The sharpened edge of his advice echoed through the dim lit room. “I shan’t allow your temper to recline your better health.”

“You listen here and listen well,” His wide stance dominated their reclusion, “I remain your Prince Regent until Aegon’s recuperation. You will tell me where that bastard is, or I’ll break this hedge to find her.”

“Do not make me choose between my man’s honour and my family,” Daeron sighed as he unsheathed his sword, “Lady Alys is under my protection. And no harm shall fall upon her.” A humourless laugh broke Aemond’s scowl, as a wild expression settled in. Her ongrowing popularity with younger men with silver hair hadn’t failed to irk him onward. “Ah, she’s shown you her loose cunny yet?” With two wide steps, he reached his brother, “You get the bull-tip of your cock wet and call that an act of honour? For agreeing to protect her whilst buried to the hilt inside her?”

Her deep-set eyes shone with uncertainty. The witch had bit over her lower lip, surging forward with her pleading. “I’m begging you, my Prince, Aemond cannot know.” Taken aback by her renowned persistence, Daeron merely nodded his head. “My Lady, you are well in Oldtown now. For saving my brother’s life as you did, I remain deeply indebted.” Though his stare had but ghosted over the appendix of her womb, the man frowned with laced dubiety. She followed his fixation vaguely, before bringing out a hand to rest over her emergent stomach. “Your brother isn’t a bad man – and he’s never wronged me, my Prince, however–” Her quaint unease shortened her argument. And alas, she’d lost her courage, lowering her arid stare. “However, I do not think it wise to spur him on with my condition.” With how her eyes avoided his, her kind admission of his resting brother might not have been all true and fair. Still he didn’t dwell on it; and merely chose to nod his head.

“He is certain to be mad at me.”

“You ought not to feel afraid, my lady. Any news of your condition will not come forth from my own lips.”

“Careful now, Aemond, you forget yourself.”

“And remain unarmed.” He gingerly agreed, “Did lord Ormund tell you how to be a man of honour? Was swinging your sword about in the face of your unguarded kin a lesson he’d formerly taught you? Or did you already possess such knowledge?”

“I do not wish to fight you, brother. Though you will stay your hand whilst here.” A damning silence cut right through them, clogging up their lungs with pressure and spiking up their avid hearts. Restlessness and grief filled Aemond, who only glanced in trepidation at his shorter and unmoving brother. The crackling fire of the room danced its flames across his face, thus distorting Daeron’s image of the fervour which he felt. “I’d tread lightly if I were you, brother. The Blacks did style me a Kinslayer.” Though filled with vehemence and zeal, Aemond had been smarter yet. With his small hum and low admission, he relaxed his back again. He took a seat near the small fire, and glanced at the boy again. His eye swirled with an iron glint, that merged into the biting flames of the red inviting blaze. His right arm rose in mocked surrender, though his sharp features didn’t lessen from their venomous display.

Despite his face being flushed red by his brother’s cruel last words, Daeron faced his flare with courage, and a straighter back than most, “Is it true?” He interjected, after a trifling plummet of silence. Though neither Prince required clarity upon the nature of his question, the younger lass protracted onward, as to secure Aemond’s reply. “Is it true that I should call the Tully girl my sister now?” The remnants of the aching fire danced across their heaving bodies. The avid churning of the olden wood dominated the wide room – two Targaryens singled each other, mirroring their counterpart in both elation and in stance. Aemond’s orb never once found itself leaving his face. Lilac clashed with spilling purple, until the latter of the two men moved.

“Yes.” Was all the Regent mustered to answer.

The oak floor creaked under the pressure of Daeron’s long and urgent steps. His hands sprawled over to the pine-wood table. His head lulled forward in a broken image.

In the nearing distance of the fertile fields of Oldtown, both Tessarion and Vhagar unleashed their frightening and unruly growls.

The Rushing Halls. The Half Calf’s Inn. Green Fork. Hag’s Mire.

Rushing Halls, Half Calf’s Inn, Green Fork, Hag’s Mire –

The North.

Words she whispered under her breath as she ran with a willingness unbent but strained. A ceaseless mantra of tied locations, that would hopefully bring forth her safety. Eventual peace within the Ream, to her family – and Gods be good, to the kindred spirits of all the souls she had selfishly left behind. She prayed and hung upon the last image that she got of Alys. Nought of what she said to her could be tested to be certain, and she might as well have sent her to an early and untimely death. She knew I wanted to march North, she'd ceaselessly remind herself, Could my own judgement be faulty?

Her legs had long been taken over by the blissful licks of numbness. And the soles of her silk shoes were long gnawed over by the pressure she had tirelessly put them under. Heaving breaths rattled her throat, and hot tears rolled off her cheeks. With a stupor which perturbed her greatly, the girl observed what had occurred.

She’d been crying. And for an awfully long time, at that.

Of exhaustion, of guilt, of desperation. Of feeling more caged than before, moving blindly like a pawn when bigger schemes were now at play – schemes that could have only been orchestrated by the Greens. Or the Blacks. Or the allies of those fractioned Houses. She could feel her heart emerge in the back-end of her throat. Her mouth dried up, although her tears quickened their flow into a heavy sheen of frightened spoil. The question in her mind remained – How long would it take until word reached the Blacks' most leal camps? Until Daemon or Rhaenyra found out about her bitter marriage, until her family – her real family – was used as bait to sway her heart?

They couldn’t know.

Would they believe it?

Would she be wrong to reach up North, in the hopes of peace and solace? Would she be caged and executed by the one Jace called his friend?

Her Jace. Her sweet and kind and perfect Jace.

His fingers threaded through her hair, as she sat across his lap. The padding of his calloused finger ran over her puffy cheek, prodding at her jaw affectionately as she read the book aloud. “Jace,” She hummed with contrary amusement laced within her tender voice, “However do you plan on learning all those words in High Valyrian if you can’t focus at all?” A boyish smirk spread on his face, which followed suit with a slight chuckle. Despite her chastising remark, the girl rose both eyebrows in wonder – she clicked her tongue in feigned dejection, but soon gave in to his strange joy. “Ah, but how can I be expected to concentrate on anything when you are so very beautiful,” Her Prince lowered his face to her, “And your lips look so inviting?” A myriad of little pecks descended on her face like rain, reaching wherever they could.

Three on her forehead, two on her brows, five on her nose and six on her lips.

A rather violent and aggressive turn stole the ground beneath her feet, and the woman found herself lying on the mudded earth.

Get up. Hurry and get up right now.

No matter how much she’d dare to try, she’d never be an avid runner. She’d never dare desert a post, but she’d never win a race.

Their giggles filled the blooming garden, as they both whispered their stale promises. “Avy jorrāelan,” He muttered right above her lips, “I swear that I’ll make you my Queen.” Her tiny gasps were soon all swallowed by the hunger of his mouth, “Avy jorrāelan–” She tentatively rolled the words in the back end of her throat, “That means ‘I love you’, doesn’t it?” The older boy let out a pur at her rightful and correct assumption, “My beautiful and smart betrothed,” He gently caressed her cheeks, “I love you,” He mustered up to say again, “I love you. I love you so, so much.”

“I love you more,” She strained herself to faintly exhale as she captured him again in an open-mouthed kiss.

She’d never seen love as a weakness, so she never felt the need to run. Although she’d never been the one to chase – always the last to eat her dinner, always the last to speak her mind. She was, in fact, a mere ground-holder. The one that always chose to stay.

“I’ll go with you,” Her weary eyes searched wide for his, “I won’t let you face the Triarchy alone.” Jace’s hands beckoned her hither, in a tight and chaste embrace. “You must stay here,” He softly uttered, “Your grandsire and brothers need you.”

“Not as much as you need me,” Her hands tightened their loose hold, “We’re a team. We’ve always been a team. I just–” Although the latter of her words were muttered, Jace still broke into a smile, “I just can’t let you go alone. I have a bad feeling about this.” He kissed the crown of her tied hair, and breathed in her daisy scent. “Stay,” He sighed in a low tone, “I did promise you, did I not?” His hawk-like orbs bore holes into her, “I swore to you that I’d return. I intend to keep my oath.”

Even when her shoes were laced, or when all her muscles tensed at the simple call of ready – she just wouldn’t move her legs. She was a stayer. Always the one to get up last.

“You shouldn’t be so taciturn,” Kermit’s voice rang through her ears. “Good things come to those who wait.” She dismissed him with a jab, and Oscar’s lips pulled to a smile. “In this world? In Westeros?” Her younger brother tightly questioned, “To a Tully? I don’t think so.”

Gods be good, her knees were bleeding from the sheer force of that fall. She blinked her eyes and panted loudly, trying to regain her vision. Dwellings on matters disclosed were the least bit of her worries. If she managed to escape her husband, then she could torment her soul.

The Rushing Halls. The Half Calf’s Inn.

Alys had at last been right.

“Hey, boy! You, from over there!” Her breathless callings were soon answered with a frail and slight refrain.

“Greetings, traveller!” The man instilled his horse to stop, whilst turning his face towards her. “You seem to be in a big rush.” Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her breathing came as short and laboured. “Aye, I am,” The girl agreed with a forced smile, whilst focusing to stop her pants. She glanced atop the horse’s rider, and merely nodded up ahead, “See, I was planning to go to High Heart – take the Gold Road back to Silverhill.” As she winced at her attempt to recall the map of Westeros, the nervous Lady of the Riverlands shrugged her shoulders in dismay. She swallowed deeply for a moment, and prayed to whatever God would listen for the man to be convinced. “But, uh,” She took in a shaky breath, as her lungs burned up her insides, “I didn’t realise the lands would be so muddy.” She chuckled as the boy relaxed, and aligned his horse to face her, “Not from these parts, are you, Lady?”

“I’m afraid I’m here in passing. My own family awaits in Appleton.”

If until then the lass had treated her with piercing and perusing distance, his facade had broken down, in the singular and stellar moment when her words mentioned the Reach – the modest castle of King’s Road where some lower lords resided. Immediately his shoulders slouched, as his eyes widened with joy. “You’re from Appleton, Lady?” Without awaiting for an answer, the boy shook his head and clarified, “My good mother comes from Appleton – she used to take me there in summers, since I was still in my cradle!” He dismounted his small horse with a feverished, good-willed felicity, and approached the waiting girl, “‘Tis good to see another lowborn of the Reach! My name is Dalron. Dalron Flowers.” As he proudly spoke his words, the Dalron bastard of the Reach leaned into a profound bow.

Another bastard of the Reach – this was starting to become a theme.

The amusing thought that reached her mind hindered the girl to suppress a laugh. Still, her eyes darted in focus to the side of the road, and she faltered a moment to plunge back into her words.

“I’m Sara Webber.” She lied without a single tick, and smiled crookedly when the man tripped over his better words, “M’lady!” He forthwith spat out his flattery, “Forgive me, m’lady, I hadn’t realised I was talking to a – well, uh, ah, a highborn lady.”

Relieved that her lie had worked and that her new identity had stuck so well – for she was painfully unaware if such a Webber even existed in the lands of Coldmoat Keep –, her hands came briskly in the air, as she waved them both good-heartedly. “It is I who should apologise, ser – I don’t reside exactly in Appleton. Though I share the enthusiasm: it is a rather beautiful place." Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and her stare focused on the tiny horse; how very perfect it would suit her in the joncture of her little trip.

“I struck up a conversation to inquire about your horse. Would you ever think to sell her?"

“She's not truly a horse, my lady, but a half mule –”

Alys.

"Still, she's as good as any purebred! And she can last for a long distance."

“She must be quite valuable and dear, then!”

The lanky bastard nodded with a smile upon his lips. His eyebrows furrowed shortly after, as he patted the old yerdle on her boney and emblemished back, “Aye, m’lady, dear she is – but I must say with honesty that she can’t carry much weight.” A shy quirk befell his lips, and the boy dared to look away again. His black eyes ran over the hills she’d pointed – and he shook his head whilst thinking. “But with just you on her back, m’lady,” His yellow teeth showed for a moment, “I’d say she could take you to Appleton.”

Her dirtied hand dug through her breeches for the remaining coins from Alys. After but a hissed-out curse and a sheepish smile thrown at him, her unclenched palm revealed both silvers, and a carefully polished ring. “It’s not much, I must confess,” Her breath staggered with an inept swallow, “But it should be of enough value to at least make up for her.”

The way his face switched brash emotions made her squirm within her place. She filled her lungs with putrid air, and merely drove on ahead, “Of course, I’d deal you with these clothes, as well.” She humorously jabbed at Dalron, “If you could tell I was a lady, then my job wasn’t done right.”

The rags the bastard wore in daylight contrasted her shirt and braise. And Dalron looked at the two silvers, and at the stone caught in her ring.

In those unparalleled moments of quiet, the Lady smiled at him with patience, but prayed upon the Seven Heavens that the man accept her offer.

***

The mule’s strides were long and hearty – filled with more determination than the girl ever expected; swift and agile on her scrawny, although weirdly elongated feet.

The girl noticed, although dumbfounded, that her shoulders had relaxed. Her lips pressed into a tight line, as her back turned stiff again.

Such a fool’s role she was playing, disassociating from her nimble body, daydreaming with her eyes wide open, when she hadn't yet found shelter. She could not afford missteps – not another hurried movement, or another close miscall. Relaxation was a dreaded feeling.

Her, overcome with confidence in her own wit and reason, on her slim chance of escaping and her margin of enclosed direction could not have brought good news with it. And that bastard boy she’d left, wearing all of Aemond’s clothes…

She’d smiled at him in a faint manner, and fooled him to dress in her garments.

When quietness set in the fields, and all the birds ceased with their loud humming, the tired Lady of the Riverlands wondered if she’d killed the lass – if somehow, although unwilling, she’d condemned him to his death. Would he be found out by Aemond? Or by one of his unchanged supporters? Would any woman from his town recognise the three-faced dragon on the back-end of his shirt, and denounce him as a traitor, style him someone who plotted against the betterment of the Black flags? … Would he know her true identity? Had he figured it all out from the moment that he saw her, and only bargained with her money to suck her dry of all she had?

She was Elmo Tully's daughter. The granddaughter of mighty Grover. Kermit's sister–

Aemond's wife.

Both her brothers were well-liked, known and welcomed with great reverie on North to Kingsroad and South to Ashford. Surely then the boy won’t talk.

… But what if he were made to talk? Tortured on and on for hours, seemingly without an end? He’d seen her take to Wayfarer’s Rest, so if he’d give them those directions, then at least they would be wrong.

The mule was panting, hard but slow. Her feet had started giving out.

“Attagirl,” The girl encouraged, patting her on her slim neck, “Hold on for me. Hold on, sweet thing – we have to walk for a while longer.” The half-breed puffed through her pink nose, and merely grunted in her slight retreat. “I promise you, we’ll stop real soon.” Had she turned fully insane? Overcome by grief, fatigue, and so desperate to talk again?

Human company couldn't be traded with the one of a small horse. But conversing with the mare was better than not cackling at all.

A lousy crack of a felled branch unsettled both the mount and owner to the heights of deep hysteria – but only the former jolted and curdled out a high-pitched shriek.

“Shh, shh, attagirl – calm down, sweet thing, calm down.” The Bliss of Riverrun commanded gently. Her hands were shaking, still holding up the yearling’s bridle. She exhaled once through her straight nose, and tried to calm her aching nerves. “I got scared, too, but it was nothing.” Though darkness ate away the forest, her avid eyes searched through the shadows – and her own hand rested quite stiffly, palming at her thigh to ground her. “See, it was just a stupid bird. The breeze. A noise.” Her own breathlessness surprised her.

In olden days, she'd laugh at that. For she always teased the children that were still scared of the dark.

Droplets of sweat coated her forehead, tickling down her dirtied cheek. The girl didn't feel like laughing. The girl felt the need to scream.

Should Aemond venture out to find her, she’d be well aware of that. And no amount of greenery would mask Vhagar’s laid out shadow. The dragon’s roars had made her ears bleed – they would be louder than a measly crack.

As she looked up from the bushes, the girl's big eyes filled up with glee; for there it was, up on the hill – the unkept and deformed Hag’s Mire.

《"You'll go towards the Rushing Halls and buy yourself a mule from the Half Calf's Inn." As the younger Lady nodded feverishly at her late advice, Alys clasped her cheeks with her hands, and brought her head further towards her. "You'll keep a straight line to the Green Fork. You won't stop to eat or drink – you won't stop until you reach Hag's Mire.》

Alys told her she could stop there. And Alys had been right before; why would she be lying now?

Maybe she should stop about. Allow her mule the rest of night, eat something hot, starchy and fat.

She still possessed her golden pendant. And she could trade it for a meal, and a high stable for her tired mule. Her heart picked up with faith and hope, as her own lips parted with gratitude.

Thank the Gods for Alys Rivers, she compelled within her thoughts.

His eyes looked far into the distance, matching shadows to their forms. The grey within his tired iris faltered over with light languor – and a quaint sigh left his lips, as the man straightened his back.

“And so quietness enwrapped the Realm.” Her satin voice enveloped Cain, and whilst he turned his head around, he returned her smile with grace. His fatigued limbs chastised in protest, yet he still bowed in his reply. “Lady Arryn,” He echoed slightly, announcing the woman's presence. The night’s air flogged at his pale skin, leaving forth their angry marks at the apex of his hollow cheeks. “The hour’s grown quite late, my Lady.” Instead of an outright reply, the woman nodded in effervency, as she walked on by to sit near the stones he rested on. She turned her stare to the vast distance, and sucked a breath with a light tut. “When my ancestors built the Vale,” She began with a small hum, “They said it was impenetrable.” Her hands rested in her lap, playing with her golden rings.

“Why are you here alone?” The quaint recoil of her tone matched the weariness of his low stance. “Apologies, my lady. I hadn’t meant to abandon my post.” Though he tried his hardest to level out his prickled throat, the words he uttered maintained their shaky undertones. The subtle feel of her wool shawl surrounded Cain with love and warmth. Her hands had draped the silky felt over his unyielded back, and she rubbed long, soothing circles in the thick of the material. Twice she had patted his shoulders, before gently letting go.

A wordless colloquy was thus exchanged. “It’s really cold.” She hushed beside him.

“But I’ve always found their logic to be lacking in that sense.” Jayne transfixed Cain with her blue eyes, “No one's tried to break us in. But I'm certain that some could." She paused a while to maul her thoughts, before she carried on her speech, "Just because something looks to be untouchable, that doesn't make it rightly so.”

“It doesn’t quite inspire men to go to arms, either, my lady.”

“Yeah…” The knight chocked-out an affirm, “It is.” Her eyes pleaded silently with his, and the five and ten year old lowered her head over her knees. “You talked to him.” She merely sighed, as he quickly shook his head. “He reached out to me,” Cain muttered simply, “I was in the training yard when he showed up out of nowhere.” A wobbly hand came to wipe his tears away, and the lass scratched himself with the callous ends of his rough digits. “Said we needed to talk. I thought that… Gods, I never allowed myself to hope, my lady, but for once I–” The fever in his growing tone wantonly shredded his heart. The anguish in his gape was evident, but the girl lest found herself transfixed by his iron gaze – so close to being blue or green, so close to turning milky white. “Is he…?” She asked him with a reserved pitch. “His twin brother.” Cain huffed out, as a bitter laugh slipped past his lips. “Tyland was just there to make sure I wouldn’t yelp. His brother’s too much of a coward to address his son his questions.”

Lady Arryn forced a smirk, yet agreed with the tall knight. “Every coward seems courageous in the safety of the crowd.” She murmured through a marginal chuckle, “And bravery can be contagious when the band is playing loud.” Her tense gaze drowned him like a river – and the swirl beneath her eyes let the man know of her wide plan. “To be led by the force of example can be a very tricky thing.” Cain exhaled through his nose.

“Is that why you cannot find sleep?”

“Was he worried you would say something?” Her drawn voice laced with the cobwebs of uncertainty, “What would you have to gain from calling yourself a Lannister’s bastard?”

“A whole lot, Tyland thinks.” The corners of his mouth quirked upwards, “For one, Jason doesn’t have any sons.” Her eyebrows rose from perplexed to intrigued. “Even rumours of an illegitimate one could very well ruin their thread of succession.” As the two friends pressed on forth with their treasonous exaltion, the younger girl lowered her head. “But you don't want it. You don’t want Casterly Rock.”

“No.” His own body had become a vessel, a means to chain his most protruding thoughts. The corners of his mouth had watered, as his vision turned unclear. Gods forgive him, and Gods be good – but how he wanted it as his. He wanted to sit on that damned chair more than presidency would allow. He wanted to feel the weight of that ridiculous and pompous cape upon the broadness of his shoulders, he wanted to know what it would be like; For but a moment, he wanted to know their power. To know what it was like to be seen, quaint regarded as an equal, and not as a produce of lust. “No, I don’t want it.” His head surged clear with a response. The world was yet to make a man who lacked the much needed ambition to climb the ladder to the heights of power. The impulse he felt had made no difference – what he wanted and what he was owed were on the two sides of the same coin.

His shoulders tensed, much like that night. “I feel…” He strained himself to give an answer, “When I faced the Kinslayer in that dark, secluded cave," His diction halted for a moment, as he thought on what to say, "I felt more than prepared to die.”

“But you didn’t die.”

“No, I didn’t.” His shame slid down his throat with ease, “I survived; and in the process of that, I failed her.” His stare threaded with the winter’s sky. And when he dared to speak again, his voice hung low with deep uncertainty. “There’s nothing to say I won’t fail again.”

“Nothing makes a man so bold as a woman’s smile, and a hand to hold.”

The redness in his cheeks had deepened, and though his mouth opened in protest, quietness ensued a while – He would have avidly denied her musings, swearing on the Gods above that what he felt for his fair lady was nothing but a lasted friendship.

I owe my very life to her, he might have been endowed to say, When no one else believed in me, she was the one who gave me hope. And the right purpose to uphold.

Only when he turned her way, did the knight realise that he was tired. Tired – but tired up and far beyond the constrictions of the mind and flesh. The only sound that left his lips was a faint sigh of refrain. Everyone inside his life abandoned him or ran away. How cowardly it was of him to wish to do the very same.

His weary and incessive shoulders stiffened with the gentle breeze.

A single tear rolled off his cheek, and Cain swallowed back a curse. “I always lived under the impression that fathers grow to love their sons.” The silence that swaddled the gardens exceeded deafening amounts. Crickets nestled in the grass, opening their wings to fly to the delicate petals of flowers in the raptures of the night. A gust of wind prodded her vision, swaying forth her longer hair. The young girl’s eyes closed shut in focus, as her lips parted instead. “Jason Lannister is an idiot.” She ended up concluding then, “He doesn't deserve to call you that.”

A steadied breath escaped Cain’s throat, and her wide orbs softened in pain. Her gaze moved forth to the green bushes, and her smooth hands twitched in her lap. Suddenly and without thinking, her palm enwrapped his shaking fist. “I’m glad he’s not making you live with the shame of being his first male offspring, you know.” Although her moody tone of voice snapped right through the orchid garden in a patronising way, the Bliss of Riverrun made use of her free remaining hand; digging through her gown’s loose pockets, searching for a piece of cloth. They emerged not moments later, holding up the handkerchief – which she brought up to his face, to wipe away his trail of thought. “Fuck him.” She disclosed with a sure frown, “How something so defiled and ugly managed to mend such a good and patient boy should be studied by the Citadel.”

“You should go back to the feast, my Lady. Your grandsire will be very mad once he notices you left.” Though his gentle tone of voice tried to lead the girl away, his calloused thumb stroked tenderly at her palm’s inner soft flesh. She gave his hand a caring squeeze, and aligned her grasp with his. “I’m not going to leave you.” Her eyes spoke the honest truth, “Not when you’re hurting like that. What kind of friend would I be then?”

A small smile formed on his lips, pulling them upward in a comical but quite strained fashion. All his blood surged in his ears, and the tall and blonde young knight wished to tell her how he feels. He wanted to at least say ‘Thank you’, but the words escaped his clasp. His weary eyes were set upon her – upon the small curve of her nose and the wide curls of her soft hair. His tongue felt tied inside his mouth, and he was glad she’d smiled instead. “Besides,” The young girl spoke to fill the silence, “I don’t think I’ve ever attended a more dull and stale soiree.” Though his tears had long dried up, her hand stayed rested on his cheek. “The smallfolk starves so the Lannisters can stuff their faces, and congratulate each other for being so stupidly wealthy.” She threw her hands up in the air, peeking at her sole companion for one of his amused reactions. Sure enough, the boy was grinning – and that lone and simple notion made her all the more excited to upkeep cheering him up. “They must think we’re stupid,” She hummed in a degreeing voice, “I swear to you – they’re taught one dance, and one dance only. They just slightly change the music in the hopes that we won’t notice.”

By then his laughter echoed like pure crystal through the otherwise deserted grounds. Her own smile broadened with elation, as her curious and searching eyes reached up to his jolting shoulders. The youngest child of great House Tully crooked her head to the left side. “Hey,” She called out for his attention, “I just had the best idea.” Her dire lips pressed up together, before she went on with a smile. “Do you want to do something fun?”

If not for Jayne’s inessive stare, and the lethargy he felt throughout, Cain might have bothered to deny her brazen, yet affitely laid-out assumption. Orbs of forged steel fought to maintain the stare of ones tempered in frost – yet still the man shifted about, landing both his muted eyes on the ventured meadowed cliffs. Defeat swarded up his chest – sieging his brain and better reason, making him almost lose his temper. The greenery before his eyes coveted a single truth; more than six moons had passed between them. From the last time he’d seen his friend.

Alone at night he often questioned whether she’d at least survived. He prayed flaringly without a fault that she’d end up safe and about – protected and abstained from harm, and from the swandering of the Kinslayer.

“But all alone his blood runs thin.” He swallowed back his lost refrain, finally answering the waiting lady. “Then doubt comes – doubt comes in.”

He’d seen her Septas teach her Prayer. He listened to their wilted teachings, to the encouragements she’d be swarmed by. It was shameful and disruptive – his need to bite his tongue so hard, that he’d draw blood inside his mouth. Laughing would be crass and vile, he’d repeat inside his head, when her weekly call to “Grace” led them to the striking Sept. Faith can be encouraging, he’d reason, Not all of us are dealt bad hands.

There was no mercy to be had once fate fell into Their harsh hands. Bastard boys knew it too well, and so did every man and child who’d go to bed without their supper. Survival had to come by first – and faith would take the back-end stroll, until the former be assured. No, Cain had never prayed before. For there was no amount of prayer to be whispered by his lips that would possibly bring forth reclusion and relief to all he’d lost. It was the Gods who took his mother. It was the Gods who made him so. It was the Gods who made him feel like the sombrest in the world. But in a twisted and deformed way, it was the Gods that gave him comfort – for it was easiest to blame them so, for all the slights which he had faced.

Cain had never prayed before, but how he prayed for his friend now.

“Place your hand upon my waist, like so.” Her tender voice led with an instruction.

“I don’t think this is…”

“Whatever are you scared of, Cain? I’ve not seen you so tense before – not even in jousts or tourneys.” Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, as her brows fixed in concentration, “And you faced knights there that were twice your age.” Defeated by her lack of presidence, the boy let out a shaky sigh, and focused on his burning stare on the forming trees ahead. His gape bore long and cutting daggers to the entrance of the gardens, and with each passing momentum, his back turned all the more stiff. Such an intimate position would have ruined any lady, were she caught with a high lord – and all the more vexing it’d be if she’d strayed with a sought bastard. His ears caught with a rosy tint, as his mouth parted with a forming protest. “My Lady–” The Waters boy had tried again.

Mayhaps sensing his mistrust, or simply carrying her own joke further, his lady rose her left hand up and swatted him with a slight grin, “See? You’re already a natural at it.” The music of the Great Hall carried to their small corner of the keep. And the Tully nodded once to encourage Cain to move. “Septa Harlow says it’s important to upkeep your stare,” She muttered as she twirled with him, ���When dancing with a fellow lord, it is improper for a lady to look at anything below the brows.”

He could feel his hands get clammy, and his limbs turn firm and heavy. Though her words had eased him in, the boy remained brittle and set. “Boring, right?” She questioned with a tiny laugh, “As I told you – you didn’t miss much. That’s nothing else that people do there.”

As the music caught incentive, her feet stopped into their track. She mocked a deep bow at her partner, and slowly rose her gentle eyes. She turned around without a warning, and started running up ahead. “Keep up, Cain!” She yelled before her with a zeal that filled her heart, “I have a better idea than just staying here – but we’ll have to really hurry!”

The witty Lady of the Vale shifted on the cold, wet stones. She turned to fully face the bastard, and offered him a knowing nod. “The only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid.” Her azure eyes looked at his hand, and at the bandages that covered it. “To lose two fingers at three and twenty, to be unable to move your arm, or to fight as you’ve been used to,” The older woman spoke to him, “It’s a misfortune that’s more than daunting.” Her slighter frame approached his crouching and recoiled in body, choosing to stand next to him. “You’ve managed to hang onto life when everything else seemed to be lost.” She muttered lowly, as if taken by surprise by the man’s pure strength of spirit.

“I failed her.” He whispered back in spat disgust.

“You didn’t fail anyone.” The lady interjected swiftly, “From the very beginning, you’ve been sent on a death mission.”

His loosened locks of golden hair fell upon his ample shoulders as he marginally shook his head. “Oscar was right,” Cain murmured plainly, “In between the two of us, she should have been the one to get here.” His body twisted towards the older woman, as his brows furrowed in pain, “I failed her.”

“If she knew you were alive, leading troops to save her homeland, I think she’d be ample proud.”

Despite the empathy she felt for him, the small brunette hardened her stare, “‘Tis not about what Oscar, or Grover, or Elmo think – ‘tis not about what your Lady thinks.” Her hand took hold of his good shoulder, giving it a toughened squeeze, “‘Tis about what you do now, with the resources that you were given.” The leal fire in her eyes caused the man to straighten up from the slouch that bent his back, “I expect you to be nervous. I expect you to be scared. I’m asking you to go back there, and risk your life all over again for the sake of something that we’re losing.” As her speech came to a halt, she gnawed harshly at her bottom lip, reddening her paling mouth. “If you go back there, you might die. Forget about holding your sword the right way, or about fighting with honour – you might face dragon fire, and dragon fire doesn’t spare even the most able of men.”

Though her words were scarce and prudent, Cain waited patiently for her to finish. Slithers of shame gathered in the low pits of his stomach. How could he have lost his nerve when his Lady hung onto him? With so many lives at stake, whom all readily lent to him?

“We’re counting on you, ser Waters.” Jayne continued her trail of speech, “We’re counting on you. But can we truly do that?”

If he chose to fight again, it wouldn’t be for wealth or glory. It wouldn’t be for great renown, or to prove something to others. Even if he lived it down, no applauses would be heard like at the end of a big tourney. He’d emerge a new man, changed, lacking of some of the scarce qualities that he felt he had that day. But what would happen to him – inside of him – mattered not to the young knight. Once again her kindred eyes came across his spinning view. And he knew, once and for all, that he’d throw his life away, if only to shelter her own.

His peer had mended to determined, and he swore upon his honour that he’d see his deed go through.

Allyn Swann. Lady Jayne Arryn. Four thousand men and (Y/N) Tully.

All the people that believed in him. All the souls that trusted him.

Just like on that autumn night, when he and (Y/N) ran away to see a circus in Flea Bottom, the heavy-lidded cavalier felt his words die right on his parted lips. But he came forth with a swift answer – one which he truly believed in.

Her gentle voice seeped in his ears. ‘You’re the only one who understands me, Cain.’

“I swear it, before the Old Gods and the New – upon Faithkeeper, upon my honour. I’ll return your trust tenfold.”

A true smile formed upon her lips, at the near end of his pledge. “Do come with me, Ser Cain,” She instructed with a leveled tone, “I have a gift prepared for you.”

Fuck the Gods. Fuck Alys Rivers. That lying, scheming, filthy whore.

To think she almost prayed for her, and thanked her feverishly inside her head. Her trip ensued without a hitch – and so she let herself believe in her, and nearly bumped into the Redwynes. The lousy troops that gathered up and swarmed the entrance of Hag’s Mire. Had she not spotted their banner, she might have set her foot inside. And that ostentative and golden dragon, which she despised with her whole being, served as her only decent cover against their clumpy eyes and ears. Her mule had come free of her bridle before she could hide any better, and advanced without her forth into the crowd of foul usurpers. ‘You fucking traitor…’ Her soul was screaming, as a Green soldier gripped her small saddle, ‘I give you that damned red apple, and you go to feed from them?!” Her jaw was clenched, as were her muscles. She couldn’t bolt. She couldn’t run.

“Where is that useless boy we paid for?!” The high-pitched scream of an old woman reached for her tense and prodded ears, “This is the last time I let you deal with the stupid boys of bloody Ramsford!”

Her eyes darted to the source of noise, and her mind surged with an idea. It would be risky. She could well die. If Darlon Flowers had found her out, then the haughty and sullen madame would see right through her flimsy scheme. But she had no other choice. Hurriedly and with great ardour, she dug her hands in the fresh mud, and scraped its contents on her face, smearing them wildly about. “A-Apologies for being late!” Her hoarse voice echoed through the clearing. She mildly coughed inside her hand, and tried her best to engross her timbre. “I never went further than Oldstones, ma’am–”

“I care not for your excuses, lad!” Her antsy wording cut her off, “You were to be here for a good five hours,” Her hand enclasped and tugged her wrist, “So take your mind off being paid today!” Her hazy irises bore daggers in and out the Lady’s heart, and her nose scrunched in daunting wonder at both her face and dirty garments. “Gods be good, they sent an animal. Are you clean of spreading warts?”

“I-I, uh–”

“What about catching diseases? Are you simple-minded, boy? Address me when I speak to you!”

Her wrinkled hand prodded above the laced-up waistline of her linen breeches. Were she not to open her mouth, the madame would have no shame to check and see her parts herself. “No – no, ma’am. I’ve no disorders left in sight. N-no warts, no yellow cough,” Her face contorted with abstained tension, as her hands rose into the air, “Nor any other spreading disease, I can assure you well of that.” With a loud snort and a dismissive hand, the aged madame turned to the wench, “You take this Ramsford boy inside and help clean up his grisly mug.” Her glacial tone waved with intent, “Then back to work, the both of you!” The younger girl nodded her head, shaking off her loosened braids, “Y-Yes, madam, of course! I’d be glad to help him out!”

“Well?” Her cutting question sucked all the air from the blonde girl’s arid lungs, “Don’t just stay there and look stupid – now!”

***

The lost blonde girl was called Mariah. A jumpy but dexterous cook, more used to the blazing heat provided by the kitchen fires than the cool air of the airy inn. She’d awkwardly handed the Lady the much-awaited handkerchief – and merely played with her plump fingers as the girl wiped off the mud that hadn’t yet fully dried up. And although her nose scrunched up at her resistance to a watered cloth, she failed to do anything wanting besides pushing her towards a closed door. “You-you’re going to be their attendee tonight. They don’t like women overhearing their stories or their spoils of war… so it’ll just be you in there.” Her green eyes widened to two round specs, “O-oh, of course, well – it won’t be just you in there, since you’re serving a table full of men, but – I-I meant that you’ll be the only servant there.” The words that followed her expansive ramble turned from stutters to incentive murmurs. And the Lady nodded weakly, whilst trying to decipher them. When her speech near loomed its end, the girl coughed loudly with insistence, and offered Mary a small smile. “Thank you, Mariah. I’ll handle it.”

Her burning eyes interwovened with alight uncertainty, “J-just be careful,” She confided through the notion of a fragile sniff, “They tend to scream when they get angry… A-And they got angry quite a lot.”

Ghastly and impending savages – that is what the soldiers were, as they laughed and drank and scarfed right into their mead and ale. The short remnants of her hair brushed across her cupid’s bow, falling straight over her view and narrowing it to the front. Her breathing turned to short and laboured, as she turned her back to them – and her hand enclasped the wine pouch with a faint but thrilling shudder. She’d seen men get drunk before, and she knew how they could talk. How the pints of liquid courage pulled the truth from their loose tongues, how their vision and their temper simmered them to gentle hearts.

Wine and ale made men more placid, but they also riled them up.

Her fingers brushed across the table, and she crouched close to the surface, seemingly inspecting it. Although her ears and head were pounding, she’d have to play her cards just right.

The well-known shrill of a low voice sent a shiver down her spine. “The Targaryens have all extended their lines,” Arlow Redwyne spat out bitterly, and all eyes turned back on him. Her own head jerked upwards in wonder, as she sucked in a harsh breath. “And now that summer’s over, the Blacks will have a harder time keeping their men and horses fed.”

“Summer or no, they can’t even call that an army,” A haughty voice echoed amused, “What was it – six hundred men from our dear Tullys, and a couple more from close to Sherrer?”

Now her eyes had been blown wide. Six hundred men. That was all they could afford. Were six hundred starving men all they had left of their home?

“Those searing leeches, along with the Freys, understand the woes of winter better than we ever will. The cold won’t beat them. As for the Northerners…”

Her guts hung lowly in her midriff. She’d recognised the last man speaking – the infamous “Bloody Mance” Pyke: a lesser lord under House Greyjoy, one of the few who’d known her brothers in an up, ‘personal’ manner. He’d visited their home in Riverrun, and saw the little Lady grow. How much of her he would remember was a query without answer.

“The Starks have no interest at play here.” A bitter voice shook through the room, “They haven’t been involved thus far. Cregan Stark won’t risk his forces for a war that never reached him.”

“Our spies,” Lord Pyke snapped tartly, “Report growing discontent among the northern and south-western lords. The latter wants to return home and gather the harvest before the crops turn. The former has sent word out to gather an army.” His amber eyes rose to Lord Redwyne, who merely let out a hum.

He licked his lips off the sweet ale, and whistled lowly at the Lady to refill his empty cup. She briskly moved to his direction, and poured him in a hefty cup. “And I’m sure if those same spies snuck into our own encampments, they’d report growing discontent amongst the southern lords.” His own flat tune disconcerted any worry from his sons’ long freckled faces, “This is war. No one’s content. And the northerners might take years to even gather half a regiment. The conditions make it such that any message travels slowly; before the Boltons and the Banfields, and House Mormont from the West manage to defrost their troops…” His heavy hand dismissed the girl, “The battles will be long well-ended.” A cutting silence reigned the room, as Lord Mance Pyke drowned his tall cup. He shifted lowly in his wooden seat, and signed for (Y/N) to grant him a refill.

She approached with her chin down, chewing on her bottom lip.

Gods be good, let him not notice me. Gods be good, let him not see me.

“We’ve underestimated the Tully boy for far too long.” One of the soldiers dared to mutter, “He has a good mind for warfare, his men worship him.”

'The Tully boy,’ She exhaled slowly, Would that be Oscar or our elder brother?

“As long as he keeps winning battles, they’ll keep abstaining for Rhaenyra.” His voice had come to shake with fervour, “We’ve been waiting for him to fail, he is not going to fail. Not without our help.”

“Then think, Ser Wylde, exactly what would make the lass break.” Arlow Redwyne interrupted when his fist landed on cutlery. “What is the one thing a Tully cares for more than anything?” Lord Pyke surged forward with the burning but evasive question.

The blood had run from her slim face, making her seem pale and sickly. Though the mud masked her quite well, the Lady arched her shoulders forward, trying to appear unbothered. A rattle of contented laughter turned the men’s whole disposition. “Family, honour and duty.” A black-eyed boy mocked the lords’ distinctive dictum.

“You stupid fuck,” Another wheezed right next to him, “It’s ‘Family, duty, honour’ – at least say their calling right.”

“The point still stands,” Mance ushered with ascendence, “There is nothing a Tully cares for more than family.”

It was as if a punch had been directed at her carved-out chest. The air immediately left her lungs, and her fingers gripped the pouch. She’d take a knife to all their throats before she’d let them harm her brothers. In his seat, Arlow deflated. “Of course,” He puffed through his broken nose, “And how, exactly, do you plan to reach such an impressive feat?” His callous digits jerked a march over the corners of the wooden table, “You forget mayhaps, good ser, how both Grover and that Oscar rest somewhere in Baelish Keep. The girl disappeared near Hayford–”

So Kermit was still fighting out there… and they thought that she was dead.

“‘Heard our Prince made her his wife.” The searing words befell the chamber. Ser Wylde had captured their attention, and even the men drunk out their minds rose their heads to listen better.

The unhealed flesh of her soft palm stung her over the long cut.

"If he had, he never would have left without her. And more than enough rivermen thanked the Gods when they saw Vhagar heading towards nought else but Oldtown.”

He left…?

She had lived the past three days in excruciating paranoia. And her ‘husband’ simply left her? Confusion, anger and relief all surged into her pulsing heart. He’d given up on finding her. She’d finally see both her brothers. And with any ounce of luck, their paths would never cross together. She should have felt elated. She should have felt relieved. She should have tried to mask her happiness, the smile that pulled at her fair lips – yet all she felt within her soul was a plentifully bitter feeling.

May he rot in the darkest pits of the Seven Hells, she exhaled briefly, Both him and his damned witch.

A lousy snort bounced off the walls that sealed the chamber of their council. And Lord Redwyne's youngest son shook his head with a deep frown, “Don’t you find it rather strange,” he asked, “How he left in such a hurry?”

“‘Tis not for us to safely say.”

“Yet even so!” His youthful face churned with suspicion, “He kept us wholly in the dark.”

The only thing that truly mattered was that Aemond had abandoned Harrenhal.

“And what are we to do now? Daemon lurks with that strange lassie – that’s two dragons against none!”

“Aemond won’t abandon us.”

“Open up your eyes, ser Wylde!” Bowen Redwyne rose his voice, “He might just as well have done that. He left with Daeron to hide in Oldtown, and burnt Harrenhal to the ground.”

Her breathing hitched inside her throat. Not only were they aware of the stronghold’s current state – but they thought Aemond had burnt it with the aid of trusty Vhagar. It had been three days of running – the word surely traveled fast.

“He left us with no defence–”

“Enough!” The mighty roar let out by Mance silenced the forfeiting room. “We’ve gathered here to speak of war. Not gossip like fishermen’s wives.”

Where did Aemond’s army head to? Oldtown was a place secured. So had he left because of Daemon?

《"Going out to face two dragons is a death sentence." His deep voice rumbled through the silence of the chamber, "I can't afford that risk anymore with you involved. We'll have to move from Harrenhal. You'll get to meet Daeron in Oldtown."》

The plan was to leave for Oldtown – why was she acting so surprised? Why did she care whether or not he’d made it safe? Whether or not his wounds had healed? Why was she somehow weirdly hurt by the fact that he just left her? Her trailing thoughts and inner conflict came to a halt as Mance addressed her. “Drain that pouch of any wine, boy.” He commanded with a rumble to his stern and cutting timbre, “And bring out water. We’ll be here for quite some time.” As she turned her back whilst nodding, the lanky Lord heaved out a sigh. “Can you read, Lord Edmure Rosby?”

“I-I beg your pardon?”

“Can. You. Read.”

The Lord of Cornhill met his stare with a blacked-out and confused expression. “Y-... Yes, my Lord, I can.”

Just as Edmure answered his question, the Lord of Pyke let out a chuckle. He wiped his hands off the cooked supper, and reached his breeches for some paper. “This letter,” He clarified to the slow lordling, “detailing our infantry movements was meant for Lord Quentyn of House Marbrand.” After a slight egregious pause, his droopy eyes fell on the man, “It was sent to Lord Marlin of House Qallister.” The young Lord Rosby sucked in a breath, and allowed his orbs to trail to the stones of the hedged floor, “My apologies, my Lord, I must’ve–”

“Boy?” Mance called out to the working Lady Tully. “Fetch me The History of the Greater and the Lesser Houses.” He pointed forward with his finger, “It’s the second one on the side.”

Her feet might have given up on her, were it not for his stale order. She’d never been addressed before, and that alone made her breath hitch. Her eyes shut close in concentration, and a small curse beleft her lips. She could feel the break of sweat crown her forehead in round droplets, but she calmed her rabid breathing with a small roll of her shoulders. Her hands rose to grab the book, but wavered on for just a moment – touching up the edges of another heavy leaflet, before picking up the right one, and carrying it to her chest.

“Even this cupbearer can execute commands better than you,” Mance scolded the sitting lord, as the girl laid out the tome. “To whom does House Qallister owe allegiance?” He questioned with a honeyed tone. The frail lass rose up timidly, pointing forward to the laid-out scriptures, “My Lord, I…”

“To the Tullys of Riverrun!” His enraged scream and cutting look arose the silence of the whole commandment. “And who, pray tell, do the Tullys of Riverrun owe allegiance?” His fist came into contact with the freshly laid out table, “To the Blacks, to the Usurpers, to the Whore of Dragonstone and her bunch of bastard cunts!”

The Bliss of Riverrun remained hammered in her weary spot – somehow still holding her breath, in spite of being overlooked.

“I judged you might be good for something more than brutalizing peasants.” He exhaled slowly through his flared-up nose, “I see I overestimated you–”

A timid knock at the locked door caused the girl to jolt upfront. She caught her lip into her teeth, and chewed with tremor at its bottom, as the loud gates opened wide, to reveal a pale Mariah. “M-My lords…” She began with a light pause, “M-My mistress would like to ask you… when you’ll… p-pay… the charging fee.”

Bowen Redwyne smiled politely, bowing his head in return, “We must have overstayed our welcome.” He whispered mirthly to his brother.

Lord Redwyne glanced at the girl, mirroring his son’s refrain. “You can go announce your mistress that we will be done here shortly. Tell her to bring the written tax for the food and for the shelter.” As Mariah curtsied deeply, shutting the door in her departure, the old man turned to his sons, and to the lesser lords at present. “All of you except Lord Pyke – leave. Boy, clear this table.” Runceford’s even and dispersive voice rang right through her nimble body. She offered him a brisk ‘M’lord’, and hastily got up to work. As tiny Edmure rose as well, the lord of Old Wyk grabbed his arm. “We are not done with our talk.” He hissed in his petulant ear.

***

“We cannot allow this impunity to go on.” Mance spat out in a rough tone as the door closed in on them, “No matter what has been discussed today – the Tully boy remains a problem.”

Her dirty hands wavered a moment, ‘till they resumed their hurried task.

“His clever move near Redglass Field nearly cost us all the Capitol. We will not fall for that again – we look like fools and they look like heroes. That’s how Kings fall.” Runceford agreed with a small frown.

For a while, the only sound that thus emerged in their secret and concisive council was the clank of all their plates. “I want him dead. I want every last one of them dead.”

Her small, albeit stiffened fingers clasped over a sharpened stake knife.

“Killing them isn’t the problem. It’s finding them.”

If you kill them both right now, no one will know how to alert your brothers. The word will spread that they had butchered you – and then they’ll both come for revenge.

Her focused eyes softened at once, as her steel grip loosened the blade.

“Have you gone soft, Lord Pyke? I always thought you had a talent for violence – and an eye for weaknesses, as you so put it at this dinner table.” The iris of his tired eyes clashed with his protruding amber, “Burn the villages, burn the farms. Aemond might have left the Reach, but that doesn’t mean that the smallfolk will get a break. Let them know what it means to choose the wrong side.” With one last nod and a small bow, Mance and Runceford left the room.

In less than a moment’s notice, her upstrained feet gave out before her.

***

Not a single nearby lord cared enough to look at her. Not a single drunken soldier gripped her shoulders or her arm. She had slipped by unobserved, written off as less than cattle. In her time spent in that stiff room, she found of Aemond’s long departure. She knew now the North was angry, that the Rogue Prince beckoned hither – that her brothers and her grandsire were still on the loose. Alive. No matter her conflicted feelings. No matter all the new-found worry that she had for the Kinslayer. She was still breathing and living – her shortened breaths and anxious tears felt like proof enough of that. She found herself growing with purpose – to relive her climb up North. To alert both of her brothers of the Greens’ most jarring thoughts. To find what happened to her father, since his mention had been scarce and worn.

As she turned to leave the alcove, her eyes caught her in a nearby mirror. Her silky locks, darkened by mud and chopped inaptly by that dreadful shard. The black-rimmed circles underneath her foggy globes, the lone dictator of her sleepless ventures. Darlon’s garments were made to fit loosely – but even she could may well tell that she’d lost a lot of weight. Her sodden cheeks that cracked with dirt, and the way she stood preleened… it was of no immersive wonder that she hadn’t been spotted or seen.

A gust of hope picked at her skin – at her left leg, her forming scars. She trailed her palm with a smooth digit, and felt the ridges closing in. The dragon glass had cut her smoothly, and it was feasible the war did, too. Time heals all. Time mends scars well. Perhaps she could hope again.

What if this war could still be won – by the Blacks, by her, by them? Would she cling enough to life to see such a far-out feat?

And if she managed to live…when the slight girl watched herself be so changed by it already, could she ever tell herself to go back to how she was? The laws of men made it as such that she would never dare forget – any or all that had transpired in those years of grief and anguish. Her abatement would be short and minimal. She’d never dare forget her Jace, or sweet Cain, or loyal Beesbury. The almond eyes of baby Luke, or the laughs she’d shared with friends. Friends she’d never see again. Friends who all died long ago.

Desolation and resentment were not new to the young Lady. And she swore it to herself, as she glanced into the mirror, that she’d never ache again. For the betterment of her brothers. For their mother. For either father or their grandsire – she would make it so she’s useful. Strong. Contented. And reliable. No Hightower would make her kneel. Their time was spent and since ran out.

Fuck the Gods. Fuck Alys Rivers.

She would leave that inn at dawn.

***

At dawn she said, and dawn it was.

“Enjoyed your pats from those Green scum?” She asked the mule with a raised brow, as she untied her from the stable’s pole. “I hope you rested well last night. The real journey has just begun.” 

Almost as if she understood her words, the half-bred mare shook her black mane, huffing through her tinted nose. “I don’t like how that sounds, either.” The girl sighed in a spent tone, “I never thought I’d get to say this, but the more distance I put in between me and my home…”

The road was quiet. All too quiet. The Redwyne company left way before her, as the hooves that trailed towards south indicated half as much. It was bold and quite peculiar – that those pompous Green supporters were so close to their Green Fork. For both The Twins and Castle Seagard were unwavering, leal to Daemon. To the one true heir and Queen.

It had been too long for her – since she felt the rays of sunlight. And if those treacherous and shifty lords felt so at home existing North, then both strongholds must have been emptied. The Trident’s lords were scattered somewhere, fighting in some vacant halls. Even so, it was too quiet. Not a single man in sight.

Perhaps allowing herself to glance behind was the girl’s biggest mistake. Or mayhaps it was stagnating, as she let her mule rest up.

“Haaaalt! Halt right there, lassie, don’t move!” A faraway, salacious scream deterred her to jolt straight up. The tenseness of her stiffened muscles ceased as her eyes prodded onward, setting on the crest above them – made of a bird, and of a seahorse, and two dragons. An even more attentive glance let her know of their bronze armour – of their brown hair and mousy faces.

Freys, she laughed inside her head with glee, An actual Frey company – marching South from the Twins’ gates.

“Good day to you, soldier. It seems we serve the same leal camp.” She greeted him with a bright smile, but as she tried to move up forward, the sharpened edge of six steel blades pointed at her nape and neck. She swallowed thickly, but kept her temper, and rose both hands up in surrender. “I yield,” She tried to jest with the tall men, before speaking up toward them, “I’m (Y/N) Tully. I believe I have a right to be here.”

“(Y/N) Tully’s dead,” One of the more suspicious knights ushered at her from the back, “She perished near Hayford’s lone bridge – every man, woman and child heard the story a thousand times.”

“Oh, you better be joking,” She hissed through an acrid breath, as she let out a small curse, “I know I may not look the part, but I am (Y/N) Tully.” Her wanton orbs searched for the soldier’s, who only weighed her with conceit. “‘Course you are,” He answered crassly, “And I’m the Lord of Bastion Keep.”

She offered him a blithted smile, although not one that reached her eyes. “I can’t catch a single break, now can I?” The Lady murmured to herself, “Very well,” She spoke out clearly, “I suppose you are commanded by your good lord, Forrest Frey?” Whilst her tone was domineering, a subtle smirk graced her pink lips, “Call him over, see for yourselves. He will tell you who I am.”

“Look, girl, it’s gettin’ cold and we’re quite busy. So, you know.” One of the men shrugged his broad shoulders, “Best fuck off. Either that or stop your lying.”

“Tell your lord his niece is home.” She betted onward once again, “You wish to know who it is I am, and I wish to wash my hair. So call for your lord. And be done with all this bother.”

“Lord Frey’s too busy to waste his breath on you. Just like us.” His short patience had been running thin, as for his hand – awfully cold, “So for the last time – fuck right off, and state your business.”

“Maybe we should just detain her.” One of the more lithe men suggested, “Tie ‘er up, resume our marching.”

“Should you value your good hands, you won’t touch a hair of mine.”

“Careful now,” The fourth boy muttered, “We’re enjoying you here, lassie, but don’t think you’ll make demands.”

“You would harm an innocent, because you’re too lazy and stupid to call for your own lord?” Her latter comment set him off, and he jumped off his starving horse to come to grip her by her loosened shirt. “Now listen here, you dirty fuck–”

“What appears to be the matter here?” A hardened voice commanded swiftly. Slowly and without much heart, the younger boys broke off the circle, as they readied their report. “My Lord, as you can see–” The one who seemed to be best-spoken tried to give out his account. 

But no more words ever escaped him. For the wide and gentle Frey spurted out with a burst of solid laughter. He made great haste to debark his stallion – to reach with fervour for the small girl’s shoulders and to ruffle her short matted hair. “Well, I’ll be damned,” He exhaled shortly, “I would recognise those shrew eyes everywhere.”

“Uncle,” She greeted him with forming tears, “It’s good to see a well-known face.

Aemond had been right, he thought. In spite of their pleasant small talk, Evelynn had latched onto him. Laughing at his every word, even if he wasn’t joking – gripping down onto his thighs when the odd pair had sat down. He had been courteous and kind to dance with her two tamer waltzes, but even the boldest one of the confined Targaryens couldn’t possibly stomach another. When his deep stare started avoiding her, boring holes throughout the hall, the man noticed his escape, and thanked the Gods before his fall. Seated not one yard away, in a dress that matched her hair, rested Elmo Tully’s only daughter – a quiet child, not five and ten, which appeared fully engrossed as she talked with her tall friend.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?” Daeron’s voice shook the whole room. As he turned his head around, his incessant stare bore daggers right into his brother’s throat, “What this decision makes of our political agreements?” His body was steadied and tense, taut and rigid, at attention – the implications brought on over by Aemond’s ill and thought-out match made his pulse readily quicken, and his whole soul seethe in anger. When he glanced over at him, not a single trail of shame registered on his sharp face. “We gain nothing from an alliance with the Riverlords,” Daeron desperately tried to tell him. “She's a comely girl, I'll give you that, but we’re at war, and she’s ill-favoured!” Finally, his dire words seemed to spark up a response – for Aemond took in a sharp inhale, and readily rose from his chair. “You will speak no more of her.” He deterred out in a deep growl, “Whom I marry is my business. I will not have you rebuke me.”

“I should not have questioned you,” The lone boy had swallowed thickly, as he met his brother’s eye, “Evelynn is… nice, ‘tis true. However…” His comforting and handsome face shifted with bitter intent, “I don’t know how to discourage her.”

Aemond smirked in deep amusement, drumming his fingers on the pine wood table. “Have you lost her in the crowd?”

“Momentarily,” Daeron surged forward, “But there are only so many men with short white hair inside this room.”

“I will question your decisions if they put us all at risk.” The youth spat out in a quick warning, “And your wrong choice to marry her will ruin every deal we had with Borros.” Daeron had fought to keep his voice down to a levelled plane of field, but even he cracked underneath Aemond’s lack of mournful interest. “I heard from mother of your obsession,” He breathed in a staggered breath, “But I never thought you foolish enough to marry a lowborn riverlander–”

The circumstances were not ideal, and he’d acted like a little boy – but he managed to desert the Frey and acquaint himself with the Riverrun girl. “I’m afraid I’ve two left feet, my Prince,” She granted him a small apology, as she ducked his offered hand, “There hasn’t been any time for me to practice my dancing whilst confined to the Red Keep.”

“Truly?” The corners of his hawk-like eyes glimmered with jocund distraction, and the young man tried once more, though his hand had then been lowered. “But the Red Keep swarms with banquets. Have none of my elder brothers taken you to dance before?” The Tully girl let out a laugh, and a faint pink caught her plump cheeks – and whether that was from frustration, of being irked by Daeron’s presence, or flattered by his light attention, the boy would find out soon enough. “As I said,” She smiled at him, “I’m afraid I’m a poor dancer.” Her almond eyes swirled with deep mischief, and she bit her lower lip to stifle down a roaring laugh. “If you wanted to escape my cousin, you should have checked in on the further right.” If his face hadn't been red, then it surely caught in pigment when she uttered her last words. “I assure you, my dear Lady, I had no such ill intent.” He clarified with a bent smile, but shook his head in grave embarrassment when she quirked up her shapely brow. “I shadn’t pressure you to dance with me.” He bit over his lip, defeated, “But I beg you to give me a chance.”

Her eyes softened at his request, and she gave her knight a nod. She mouthed him something intangible, and turned to face Daeron’s advances. “I will step on your feet, you know.” A loud laugh rattled his insides, “You may not believe it, my lady, but Tessarion once placed her entire weight on them.” She tutted lightly in reply, and merely entwined their hands, “My Prince…” She let out a tiny snort, as she gingerly laughed by herself. “You don’t believe me,” He feigned offence, as he spun her twice around. “You should know then, Lady Tully, that I scarcely ever lie.”

“Oh, I would never even dream of styling your good Grace a liar.” Her voice softened to a murmur, lowering in false sobriety. Almost as if they’d been conspiring, her youthful face leaned near his shoulder. “But you can’t be cross with me when I say I don’t believe you.”

Before either one of them could register Daeron’s last words, the lithe Targaryen grabbed his green collar and pushed him up against the wall. “You and I are family.” He rumbled out in a low tone, “Speak one more word of the one I have with her, and you’ll regret not dying sooner, during that raid of the Three Towers.” Daeron’s head shook with uncertainty, pounding in his ears from pain, and the young lass pressured him onward, as the blood tickled his tongue. “Did you go through with it, then?” He asked him through a gasping wheeze, “Did you bed her?”

The quietness that washed them both forced the boy to curse again.

“I take it that your charms have failed you.” Aemond hummed inside his goblet, as he looked at the small girl. “She’s talking with her brute again.”

“If only Evelynn wasn’t her cousin.” The boy laughed in miscontempt, “The Lady may have two left feet, but even then it was exaggerated how many times she stepped on me.” Their purple eyes set back on her – and Aemond was the first to stop. “I wouldn’t be distraught, dear brother.” His upturned mouth broke to a smirk, when Jace’s laughter seeped with hers – drawing long stares from the room and pulling whispers from lax mouths, “She seems to have an affinity towards bastards.” His good eye focused in on him, “The odds were truly set against you.”

Daeron’s face mirrored his brother’s, though the former tried to hide it. “Careful, Aemond. The Blacks are listening.” He pointed forward with a simper, to where their half-sister was sitting with her pompous and elusive smile. “I don’t think there’ll be a problem,” The One-Eyed Prince addressed his sibling, “She is quite taken with our father.”

His smaller hand scratched up at Aemond’s, endeavouring to put an end to his strong, unyielding grasp. “Brother…” He tried to word out in a plea. His tightened hold loosened a moment, and Aemond let his brother breathe. “I have lain with her before.” He asserted with a levelled timber, “The marriage was consummated.”

“Gods be good.” Daeron exhaled, as his hand ran through his hair, “What did you do?” He asked once more, as he pressed his back again right onto the jagged wall. “This doesn’t just put us in danger. Your wife’s a target – now more than ever.” He concluded after a while. “Lord Borros is too involved to annul our misalliance. But if word reaches the Blacks –”

“Which is why I must go find her.” Aemond gritted through his teeth. “So take me to that damned witch, and send word to the dragon keepers to fetch some bulls to cater Vhagar.” Daeron’s brows twisted in bafflement, creasing his face and his ravishing features. “You cannot mean this. She could be anywhere. Your shoulder hasn’t even healed.”

“I will tear down every castle, and every town, and every home that she could ever hide within.” Aemond’s eye was blazed with anger. The noble lines of his fair countenance bore the marks of his pursuit – disentangled to his face, his hands, found in every forming scar and in every galling crease. A bitter longing and a hopelessness interwoven in the need to find her – to hold her to his chest again, to feel her breathing hitch against him, to feel the pulse of her warm heat. The raw intensity of her brazen and uncaring kisses, the delicious and erotic sting of the one slap she had given him.

“Whether she wants that or not, I will have her by my side.”

All of this to feel her near. To own her essence. To drink her screams. To wake up and see her body lying consciously with his, to feel her eyes follow his movements and her warm, plump lips on his.

She must have hoped for this arrangement when she was betrothed to Jace – a life of comfort and of safety; a life where she would be The Queen. And for her, Aemond would do it. He’d subside his sister’s children and he’d sit the Iron Throne. He would place his crown atop her and bend to her every whim. “And she can try to break her chains a thousand times – over and over. There is not a single corner of this world that she can run to. I will always find a way to reclaim that which is mine.”

“Well then,”

In spite of the relief she felt to be parted from the Redwynes, Lady Tully’s restless mind seemed to be somewhat estranged.

"Which one of these fat ugly cunts tried to lay their hand on you?" Forrest’s voice plummeted through the small camp they had laid out. Strenuous licks of fair amusements pulled the corners of her lips, and the woman smiled contently, as she shook her head in earnest, “Please, uncle, there should be no need for that.”

“There should and there will!” His silk smooth baritone came out definitive, “No man will hurt a niece of mine and get to live to tell the tale.” Although his words were rough and final, the gentle furrow of his brow revealed the lord’s attempt to bluff. She laughed once more, in lifted spirits, and took a stance alongside his. Her eyes glossed over with incertitude, and the girl hummed, lost in her thoughts. “It would be quite a shame, you know,” She muttered lowly to her uncle, “For this fine army to be slain before they even set off to war.” Though he laughed at her poor joke, the Lord of Green Fork sighed in exhaustion, “Sometimes I think it’d be a kindness.” A bitter pause cut his lungs’ air, until he deterred out a breath, “None of these boys are ready for war.”

“I don’t think anyone is.” She muttered slowly by his side, “We think we are… we train for it – with jousts and tourneys and in combat yards.” Her latter thoughts had turned to Aemond, and how he’d train each daunting morning whilst she lived in the Red Keep. It was a somehow sacred ritual – a clash of swords, of wit, of power. It was a way for men to ease their stress, and wash away their stale frustrations with breakages of blood and sweat. It was a way to prove themselves, an easy way to become envied by the gossiping and gathered masses. Throughout their short acquaintanceship, she’d never once figured it out; whether or not Aemond was training for other people to admire him.

His mornings were moments of solitude – for scarcely anyone would gather hither. The nights and eves were for the lordlings – who slithered forward as he sparred Ser Criston. As proud as he ever was, she thought, everyone yearns for approval. And who else would need it more than the crippled second son.

Her cheeks reddened with slight colour, as her lips jolted a tremor – she could no longer think of him and remain listless and passive. With each and every chance she’d get, her trailing thoughts would reach for him – to the bump of his big nose, to the sharpness of his eye.

Had he reached his brother yet? Did he take Alys with him? Was his shoulder blade still healing?

Stop it.

Morbid curiosity is what killed the restless cat. What she now felt towards her captor was nought else but forced attachment.

But was he safe? And did he miss her–

She knead her hands in one another; both hidden by a pair of gloves. Realising that she’d been too quiet, she blurted out the next of her words. “... But no one is truly ready for the horrors that it brings.” Her chest felt hot. Her breathing ragged. Had she grown to care for him?

“Has your father ever told you how you sound just like your mother?” He breathed out through a soft exhale, “She hated war. Thought it was dumb.”

“‘Tis good, then, that she’s not here to witness it.” Though both of them had started walking, neither one let out their thoughts. Her clothes were clean, her hair was dried – she told him with a staggered breath what she’d gathered of the Redwynes, of the Targaryens and of the Greens. In return, Forrest confided her with her grandsire’s location – telling her Oscar was fine, that Kermit oft’ communicated by sending them concisive letters. “Thank the Gods,” She breathed out, with a hand upon her chest, "So my father is alive."

… But what of Cain? And what of Jace? What of Lord Beesbury and her dear cousins?

Suddenly she felt ashamed that she ever thought of Aemond.

“Where will you be heading now?” She asked her uncle with a shaky but consistent voice. “To meet your brother at Lakehore, of course.” Forrest responded with a growing smirk, “We won’t allow those mudded fuckers any further Crownland passage.”

“He’s near the God’s Eye?!” She stopped abruptly, whilst widening her tired eyes. A passing shadow of a smile lit the girl’s quivering lips, and she fixed the nearby stones as she tottered out a laugh. “To think that if I hadn’t ran, I might’ve met up with my brother.”

To think if Aemond hadn’t left, he would have met his in-law brother.

“But Harrenhal has been cleared out,” She turned abruptly to her uncle, “There’ll be no battle to be fought. The Pykes and Wyldes and Redwynes think that the stronghold is a waste – my fire has made sure of that.”

“Kitchen fires can’t melt stone.”

“... But the Greens would know that, too.” She gnawed at her bottom lip. Her eyes closed in concentration, trying to recall Hag’s Mire. She had been too scared to listen – truly listen to their tales. But a slight echo surged forward, as she rummaged through her brains.

《“He left with Daeron to wait in Oldtown, and burnt Harrenhal to the ground!”》

“They were arguing that Aemond had left them defenceless. That he took off to Oldtown and burnt Harrenhal to nothing.”

“But that was you.” Forrest Frey regarded her with an awfully twisted look.

“Not necessarily.” She mauled it slowly, “With age, dragon fire grows stronger. I’ve seen both Vermax and Vhagar burn open fields to ash and smoke.” Her orbs came into clash with his, and the man swallowed intently, gesturing her to go on, “There is a vast difference between those acres. The aftermath of Vermax was… closer to searings caused by people, than the inferno of a dragon.” As she pressed her lips together, she exhaled a deeper sigh, “But Vhagar…”

“I’ve seen that fatted lizard go to work.” Forrest agreed with a light hum, “Over at Mummer’s Ford; Gods, if I hadn’t grown up in the region, I wouldn’t have known there was a town at all.”

“So what if Aemond did burn Harrenhal?”

“He definitely had the time.”

“It doesn’t take long to yell out ‘Dracarys’.”

Their simmered dialogue had turned to whispers – and their small council reached an agreement. “Lakehore remains a strong location,” Forrest offered up his hand to her, as they passed the flowing river, “Even if Harrenhal should be no more. We’ll meet up there and ride towards East.”

“Will you meet up with the Arryns, then?” Her last refrain dumbfounded him, and the man stopped on the small path. “The plan is to take you there. Reunite you with your family.” His searching stare mended with hers, and the girl’s uncle quirked a brow. His mouth pressed to a thin line – a hereditary trait, it seemed –, and he shook his head again. “... You seem conflicted and obscured.” He muttered, whilst awaiting her reply.

“I am closer to the North than East.”

“No. I cannot let you go alone. Your father would strangle me for it.”

“So don’t,” The self-assured and poised young Lady now agreed with him wholeheartedly, “I’ll give you my mule if you give me a horse.” Her eyebrows rose in confirmation, “That way I won’t go alone.”

Although his face rattled conflicted, the older Frey gave her a nod. He paused to look at her thick gloves, and faltered on his mouthed reply. “You’ll need warmer clothes to survive their ever-winter.”

“And ink and paper before I go, so I may send out some letters.”

As he laid his preparations, Forrest Frey turned to his niece. The wide corners of his lips had twisted to an outline of a subtle grin. “I suppose you’d need an envoy for your grandsire and brothers.” He agreed before she could, as he rummaged through his vest and breeches for his House’s patterned seal.

***

“I cannot possibly accept this.”

“Given that it’s yours, ser Cain, I must urge you to reconsider.”

And so it was – sturdy Faithkeeper. His oldest and most trusted sword, and the one gift he got from Allyn as he departed all those years ago – to the grounds of the Red Keep, to the new home of his fair Lady. The blade remained as he had known it – with its intricate design of leaves and tender words carved on red iron. Though his mentor told him nothing when he handed him the gift, there was no avid denying of the nature of the shiv; A family heirloom with unmeasured value, and a kindness he could never repay.

“I cannot take it.” The boy had uttered, looking at the greying white-cloak.

“You can and you will.” The older man pointed a finger at his vest and heavy armour, “I am not having a conversation, boy, I am stating an order.” Though his eyes were rough and rigid, a coil of softness interwovened in the creases of his face. His wrinkled hand reached for his back, to give it a small squeeze of farewell. “You do good now.” The man instructed, furrowing his bushy brows, “I want no report to come through from any raven of King’s Landing telling me you’ve gotten lazy.”

“I swear to you that I’ll protect her.”

“Of that, I have no doubt, my boy.”

Upon throwing it a better look, the man remained engraved with shock. Both the handle and the hilt of it had been replaced to suit his needs. Sculpted by acquitted silver with a slight hole for his hand, and a velvety but silk-like ribbon to enwrap around his arm. “We thought the minor adjustments would prove useful when in battle.”

Almost too preoccupied to inspect its sharpened edges, Cain’s eyes snapped away from it at the inkling of Jayne’s voice. “We?” He repeated her words slowly, whilst raising his brows in stupor. His bewilderment would not live long, as the Lady of the Vale keenly offered him an answer. “The sketch for its newer hilt does come from the youngest Tully.” Upon his silence, she continued, as she spared a patent look, “I have reason to believe it’s his way of saying sorry.”

“Lord Oscar has no reason to apologise to me.” Though his words pondered definitive, a content arch pulled at his lips. His stare soon turned back to serious and his back awfully stiff. “I… wouldn’t know how to thank him.” Seemingly losing his face, the Tully’s sworn shield bowed to Jayne deeply, “Or you, my lady.”

“There is hardly any need for you to thank me, Ser Cain. It is us who should bow to you for your willingness to keep us safe.”

When her hand beckoned him onward to return to his wide stance, the woman faltered for a moment as she looked at his grey eyes. A look of startled but conclusive shock spread across her older face.

“Have you no shame, you stupid boy?” Tyland’s low hiss was followed suit by his stinging and petulant words, “You have a lot of nerve to show up here.”

“Ironborn?” She asked her question, as her features smoothed over.

“I wouldn’t be able to say, my lady. My mother died after my birth.” By all accounts, he’d been quite truthful – he knew who his father was, as it had been awfully clear when he glanced at his twin brother. He’d find lost remnants of himself as such, and questions of his build or hair had been answered with a single look. His mother was a simple woman – a merchant’s daughter, as he was told, once very beautiful and fair and honest. He didn’t know the way she looked, though he assumed that his eye colour came from her, and not the Lannisters.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sure you are, you foolish bastard.” The words that tumbled from his lips reddened the tips of Cain’s big ears.

The sheer aversion in the man’s slim face sent a shiver down his back. Confusion laced with grave recoil, as a small curse beleft his lips – Gods, let this not be how he finally got to meet his dad.

When the boy stayed lost in silence, the younger Lannister pushed him again. “Doesn’t loyalty mean anything to you?”

He did desperately hope that he looked like his good mother; and sometimes, during the night, he would pray that she would guide him – prayed, but prayed not to a faceless God, but to the memory of her lost image. He would pray that she should guide him through his avid quests for glory; through his cluttered and entangled life path, through his hardest and most straining choices. There was something rather comforting in imagining his eyes were hers – that they looked like hers so much, that she’d still somehow live through him. He hoped that the Gods left an homage to the sole fact she existed. A silent proof that she’d not gone without leaving her own mark behind. That she had made him in her image, that he somehow held her inside. That men would glance right at Cain Waters and know that he was Wynne’s son.

“Loyalty means everything to me.” He spat out in a lowly tone, despite his evident confusion.

“Yet you show up here, threatening to ruin everything we’ve set in place.”

“You?” Cain’s face contorted to a deepened scowl. He shook his head in half-regret, and merely swatted Tyland’s hands away. “I haven’t shown up here for you.” His light-grey eyes shone forth with grief, “Don’t worry. I’ve no desire to be recognised.” The colour from the old man’s cheeks drained itself from his stiff face, “Not that anyone would believe you.” He muttered fast and quietly, “You cannot threaten us with this.”

“Of course not,” Cain interjected with a rattled and bemused expression, “I am just another bastard. I’d sooner die than see myself legitimized as one of you.”

“I am truly sorry to hear that.”

He leaned his head in a swift bow, as he spared her a small grin, “It is quite possible she was from Orkmont.”

Her expression shifted upward to a placid but elusive smile. Nodding once at his picked words, the lady shifted in her place, quirking up a thin blonde brow. “If you ought to be in search of Oscar, he should be near Longbow Hall.”

***

Angry, reckless, non-deserving; with an unquenchable desire just to prove himself as worthy – Oscar had been a wild child, and remained so as an adult. Always quick to take offence, always ready for a brawl and always willing to show off; despite the fact that he’d never won a joust or tourney in his life, and most lordlings of the Riverlands failed to give him credit’s due.

Restless, loyal and headstrong. Those were words that well-described him. Even in the crack of dawn, he was spotted in the training yard, walking miles in aching circles, practising with his great sword.

Family. Duty. Honour.

For the better part of his young life, Oscar had lived pledged to oath, to upkeep his House's words.

He’d go to war with his brother, he’d avenge his sister’s honour and take every man who ever helped tarnish his homeland through the judgement of his bitter steel.

Oscar Tully loved his family. Even when it was much smaller – when it was just him, and Kermit, and their loving and ambitious Mother. He swore to himself to always enact as a pillar to them – to turn responsible, reliable and trustworthy. And when his mother died, leaving behind his only sister, he promised himself to always protect her. When they were but small, lithe children, very rarely did they not bicker and argue like a bunch of wildings – yet when push came to shove, and either one of them stole one too many jam tarts to not go unseen, it was always one or the other who jumped to the rescue of their misbegotten sibling.

Oscar Tully was certain that he’d always fulfil his promise. He was the fair image of a future lord of the Trident – honour drove him to oblige his duty, and his one duty was to take care of his family. He was a second son, and as such, he served as a spare to his brother. Taught in the same way that he was, although with less vigour and effort by the thousand swarming maesters that took rest in Riverrun. He was only four and ten when he watched his whole world crumble; and his closest blood relations scatter through the lands of Westeros. He helplessly obeyed his grandsire, when he was sent away to squire under the greying Lord Tyrell – perhaps in the hopes that the Reach would temper him, or that he’d fall madly in love with his slight and sickly daughter. He watched as his sister was taken, away from the comforts of home – sent to the Capitol as a ward to elderly Lord Beesbury. All alone in shitty King’s Landing, to learn the mannerisms of a proper Lady, and to find a husband that would be competent enough to keep her and her offspring safe.

Dreadful, he thought it then, and awfully unfair deal now. For years he’d been unable to see his siblings, his father, and his grandfather – and when the war finally started, and alliances were formed, he lost his sister to the wrath of that sick freak.

The One-Eyed Kinslayer. The One-Eyed Prince.

《The boy scoffed at the knight’s attempt to pardon and explain himself. He nodded affirmatively, and scrutinized Cain with his piercing gaze. "You returned with an empty hand, Ser Cain. You failed: miserably." His back straightened in an attempt to appear bigger, and the hot-headed lass rose from his chair in a hurling daze. "Because of you, my sister is in the hands of that cycloptic freak. Because of you, we don't know anything about her whereabouts. She could be tortured, enslaved, sullied – worse!"》

He’d lost his temper. In his attempts to ground himself, he himself had failed his grandsire – who not only had to worry for his own son and House’s future, but for his two grandkids, as well. His blue eyes closed in concentration, as his lips parted in an exhale. He wondered if he had done right, to alter Faithkeeper like that.

Cain Waters was akin more to a beast than to a man. Seemingly fearless and focused, big as a mountain and wide as a bear. His pride had stung him when his grandsire chose him to rescue his sister, but even he had to agree that Cain had been their only choice. He just made sense, the lass agreed, as he watched him lead and point over Jayne’s numerous troops. Still, his mind remained unchanged – if only he had been allowed to, he would have seen his sister home. But he was the second son. The son whom nobody had wanted, the one who wasn’t even needed. Elmo and Kermit were thousands of miles away to fight; and he had begged them both to join them, but to no righteous avail. He just wasn’t skilled enough. His duty bound him to the Arryns. To taking care of his grandfather.

“Do you not feel forced to fight?”

“Forced?” Grover Tully’s husky voice echoed through the marbled walls.

“Pushed by your free will to do it.” Oscar sucked in a big breath, “I’m one and twenty. It is expected that I go out there.”

“It is expected that we do… all it should take to survive.” The older man hummed in admission. His piercing gaze cut through the boy, before his head turned to the sky, “Your lousy father and reckless brother are away to fight for a cause we don’t believe in. In the best case for your sister, she’s been taken forth as prisoner.”

“Which is why I should fight, instead of hiding like a coward behind these stupid walls.”

“Which is why it is imperative that you should stay here to remain alive.”

His face contorted to a painful scowl, as his legs carried him to the edge of his viewpoint.

“I’m afraid I do not follow.”

“I will not let those damned Targaryens put an end to my own House.”

“So you would let your own son perish? You’d let his heir go down with him?” By then their voices rose to screaming. “People die at war, my boy – good people, bad people, people who only did their part. Should I not word the possibility that your own brother might be killed?”

“You should not say it with such ease – you should not see your only family as some fucked pieces on a board!”

“I am trying to protect our family! Preserve our House, our heritage! By keeping one male heir alive – even if it brings the scorn of others!”

Oscar was the second son. The spare. The one who had to sit behind and watch how his remaining siblings struggled on their own to make it.

“My lord,” The gruff echo of Cain’s voice deterred him to turn his head. Tempered eyes were met with grey, and the young man nodded deeply in a stiff but poignant greeting.

“... Ser Cain.”

A small nod was shared between them, followed by an ushered silence.

"I believe we need to talk."

╒══════╕

Translations:

“Sīkudi nopāzmi, skori ao umbagon va bē hen issa…” = “Seven Hells, when you stay on top of me…”;

“Qrimbrōzagon, jorrāelagon, nyke jāhor tepagon ao nykeā gār trēsi.” = “Fuck, my love, I would give you a hundred sons.”;

“Se nyke jāhor jorrāelagon hen se tolvie mēn hen zirȳ.” = “And I would love each and every one of them.”;

╘══════╛

[bellaofthevalley]

Diasomnia: Butterfly

Content warning: yandere themes, reader is described as pretty a lot but there is no mentions of their gender.

imagine being a cute little butterfly fae, sweet and lovely- and placed straight in Diasomnia. Fae you may be, dark and brooding like the avergae student in Diasomnia you were not, with your pretty, colourful wings and the precious smile on your face you were quite literally a diamond in the rough.

And that's what makes Malleus so utterly enchanted by you, so utterly obsessed with you; there is no fear on your pretty face as you approach and talk with him, so at ease despite the vast difference between your natures and status. You speak and treat him like a friend, and who is he to refuse you? He cherishes you truly, cherishes this innate gentleness you have and he wants it all for himself. Let him covet you, let him be the dragon he is and hoard you like the most precious treasure anyone can have. He can and will protect you, keep you far away from everyone else that so clearly don't deserve you. If he has to keep you in a glided cage that glimmers yet is unable to match the brilliance of your wings, so be it.

Sebek and Silver are your unofficial knights; Sebek is with you during classes, a shadow that is quite loud and a good deterrent at keeping others away from you. It makes sad for a good while... but then Sebek's loud voice occupies your thoughts and he is leading you aside and away from others, dragging you into Diasomnia. Why bother your pretty little head with those who are undeserving of your time and attention when Sebek is there? Cradle his face in your hands and tell him that he is your good knight, and watch him beam down at you in pride. Indeed, he won't ever fail you- just make sure you don't fail and disrespect yourself or Master Malleus by letting those lowly humans touch you, much less see you.

And if you're not with Sebek, you're with Silver. His sleeping curse comes in handy these times, where he can keep you away in some secluded corner and sleep in your arms, your gentle hands running through the silver strands of his hair. Stay with him, pretty butterfly, and let sleep consume you so that your thoughts won't ever stray past this soothing, comfortable bubble in which Diasomnia is your home and they are your only family.

And Lilia... surely your wings are not that necessary, lovely butterfly? They are pretty, so so pretty! But one with wings is one that will not stay in one place - and Lilia wishes to have you here with him, with them, forevermore. He won't cut them off - it'd be such a shame to lose wings that beautiful - but he can use his magic and hide them away so that only he, only him and his beloved, can see those lovely fluttering wings of yours. Be a darling and accept easily, with no protest, so that he doesn't have to use force.

But he promises, no one would hurt you! You will be loved and appreciated... just perhaps a little too much.

Masterpost

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

𓅨 All Wrapped Up

All Wrapped Up: When your date with Morpheus is cut short, you are left with his coat and your own thoughts… and a bleeding finger from where said coat bit you. You find out that Morpheus’ coat is very much alive as the rest of the realm.

Warnings: Morpheus’ Coat Fucks You (this is your only warning on how nasty this is), Explicit Language, Explicit Material.

To Note: AFAB!Reader x Morpheus’ Coat

Word Count: ~6.4k

You stroll through the shifting landscapes of the Dreaming, your boyfriend Morpheus by your side. The sky above you morphs from a star-studded abyss to a canvas of swirling pastels, the colors melting into each other like ice cream on a hot day. A soft breeze carries the scent of blooming nightshade and distant rain. Yet another perfect night to spend with your handsome and beautiful boyfriend.

"You know," you say, glancing at him, "this place could use more flowers."

Morpheus' lips twitch into a barely-there smile. "Flowers? Are there not flowers throughout my realm? What more do you wish for?"

"Gilbert is currently hoarding all the best ones" you huff out in half complaint. "I'm talking about everywhere else in the realm. The places that don't have his super awesomeness."

"And what do you propose I should add?" Morpheus asks, tilting his head to the side.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe some unique roses? Lilacs? Orchids even," you gesture vaguely, enjoying the way his eyes—currently a serene blue—catch the light. They glimmer so prettily with stars. "Fun and unique flowers that you would never see together. Tulips, birds of paradise, hydrangea…"

"Fun and unique flowers, you say?" Morpheus muses, his voice like a gentle hum in the background of a dream. He lifts a hand, and with a flick of his wrist, the ground around you begins to shift. Suddenly, the once bare earth is alive with a riot of colors. Roses in every hue imaginable bloom alongside lilacs, their delicate petals brushing against the striking shapes of orchids.

The air thickens with their fragrance, a heady blend that fills your senses and makes you feel dizzy with delight. You laugh, spinning around to take it all in. "See? This is what I'm talking about."

"Indeed," Morpheus replies, a trace of amusement in his voice. "Anything else you desire?"

Before you can respond, a loud caw breaks through the tranquility. You glance up to see Matthew the Raven circling overhead. "You two look like you're picking out wedding flowers," he comments, swooping down to land on Morpheus' shoulder.

"Do you have something to add, Matthew?" Morpheus asks, one eyebrow arched.

"Just that maybe you should throw in some dandelions," Matthew says, ruffling his feathers. "You know, for variety."

You chuckle, reaching out to scratch Matthew's head. "Dandelions? Really?"

"Hey, don't knock 'em till you've tried 'em," Matthew quips.

Morpheus waves his hand again and suddenly dandelions sprout amidst the more exotic blooms. Their cheerful yellow heads bob in the soft breeze, adding an unexpected touch of whimsy to the scene.

"I have to admit," you say, bending down to pluck one from the ground. "It does add something special."

The Dreaming reacts to every movement and word from Morpheus. The sky darkens slightly as if acknowledging his focus on this moment with you. The colors become more vivid, each petal and leaf shimmering as though made of dreams themselves.

You catch a hint of ozone in the air—like just before a thunderstorm—and it makes your skin tingle with anticipation. It's as if every sense is heightened here: the sound of distant waves crashing against unseen shores; the feeling of soft grass beneath your feet; the sight of flowers blooming in impossible combinations.

Morpheus watches you with those enigmatic eyes that seem to hold entire galaxies within them. "Anything else?" he asks softly.

"Hmm," you ponder aloud. "How about some bioluminescent fungi? Something that glows when it gets dark. Can't go wrong with a good mushroom."

Matthew caws approvingly. "Now that's an idea! Glowing mushrooms could make this place even more magical."

With another wave of Morpheus' hand, glowing fungi begin to appear among the flowers. They emit a soft light that bathes everything in an ethereal glow as twilight descends over the realm.

Morpheus pulls you closer, your body fitting perfectly against his chest. The feeling is almost overwhelming—his coat is soft and warm, like the comforting embrace of a dream you never want to wake from. You really didn't. His fingers trail down your back, sending pleasurable sensations up your spine.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" His voice is a low murmur in your ear, each word vibrating through you like the distant rumble of thunder.

You nod, drawing your fingers down the lapel of his coat. The fabric feels like velvet under your touch, and the galaxy within it seems to pulse with light and energy. There is even a humming vibration beneath your fingertips that almost echo the coats appreciation of your touch.

"Morpheus," you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper.

Matthew flaps his wings in agitation from his perch on Morpheus' shoulder. "Come on, guys. Do we have to do this right here?"

Ignoring Matthew's protest, you let your fingers wander further down Morpheus' coat. Each touch ignites a spark of passion that crackles between you both. His grip on you tightens slightly, as if he can't bear to let you go.

"If he does not wish to witness me kissing my beloved," Morpheus says, his eyes darkening with intensity as they lock onto yours, "Matthew is welcome to leave."

The raven lets out an indignant squawk but takes flight, disappearing into the shifting sky of the Dreaming.

He lowers his head slowly, giving you just enough time to close your eyes before his lips meet yours. The kiss is gentle at first, a mere brush of lips that sends a rush of warmth through you. But then it deepens, becoming more insistent as he pours all his longing and desire into that single point of contact.

The sounds around you seem to amplify—the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the distant roll of thunder, even the faint hum of bioluminescent fungi glowing softly in the growing twilight. It's as if every element in the Dreaming is attuned to this moment, enhancing every sensation.

Your hand slides up into his hair, feeling its softness between your fingers. You press yourself closer against him until there's no space left between you. His arms wrap around you tighter still as if he could pull you into himself completely.

As you lose yourself in the kiss, your hand continues its journey down Morpheus' coat, the fabric smooth and cool against your fingertips. You can feel the coat almost react to your touch, a subtle vibration that seems to echo Morpheus' own desires.

Your fingers brush against the edge of one of his coat pockets, and without thinking, you slip your hand inside. The interior is surprisingly warm, a stark contrast to the outer fabric. But then, something sharp bites into your finger. You pull back abruptly, breaking the kiss with a gasp.

Morpheus' eyes snap open, darkening from their serene blue to a concerned silver. "What is wrong?" His voice is soft but filled with an urgency that sends a shiver down your spine.

You blink in confusion, glancing down at your finger. A drop of blood wells up from a tiny puncture wound, bright red against your pale skin. "I... I think something bit me," you stammer.

Morpheus frowns deeply. He takes your hand gently in his own, lifting it to inspect the wound. His eyes narrow slightly as he studies the small drop of blood. Without warning, he brings your finger up to his lips and slides it into his mouth.

The sensation is electric. His lips are warm and soft against your skin, his tongue soothing as it laps at the wound. You shiver as Morpheus' tongue glides over your finger, each lap sending a tingling sensation straight to your core. The warmth of his lips contrasts sharply with the cool evening air, creating an intoxicating mix of sensations that makes it hard to focus. His eyes, now a deep, mesmerizing silver, lock onto yours, and you feel the world around you blur into insignificance.

The faint taste of iron lingers as he continues to lick the small wound, his movements slow and deliberate. It's almost as if he's savoring every drop of your blood. You can hear the soft sound of his tongue against your skin, a rhythmic, almost hypnotic noise that seems to echo in the stillness of the Dreaming.

After what feels like an eternity, he finally releases your finger. The wound is gone, not even a scar remaining. You flex your hand experimentally, marveling at the seamless healing.

"That was... weird," you murmur, pulling your hand back.

Morpheus' lips curve into a slight smile. "My apologies if it caused you discomfort."

You shake your head, brushing it off. "No, it's fine. Just unexpected."

He straightens, his expression shifting from concern to something more reserved. "I must return to my duties," he says softly.

Your heart sinks at his words. The thought of him leaving, even for a short while, fills you with a sense of loss. "Already?" you pout, unable to hide your disappointment.

Morpheus chuckles, a sound like distant thunder rolling through the night sky. He reaches up and slips off his coat, the fabric whispering against itself as it moves. The galaxy within it seems to pulse with life as he drapes it around your shoulders.

The coat envelops you in warmth and comfort; it’s like being wrapped in the night sky itself. Well, you are wrapped up in a galaxy.

"Wear this," Morpheus murmurs, his voice low and soothing. "So I will be with you until I physically return."

You snuggle into the coat's embrace, feeling its gentle hum against your skin—a soft vibration that echoes Morpheus' own being. The fabric is impossibly soft, caressing your body like he truly is wrapped around you.

He cups your cheek with one hand, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. "I will not be long," he promises.

You watch as Morpheus disappears into the ever-shifting landscape of the Dreaming, his silhouette blending seamlessly with the twilight. The weight of his coat around your shoulders is comforting, like an embrace that lingers long after the person has left. With a deep breath, you turn and begin to make your way back to the palace.

The path ahead winds through a forest of bioluminescent trees. Their leaves emit a soft, otherworldly glow that illuminates your way. The air is filled with the faint rustling of leaves and the occasional distant call of nocturnal creatures. As you walk, the sound of your footsteps mingles with these ambient noises, creating a symphony that feels uniquely alive.

The palace looms ahead, its grand spires reaching up to touch the star-studded sky. The entrance is guarded by three majestic creatures—a Gryphon, a Wyvern, and a Hippogryph—each one regal and imposing in its own right. They nod at you as you pass through the gates, acknowledging your presence with silent respect.

Inside, the palace is a labyrinth of corridors and rooms, each one more fascinating than the last. You wander aimlessly, letting your feet guide you. The walls are adorned with intricate tapestries that seem to move and change as you look at them, depicting scenes from countless dreams and nightmares. It was hard to be bored in the dreaming, but you really just wanted to spend time with your boyfriend!

You make your way through the winding corridors of the palace, each step echoing softly against the marble floors. The air is cool, almost refreshing, carrying with it the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine. The palace itself seems to breathe around you, walls shifting subtly as if alive.

Finally, you arrive at Morpheus' private chamber. The door creaks open with a whisper, revealing a room that feels both infinite and intimate. Soft starlight filters in from the high windows, casting gentle shadows across the floor.

Stars float lazily in the air, tiny orbs of light that shimmer and pulse as if they hold entire galaxies within them. You reach out to touch one, and it flutters away like a shy firefly before coming back to hover just above your fingertips. Its light is warm against your skin, sending tingles up your arm.

You wander around the room, brushing your fingers against the floating stars. Each one responds to your touch with a soft hum, a melody that seems to vibrate through your very being. It's like touching pieces of Morpheus himself—fragments of his essence scattered throughout his sanctuary.

As you explore, your gaze drifts down to the coat pocket where something had bitten you earlier. The memory of that sharp pinch makes you pause. Curiosity gnaws at you as you slip your hand back into the pocket cautiously this time, but all you feel is the warm, velvety lining.

"At least I have you to cuddle with," you murmur to yourself, a small smile playing on your lips. "Morpheus' coat is better than no Morpheus at all."

A warmth spreads through your body and you snuggle your face into the neckline of the material, enjoying the way the galaxy feels against your skin. You make your way over to Morpheus' bed and climb onto it, sighing as your hands and knees sink into the cloud like mattress.

The scent of Morpheus lingers on the sheets—a mix of stardust and midnight air that fills your senses and makes you feel even closer to him. You curl up in his coat, pulling it tightly around yourself as you nestle into the soft bedding. A nap would do nicely until Morpheus returns.

You wake with a start, the sensation of fabric skimming across your skin pulling you from the depths of sleep. Your eyes flutter open, and you find yourself staring up at the shifting, pulsating galaxy that adorns Morpheus' coat. It's draped over you like a protective cocoon, its warmth seeping into your very bones. But something is different this time.

The coat is moving, its fabric undulating with a life of its own. You gasp as it begins to slip beneath your clothing, the smooth, velvety material gliding effortlessly over your skin. The sensation is both startling and arousing, each touch sending shivers of pleasure coursing through you.

Your shirt is the first to go, the coat's sleeves tugging at the hem until it's lifted over your head and discarded. You try to sit up, to grasp at the fabric and halt its progress, but it's as if the coat anticipates your every move. It wraps around your arms, pinning them to your sides with a gentle but unyielding pressure.

"Hey!" you protest, a mixture of amusement and alarm in your voice. "What do you think you're doing?"

The coat doesn't answer, of course. Instead, it continues its slow, sensual exploration of your body. You can feel it tracing the contours of your chest, the touch as intimate as a lover's caress. The fabric seems to have grown impossibly softer, its movements deliberate and teasing.

Your breath hitches as it trails lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your pants. The sensation is maddeningly erotic, a blend of ticklish delight and mounting desire. You squirm, trying to escape the coat's insistent advance, but it only tightens its grip on your legs, preventing any chance of retreat.

"First you bite me, and now you want me naked?" you murmur, the words coming out in a breathless whisper. The coat, of course, offers no response, save for the continued slide of fabric against your skin. "I don't think so!"

You thrash against the coat's hold, your heart pounding as the fabric tightens around you, holding you fast. It's an odd sensation, the feeling of being trapped yet cared for, dominated yet cherished. Despite your initial protests, there's a part of you that's intrigued, a small voice whispering that you should surrender to the coat's desires.

With surprising gentleness, the coat lifts you off the bed, suspending you in midair. You're aware of the cool air against your skin, the vulnerability of being so exposed. The coat's grip on you shifts, and you feel it deftly unhooking your bra. The fabric slides away, leaving your chest bare to the night air and the coat's lingering touch.

Your breath catches as you feel the coat's fabric against your nipples. It's a strange, intoxicating sensation that sends waves of pleasure coursing through you. The coat caresses your breasts with an almost reverent touch, the fabric stroking and fondling with a lover's skill. You can't help the soft moan that escapes your lips, the sound echoing through the silent room.

The coat's attentions shift lower, and you feel it tugging at your pants. You're powerless to resist as the fabric peels away, leaving you clad in nothing but your underwear. The cool air teases your newly bared skin, and you can feel your arousal growing with each passing second.

As the coat continues to caress your breasts, you can't help but think that it's savoring this moment, relishing the feel of your soft, yielding flesh beneath its touch. The fabric moves with purpose, each stroke and caress sending shivers of pleasure up your spine.

Then, without warning, the coat vibrates against your skin, a subtle but unmistakable affirmation. It's almost as if it's communicating with you, confirming your suspicion that it wants—needs—this connection just as much as you do.

The vibrations are maddening, a constant, thrumming reminder of the coat's desire. You can feel it resonate deep within you, stoking the flames of your arousal even higher. The sound of your own breathing fills the room—harsh, ragged gasps that mirror the intensity of the sensations coursing through you.

Your body responds to the coat's ministrations with an urgency that's both startling and undeniable. You can feel yourself growing wetter, your underwear clinging to your damp skin. The coat's fabric teases your sensitive nipples, each brush sending jolts of pleasure straight to your cunt.

You're lost in a sea of sensation, your body moving instinctively to meet the coat's touch. The fabric strokes and fondles your breasts, the movements deliberate and maddeningly skillful. You can feel your arousal building, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatens to sweep you away.

The coat's vibrations grow stronger, more insistent, as if it can sense how close you are to the edge. The sensation is overwhelming, a constant thrum of pleasure that leaves you gasping for breath. You're aware of the wetness between your legs, the slick, aching need that demands fulfillment.

And then, just when you think you can't take any more, the coat's touch becomes impossibly gentle, a soft caress that brings you back from the brink. You're left hovering on the edge of climax, your body trembling with need as the coat holds you suspended in midair, caught between ecstasy and anticipation.

"Oh come on," you whine, tugging on the fabric holding your wrists. "Don't tell me you're gonna tease me too! Morpheus is already a bastard when it comes to teasing, I don't need both of you being mean to me!"

In response to your plea, the coat seems to hesitate for a moment, as if considering your words. Then, with a newfound determination, it resumes its careful exploration of your body. You feel the fabric gliding over your hips, dipping into the crease where your thighs meet your body, and then it's slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear. The sensation of the fabric against your most intimate area is surprisingly erotic, and you can't help but moan as it begins to move with purpose.

The coat tugs gently at your underwear, peeling it away from your damp skin. You feel a rush of cool air against your wetness, a stark contrast to the warmth of the coat's embrace. The fabric slides down your legs, leaving you completely naked and exposed in the coat's grasp.

You're lifted higher, your body suspended in midair as the coat positions you for its next tantalizing move. The sensation of weightlessness adds to the surrealism of the moment, amplifying the erotic sensations that course through you.

Then, without warning, the coat begins to rub between your legs, the fabric soft and insistent against your sensitive flesh. You gasp as it finds your clit, the rhythmic motion sending waves of pleasure radiating through your body. The vibrations grow stronger, the coat's purring growing louder as it busies itself with your wetness.

The sound of your arousal fills the room, a slick, wet noise that mingles with the coat's purring. You can hear the soft rustle of fabric as it moves against your skin, the subtle whisper of the galaxy that forms the coat's lining. It's a symphony of sensations, a cacophony of sound that threatens to overwhelm your senses.

The coat's movements grow more insistent, the fabric rubbing against your clit with a maddening rhythm that leaves you gasping for breath. You can feel the orgasm building within you, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatens to sweep you away.

Your body responds instinctively to the coat's touch, your hips moving in time with its rhythmic motions. The sensation of the fabric against your most sensitive area is exquisite, a blend of friction and warmth that sends shivers of pleasure coursing through you.

The coat's purring grows even louder, a constant thrum of pleasure that resonates deep within your core. You can feel your arousal growing with each passing second, your body tensing as the orgasm draws nearer.

And then, just when you think you can't take any more, the coat's touch changes. The fabric between your legs begins to pulse, the rhythm matching the beating of your heart. It's as if the coat knows exactly what you need, exactly how to push you over the edge.

The sensory overload is too much to bear. Your body tenses, and then you're falling, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of overwhelming pleasure. Your cries echo through the room, a testament to the ecstasy that courses through your veins.

As the waves of your climax wash over you, your body convulses with the intensity of the sensations. Your legs are thrashing, feet twisting in the air as they seek purchase on something—anything—to ground you in this moment of pure ecstasy. Your arms pull against the coat's embrace, the fabric tightening around your wrists in response to your struggles, holding you fast as it continues to lavish attention upon your trembling form.

The coat, sentient and eager, is greedily drinking up your release, its fabric writhing and pulsing against your most intimate areas. Each spasm of your cunt sends shockwaves of pleasure through you, and the coat seems to absorb every tremor, its vibrations harmonizing with the rhythm of your orgasm.

You're acutely aware of the erotic sensory details—the wet, slick sound of the coat moving against your drenched folds, the way your breath hitches with each wave of pleasure that crashes over you, the feeling of the cool air against your heated skin. The coat's fabric is like a thousand tiny fingers, each one caressing and teasing and coaxing you towards greater heights of pleasure.

The erotic sounds that fill the room are almost as stimulating as the physical sensations. The wet squelch of the coat's ministrations, the ragged panting of your breaths, the soft whimpers and moans that escape your lips—all of it combines to create a symphony of desire that resonates with the pulsing of your blood.

"Oh god," you strain out, your body falling slack. That was an incredibly explosive orgasm. All from the coat. The coat, however, seems far from finished.

Its fabric begins to move again, slithering down your stomach in a series of slow, deliberate waves. You can't help but squirm as it traces teasing patterns on your skin, each touch sending little shivers of sensation coursing through you. The coat purrs in response.

You can feel it trailing along the insides of your legs, a soft, ticklish touch that leaves you gasping for breath once more. The coat's purring grows louder, a constant thrum of pleasure that seems to echo your own rapidly beating heart. Always thirsty it seems.

As your breathing begins to steady, the coat's fabric continues its unhurried exploration of your body. It caresses your thighs, your stomach, the soft swell of your breasts. Each touch sends ripples of pleasure coursing through you, a reminder that the coat is far from done with you.

You feel the fabric shift, a subtle movement that draws your attention back to the apex of your thighs. The coat's touch is gentle yet insistent, its fabric teasing your sensitive folds with feather-light strokes. You can't help but moan, your body responding instinctively to the promise of more pleasure to come.

But then the fabric between your legs begins to change, to grow and harden into something entirely different. You gasp as you feel the unmistakable shape of a phallus emerging from the coat's inner lining, its size and girth enough to make you catch your breath.

"Wait," you protest, your voice barely above a whisper. "That place is for Morpheus."

The coat seems to hesitate for a moment, its fabric pulsing against your skin. And then, with a sense of inevitability, the phallus continues to grow, its length pressing against your entrance with an insistence that leaves you both exasperated and intrigued.

"You've got to be kidding me," you mutter, a flush creeping up your cheeks. "First you strip me, then you make me come, and now you want to fuck me? You're a coat, for crying out loud!"

In response, the coat vibrates, a low, rumbling purr that vibrates all the way through your cunt. It's almost as if it's chuckling at your incredulity, its fabric shifting against your skin with a maddeningly sensual rhythm.

The phallus nudges at your opening, the blunt tip slick with your own arousal. You can feel it teasing you, pressing just slightly into your warmth before withdrawing once more. The sensation is both startling and arousing, a tantalizing promise of what's to come.

You're aware of the erotic sounds that fill the room—the wet, slick noise of the coat's phallus moving against your drenched folds, the soft, needy whimpers that escape your lips with each teasing stroke. You hate how delicious the sounds are. The coat purrs in response, the vibrations adding another layer of pleasure to the sensory overload.

The phallus nudges at your entrance once more, and this time, it doesn't withdraw. You feel yourself stretching to accommodate its girth, your body yielding to the coat's insistent advance. The sensation is intense, a mix of pleasure and a slight sting that leaves you gasping for breath.

"Oh," you gasp out, your hips twitching and your pelvis muscles twitching from the stretch.

As the coat's phallus begins its slow, inexorable push into your body, you can't help but gasp at the sensation. It's thick and warm, a solid presence that fills you in a way you've never experienced before. Almost tentacle like, worming around against your clenching walls. The fabric of the coat's inner lining is soft against your sensitive skin, a stark contrast to the firmness of the phallus that's currently buried inside you.

You arch your back, a soft moan escaping your lips as the phallus continues its exploration. It seems to be searching for something, its movements deliberate and unhurried. Each slight shift sends waves of pleasure coursing through you, the sensation both startling and intensely arousing.

The erotic sounds of your coupling fills the room once more—the wet, slick noise of the coat's phallus moving inside you, the soft, needy whimpers that escape your lips with each thrust. You can feel the coat purring in response to your sounds of pleasure, the vibrations adding another layer of sensation to the mix.

You're acutely aware of the erotic sensory details—the feeling of the coat's fabric against your skin, the warmth of its body as it holds you close, the scent of your arousal mingling with the musty aroma of the coat's inner lining. It's an intoxicating blend that only serves to heighten your pleasure.

The phallus inside you seems to be growing larger, its girth stretching you in the most delicious way. You can feel it pressing against your vaginal walls, each movement sending ripples of pleasure radiating through your body. The sensation is overwhelming, a constant thrum of pleasure that leaves you gasping for breath.

Your heart pounds in your chest, the rush of blood a rhythmic counterpoint to the thrum of the coat's purring. Each pulse of your heart sends a fresh surge of arousal coursing through your veins, making your skin flush and your breath come in short, sharp gasps. You're so attuned to the sensations that every twitch and shudder reverberates through you, a testament to the coat's mastery over your body.

And then, just when you think you can't possibly get any more aroused, the coat's phallus reaches a depth within you that makes your breath catch in your throat. You feel it probing against your cervix, a gentle nudge that sends a jolt of sensation straight to your core. Your eyes widen, and a startled gasp escapes your lips. "N-no," you stammer, your voice tremulous with a mix of desire and trepidation. "No. That place is for babies, not...not this."

In response, the coat's phallus vibrates, a low, rumbling sensation that reverberates deep within your belly. It's an acknowledgment, a silent affirmation of your boundaries, and the phallus withdraws slightly, avoiding the no-go zone with newfound respect. The change in sensation makes you gasp, and your hips jerk in response, the movement involuntary and desperate.

The vibrations increase in intensity, the coat's phallus humming with a steady rhythm that sends waves of pleasure coursing through you. You can feel your body clenching around the thick intrusion, your muscles fluttering in time with the coat's purring. Your toes curl, and a series of soft, needy whimpers escape your lips, the erotic sounds mingling with the wet squelch of the coat's ministrations.

As the coat's phallus begins to move within you, your body responds with a rush of moisture, welcoming the thick intrusion with a slick warmth that makes each thrust an exercise in erotic sensation. The fabric inside you is velvety soft, yet unyielding, each stroke a delicious friction that stokes the fires of your arousal. The coat's movements are deliberate and measured, a slow, steady fucking that leaves you gasping for breath as it claims your body as its own.

The slithering galaxy that lines the coat's interior wraps gently around your throat, the cool fabric a stark contrast to the heat of your skin. It tightens slowly, a sexual choking that sends a thrill of fear and arousal coursing through you. Your eyes widen, and a gasp is torn from your lips as the fabric restricts your airway just enough to heighten your senses without causing harm. The loss of control, the helplessness of your position, only serves to intensify the pleasure that's building within you.

Your body clenches around the coat's phallus, your inner walls fluttering in time with the rhythmic tightening of the fabric around your throat. The dual sensations are overwhelming, a blend of pleasure and pain that leaves you writhing in the coat's embrace. You can feel your orgasm building, a slow, inexorable tide that threatens to sweep you away.

The room fills with dizzying and erotic sounds—the wet, slick noise of the coat's phallus moving inside you, the soft, needy whimpers that escape your lips with each thrust, the subtle rasp of fabric against your throat as you struggle to breathe. The coat's purring grows louder, a constant thrum of pleasure that seems to echo your own rapidly beating heart.

You're acutely aware of the sensory details—the feeling of the coat's fabric against your skin, the warmth of its body as it holds you aloft, the scent of your arousal mingling with the musky aroma of the coat's inner lining. It's an intoxicating blend that only serves to heighten your pleasure.

The phallus inside you seems to grow even larger, its girth stretching you to your limits as it plunges into your depths. You can feel it pressing against your g-spot, each movement sending jolts of sensation straight to your core. Your toes curl, and a series of soft, needy whimpers escape your lips, the erotic sounds mingling with the wet squelch of the coat's ministrations.

As the coat continues to fuck you, the fabric around your throat pulses in time with the thrusts, a rhythmic pressure that sends you spiraling towards the edge of ecstasy. Your vision begins to blur, stars dancing at the edges of your sight as the combination of sensory overload and restricted airflow push you closer to the brink.

Your body tenses, and then you're falling, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of overwhelming pleasure. Your cries echo through the room, a testament to the ecstasy that courses through your veins. The coat's phallus pulses within you, drawing out your climax until you're left a quivering, gasping mess in its grasp.

As the waves of your orgasm begin to recede, the coat gently releases its hold on your throat, allowing you to draw in a deep, shuddering breath. The phallus inside you softens, retreating back into the fabric of the coat's inner lining.

The aftershocks of your orgasm softly ripple through you and the coat's fabric shifts, its touch changing from demanding to soothing in an instant. You feel its fabric stroking your body, a gentle caress that traces the contours of your skin with a lover's precision. The sensation is both comforting and arousing, a reminder of the pleasure it's capable of bestowing upon you. So much better than it biting you.

"Can we cuddle now?" you mumble, your voice soft and sated. The coat seems to understand, its fabric tightening around you in a warm, comforting embrace. It lowers your body back to the bed as if you were the most precious thing in the realm.

You snuggle against the coat, your fingers gripping the lapels while your body still trembles from the intensity of your release. The scent of your arousal is heavy in the air, a musky aroma that mingles with the musty scent of the coat's inner lining. You can feel your juices leaking from your body, a slow, sticky trickle that slides down your inner thighs. Another mess you were going to have to clean up.

The coat, ever eager, seems unabashed by your wetness. Its fabric shifts between your legs, the tip of its phallus emerging once more to lap at the moisture that pools at your entrance like an eager tongue. The sensation is startling, a cool, wet touch that sends a jolt of pleasure coursing through you.

Your heart pounds against your ribcage like a caged bird desperate for freedom, each beat a staccato reminder of the pleasure that still courses through your veins. You're breathless, your chest heaving with each ragged inhalation as you try to regain some semblance of control over your body. But the coat, it seems, has other plans. Greedy for your pleasure.

"I can't," you protest weakly, your voice barely a whisper. "I'm exhausted."

The coat ignores your plea, its fabric shifting against your skin with a maddeningly sensual rhythm.

The tongue laps at your entrance, slurping up the remnants of your orgasm with an eagerness that borders on voracious. You can't help but squirm as it traces teasing patterns on your skin, each touch sending little shivers of sensation coursing through you. The sound of the coat's ministrations fills the room—a wet, squelching noise that's almost as arousing as the physical sensations.

"Please," you beg, your voice trembling with a mix of desire and trepidation. "It's too much."

But the coat is relentless, its tongue delving deeper into your folds with each passing moment. You feel yourself stretching once again to accommodate its girth, your body yielding to the coat's insistent advance. The sensation is intense, a mix of pleasure and a slight sting that leaves you gasping for breath.

You roll and writhe on the bed, your body twisting and turning in a futile attempt to escape the overwhelming sensations. The coat's fabric tightens around you, holding you aloft as it continues its erotic assault. You're trapped, completely at the mercy of the sentient garment that seems intent on wringing every last ounce of pleasure from your exhausted body.

"Stop," you plead, your voice breaking on the word. "I can't take any more."

The coat, however, seems determined to prove you wrong. It knows you, knows your limits. Its tongue plunges into your depths, pressing against your g-spot with a precision that only serves to heighten your arousal. You can feel your body clenching around the thick intrusion, your muscles fluttering in time with the rhythmic thrusts.

Your fingers grasp at the sheets beneath you, clenching as your makes rake against the soft fabric. You can feel the coat purring in response to your sounds of pleasure and writhes of ecstasy, the vibrations adding another layer of sensation to the mix.

Your body tenses, and then you're falling, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of overwhelming pleasure. Your cries echo through the room, a testament to the ecstasy that courses through your veins. The coat's tongue pulses within you, drawing out your climax until you're left a quivering, gasping mess in its grasp.

As the waves of your orgasm begin to recede, the coat gently releases its hold on you. Exhausted and sated, you collapse onto the bed, your body still trembling from the intensity of your release. The sound of your ragged breathing fills the room, a stark contrast to the silence that follows.

And then, just as you're on the brink of unconsciousness, you feel the coat's fabric shift against your skin one last time. It wraps itself around you in a warm, comforting embrace, a silent promise of protection and care. You snuggle against the coat, your fingers clutching at the fabric as sleep claims you at last. About fucking time.

The last thing you hear before darkness takes you is the soft, rhythmic thrum of the coat's purring, a gentle lullaby that lulls you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Date Published: 7/4/24

Last Edit: 7/4/24

[these-godforsaken-halls]

a rare talent indeed

Grian doesn't have Ren's storytelling gift, but he can search for memories of artifacts to taunt the pirates with. A magic mirror with three wishes to grant, a mermaid's comb in the hoard of the dragon Kyto, a flower called a never-bloom that dances round the island — perhaps most tantalizing of all, a moonstone, tucked into the heart of the fairies' own pixie dust tree.

“How’s this, little fairy,” says the captain, leaning forward where he sits, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes are dark and clever, fixing Grian with a stare. "Win a bet with me, and I’ll let you have your choice — any piece of treasure on this ship, any one of them at all, is yours.”

alternative summary: grian makes bad decisions and gets horribly fucked up: the fic. (there will be a happy ending, dramatic rescue included, but oh my god.)

featuring, of course, a whole lot of convexian bc that's all my brain knows how to write anymore

this fic was written for the @mcytblraufest summer 2024 event, and is fully pre-written! the next 3 chapters will drop over the next 3 days!!

inspired by the beautiful art of @sarcasticcryingobsidian which is just- no words. so gorgeous. fills me with infinite whimsy fr and i have done my damnedest to capture that sense of whimsy in writing.

[daechwitatamic]

II. My Devotion's Been an Ocean || KNJ

(banner by @/itaeewon)

Title: My Feet to Follow, and My Heart to Hold (Masterpost)

Rating: NSFW - minors dni

Genre: college!au, roomie!au, angst, s2l, the absolute slowest of burns

Pairing: Namjoon x female reader, unrequited Taehyung x reader

Beta'd by @/kookstempo @/casuallyimagining and @/toikiii - thank you endlessly!

Summary: You know a lot about the many types of love thanks to Kim Taehyung. You love him as the only person you see as “family”, you love him as your very best friend, and you love him as the beautiful, funny man he’s become. But when a twist of fate during your senior year has you rooming with his good friend Kim Namjoon, you just might find that you have plenty left to learn about love. 

Lesson One: there are such things as a right way and a wrong way to love and to be loved.

//

You and Namjoon get used to living together.

Section Warnings: language, drinking, pov switch to Namjoon at the end

WC: 7k

The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake, Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road A gateless garden, and an open path: My feet to follow, and my heart to hold. - Journey | Edna St. Vincent Millay

Monday August 31

Monday passes quickly, the biggest event being that your wifi finally gets installed. You don’t see Namjoon all day - his room is empty when you get out of bed. You spend most of your day lazing around in sweatpants, enjoying having high-speed internet at your fingertips again.

Although there aren’t classes due to the federal holiday, the cafeteria on campus is open since the administration knew most students would have moved in over the weekend. You could walk there - your apartment to the student center is a shorter walk than the student center to your furthest class - but Taehyung offers to drive you. Laziness, and a few minutes of time alone in his car, win over practicality. 

Once you’ve made your plates and commandeered a small table near the back of the caf, Taehyung asks you, “So, how’s roomie life?”

You shrug. “Nothing to tell. He hasn’t even been home today. But I think it’ll be fine. I have a feeling we’ll just each… do our own thing.”

Taehyung nods. “That’s better than big drama. Do you remember Jungkook’s roommate last year?”

Your eyes widen. “Oh, god, the toilet paper hoarder.” 

Jungkook’s university-assigned roommate had indeed hoarded every extra roll of toilet paper in a secret location, meaning that if a roll ever got used up by anyone who wasn’t him, they could never find the new rolls to put out, even if they’d bought the replacements. Not only had Jungkook had to buy and then hide his own replacements, you and Taehyung had gone over and tried to help him search around for the hoard while his roommate was out, to no luck. 

Taehyung snorts into his plate. “Man, that kid was weird. JayKay’s so lucky we had room for him this year.” 

“I haven’t seen the place yet,” you point out. “Any major decor changes?”

Taehyung laughs again. “Just Jungkook’s punching bag. I swear, Jimin’s gonna break his wrist playing around with it.”

“Unlike you and your perfect form.” You roll your eyes.

“Hey,” he says defensively, pointing a finger at you. “When I’m goofing around, I don’t hit it hard enough to hurt myself.”

When you’re done eating, you walk back to Taehyung’s car. It takes literal minutes to get back to your brick building, and he idles at the curb.

“You want to hang out for a while?” you ask, hopeful. “We got the wifi installed today, we could watch a show?”

“Can’t,” he says apologetically. “I have plans with someone later.”

Plans with someone. That was Taehyung-speak for a date, or maybe “date” was the wrong word. Regardless, it meant he was seeing a girl later, getting something from her that he wasn’t getting from you.

“Ah,” you say. “Use protection.” You unbuckle as he scrunches his face at you.

“Don’t be gross,” he grouses. 

“You know I have no choice,” you tell him solemnly as you climb out of the car. You pause, resting your head on the top of the doorframe, peering at him. “Good luck in class tomorrow. Text me if you want to eat or anything.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding, already thinking ahead to his schedule. “Lunch around one?”

“I’ll text you, I have to go look at my schedule,” you admit. You shut the door and wave goodbye, heading inside. You don’t say love you in goodbye; you never do when you know he’s leaving your company for another girl’s. As if, with this one silly little rule in your own brain, you can punish him for it, when in reality there’s no way he even notices. 

Namjoon still isn’t home, so the apartment is silent and empty. You decide to devote your evening to prepping - both physically and emotionally - to start class tomorrow. You check your schedule, organize your books, make sure your laptop is charging. You get in bed early just out of sheer boredom. Around eleven pm as you’re scrolling around mindlessly on your phone, you finally hear keys in the lock, the thump as the door shuts again, Namjoon’s footsteps approach his own bedroom. You wonder absently where he was for fourteen hours. 

It occurs to you that you know nothing about his personal life beyond that he’s a grad student. You don’t even know his concentration of study. 

You wonder if you should go out to say hi, maybe under the pretense of getting a drink. Then you hear the sound of his door shut, and minutes later the boiler kicks on as his shower demands hot water. So, you stay put, turning out your light and setting your alarm for morning.

Friday September 4th

Your classes go well. The first week is always the professors going through the syllabus and outlining their expectations, anyway. Today, your morning class seems like it will be interesting, but tough; you’ve had this professor before and she’s a notoriously hard grader. You’d done okay with her the year before, though. Your second class, after lunch, is better. It’s a poetry course, which is your concentration, and you’ve had this professor - Professor Jemisen - twice already. He’s pretty laid-back, an easy grader, but you always find his lecture topics and assigned readings to be really interesting. 

He also gives homework on the first week, which most of your professors don’t: an assigned reading and reflection for the first poet on the syllabus, plus a prompt to write your own, pulling inspiration from that poet’s choices in style, rhyme scheme, and use of imagery. You’ve already got an idea as you walk out of class and head in the direction of your new building - this particular poet used a lot of nautical imagery, ships and captains, and the ocean itself was always very nearly a character of its own. 

You think as you walk, inspired by the lecture fresh in your head, toying with some ocean imagery and how you could stitch it into a turn of phrase. When you reach your building and sling off your backpack to hunt for your keys, you decide to stay on the steps for a minute. The sun is shining but it’s breezy, and it’s really pleasant. You pull out a notebook and some paper and start to draft what you might turn in.

Pulling pulling pulling, each 

cresting wave a daunting hill.

Who would try to fight the tide,

the dark, the depth, the chill?

My devotion’s been an ocean.

I fear it always will.

One thing that the deep sea is:

it’s never still.

You frown at it, pen between your teeth. You like the idea of the shorter final line, but the flow is off. You’re still considering this - as well as already thinking about how you’ll need at least one but probably two more short pieces like this for the assignment - when someone stops in front of you, their silhouette blocking the sun and casting you in a sudden shadow.

“You locked out?” a deep voice asks.

You look up (and up, and up) to find Namjoon peering at you, concern on his face.

“Oh,” you say stupidly. For some reason, you feel embarrassed, like you’ve been caught doing something silly, as if doing homework outside during nice weather was something strange and secret, and not completely normal. “I was working on an assignment. The sun - it was nice out here. I’m not locked out.”

“Gotcha,” he says easily, fishing in his pockets for his own keys. You struggle to stand, knees a little achy after using them as a table for the last half hour or so, closing up your notebook. You might as well go inside, now. You aren’t going to write anymore at this point, anyway.

You follow Namjoon upstairs, trying to find a good distance to put between you: you don’t want to be right on his heels, nor do you want him to have to hold the door for you for an awkward amount of time if you’re too far back. 

Inside the apartment, Namjoon drops his keys on the counter and heads for his bedroom door. Over his shoulder, he calls, “Have a good night.”

A good night? The sun isn’t even setting yet. 

But, it seems Namjoon means what he says. He disappears into his room, leaving his door open just about three inches, and he doesn’t come out again for the rest of the afternoon.

You stay in the living room through the afternoon, preferring to do Professor Jemisen’s poetry reading by the large, living room windows. You can hear Namjoon doing whatever in his room - the clacking of keys for minutes at a time, bumps and clacks as his wheeled desk chair moves and taps the table as he shifts in it, occasionally his footsteps as he crosses the room towards his attached bathroom. Sometimes you hear him mutter a curse, bang once on the desk with - you presume - a fist. 

You wonder idly what he’s doing - gaming, maybe? - as you finish your homework. You submit your assignment. The sun sets. You cook an easy one-pan dinner. You wash up the dishes you made while cooking, you put the leftovers in the fridge. You go shower and wash your hair, emerge back into the living room in your pajamas, and heat up some water for chamomile tea. 

Namjoon’s door hasn’t moved at all, still open just enough for you to be able to tell that he hasn’t turned on any of the lamps even though it’s gotten dark; the only light from the room flickers blue and white, a tv or computer screen. The same sounds filter through the small gap as you let your tea steep - the chair, the keyboard, Namjoon’s low voice as he mutters to himself, something rhythmic and lilting, before the typing starts again.

When you turn out the kitchen and living room lights, close to midnight, and head to bed, he’s still typing away in there, the room still cast in black and blue.

Wednesday September 9

You’re surprised to find him in the kitchen Wednesday morning. You come out of your room at a clip, pretty ready to head over to campus - you’re just trying to find your wallet. 

Namjoon is sitting at the breakfast bar, a mug of steaming black coffee in front of him, scrolling on his phone.

“Hey,” he says, sounding a little surprised to see you, too.

“Do you not sleep?” you ask, before realizing how bratty you sound. “I just mean, you were still up when I went to bed, and now you’re up before me.”

Luckily, he smiles at this, a bit sheepishly. “Not as much as I should,” he admits. “I got… I was working on something last night, so I was up later than I meant to be. I’d love to sleep in today - trust me - but I have to be on campus in–” he glances at his watch, “--twenty minutes.”

“Me too,” you say, starting to hunt around the living room. “But I can’t find my wallet.”

“Is it this one?” he asks, pointing to the counter near the spot that you’ve both wordlessly designated as the place to drop your keys. 

“Yes,” you say, sighing with relief. You slide your wallet into your bookbag and zip it back up. You pat your pockets, checking - phone, keys, yes. “Are you walking over? Want me to wait for you?”

He considers this for a second. “No, go ahead,” he decides. “I need to get a few things organized first, I don’t want to hold you up.”

“Okay,” you say easily, hiking your backpack up a little higher on your back. “By the way, I won’t be around tonight, I have work. If you want the leftovers from what I cooked last night, feel free. They’ll go bad after today.”

Now Namjoon looks really surprised - his eyebrows jump and everything. “Really? Wow, thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Sure,” you shrug. “I hope you like it.” You glance at the clock and murmur to yourself that you need to get going. “See you later,” you call over your shoulder as you leave. As you turn to give this goodbye, you see him watching you go with a small smile on his face, mostly hidden behind his large hand, fingers pressing against his mouth.

–

You have your senior thesis class on Wednesdays - it’s a double, with a break for lunch in the middle, and it’s with Professor Jemisen again.

“Two days in a row, huh?” he asks you as you pass his desk. You give him a quick smile and pick a desk near the middle of the room. As class starts, he outlines how the thesis will work - an intensive study and analysis of one or two poets’ works, as well as your own portfolio project. 

“We’ll spend the first half each week working on the anthology study,” he tells the room, scanning the crowd of sleepy seniors to make sure everyone is listening. “After we break for lunch, we’ll spend the second half workshopping your portfolios. It’s going to be a lot of work, and you’re going to need to be ready to go each Wednesday. If you’ve made it this far half-assing it, I’m warning you today that it won’t get you to pass your thesis. I’d like to remind you that you must pass Senior Thesis in order to graduate.”

He spends the rest of the morning session going over some options for the anthology study, showing examples of previous students’ final thesis projects to model what he’s looking for. 

By the time he flips the lights back on and you all stagger back to life, slowly shifting to pick up backpacks and shoulder bags, rising unsteadily from your chairs, your head is spinning. You could walk across campus to the student center and get real lunch, but this particular academic building has a coffee shop and a fast-food area. You opt for french fries and a juice, finding a few girls you’re familiar with and joining their table.

“This sounds like it’s going to be a lot of work,” one of them, a girl named Gloria, laments. You’ve had a few poetry courses with her over the last three years; she’s a talented poet, good at using a biting, precise syntax. 

“I know,” you agree, twisting the top off your juice. “Any ideas whose anthology you might use?”

She hums, eyes far away, mentally flipping through poets she likes enough to type twenty-five pages about. “Not sure yet,” she finally admits. “You?”

“No,” you lie. Professor Jemisen had said there would be no repeats - if someone else picked a poet, no one else could choose them. You already knew exactly who you wanted, and you didn’t want to lose your chance. In fact, you leave the lunch break early to go stake your claim.

“Can I go ahead and put in my choice?” you ask Professor Jemisen as you re-enter the room, about twenty minutes before the second block is scheduled to start.

He frowns good-naturedly. “You don’t want to think about it a little? I’m not going to let you change in the middle.”

You shake your head, sure. “No, I know who I want.”

Professor Jemisen nods somewhat absently, looking around the scattered papers on the table before him. He finds what he’s looking for and lifts it, reaching to take the pen from behind his ear. 

“Okay,” he says, finding your name on the roster. “Let me have it.”

“Edna St. Vincent Millay,” you tell him, mind already whirring, thinking ahead to which works would fit your thesis. “I was thinking of coming from a feminist angle… how she was so progressive for her time, how she pushed boundaries as a woman and as a writer.”

Professor Jemisen nods slowly, considering this. “That sounds promising. I look forward to seeing what you come up with, Y/N.”

Pleased, you take your seat, pulling up your school email and catching up on a few things while you wait for class to start again. 

–

You actually like your part-time job at the on-campus bookstore. The busy season can be a little exhausting - those first few days when it seems like the entire campus comes at the same time to get their required reading. But after the initial rush each semester, it’s a pretty laid back job. Since this is your third year there, your boss trusts you with a little more responsibility, which is how you ended up getting the closing shift twice a week.

Almost no one comes in after regular dinner hours, which means once you’ve done a quick sweep through to make sure nothing got put away in the wrong spot and the items that need restocked are handled you can just sit around behind the counter and talk shit with your coworker, Kris. Kris started with you last year, and you get along well.

“Do anything fun over the summer?” you ask absently, leaning back in your chair and crossing your legs, happy to be seated for a little while. Outside the store’s high windows, it’s dark. The lighting in the store is relatively dim, giving you a cozy, sequestered feeling.

“Went with my parents on vacation,” Kris tells you. “Barely survived.”

“Yikes,” you say. 

“How about you? Any family trips?” they ask.

“Nah,” you say easily. “Just hung out with Taehyung, the usual. The biggest event from my summer was Penny bailing on the apartment with me.”

Kris makes a grumpy noise. “I wish I could afford it,” they complain. “I would have loved to help you out and live off campus.”

“That would have been fun,” you smile. “We would’ve made trouble.”

Kris cackles, a deepy, throaty sound. “We would have. The roommate is okay, though?”

You shrug. “Yeah, Namjoon’s really nice. He’s clean and quiet, so I really can’t complain.”

Kris sits up, eyes widening. “Wait, Namjoon? You’re living with Kim Namjoon? The TA?”

You hesitate. “Is he a TA? I’m not sure.”

They wave a hand at you. “It has to be the same,” they say insistently. “How many Kim Namjoon’s can there be on a campus this size?”

“Probably only one,” you admit. 

“Probably only one,” Kris echoes in agreement. “And he’s beautiful. I honestly blame him for almost failing Medieval Lit last year. I was too distracted.”

You can’t help it, you crack up. “You failed Medieval Lit because you tried to take it on top of a full courseload,” you object. “And you tried to write your final paper about The Legend of Zelda.”

“I had solid evidence for my thesis!” Kris balks loudly. You’re laughing so hard you’re nearly crying, remembering how strongly you’d tried to help them focus on a better topic for that paper. Kris doesn’t listen to reason - not even when it comes from you. “And I’m telling you - it’s because I was staring at his gorgeous dimples instead of listening to the lecture!”

Gorgeous dimples? You haven’t noticed. To be fair, you’ve barely interacted with your new roommate; not a lot of chances to see him smile.

“How do you find all these beautiful men?” Kris laments, tugging at their purple hair in emotional distress. “It is truly unfair.”

You laugh; Kris spent much of last year bemoaning how much time you got to spend with Taehyung - and by proxy, Jungkook and Jimin. Kris had a collective crush on the whole bunch, starting from when they shared Freshman Seminar with Jungkook. 

“They find me,” you shrug. “And you know I’m blind to the beauty, anyway.” Well, that was almost all the way true. There was one exception.

“You know,” Kris says thoughtfully, “they really don’t hang out with other girls. You’re the only one.”

“That’s not true,” you object. “Have you seen those idiots at a party? They’re like magnets. It’s almost gross how easy it is for them.”

“I don’t mean at parties, I mean in their circle,” Kris explains. “You’re the only one they let into the group.”

You consider this, weighing the validity of it, searching for reasons. “I think it’s because they all know -”

Kris cuts you off, eyes glinting with mischief. “They all know that you’re so in love with Taehyung that you won’t bother the rest of them?”

You know they’re teasing and that they mean no harm, but it stings a little. You let out a quick laugh, trying to cover it. “I was going to say they all know that Taehyung and I are a package deal,” you say, the words tasting like arsenic on your tongue. “But maybe you’re more right.”

Kris seems to hear the change in your tone, and their gaze softens a little. “Anything new with that?” they ask delicately.

Anything new. You consider for a moment the version of the story that Kris knows: the close friendship, the feelings you have. How does it look from the outside? Can they see the situation with more clarity than you? You’re afraid to ask, afraid to give the question any attention.

“What could be new?” you ask, the lie dripping from you. “We were best friends last year - we’re best friends now.”

Kris gives you a side-eye good enough to be a viral meme. You ignore them, turning away gladly when the bell over the door dings. A grubby-looking freshman comes in and stands before the spinning rack with your electronic accessories - knock-off airpods, charging cables, usb drives. He grumpily sorts through the chargers and grabs one, slapping it down on the counter in front of you.

You ring him up silently and he leaves after paying. Kris is still watching you, and you dread turning around.

“You know,” they say slowly, “he was at a party I was at the other night. With a girl.”

You force yourself to shrug. “Taehyung dates. We aren’t together - he’s allowed. We’re just friends.”

They look at you evenly, then purse their lips and visibly decide to drop it. “Okay,” they say lightly. “If you say so.”

“I say so,” you mutter, deciding to go check the stock room for absolutely nothing, just to walk away.

When you get home, sometime after nine-thirty, Namjoon’s door is shut - a little sliver of that same blue light slipping underneath the crack below the door. Your leftovers are gone from the fridge, the container washed and put away.

Thursday September 10th

Thursday brings heavy rain - the all-day kind, the kind whose noise permeates the whole day, greeting you as you struggle to consciousness in your bed, adding steady percussion to the quiet music you turn on. The kind that makes you turn on lamps in broad daylight, the darkness outside making it that much harder to stay awake.

The kind that brings a barometric pressure headache, just for you.

[12:02 PM] Tae Bear 🧸: This is Taehyung, looking for signs of life [12:02 PM] Tae Bear 🧸: anyone in there? Hellooooo? [12:04 PM] You: shhhhhh why are you being so loud??? [12:05 PM] Tae Bear 🧸: ohh she’s got a weather headache [12:06 PM] Tae Bear 🧸: :( [12:07 PM] You: i want to push my thumbs through my eyeballs [12:09 PM] Tae Bear 🧸: you have such a way with words [12:14 PM] Tae Bear 🧸: you take anything for it? [12:15 PM] You: left the prescription stuff at lin’s house [12:15 PM] You: like an idiot 🤡 [12:17 PM] Tae Bear 🧸: ugh i’m sry [12:18 PM] Tae Bear 🧸: hope it passes quickly [12:19 PM] Tae Bear 🧸: lemme know if you feel good enough to come to dinner at the caf w me later

You don’t answer, pressing your head back into the darkness of the couch cushion beneath you. The pressure across your browline is nearly unbearable. You had managed to get up and get dressed, drinking a mug of coffee out of sheer desperation, before collapsing onto the couch. You set an alarm on your phone for when you need to leave for class and pray that just resting and closing your eyes until then will help, at all.

You don’t know how much later it is when you hear the front door open and close. You hear a muted thump as Namjoon (you assume) drops his bag in the entryway, then his footsteps tracing through the kitchen. The fridge opens, closes with a click, and then the footsteps approach. 

They pause somewhere in your vicinity. 

You can almost feel the unspoken alarm. It must look bad - you aren’t even laying down, just slumped sideways from a sitting position, body twisted to hide your face from any source of light. You raise one pitiful hand and wave. 

“Hi,” you say, not sure he can hear you through the couch cushion.

“Uh,” Namjoon says, taking one step closer, “are you… okay?”

“Relatively,” you say, rolling your head to squint at him through one eye. The soothing yellow lamplight seems stabbing, and you squint a little harder, trying to block it out. “I get bad headaches sometimes when it’s like -.” You wave a hand at the windows. Rain pounds against them, happy to finish your sentence for you.

Namjoon makes an understanding and sympathetic noise. “Can I do anything for you?” he asks after a minute, sounding a little ill at ease. “Does anything usually help? Do you need to go back to sleep or something?”

“I have class at two,” you grumble. “I don’t want to skip this early in the year. And yeah, I used to have a prescription for these kinds of days, but I guess I forgot to pack them.”

Namjoon disappears into his room, midconversation, which confuses you so much that you actually make yourself sit up, your head spinning from the change in position. You see the light shift in his room - he must have turned on the bathroom light. You can hear the rummaging of items, the rolling clatter of pills in bottles. He returns with a white bottle in hand, holding it out for you to read the label.

“You take these?” he asks, pushing his glasses back into place as you peer at the name.

“Not at that dose,” you laugh. “What are you, an elephant?”

He frowns playfully, pretends to pull the bottle away. “Well, I’m not going to share if you’re going to call me names,” he teases. “You think a half would be okay?”

“You don’t mind?” you check.

He scoffs lightly. “Of course not. I never use them all. I get about one bad migraine every six months, that’s all.”

“You’re a literal life-saver,” you tell him. He gives you a gentle smile, and you notice - really notice - those dimples Kris mentioned. 

They are cute. Damn.

He places half a pill on the table before you, screwing the cap back onto the bottle as he walks into the kitchen.

“Oh,” you call after him, feeling a little like you should stop him. “Hey, I can get my own…. drink,” you finish lamely as he sets a cup of water next to the pill. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, something warm in his voice, and then disappears into his bedroom again. 

You’re staring absently at his empty, open doorway as you take the medicine. He’s a mystery, this roommate of yours. There are probably lots of sides to him that you haven’t seen yet, many things you haven’t discovered about him. But you decide, right there, that he’s nice. 

–

[1:41 PM] You: i left my headache meds in your bathroom :(

[1:59 PM] Lin: oh noooooo

[2:02 PM] You: :( can you mail them? is that legal? Lol

[2:17 PM] Lin: i’ll find out 

–

[4:36 PM] Namjoon: did it help??

[4:37 PM] You: :( why are you so nice

[4:39 PM] You: took it from Death Mode to a dull pounding 

[4:43 PM] Namjoon: i’m really glad

[4:44 PM] Namjoon: i was going to order smth for dinner in a bit - you want in?

[4:47 PM] You: oh yes pls

[4:49 PM] Namjoon: Ondubu Menu.pdf

–

[4:41 PM] You: just said (typed) the word ‘pounding’ to my roommate

[4:42 PM] You: can i die now???????

[4:42 PM] Kris: lmfaooooooooooo i love you

[4:43 PM] Kris: the context, i BEG

[4:45 PM] You: i mean very unsexy context lol 

[4:46 PM] You: was in regards to the HEADACHE FROM HELL >:(

[4:47 PM] Kris: let’s work on sexying up the context 

[4:48 PM] You: bye 🚶‍♀️

[4:49 PM] Kris: #TeamNamjoon

[5:24 PM] You: #TeamYN 

[5:24 PM] Kris: #TeamDimples

[5:25 PM] You: we’re done here

–

[6:06 PM] Tae Bear 🧸: dinner at the caf? want me to come pick u up?

[6:08 PM] You: sorry, i ate, namjoon ordered us takeout

[6:09 PM] Tae Bear 🧸: ah. okay.

[6:12 PM] You: come over later?

[6:13 PM] Tae Bear 🧸: headache?

[6:14 PM] You: all better :) come over?

[6:19 PM] You: tete... please?

[6:20 PM] Tae Bear 🧸: yeah

[6:21 PM] Tae Bear 🧸: yeah i will

–

“I’m glad you feel better,” Taehyung tells you from his end of the couch. 

“Me. Too.” You wiggle your feet against his ribs. “It was truly terrible this morning.”

You’re on opposite sides of the couch, as usual, one blanket thrown over your legs. You balance your laptop on your thighs, trying to work on some homework. Taehyung scrolls through his phone. 

“I was thinking, you guys should have people over this weekend,” he muses, not taking his eyes off his screen.

“Like a party?” you clarify, still typing. 

“Mhm,” he nods. “A housewarming?”

You laugh a little. “That’s kind of last minute, Tae. You offering to help buy all the snacks and drinks? And clean?”

He meets your eyes long enough to make sure you see him roll his. “You don’t need help,” he grouses. 

You sigh, hating that you don’t hate the idea. “Could we keep it kind of lowkey?” you ask, as if you wouldn’t be the host, and thus in charge of these decisions.

“Just the guys?” Taehyung suggests, sounding a little hopeful now that it seems like you’re cracking. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “Jungkook, Jimin… maybe the others? I don’t remember all of their names.” You mean Namjoon’s friends, the ones who had helped him move in.

“I’ll ask the groupchat,” Taehyung promises.

Friday September 11th

In the end, Taehyung gets confirmation from Jimin, Jin, and Jungkook - the others seem more like maybes. Although you’d asked to keep it small, you feel the need to diversify a little, and you extend the guest list to include Kris, plus Gloria and a few more of the girls from your classes.

Of course, needing to maintain a positive roomie experience, you make sure you ask Namjoon if it’s okay. In the morning, you wait a while after you hear his shower run to make sure he’s properly awake, and then knock on his door.

“Yeah?” he calls, sounding a little distracted.

“Namjoon?” you ask, nudging his door just a little. Yeah isn’t the same as come in, necessarily. “I wanted to ask you something.”

He’s sitting at his desk, his back to you. At your words, he reaches up to pop out his airpods, and clicks to minimize the screen he had up - what looks like a word doc, from your vantage point in the doorway. 

“Okay?” he says, stretching his long legs towards you, leaning back in his swivel-chair. 

“Did Taehyung talk to you about tonight?” you venture.

“Tonight?”

Why are you nervous? 

“Yeah,” you say. “He had an idea to have your whole group come hang here, like a little housewarming thing? He said he’d text you all.”

Namjoon glances at his phone, as if to corroborate your story, but doesn’t turn the screen on to actually check for the text. “I didn’t see it,” he admits. 

“Oh,” you say. “Okay. Well, he should have invited all of you guys. I mean, you don’t need to be invited, you live here. I just, um, I wanted to make sure it was okay with you? To have people over tonight?”

You watch it on his face as he understands that you’re asking for roomie permission. He sits back up, already starting to swivel back around to his screen, nodding easily. “Yeah, of course. Thanks for asking first.”

You frown at his back; you hadn’t really felt like the conversation was over, but he’s already pressing his airpods back in with his thumbs, feet tapping with the bass.

“O-kay,” you say, backing out of his room. You have a date with a vacuum cleaner before your living room fills with people. On your way to the closet where the vacuum lives, you text Taehyung, begging him to make a liquor run for you.

–

The truth is Namjoon forgets what you asked him about twenty seconds after you leave his room. He gets back to work, trying to get back into the flow he’d had before you knocked. He doesn’t hear you leave for class, doesn’t think about it again when he leaves for his own an hour later. 

[4:49 PM] Namjoon: bar tonight?

[4:50 PM] Yoongi: did we not…already have plans with you tonight?

[4:51 PM] Hobi: no, we did

[4:53 PM] Namjoon: we did? idr. can the plans be bar at 8:30?

[4:55 PM] Hobi: you’d rather do that??

[4:57 PM] Namjoon: than what?

[5:00 PM] Yoongi: we were supposed to go to your place?

[5:01 PM] Yoongi: taehyung texted us yesterday

[5:03 PM] Namjoon: oh yeah

[5:05 PM] Namjoon: i mean you all know i love taehyung…

[5:06 PM] Hobi: but…..

[5:07 PM] Namjoon: but do i want to sit around my living room with a bunch of undergrads tonight?

[5:08 PM] Yoongi: i get the feeling the answer to that is ‘no’

[5:10 PM] Namjoon: so, i repeat. bar? 8:30?

[5:10 PM] Yoongi: 👍👍

[5:15 PM] Hobi: that won’t hurt your roomie’s feelings???

[5:16 PM] Namjoon: she’ll be fine

Still, when 8:30 rolls around and Namjoon notices you bustling around the living room like a crazy person, he feels a stab of guilt in his stomach. Resigned, he asks, “Can I do anything to help you get ready?”

“Taehyung is supposed to be helping me get ready,” you grumble, as you line up a bowl of chips next to a smaller bowl of popcorn. “But is he here helping? Despite this being his idea?”

“That feels rhetorical,” Namjoon observes. You shoot him a look. 

There’s a knock at the door, which saves him from your wrath, he thinks. As he watches you hurry to the door, wiping your hands once on your jeans out of nervousness, he knows he can’t leave - not yet. Silently damning both his conscience and his mother for raising him to have one, he texts the guys that he’s running late. Then, he reaches over and pops the top off one of the beers you’ve set out.

He might as well, right? 

It’s an entire hour later than he finally feels like maybe he can slip away. Taehyung finally showed up about half an hour ago, three girls slipping through the front door behind him. Namjoon can’t help it - his eyes fly to your face, watching for a reaction. If you’re upset, you don’t show it, instead hurrying to show them around, pointing out where to grab drinks and where the bathrooms are located. 

When Jungkook and Jin arrive - clearly having pregamed - Namjoon rises, inching his way closer to the door. Someone with a mop of bright purple hair comes through the door with Jimin, and the volume in the room triples instantaneously. 

Now’s my chance, he thinks, and glances your way to see if he'll make it out unnoticed.

Would it not be easier to say, ‘hey, Y/N, this was fun, but I have plans with Yoongi’? He wonders. Probably, but that would potentially result in seeing the hurt look on your face, and he’s trying to avoid that. 

On the couch, you sit close to Taehyung, legs touching, his arm over your shoulders. You’re laughing maniacally at something, using his torso to hold yourself up as you cackle, eyes squeezed shut. He looks down at you, smile large and boxy, laughing along. 

Namjoon grabs his keys and slinks out the door. 

“Look who decided to show up to the gathering that he planned,” Yoongi drawls when Namjoon finally slides onto the barstool beside him. Hobi gives him a sheepish look, one that says sorry about him… but also, he’s right. 

“I felt bad leaving,” Namjoon explains. “No one was there yet, and then I wanted to finish the beer I opened…”

“Mhm,” Yoongi intones, and Namjoon almost asks him what that’s supposed to mean, but decides to let it go. 

They talk over a pitcher of beer, Hobi filling them in on how auditions for his dance team are going, Yoongi on his current classes. 

Namjoon’s phone buzzes against his leg and he slips it out of his pocket far enough to see your name on his screen. 

[10:03 PM] You: did you… leave??

[10:04 PM] Namjoon: yeah

[10:06 PM] You: it wasn’t bc of us right? I thought you said this was ok???

[10:07 PM] Namjoon: no it wasn’t. just not really my scene. have fun though

[10:10 PM] You: ah ok. i just assumed since some of ur crew are here you’d join us

Yoongi’s chin is practically on Namjoon’s shoulder as he peeks at his screen. 

“She wanted you to hang out, you dick,” he says. 

Namjoon balks, shaking his head. “She’s just trying to keep the peace. Doesn’t want drama with her roommate.”

“No, dude,” Hobi insists, peeking over Namjoon’s other shoulder, giving him a perfect angel and devil scenario. “You are, in fact, an asshole. She’s definitely upset that you left.”

Namjoon growls in frustration, shimmying his shoulders to knock his menaces loose. “I don’t want to talk about Y/N. Let’s talk about something else.”

From either side of him, Yoongi and Hobi exchange a knowing look. 

“What?” Namjoon demands. 

The shared look now incorporates some eyebrow movement. Then, cool as a cucumber, Yoongi leans back in his seat, takes a long pull from his beer glass. “So,” he says, so casual, “how are things with you two, anyway?”

“What you two?” Namjoon counters. 

“The roomies,” Hobi supplies. “The odd couple.”

“We are very not a couple,” Namjoon says flatly, irritation simmering. 

“But seriously,” Yoongi pushes. “How is it?”

“It’s fine,” he says, a defensive edge in his voice. He pauses, tries for a second to get his act together. “As far as roommates go, she’s good. Keeps the shared areas clean, isn’t noisy. She’s not rude or anything.” He shrugs, hoping this will be enough to get the jackals off his scent. 

“That’s good,” Hobi says, nodding. “Do you talk or anything?”

“Nope,” Namjoon says, which is true. “We just kind of do our own thing.” 

“Her ‘thing’ being Taehyung, right?” Hobi asks innocently. 

Namjoon shakes his head. “I don’t think anything’s actually going on there. To her dismay, it seems.”

“I wonder why,” Yoongi muses. When the others look at him in confusion, he explains, “I mean, why nothing’s going on. It seems like they’re attached at the hip. What’s missing? What’s stopping them?”

“He is,” Namjoon tells them. “How she looks at him, and how he looks at her… it isn’t the same. It just isn’t there for him. I won’t presume to know how he feels, but it seems like he’s just enjoying the benefits of her company until she figures out that it won’t go anywhere. If that ever even happens.”

He hadn’t realized he had an opinion about this until the words are out of his mouth.

“Kind of sad,” Yoongi remarks, pouring himself another beer. 

“Maybe she just needs someone to snap her out of it,” Hobi says thoughtfully. 

“Maybe,” Namjoon agrees, and changes the topic as smoothly as he can.

Honestly, he agrees with Yoongi. It is sad - even from the outside, even from the limited interaction you’ve had, he can see the stars in your eyes when you look at your best friend. And he can see the disappointment that swims there when Taehyung, just by existing, lets you down, over and over again, day after day.

Maybe you do just need a distraction, someone new to divert your attention. But Namjoon can easily see that it’ll be an uphill battle for whatever poor soul tries that route, and he doesn’t feel like he has the emotional energy for it. He’s been there and done that before, and he doesn’t like to repeat mistakes.

No matter how cute and funny he might find you.

He hurries to drown that thought in another pint of beer. 

Thank you so much for reading!!! Let me know what you think!!! Theories? Questions?? Keysmashes???

Section III will post on Friday, January 27th - hope to see you there!

<- Prev || Next ->

[radiance1]

A King and his crown

I have just woken up, and have decided to post my fic here on Tumblr :3

===

“Dearly beloved, will you heed my words?” 

Pariah grunted. It was always like this, his crown always coming in silently and he left floundering because he was unable to notice his presence until revealed. He could sit upon his throne for however long he wished, hoarding every scrap of power he could get his hands upon, calling himself the king as much he wanted.

But it still wasn’t enough, yet he was glad all the same.

His crown felt thousands of times its weight, and his ring far too tight from where it sat upon his finger. Such things granted him power to near that of godhood, and perhaps, somewhere along the line he could indeed have been regarded as a god, but he was not so blinded by his own hubris to claim himself of the divine.

He felt hands gently be placed on his cheeks, dragging him out from the depths of his thoughts. He blinked slowly, a sign of trust he would only show to one being, and one being alone, to show they had his attention.

A small, beautiful smile graced the other’s lips, a smile he treated as the greatest of treasure, something so insignificant and fleeting, yet bearing so much beauty when seen through his eyes. 

“Beloved, will you attend to me for one last time?” He said, his tone calm and self-assured, yet still portrayed as if a question.

A choice.

“For now and forever onward, my love.” As if he would give himself a choice to say anything but that, he would not allow for anything less. To devote himself in body, mind, and soul, is the only gift he could ever hope to give to one who glowed so gently. “Part thy thoughts, and allow me to take on its burden in your place.”

He placed his own hands over his crown’s, relishing in the warmth hiding beneath the smaller limbs. Such a thing was another that he treasured so, an insignificant thing to anyone else, but one he would only allow himself to partake in with one other.

“Heed my words, oh mighty Monarch of the Seas.” His crown gently pulled his head down, an action he allowed, and gently touched his forehead with his own. “Heed them and listen well, for this is a fate that will only end with tragedy for one such as you.”

He opened his ears and listened. Listened to the future weaved by fate of his own subjects rebelling against him, a group of six sent forth from an era of his own making, who with power combined sought victory against him, how they subjugate his crown and ring that granted him such power and reduced his kingdom until it was naught but his castle and the surrounding stone and ocean.

His crown’s voice was calm, as if the future he was foretelling was merely a story of another, and not one belonging to his betrothed, and the king himself took it as such, for he had none of worry for himself.

Instead-

“And what of you, my love?”

“And what of me?” His crown’s voice was as calm as ever, yet now it held a slight hint of mirth. He gently lowered one of the hands upon his cheeks down to his lips, and departed a soft yet fleeting kiss upon their fingers.

“Will you stand strong against the future’s tide, if I were to no longer stand by your side?” Pariah opened his eyes as red met green, and silence took root in the throne room, so many thoughts left unsaid, many actions undone, every regret and desire lost yet shared within that single, fleeting look.

“I will manage.” Barely a whisper left his mouth, yet felt like the loudest of sounds when compared to the silence. Pariah hummed, his hands descending down until he could wrap his crown in a most gentle embrace and pulled him towards himself, resting his head upon his crown’s own. “You always do, my love. And yet, in all my selfishness, I had hoped you never had to.”

“You had, hadn’t you?” Arms returned his embrace, as he heard that ever-present calm waver the slightest bit, something he could never help but dislike, for it should never have to waver. He found himself running a clawed hand through his crown’s hair, gentle, as if the slightest pressure would break them beyond compare.

“Heh,” Clockwork chuckled, his form unable to hide the barest of shakes. “It’s so unfair, truly, that you would always be the one to stand so strong, and never waver, despite being the one bearing my burden.”

“It is a fate I have welcomed with open arms, my love. A fate I will guide you through until I am incapable of wading its waters no longer.” His crown’s embrace tightened, as his voice shook. “I know. I know, and I am so sorry.”

“Perish the thought, my love.” He pushed himself off his throne with a beat of his tail, a hand smoothly moving to replace his crown in a bridal carry as he left his throne room. “For it is a fate I would welcome with open arms once more, for whether past, present, or future. I will always stand by your side.”

A head was placed near his neck as an arm steadied itself over his shoulder. “Sometimes, I wish I foresaw futures where you decided to be selfish for once, and not live for me.”

“And I am glad no such future laid itself before your eyes.” He adjusted his hold to support with one arm, as the other moved to cover his crown’s eyes, as if to block out the sight of such futures. “Sleep, my love. For you will need it for trials ahead.”

“Will you be there when I awake?”

“Until I can no longer.”

The body in his hold relaxed, so much so that Pariah had to shift them around to better support his neck as he swam through his castle halls. It was filled with silence, as was the rest of his castle, there was no need for guards, as he was too powerful to need them, so there wasn’t.

Not a need for servants within his halls, for a simple magic cleaned what he used. 

The only sound that resounded within these castle walls before, was the sound of his beating heart, his thoughts, his breaths and nothing more. Until it became so, when joined by his crown, the sound of small chuckles, of laughter, of snark and sass, of conversation.

The feelings of love and acceptance that warmed the cold castle walls, the warm touches and soft kisses and gentle embraces. The small dinners that were enough for the two of them, the rare feast and dance when birthday’s pass, a thing he saw unneeded yet now brought him so much joy.

The cold, suffocating castle walls became warmer, and finally began to feel less like a self-imposed prison, and something more of a home.

He gently pushed open the door to their bedroom, and closed it just as softly once inside. Placing down his crown upon the bed and covering him with a sheet, the hand upon his eyes was finally removed to instead, brush a stray hair from their face.

“My only regret, my dear crown.” Pariah's eyesight grew blurry, and he finally allowed his weakness to fall silently. “Is that I was not strong enough to secure a future where we both were allowed peace.”

[undercat-overdog]

[The Three] were not made as weapons of war or conquest: that is not their power. Those who made them did not desire strength or domination or hoarded wealth, but understanding, making, and healing, to preserve all things unstained.

The love of the Elves for their land and their works is deeper than the deeps of the Sea.

The Elves of Eregion made Three supremely beautiful and powerful rings, almost solely of their own imagination, and directed to the preservation of beauty

[The Elves of Eregion] also retained the old motive of their kind, the adornment of earth, and the healing of its hurts.

[The Elves of Eregion] desired both to stay in Middle-earth, which indeed they loved, and yet to enjoy the bliss of those that had departed [...] they made Rings of Power [...] those who had [the Three] in their keeping could ward off the decayse of time and postpone the weariness of the world.

Yet after the fall of Sauron the [Three Rings’] power was ever at work, and where they abode mirth also dwelt and all things were unstained by the grief of time.

The Three were made to prevent the fading of the land the Elves loved, to make it beautiful and whole, to heal and adorn it. It was not to preserve their selves that the Rings were made; it was to preserve the well-loved lands, for beauty and joy and laughter.

(And oh, but the lands love them back: I hear the stones lament them: deep they delved us, fair they wrought us, high they builded us; but they are gone. They are gone.)

And it’s not stupid. It’s tragic.

[queenofdragons12]

Babydoll — J.JK, B.C, H.HJ

WARNINGS : slight seductive, flirting, soft fluff

PARINGS : idol! hyrbid! J.JK + B.C + H.HJ X fem! dragon! reader + stray kids and BTS

a/n: there's a new series I'll do hope you'll like it!

Ch.1

Being a hybrid had never been easy. The relentless pursuit of others, hoping to capture and exploit your unique essence, loomed over your existence like a shadowy specter. As a dragon hybrid, the fuss surrounding you was amplified to an unbearable degree. The clamor of humanity's curiosity and avarice pursued you ceaselessly, driving you to seek solace in the seclusion of your current abode.

You had once dwelled amidst the constant paparazzi frenzy in the heart of bustling Seoul, South Korea. But now, you had distanced yourself from the maddening throngs of humans, carving out a refuge far away from their intrusive presence. Yet, even in your newfound sanctuary, those relentless few managed to sniff you out, their tempting offers purposefully designed to exploit your vulnerabilities. Little did they know, you possessed a wealth that surpassed their expectations, having amassed a dragon's horde of gold before your relocation.

Glimmering and lustrous gold was integral to your dragon nature — a testament to your legendary heritage. Once upon a time, you had reveled in the opulence of your hoard, but the desire to assimilate into human society had tugged at your heartstrings for years. It had become customary to seek out work, a means to integrate yourself within the tapestry of humanity.

And indeed, you still toiled away, for today held an important job interview, a gateway to a new chapter in your life. As you stood before the mirror, your gaze met your reflection, scrutinizing every detail. The mirror's surface bore witness to the intricate dance of your fingers as they grazed along the delicate ridges of your face, tracing the contours of your neck and collarbones. Dustings of golden flecks adorned your scales, shimmering in ethereal beauty, a testament to the melding of dragon and mortal flesh.

The hues that adorned your scales captivated the eye — a mesmerizing blend of deep blue, black, and golden dust as if the night sky had woven a celestial elegance garment. Each scale was a tiny mosaic, a fragment of iridescence that painted a portrait of your true self. With careful consideration, you selected a dress that embraced the color palette of your being. The deep blue fabric cascaded down your form, caressing every curve with a grace reminiscent of a leaf floating upon a tranquil pond. Embedded within its seams were delicate threads of gold, reminiscent of the treasure you had guarded so fiercely.

As the dress settled upon your shoulders, it unveiled a tantalizing glimpse of your scales, which adorned your skin like jewels. Their presence, even in this modest display, exuded an otherworldly allure. A smile graced your lips as your scales shimmered and danced in the gentle illumination of the room. You were a vision, a resplendent embodiment of beauty and power, ready to face the world that lay beyond your sanctuary.

With a final, confident glance in the mirror, you knew that you were prepared. Ready to step into the realm of humans, your dragon heart beating in harmony with the intricate melody of a world that awaited you.

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱

Hyunjin had always reveled in the opulence of his wealthy family, a lineage that had long been a source of pride. However, his illustrious heritage was often overshadowed by the complexities of his werewolf lineage, which posed challenges in business. As the leader of the Lunar Shadows pack, alongside his father's old friend, Chan, Hyunjin had witnessed the thriving success of their pack. Yet, the constant thorn in their side remained the Wildfire Howlers, led by none other than the boastful alpha, the renowned Prince Jeon Jungkook's father. Despite the ongoing feud, Jeon Jungkook himself was confined to leading a small pack called BTS, a mere whimper in comparison.

However, amidst the mundane affairs of their pack, Hyunjin's attention was abruptly seized when rumors reached his ears of an upcoming appearance by new personnel. His curiosity was piqued, although a touch of boredom lingered within him. Such matters rarely concerned him, for his father, Ragnor, paid little heed to his son's and best friend's opinions, as they had already forged their own enterprise — Stray Kids, they called it.

Returning to the present, Hyunjin strolled through the grand corridors of his family's company. Then, he caught sight of a woman draped in a form-fitting blue dress, gracefully gliding towards him. His eyes fixed on her figure, exuding an air of unrivaled elegance. However, the dusting of scales adorning her supple skin truly captivated him. Their interplay of black, blue, and golden hues shimmered like a masterpiece, a canvas he would aspire to paint, blending dark shades with ethereal brilliance.

Halting in his tracks, Hyunjin's world came to a standstill as the woman turned her head, locking her captivating (e/c) eyes with his own. At that moment, his inner wolf roared to life, resonating within the depths of his being, screaming the undeniable truth—mate, mate, mate! A flicker of pain coursed through Hyunjin as he witnessed the woman tilt her head, acknowledging him before continuing on her way, the echo of her heels clicking against the pristine floor.

Hyunjin stood there, stunned and breathless, as his soul reverberated with the overwhelming presence of his destined mate. Never before had his wolf yearned so fiercely, recognizing this encounter as the real deal — the union that would bind them eternally. With your enchanting presence, you were his one true soulmate, destined to intertwine their lives in a symphony of love and belonging.

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱

You scolded yourself silently, berating your outburst, as you leaned against the wall on the other side of the room, facing the office where your new boss awaited you. Why had you let out that startled scream? Coiled within your very being, your inner dragon hissed in disapproval, smoke curling from her nostrils. Because I could sense him, you cannot deny that you felt the connection too. You can't tell me he wasn't your type! Your dragon reminded you, her voice resonating in your mind.

Taking a deep breath, you shook your head, brushing aside strands of hair that had fallen across your face. With newfound resolve, you steeled yourself again and raised your hand to knock on the door. The air hung heavy with anticipation, nerves coiling within you like restless serpents.

Soon enough, the door swung open, and you nearly flinched as you came face to face with a man whose handsomeness surpassed anything you had ever witnessed. There was a striking resemblance to the tall, long-haired individual you had encountered in the hallway — a kindred spirit, perhaps? Your breath caught in your throat as your dragon flamed up again, reflecting the scorching intensity coursing through your veins. His dilated pupils mirrored your own, signaling a shared recognition — an unspoken understanding. At that moment, you realized he, too, was a hybrid.

Oh, boy, how would you navigate this intricate dance of fate? The intertwining of two extraordinary beings, destined to collide in a world that could be breathtakingly beautiful and treacherously unpredictable. Survival seemed daunting, for the path ahead was shrouded in mystery, with the potential for passion and peril in equal measure.

[redgoldsparks]

March Reading and Reviews by Maia Kobabe

I post my reviews throughout the month on Storygraph and Goodreads, and do roundups here and on patreon. Four of the books I read this month were for the Trans Right Readathon, which I participated in from Mar 20-27 and donated money to the Transgender Law Center. Reviews below the cut: 

The Swifts: A Dictionary of Scoundrels by Beth Lincoln (Dutton Books for Young Readers) A whimsical, witty debut middle grade murder mystery full of word play and puns. The Swifts are an ancient English family with many quirky rituals- one of them is the tradition of naming every new child by opening the dictionary and pointing out a word thought to determine their character; another is the massive family reunion they host every ten years when Swifts from around the world gather at the family manor, a decaying three story mansion, to try and find a massive treasure hoard hidden by an ancestor. Shenanigan Swift, youngest of three sisters who still actively live in the house, is determined that during this upcoming reunion she will be the one to find the treasure once and for all. But almost immediately, fights behind to erupt between the contentious Swifts, and a scream in the hallway leads to the discovery of a body at the bottom of the stairs, and then a deadly Scrabble duel, and then a bloody accident in the library... before she knows it, Shenanigan is searching not for a treasure hoard but for a murderer. This book includes nonbinary, trans, and queer characters and an overall message of being true to one's self despite societal and familiar pressures and expectations. An excellent read for anyone who enjoys a good all-ages tale.

Queen of the Tiles by Hannah Alkaf read by Catherine Ho (Salaam books/Simon Schuster Books for Young Readers) Najwa's world centered around her charismatic, beautiful, popular best friend Trina and their shared passion for competitive Scrabble. Then Trina collapsed and died during a tournament, and Najwa was thrown into the confusion of depression and grief. Finally, a year later, Najwa feels able to return to her first Scrabble tournament since the death of her friend. She wants to win in Trina's memory and earn her old title, Queen of the Tiles. But then someone starts posting on the dead girl's instagram account, taunting messages that hint that the death was a murder, and that the players might even now be in danger. Najwa does her best to unravel the events of a year before, navigating gaps in her own memory, and a tangle of the envy, hatred, admiration and love the Scrabble community had for Trina. This is an engaging, diverse, complex mystery that kept me guessing until the very end. Full of wordplay and etymology trivia.

The Anthropocene Reviewed written and read by John Green (Dutton) I started listening to the podcast of The Anthropocene Reviewed years ago- maybe late 2019 or early 2020? For me these essays are colored with the bittersweet poignancy of the early covid period, and indeed the book references covid, collective health, and vaccines regularly in essays on small pox and more. I had planned to re-listen to the whole book, but I ended up missing the lovely sound editing of the podcast version so I only ended up listening to the last 25% to hear all of the essays which were exclusive to the book ("Winter Mix" to the end). This book is my favorite of John Green's work to date, and I'd recommend it even if you've bounced off his novels. 

Terry Pratchet: A Life in Footnotes: The Official Biography by Rob Wilkins (Doubleday) I've read 30+ of Terry Pratchett's 50+ books, but I didn't know very much about his life before reading this biography. I never had the pleasure of hearing him speak at a convention, or of seeing him at a signing, despite the extensive amount of touring he did from the mid-90s to the 2010s. This extensive biography was written by his long time assistant, friend, and collaborator Rob Wilkins, a huge Pratchett fan who went from working on organizing the UK Discworld conventions to working for Pratchett's agent to working for the author himself. It's funny and conversational, full of footnotes and silly asides, not unlike a Pratchett book in that regard. It takes nearly 90 pages to get through Pratchett's high school years; though to be fair, Pratchett published his first two short stories, bought his first typewriter, and attended his first few sci-fi conventions before he was out of high school. He was a tremendously dedicated worker, often writing two or more books a year once he quit his journalism and PR jobs to begin writing full time. This book is primarily about his creative work and extensive hobbies (gardening, beekeeping, raising goats and ducks, astronomy, silver-casting, brewing mead, building home electronics, playing computer games, forging his own sword) but skates lightly over his interpersonal relationships outside of professional collaborations. I did not leave it with a good sense of how his only daughter might have felt about having such a workaholic as a father, but I did leave it with a better sense of what fed and nourished his astonishing imagination, and the successes and stumbling blocks he met along the way. 

Roaming by Jillian Tamaki and Mariko Tamaki (Drawn and Quarterly) Zoe and Dani, high school best friends now in their first year of college at two distant and different schools, reunite for a spring break in New York City in 2009. They have five days to cram in as much sight seeing and bonding as they can. But Dani brought one of her classmates, Fiona, and this third person injects an intense new energy into the dynamic. Dani wants to visit all of the biggest tourist attractions. Zoe wants to have some adult experiences she's never had before. And Fiona? Initially she wanted to ditch the other two, but then she decides Zoe is more interesting that the people she was going to meet up with, especially after Fiona manages to buy some weed from the desk manager at their hostel and Zoe turns out to have a fake ID. This is a smart, beautifully drawn story about the painful period between being a teen and becoming an adult, the growing pains of an old friendship, the addictive pull of a new crush, the struggle to figure out who you are and want to be against the backdrop of a foreign city. Fans of previous Tamaki collaborations will love this one as well. I was lucky enough to get my hands on an advanced reader copy; preorder it now or look for it in stores in September 2023. 

Team Trash: A Time Traveler’s Guide to Sustainability by Kate Wheeler and Trent Huntington (Holiday House) A short, easy to read book on historical sustainability and recycling efforts for young readers. Two kids, Charlie and Oliver, are paired together for a science project and end up accidentally taking a time-traveling car made out of trash back in time to Pompeii, ancient Japan, early America, and more, to learn how people in different eras have handled their garbage. A fun, informative introduction to the topic for kids which includes with an example of how to contact legislators. Forthcoming in June 2023! 

Babel: An Arcane History by RF Kuang (HarperCollins) I read this for my book club, and we won't be holding our discussion of it until late April, so I might come back after that with more thoughts. For now, I'll say there were aspects of this book which I really enjoyed (the focus on the damage caused by colonization, the diverse cast, the unique magic system, the Oxford setting) but also multiple ways it felt bogged down by it's own length and some of the plot decisions. I'm normally a huge fan of a quirky or educational footnote (see: Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell) but in the second half I felt like the footnotes were bleeding the tension out of the action and really taking away from my reading enjoyment. I wanted more from several of the lead characters emotional arcs. I wanted the plot turns of the second half to come sooner. I wanted some of the multiple main character deaths to be given a bit more space to breath. Still, I'm glad I read this and I think it's a very thought provoking book, maybe more so because it's so far from perfect. 

Victories Greater Than Death by Charlie Jane Anders, read by Hynden Walch (Tor Teen) Tina has known since she was a kid that her destiny lies beyond Earth. From the outside, she looks like a regular high schooler, someone who loves her friends, has a passionate sense of right and wrong, and never passes by an opportunity to stand up to a bully or a corrupt local business owner. But in her chest is a star beacon which will someday activate and call an alien spaceship to pick her up and return the memories of her previous life. Tina is the clone of a famous and beloved space general from the Royal Fleet and she can't WAIT to get to the business of saving people for real. But when Tina's ship and future come for her, she learns that battles are messy and fighting comes with causalities. This is the first book of a trilogy, which asks the questions: what are acceptable losses when fighting for a greater good? How far will you go to save your friends? How about a girl you just met, but are already half in love with? This series is fairly light in the realism and sci-fi world building departments, and cares about its characters maybe more than its plot, but its delightfully queer, trans, and full of heart. 

Come Tumbling Down written and read by Seanan McGuire (Tor dot com) The stories that center on Jack, Jill, and the Moors continue to be some of the strongest installments in this series. In this one, Jack reappears at the school for Wayward Children- in her twin sister's body. She needs help, and she needs it fast, and despite the sign outside the school which reads "No Quests", a group of Eleanor West's students once again step through a magical door to save a world not their own. 

Lakelore by Anna-Marie McLemore  It's been a while since I read a novel all in one day! I picked this up for the Trans Rights Readathon (running on all bookish social media near you from March 20-27 2023) and I absolutely loved it. The two main characters, Bastian and Lore, are both nonbinary, both Mexican-American, and both neurodivergent. Bastian lives by the shore of a lake, the source of many myths, but only Bastian seems to be able to access the liminal, magical space beneath its surface. Until they meet Lore, who can also see the way the waves lift off the shore to become a path. But Bastian and Lore both end up pouring things into the lake they're unwilling to face- bad memories, traumas, and the hateful whispers of cruel classmates. The lake can only hold so much, and soon these painful things start flooding the shores, into the streets and homes of the teens. The only way to quiet the waters is to face what they've tried to drown. This a fast, engaging read and one of the best books about living with ADHD and dyslexia I've ever encountered. It makes me want to seek out more stories with this kind of representation, and this kind of emotional, visual language! 

Self Made Boys by Anna-Marie McLemore  Another book I finished all in one day for the Trans Right Readathon (March 20-27 2023!) This Gatsy retelling casts Nick Carraway as Nicolás Caraveo, a 17-year-old trans boy from Wisconsin. He wants to move to New York not for the glamour but because he has a head for numbers and wants to make money working on Walls Street to support his parents and establish himself as a man. His cousin Daisy finds him a cottage in West Egg, but when he reunions with Daisy he's shocked to realize she's passing as white and lying about her past to her sort-of fiancé, Tom, a man who pretends at tolerance while exhibiting casual racism. Then Nick meets his other neighbor, the infamous Jay Gatsby, who throws outrageous and extravagant parties but is more similar to Nick than most people can see. This retelling adds an insurance investigation about a missing $350,000 pearl necklace; a visit to an underground gay club; and cast full of queer characters, all trying to make some kind of safety or place for themselves in the world. I'd love to see this version added to school reading lists along side the original!

Prophet by Sin Blance and Helen Macdonald (Grove Press) At the start of this military thriller, set in 2010, a sergeant dies in a mysterious fire on a US base in the UK. Around the base, dozens of objects appear ranging from familiar, nostalgic childhood toys, to a full American style diner in the middle of an empty field. A pair of unique agents are called in to investigate these circumstances: reserved, rule following Colonel Adam Rubenstein, and chaotic Sunil Rao, unranked, pulled from rehab after an overdose attempt. Rao as the ability to spot fakes and forgeries at a glance, and also to tell when anyone is lying. Except Adam. Adam is the only person who confounds Rao's power, and the only one who can manage his unpredictable moods and whims. This unlikely team chase the threads of the mystery back to Colorado, into an experimental government lab, where they find a bizarre substance effecting people's psyches to produce physical objects linked to memory. Everyone seems to react to it in the same way... except Rao and Adam. The book is a little over long, but full of witty dialogue, very original, and the plot intrigue is underpinned by the emotional tension between the two leads, who are pulled together by curiosity, attraction, and increasingly, by real feelings. There were a few missed opportunities that I think could have ramped up the romantic stakes even farther, but still, I loved that a cautious queer romance formed the emotional core of the story.

Surpassing Certainty: What My Twenties Taught Me written and read by Janet Mock This candid, conversational memoir is read by the author in the audiobook and I really loved hearing it literally in her voice. Mock begins the book writing of being a freshman in college in her native Hawaii, of working briefly in a strip club as a dancer, of meeting the man who she would marry and live with on and off through her twenties, of following her academic ambition and writing skills to Rhode Island and then New York City, of friendships, boyfriends, heart breaks and career breaks. Mock pursued the goal of becoming a culture magazine editor with remarkable clear-eyed practicality and worked her way into higher and higher positions even as a recent grad. Along the way she gained confidence in herself, her place in the world, and her unique voice as a trans woman of color. She went from living stealth to deciding she wanted to share her story calmly and compassionately with the world. 

[funeralcryptid]

Hello again! I am Ver, I hope you have amazing day or night✨

I offer you this little wisdom that one of my spirits shared with me when I was down: “Why are you fixed with 2 or 3 stars when you have a whole sky full of stars that you can catch. There will for sure stars that will follow you even if the stars that you choose don’t follow you”

I really like the idea of multiple possibilities since a lot of people are stuck and focused with only a few choices. This also gives a room of variable interpretation. I wanted to share with you!

My question if it is fine for you: how can you describe my inner world? (I know that this vary since it is personal description)

Years ago, some psychics forced themselves in my inner world without my consent, but the small peek they got they described as something extremely beautiful, in particular someone described that my inner world has a strong light that is lighter than sun or something. It’s been so long so I don’t remember exactly the words.

Now I am curious what a psychic (with my consent now) can see in my inner world. I trust you because I really look up at you when I feel stagnant with my readings. I also really like your honesty and straightforward answers.

Feel free to delete my ask if it is not possible or is it quite complicated to understand🫶🏻

Welcome,

Thank you for the wisdom, it is much appreciated.

I'll have to start by saying that I don't consider myself a psychic. If that doesn't bother you, I hope you find something of use in this message:

I immediately see a lot of green with waterfalls and clear light; but I also see a valley of death where sacrifices (heads) are made by a figure wearing a hat and chest armor. I see a dragonfly with a broken wing, all the while I hear the water run peacefully.

Let's see what the cards have to say:

As I shuffle my cards I see a hero suffering, or mourning. He's on his knees and appears to be in pain or distress. Now, the cards reveal to me that your inner world is indeed a beautiful place where luck and abundance flourish, but there's also a lot being hoarded, many negative things such as pain or memories, even positive things that once had value to you and prove to be meaningful. You seem to be unwilling to let go off these things. Perhaps that's why I saw the heads being thrown into the valley. This is a message to allow you to make room inside yourself for things to leave and stop influencing you, but also to make room for further blessings. Remember that the shadow is passing, and light leaves us for half of the day as well.

Your inner world is also abundant in the primordial urge of the hunt, although it's not blood thirsty or violent in nature. It comes from the need of recycling energy and letting nature follow its natural course. There's many energies inside of you that work together to ensure your success. I am afraid I also have to say I see a blockage of sorts, but it's ironic. You seem to be hyperaware of things and process things mentally more so than other people. However, certain things that you have to discern prove to be difficult, and there's also a hint of insecurity?

Last, I see a snake of sorts (like a basilisk) raising half of its body while staring right at me. There seems to be something you wish to protect, but I don't think it's my place to pry so I leave you with that information.

Of course, that's simply the way I perceived your inner world.

I hope this resonates with you xx

[weatheredpileoftomes]

locked tight

For FFXIVWrite Day 11, “once bitten, twice shy”. Majha/Ysayle and past Majha/OFC, mid-Heavensward, spoilers through lv…55? msq, ~550 words. I knew this was Majha the minute I saw the prompt but I didn’t figure out how to cram it into an FFXIVwrite until the small hours of the morning.

Majha has been here before.

When Majha got her heart broken, she was seventeen and trusting.

The girls were encouraged to pair off—or group up—among themselves, the same as the tias were, to remove temptation. Majha had thought she was more than just available and not Payan’s sister. She’d thought they were courting, that it mattered to Payan the same way it mattered to her. She’d thought that she ended up suggesting more ways to spend time together than Payan did because…

She doesn’t know why she’d thought it. She hadn’t considered it all then, and even now she’s never been able to puzzle it out.

Payan had told her eventually that she was being too strange about something that was only a convenience in the end, and Majha—Majha had taken it, because she’d had to, because she had no choice.

Because in the end it’s impossible to make anyone feel anything. She wouldn’t have even if she could, she just wishes she hadn’t even wanted to. No more, she’d decided. No more letting herself fall for anyone who made her no promises, for anyone who didn’t want her.

No more, she reminds herself now, watching firelight reflect blush-pink across Ysayle’s face and hair.

It’s been a long, strange trip.

The Churning Mists are bitter cold, enough that even Majha—used to the high woods near the Gyr Abanian border—and Alphinaud mind it. Ysayle and Estinien seem less bothered, but they would, especially in front of each other. Majha can’t imagine one of them being the first to admit something that they’d see as weakness and she’d consider simply having a body made of flesh and blood like any other, here in lands never meant for the Spoken, or indeed anyone not made of magic or covered in fur.

Furless mortals as they are, they’ve had to sleep curled up together, to hoard warmth. They’ve had nothing to do as they scrambled across broken roads and over rocks never meant for foot travel but talk to each other.

Majha had had to do something about having to work with Iceheart, is the thing. Iceheart, who’d taken the supplies meant for Revenant’s Toll, who’d seen Majha’s chosen people as mere obstacles. She’d had to do something, and so she had considered Ysayle’s good qualities, and then kept finding more of them.

And she is beautiful, and Majha had saved her life once in the burrows of the Gnath—had fought for it, fiercely, defying Thal himself to tear Ysayle away before Majha relinquished her, which she would not—and then Ysayle had given it to her in trust on the way up Sohm Al.

And Ysayle would follow Shiva, and marry Hraesvelgr. Ysayle has never even considered anything else. She has spoken of it, often, these last few days and nights.

She considers what they’re doing an honor and an opportunity, the final chance to complete her legacy. Majha could argue—surely the legacy Shiva left would be satisfied with peace and friendship between man and dragon, if nothing else—but why argue? If Ysayle won’t choose her, freely and without persuasion, then firelight or no what’s it worth in the end?

She looks away from the fire and into the night, and it takes a long time for the dazzle of her eyes to fade.

[regnigt]

From The Blue Castle chapters 29 and 30

But in spite of Barney's doctrine of bondage, Valancy thought they were splendidly free. It was amazing to be able to sit up half the night and look at the moon if you wanted to. To be late for meals if you wanted to -- she who had always been rebuked so sharply by her mother and so reproachfully by Cousin Stickles if she were one minute late. Dawdle over meals as long as you wanted to. Leave your crusts if you wanted to. Not come home at all for meals if you wanted to. Sit on a sun-warm rock and paddle your bare feet in the hot sand if you wanted to. Just sit and do nothing in the beautiful silence if you wanted to. In short, do any fool thing you wanted to whenever the notion took you. If that wasn't freedom, what was? (Chapter 29)

I love this section, especially the repetition of "if you wanted to" and how it all adds up to such blissful freedom. The image of Valancy paddling her foot on the sand sticks with me the most. So sensual and utterly happy.

Barney knew the woods as a book and he taught their lore and craft to Valancy. He could always find trail and haunt of the shy wood people. Valancy learned the different fairy-likenesses of the mosses—the charm and exquisiteness of woodland blossoms.

Slightly surprised not to have a mention here of John Foster's books - I know that Valancy read them for the pleasure of it, but I would have thought at least some woodland facts would still have lingered in her. (Although if not, I can very much relate to reading nonfiction for pleasure and yet not be able to recall the actual facts all that well later on!)

And Valancy learned the real flavour of the strawberry in its highest perfection. There was a certain sunlit dell on the banks of Mistawis along which white birches grew on one side and on the other still, changeless ranks of young spruces. There were long grasses at the roots of the birches, combed down by the winds and wet with morning dew late into the afternoons. Here they found berries that might have graced the banquets of Lucullus, great ambrosial sweetnesses hanging like rubies to long, rosy stalks. They lifted them by the stalk and ate them from it, uncrushed and virgin, tasting each berry by itself with all its wild fragrance ensphered therein. When Valancy carried any of these berries home that elusive essence escaped and they became nothing more than the common berries of the market-place—very kitchenly good indeed, but not as they would have been, eaten in their birch dell until her fingers were stained as pink as Aurora’s eyelids.

This is so wonderfully vivid! It makes me think of an expression in Swedish (my own language), "smultronställe". Lit. "wild strawberry place", it initially meant exactly that, a place that is very good for picking wild strawberries in. But then it kept up an additional meaning of "any place that's precious to you", especially if it's a place not many others know about (after all, you want to keep your strawberry hoards secret!). And it also can refer to precious memories connected with such personal places.

The word (in its definite form) was used for the title of one of Ingmar Bergman's early films, Smultronstället, known as Wild Strawberries in English. In the movie both the literal sense and a melancholy, nostalgic aspect of the metaphorical sense are in use: the elderly main character remembers picking strawberries in his youth as a happy bygone memory. While the movie came out in 1957, according to Wikipedia the metaphorical meaning of the word dates back to the late 19th century and early 20th century. But I very much doubt L M Montgomery would have encountered it. It's probably just a case of natural parallels. Wild strawberries are awesome.

Valancy had taken some of her two hundred dollars out of the bank and spent it in pretty clothes.

It is interesting that she doesn't seem to be using anything of her own saved money for their daily expenses. I guess it's part of her thing to no question what Barney doesn't want to talk about to not ask him why he doesn't need it. Maybe she does think he's using counterfeit money to pay for everything! :DD

[neostriatum]

ešretū of a burglar

[AO3] [Dreamwidth]

-

The hoard of gold is cursed. Bilbo looks at Thorin and suspects the Arkenstone is, too. This beautiful, thrice-blasted stone weighs heavily in his hands and he would like nothing better than to give it to another’s. Whose hands, he thinks bitterly, could hold the Arkenstone without breaking under its thrall? No mortal being, and that is certainly the truth.

-

It is one dreary day, nominally no different from the last, when Bilbo finds himself in conversation with Balin.

“If- if the Arkenstone were to be found,” Bilbo asked, refraining from cringing at Balin’s sharp, knowing look, “Would that help him?”

His friend sighed, “No. No, I do not believe it will.” They both looked at the corridor, where Thorin doubtlessly lurked beyond it, focused only on a symbol of his kingship rather than how much loyalty he already had from his Company, “Tis best if it remains lost.”

He watched Balin watch the air in front of them, face composed in the stare of one traversing memories no one could accompany, heart falling.

“Mahal help all of us, it will not help him.” Balin heaved a weary breath that seemed to rattle down his beard, walking by to pat him on the shoulder.

Bilbo remained rooted where he was, staring at the self-same green stone comprising the mountain, “Mahal help us all,” He said wonderingly, fingers drifting into his pocket, “Indeed.”

-

It was no small thing to sidle up to a brooding Thorin – certainly he had enough practice of it in Laketown, where thoughts of the mountain consumed his friend until nothing else had any room. But manage it he did, or else he could not call himself a burglar if he could not even steal but a moment of time.

They walk side-by-side across the hoard of gold for a while, Bilbo waiting for Thorin to be roused from his thoughts. Were his heart not feeling so treacherous, he could almost enjoy it.

“Burglar,” Thorin greets him, when they have reached one corner of the room and must pivot to avoid the wall.

“Master Oakenshield,” He replies gamely, his smile thin but earnest.

A scoff is his reply, but Bilbo knows enough to tread lightly. He stares at the gold, wondering if he’ll ever forget the sight of so… much of it. Instead, he sighs, almost wistfully, “Erebor must have looked beautiful.”

Thorin is distracted by his comment, and chuffs a quiet laugh, “Aye, Burglar,” The king turns toward him, all that focused attention on him instead of the hoard, and it’s a little dizzying, if Bilbo’s honest with himself, “Erebor was once the pearl of dwarvendom, a center of trade between East and West where all could gather and rest in its halls.”

Bilbo feels himself smile in response to the affection and takes the chance to start slowly drifting, trusting that Thorin would follow him while he asks guileless questions about the man’s home – it works, and he holds his countenance in carefully attentive repose. All we need is a cup of tea, he muses, and this would just be like elevenses in the Shire.

They’re slowly moving out of sight of the treasury and all its glittering, placating malevolence, and Thorin’s face softens with each step in boyish remembrance at the beauty of his home, voice a fond murmur as they traverse the dusty halls. Eventually it is only them, breaths reverberating in the silence.

Thorin’s face isn’t suspicious, not quite, not to the same carven veins of anger that lurked the same way Smaug did. But it isn’t quite the same loveliness that had pushed the pall of sickness away just moments ago. “Burglar,” the king intones, voice low, “What did you want? Truly?”

He inhales, heart unsteady, “Truly?” Bilbo wishes to sink into Thorin’s side, hide away from the legacy of so much death reeking and sneaking in this mountain, “I- I wish to give thanks. We have survived, and retaken the mountain. That… is no small task, and- and I’d like to be grateful properly.”

This king in front of him is melting back into Thorin, all sweet-eyed and awe-faced. It lingers between them, drying his mouth and making him blink away the emotion quickly. Another breath for courage, and he continues, “Surely there is a place for that, here?”

“Aye, my burglar,” Thorin says warmly, and it almost sounds like an endearment. A hand is placed on his back, branding as it guides him gently further into the mountain, “There is such a place, where we give our thanks to he who crafted us. Many used to pilgrimage there, and our inn was always full of well-wishers.”

Bilbo nods, wondering when his incessant string of gambles is going to run out, but nevertheless he leans into the supporting hold of Thorin’s arm. Were it another day, another problem, he would have more sincerely enjoyed this stroll through the dim corridors.

As it was, he contented himself with imagining what Erebor would look like with all of its glittering lights renewed, winding halls and towering columns bustling with life and laughter. With Thorin at his side, the silence was companionable now, and Bilbo could tell himself that it was because he was there with the king.

Maybe it had taken mere moments to arrive at their destination, or maybe Thorin’s hand drifting to his and nestling him closer to the man’s side folded hours neatly into minutes, but eventually they were at a gate. No mere door was this, polished silver inlaid with carefully-formed inscriptions and gems alike that likely told some story repeated to every dwarf-child upon their family’s knees, but to Bilbo’s eyes was an unknown, grave beauty.

A man, taller than any of the others depicted, was hard at work on an anvil, a forge so bright in colour that Bilbo imagined he could feel its heat alongside the smaller figures in the image. Both of them stood before it, taking in the sight. Its mere presence seemed to drop Thorin’s shoulders lower, his head bowing with it.

It wasn’t tense, this posture, but it was… humble. Something in the lines of Thorin’s shoulders reminded him of the guest who had met him at the door of Bag End, and of the eyes who had stared at him unflinchingly over the evening campfire for most of their quest. Were it another life, Bilbo imagined he could see the young man who carried the duties of his line with pride rather than grief, and suddenly he felt abruptly glad for this hare-brained idea of his, even as he burrowed deeper into this king’s hold.

This is a king I could follow, he thought, remembering Balin’s quiet words, so early in their quest that he felt like a different person entirely. They swayed there in each other’s embrace, madness seeming a far-off concept that only lurked in stories meant to urge children to bed.

The god of every dwarf, Mahal, felt warmer in his engraved image than the entirety of this mountain, one arm perpetually raised to strike at the metal held securely on his anvil. It was a sight that burned into Bilbo’s eyes, bright and clear despite his eyes being firmly shut and ensconced as he was in the buckled folds of Thorin’s coat.

Words were murmured above him, deep and rumbling like the mountain itself, and for a moment he merely sighed contentedly. “Mh?” He mumbled, flexing his warming hands in the wool caught between his fingers, “What is it?”

A laugh then, equally as quiet, and Thorin ran hands down his back to part them gently, “Thank you,” He said, smiling and clear-eyed, “I had nearly forgotten of this.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile back, feeling altogether like a puddle held upright, “Of course,” He replied, gentle, “Thank you for showing me.” There was a tap to his forehead, Thorin looming close even as his smile was closer, “I would show you the whole of the mountain, Master Baggins, if you would let me.”

His breath caught on a forgotten sob, hoping such a venture would actually become the truth, “I would more than let you, Thorin,” He said, “I would be there step for step.”

It was a moment that began to stretch thin, the hold of madness never lurking further than the pull of poisoned gold, and he watched as Thorin’s face shifted in remembrance of what they had briefly snuck away from. The warmth of Mahal’s image at his back was soothing, but scarcely so over the dreadful draft of sickness warping over the king’s features once more.

“You may be the only one, Master Baggins,” Thorin intoned, a frown worming onto his face, hands that previously restrained their strength now gripping firmly as the king straightened, “Be careful where you step in this mountain, burglar; one step could easily be your last.”

And Bilbo nodded, feeling his throat clog with despair as the king led him away from Erebor’s carefully-sealed respite.

-

The treasury, if possible, seemed even colder than before. Bilbo flexed his toes into the pile of gold and trinkets he stood upon, attempting to warm them and his heart to something above frozen. He saw that the rest of the Company was unaffected, a net of digging hands cast over the hall in search of something already sequestered in his pocket.

It wasn’t the only precious item hiding in his pocket, and he resisted the urge to squirm in place as he watched over the others raking through the coins. In a way, he was grateful that Thorin commanded he remain apart from the search for the Arkenstone – he wasn’t sure he could handle pretending it was a useful activity.

Balin was sitting off by a divot of columns, ostensibly resting his legs. Their eyes met across the expanse, and Bilbo sighed a nod, making his way over to the dwarf. Clinking coins made for an unsettling background noise to his thoughts, encouraging him to make haste.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Balin commented mildly, breaking off a chunk of cram and passing it over.

“Thanks,” He muttered wearily, settling down beside the older man and hoping he didn’t slide right down to the bottom of the hoard if a coin or two decided to unearth itself. Such stress made his heart patter, and he wasn’t sure how much of it he could take.

Biting into the cram, he realized it smelled vaguely like the ones from Rivendell, and he raised a questioning brow. Balin laughed quietly beside him, “You were the only one to take a washing in the river, laddie. We had repacked the last of it in some oilcloth at Beorn’s. It seems to have held up rather well, I believe.”

Experimentally, Bilbo rapped it against his knee. Limb thus smarting, he grimaced, “It’s well-aged.”

“That is true!” Balin grinned, “And all the better, otherwise it wouldn’t have survived the journey.”

He nodded, letting his gaze follow to where Balin was looking, the youngest of their group a little more merry than their own weary souls. Fíli and Kíli were holding up various objects for Ori’s inspection, the dwarf’s notebook open on his perched lap as the young man no doubt sketched everything held before him with the same swiftness as he recorded the events of their journey.

It made him feel old, all of a sudden, drained and in want of burrowing under the covers of his old bed to weather away the winter in peace. “They have much to celebrate,” He said quietly, “They’ve never been here before, have they?”

“Aye,” Balin agreed, smile fading but eyes retaining their warmth, “A whole new Erebor through their eyes. I am glad, that someone here will not remember the terror of Smaug’s desolation.”

Even Thorin, brooding as he was on his own pile of gold, frowned less severely at the antics of youth, guised as they were under the propriety of taking stock of the hoard. His heart squeezed at the sight, and he chipped off a piece of cram with his teeth, stomach growling.

They sat in silence, observing the others and observing the one overseeing it all. Bilbo sighed, wishing for the warmth of Thorin’s smile, “Are the winters very harsh here?”

Balin chewed on his own bite of cram, sliding a glance at him in acknowledgement. Eventually he nodded, hiding the motion in his beard, “That they are, laddie. These old bones remember it well, how we would close off the main gates and stoked our great forges to weather the northern winds blasting down upon us. I expect it to be no different this year.”

The cram sat like the ash most of this Company remembered half an eon ago on his tongue, tasteless and all-obscuring. Desolate though the lands around most of the mountain may be, there was still game to be hunted in the area – food that had yet to make its way into these halls, no matter how deft the aim of Kíli or how soft-footed Nori was.

Bombur’s enormous cooking pot had lain empty for too long, and a draft curling around his ankles froze his shivers into determination. They would be starved out of the mountain before any imagined enemy came stalking, and Bilbo had no wish to wield a shovel in the service of grave-digging family members so soon after the last. Two graves thus far in his life was two too many, and thirteen more would break his heart into fragments not even the most skilled craftsman could piece back together.

He inhaled, eyes dry and pockets heavy. There was one craftsman he had yet to try.

-

It was while he was convincing himself that he should venture forth into the deeper parts of the entombed mountain that Thorin caught him by surprise, wresting a gasp from the gentle touch upon his shoulder.

“Bilbo,” And, oh, he had never heard his name in that tone, softly rumbling apprehension that turned his fears into liquid. He turned, nodded for Thorin to continue, “There might yet be a war upon our mountain, and I would not wish for you to be unprotected.”

He bit back the daft, instinctive thought to reply with But won’t you protect me?, knowing it was a foolhardy venture at best, no matter how mended their fences were. Thorin was a king, and he… he was a hobbit. The two were nothing alike, and so he swallowed, looking into Thorin’s eyes and awaiting the next pronouncement.

A rare showing of hesitation made its way across the king’s face, subtle and fleeting and yet all the more precious that he was able to bear witness to it. “Thorin?”

Something in his tone must have trod over the silence, and maybe Thorin did hear the wavering, faint impression of his heart reaching forth and saying the My king? that his lips could not muster, for in Thorin’s hands was a glittering drape of chained metal. It looked so delicate in the other’s hands, and he wondered how such a thing could exist in this time, and how something so obviously precious had escaped Smaug’s notice.

It seemed not to have escaped Thorin’s, however, and it was held before Bilbo as if in offering, “I would know you are safe,” He murmured, “Please. Put it on.”

“What is it?” Bilbo breathed, shedding his coat and holding his arms out in acceptance as he wondered aloud.

“Tis silver-steel, as you would know it,” Thorin replied, hands as gentle as they were before Mahal’s image, setting the mail over Bilbo’s head and he could swear not a single hair was rustled in the action, “Mined by our forefathers, it is rare now, but was once the beauty of all who beheld it in our first home.”

The one you lost, Bilbo wanted to say, biting back the words the same as he bit his lip. The action drew Thorin’s attention as he was adjusting the armor over Bilbo’s frame with careful pinches of his fingers, eyes dark and encompassing. He was not quick to forget the story Balin told all of them, of the home of Durin that earned Thorin his battle-name and felled half his family in the same breath.

A woeful day, and yet here they both were, memories caught between them as a fragile wisp woven into what must assuredly be a strong material, for Thorin was never the type to cut corners on what he considered important. He caught the king’s hands before they could leave him, holding them close as his heart thumped.

“Thank you, Thorin,” And what else was there to say? Nothing, nothing in the wake of a slim edge of joy in the man’s gaze upon him.

He would do anything to keep that joy, and stoke it higher.

-

Mahal looked ever the same, and now, fingers threading uncertainly over the armor protecting him, Bilbo wondered if it was in fact every precious scrap of mithril that faceted their god instead of silver.

Silly me , he thought fondly, No dwarf would ever use less than the best.

He ran his hand down part of the door, feeling the coolness of the metal. It was rather like a river – life-giving, and strong. Perhaps that is what made him such a fitting spouse for a goddess like Yavanna, and for a moment Bilbo could fool himself into thinking he also heard the rustle of trees in the wind along with the perceived warmth of Mahal’s forge.

Home. It felt like home, and Bilbo felt his eyes dampen at the thought of what Thorin must have felt to have seen this after so many years. An enveloping sense of safety that beckoned him forth, and a firmer press upon the door had it swinging open on silent mechanism.

The inside was dim, removed as it was from the sunlight and bits of renovated lighting that showed through the main expanse of the mountain. Still, he found his steps sure, only the faintest traces of dust swirling around his feet in such a well-maintained room.

The love poured forth for Mahal from an entire mountain’s hands was prevalent here, with each chiseled word and inlaid image. He felt as if he could rest here for a thousand years, until Mahal’s halls emptied and the world, as his Company told him, was remade once more. It was a place of giving, and a place of receiving, so strange from the Shire and yet tended with as much care as a hobbit’s hearth and garden.

Offerings still rested upon the large anvil, set as it was just a little ways from one wall. There was a real forge, one that had gone out. Bilbo walked around it in search of some way to start it again – surely no offering would be received unless the forge was lit? This part, at least, was reminiscent of his home, the yearly bough carefully wrapped in ribbons and wishes to be laid in the hearth, sung into ashes with merry wishes for the new year.

A barrel, plainly-wrought and sturdy, was full of rocks that looked and smelled an awful lot like the charcoal Bofur had once described to him. Surely if there was a source of heat, there must be some way to light it? Alas, the wisdom of Thorin’s nephews would not help him here, nor would the pipe and matches laid in his pack half a mountain away.

Some inspection and dusting later revealed a lamp, and Bilbo squinted at it, wondering if it produced a flame in the same mechanism as the one his father had bought from a dwarven trader many years ago. He cleaned it off with the cuff of his jacket sleeve, muttering a short prayer and twisting the knob at the front.

A terrifying noise of sparking cloth almost made him drop the entire contraption, but the smell of burning oil was sweet and reassuring. It firmed his grip upon the wood-encased handle, and the new source of light flung itself across the room, highlighting more details to his untrained eyes. What sparkled dimly in the light was now a cacophony of wonder – what must be thousands of gems creating scenes of dwarven history, reading like a scroll across the expanse of the room, one scene at a time.

For a moment all he could do is stare in awe, turning slowly as his eyes scanned the unknown language and richly-illustrated scenes they accompanied. Everywhere he looked, even in the depths of remembered despair at the attempted destruction of the original dwarves upon Eru’s commandment, there was an abiding affection in every line. His shaking breath echoed back to him, the swaying of the lantern from the depth of his revelation making the scenes feel alive.

Thousands of years stared back at him, and the knowledge of how steadfast the endurance of dwarves were settled over him as surely as the feather weight of silver-steel Thorin had draped so abidingly over him. Bilbo nodded quickly, not sure if it was for himself or the people remembered upon these walls, and turned on one heel back to the forge.

Once his determination was found, Bilbo found it a simple matter to light the forge before him. Everything was arranged in a practical matter, and it was short order to shovel charcoal into the grate, a kit for lighting it on a shelf nearby. The rocks were their own brilliant and unusual colours, but his faith in the Company’s anecdotes proved true when the fire quickly started.

The fabric of his trousers was quickly stained by the charcoal dust, but it was no matter to him as he stood, roughly patting the worst of it out. No great thing happened, but he felt a sense of peace at his accomplishment come over him, anyway. It felt quite similar to lighting the great yearly fire in Hobbiton, something he had presided over as a Baggins for many years now, and his nerves tingled at the comparison.

He turned toward the anvil, knowing the general gist of what he wanted to do, but uncertain quite how.

“Um,” Bilbo addressed the anvil, or perhaps the room at large – and it was certainly large, wasn’t it? He sucked in a breath, remembering the warmth he felt at the gates of this chamber, and nodded firmly, “Hello. I- I would like to give you something, in thanks. For… for keeping us safe. And I would like to ask – if it isn’t too presumptuous, of course! - if you could keep us safe still. Please.”

The forge was warm behind him, and the anvil imposing, so he stared briefly at the ground in front of him. His feet, which before he always thought were quite normal and sensible, now seemed utterly out of place, covered in charcoal and other detritus. The disparity of the sight in such a hallowed place almost made him lose his nerve, but he didn't think someone as- as fatherly as Mahal would throw him out on his ear for the simple negligence of being a hobbit.

He stuttered out a laugh, shaking his head. It bolstered his confidence that this was the right action, and with a quick glance that the grand entrance was still closed, Bilbo swiftly removed the Arkenstone from his pocket and deposited it upon the anvil. Nothing happened, no utterance from above or a shocking display of might, so he let his shoulders down an inch.

“I- I know this is considered a sign of kingship, but-” Bilbo wet his lips, twisting his hands together, “But this is not the Thorin I know. It’s- it’s not the Thorin I love.”

The quiet admission didn’t bring the mountain down about his ears, so he figured everything was quite alright. It didn’t stop his hands from trembling, nor his heart from pounding, but he ventured forth. He had found his courage, after all, and its meagre supply was in great need right about now.

“He is quite changed,” He whispered, “I know he cares, about- about all of us. He would not have fought so hard if he didn’t. And I feel as if… as if we’re running out of time. For what, I don’t know. But I know the look in his eyes, and I don’t ever want to see it again.

“Call me selfish,” Bilbo shook his head, “But it cannot be good for him, this fear he has of betrayal. We all love him, we have all quite literally followed him across the land. I never thought I’d see past Bree! But he has accomplished so much, and I- I do not believe the answer he wants is the one he needs.”

He could not see the gleam of the Arkenstone from beneath its haphazard wrappings, and in this room he could admit to himself he didn’t want to. No matter its beauty, all he could see was the deadened glare in Thorin’s eyes, how it made him quick to anger and quicker to suspect treachery. Thorin was fearless, in the way kings in stories always were, and it made his heart break to see desperation seeping through and Smaug’s curse warping it.

No, the Arkenstone would do no good for Thorin, and he could think of no other’s hand but the one that crafted Thorin. He pressed a hand against his mouth, stifling the sorrow that hounded such thoughts.

“I will not dig another grave,” Bilbo said fiercely, “Not for him! Not for any of them!”

He beat his other hand on his thigh, struggling for composure in a place that held only him and history. The path Thorin was forging now would only lead to death, and it would not even be a useful one. Smaug’s words echoed in his ears, and he gasped a lonely breath, and then another, choking on them.

Whether he could see the Arkenstone upon the anvil was moot, now, eyes blurred as they were with tears. All he could see when he looked upon that stone was death, its light false in comparison to the very real, very warm forge burning behind him. He brought dirtied hands to his eyes, pressing harshly until the fear subsided, chest heaving with the effort of calm.

“Please,” He muttered, “Please. Save them, if you can. For I cannot.”

His thoughts were gently tumbling, like sand shifting under a footstep, sliding and uncovering the blackened tendril of terror that had gripped him since he had travelled through another mountain. It felt so out of place, a stark contrast to the sparkling of polished gems laid in reverence and stories woven with love. It took him more than a single moment to realize his hand was wrapped around his trinket of a ring, and a rush of cold washed over him.

“You,” Bilbo said aimlessly, feeling disconnected from himself. It could be grief, he told himself, of a future within eyesight. It could be, but he knew it wasn’t. His own voice was low, and it startled him to realize how closely it sounded to Thorin’s in the depth of Smaug’s thrall. Precious.

But was it? He realized he was scarcely better, and his hand spasmed over the ring, keen to release it but equally unwilling. I will not part with a single coin! and My precious… sounded awfully alike in the solemnity of this hall. He shuddered, stumbling forward on numb feet and unclenching his fist from its gnarled grasp before he could truly think about it.

“Please,” He said again, feeling almost like his hand had been severed and burned, knees weak from fear, “Please.”

Bilbo sucked in a breath, mind swirling, “Help me.”

-

Later, it could not be recalled what the tremendous noise was. Some said it was the mountain tumbling in on itself, but that was clearly untrue, given that it was still standing.

Some said it was some pall cast over the mountain by Smaug, a dying breath of revenge. But that was also untrue, given how fervently the Company swore that it sounded just like a hammer striking upon anvil, clear and true.

Others, if anyone asked, said it sounded like a curse breaking. Thranduil, in his march upon the mountain, had felt an echo of dragon-fire once more upon his face and then never more, an old scar contented to fade into memory.

Dain, many miles away and still en route only on the word of a long-lost raven of yore, felt the ground shake and his mind clear of long-held anger. He had spurred his army on faster, uncertain what he would find but knowing it was momentous.

Bard had no concept of it, save a comparison to the shuddering crash the dragon’s body made as it collapsed over his home and drowned whomever it didn’t burn. His heart lightened, and he knew to trust it, bow heavy on his back and mind occupied with the fate of his children.

The Company who retook the mountain, they… they could only watch, as Thorin stumbled where previously he was sure-footed, a pained gasp none of them were close enough to decipher, their king running out of the treasury with such haste they were compelled to follow.

It seemed there was no quarry to find, only a straight line between them and their destination. Deeper into the mountain they went, scrambling across stairs as if they were hills, following their king as he went where only he seemed to know. Only when they all happened upon the long-forgotten hall of Mahal did they tumble into a stop, Thorin alone unchanging in momentum as he swung the doors open.

Later, it is said, that Mahal’s anvil had created one more gift for the dwarves. Shattered stone, banished of its tempting glow, and icy shards of gold with broken letters laid upon it, lit by a simple forge and accompanied by a simple, extraordinary hobbit.

The “ešretū of a burglar”, they called it. A one-tenth tithe paid to Mahal in all sincerity for peace, out of a love their burglar later said came from the love he could see around him.

And that, they thought, was a good use of Mahal’s benevolence and wisdom.

-

Author's Notes

An ešretū is “the Ugarit and Babylonian one-tenth tax” (Wikipedia).

It occurred to me, perhaps because Tolkien had his own motivations when writing The Hobbit, that a reasonably simple fix-it would be to just... give the Arkenstone to Mahal (figuratively). It would neatly side-step the issue of who's supposed to own such an item, and reform the ideas of kingship back to pre-Arkenstone levels. Maybe it's an essay for another time, but who knows why exactly Thrór latched so quickly onto it. I'm sure a ring of power didn't help matters, and on that line of thinking I added the One Ring alongside the Arkenstone for similar reasons. Mount Doom the forge of the One Ring it might be, but it's still of the mortal realm - I doubt anything Mahal wishes to hammer on his own anvil would remain as it were.

Accordingly, dwarves probably have their own, thought-out culture in terms of their place in the world and how to navigate it, and I figure it was likely neglected in favour of Tolkien's personal opinions of a narrative and its worldbuilding. Most of my own worldbuilding places aspects of their culture further east, closer to Central Asia (where unsurprisingly, and coincidentally, a lot of mountains are). I figure something like Mahal's Hall has a religious function to it, where one can dedicate a prayer - that isn't at their own hearth - and make an offering. I like the idea of numbers having significance to dwarves, but at the time of this story I'm undecided which shape this room should have, so pretend it's something like an octagon for now.

As for the breaking of the Arkenstone and One Ring, I also like the idea that it's a Silmaril that's been buried beneath the mountain (and dwarves wouldn't know to avoid it, hence A Problem), so breaking it would also break whatever's causing it to glow from within and also its ability to sway the minds of whomever is around it. Bilbo isn't unaffected, but he has priorities of his own that make him also a reasonably good Ring Bearer - there's echoes of Frodo's difficulties in there, because I doubt Bilbo would be able to escape such a repercussion.

The broken letters on the ring is pulled from ancient Egypt, in that they had considered certain hieroglyphs inherently capable of evil and would "break" them by erasing a part so it would be rendered harmless. The One Ring is cold because it is, to my interpretation, literally soul-sucking as a mechanism for how it can both extend a bearer's life but also twist it to its suiting.

Bilbo's comparison to his own culture I drew upon the Yule log (Wikipedia) and Gävlebocken (Wikipedia), with some nudging around to make it more Hobbit-like. I can't imagine that Yavanna, in particular, would be pleased with more burning of wood, but alas if her husband can convince her then I'm sure hobbits can probably get away with it for particular occasions. There's also some obscure mentions to the Fell Winter and Bilbo's parents in there, because every character has their own history tagging along with them, and I imagine Bilbo's altruism has to come from somewhere.

[viterbofangirllovestheuntamed]

*looks at pirate Jiang Chi* so his wife was the cultivation world's answer to Ching Shih then? or she was the leader of Jiang Shi's favorite port, Lotus Pier, and had her own group of feral land based rangers/bandits who wanted to set their lovely, grumpy leader up with the funny pirate captain bc they wanted a turn jumping off the plank while the pirate goblins were interested in the food and simping for the port leader laughing at their captain's attempts to woo the grumpy lotus lady

*heavy breathing* OH MY GOSH!!!! *incoherent screeching*

~~~PART ONE~~~

Jiang Chi considered himself a reasonable man.

For instance, the world was full of sorrows and tragedies, and the uncertainty of what one's own fortune might contain could kill a person as slowly and agonizingly as a long fever. Therefore, it was only reasonable to live each day as it it were your last, finding joy wherever possible and embracing challenges with open arms and an eagerness to conquer. Seeking out said challenges was also reasonable, as they couldn't be avoided anyway so what the hell, right?

There were other people like himself who simply couldn't bear the utter tedium of farming. Therefore, it was only reasonable that he gather such a group of like-minded people and carve out an alternative lifestyle for themselves. And Jiang Chi liked the water (especially the quick escape it offered), so building said alternative lifestyle around ships was certainly the most reasonable solution.

There were many things of beauty and value in this world that were hoarded by selfish men. Therefore, it was only reasonable that he liberate such treasures and redistribute them to parties that would appreciate them more, including parties that happened to be named Jiang Chi. And it was likewise reasonable to avoid killing those selfish men whenever possible, because then they'd be alive to gather more cool stuff for Jiang Chi to redistribute in the future!

His men---being pirates---must be able to react to unexpected conditions and be as at home in the water as on their ship. Therefore, it was only reasonable that he periodically shove members of his crew overboard from time to time. Laughing at them was also reasonable, as it encouraged camaraderie and assured his men that he wasn't mad at them even if he did think their reaction time was shit.

Yes indeed, it could not be argued but that Jiang Chi's reasonableness was immaculate and all-encompassing.

So as he stared at the arrow that had missed his ear by a literal hair---still quivering from where it was embedded in the mast---and let his gaze follow the projectile's trajectory to its origin to find the most no-nonsense, authority-reeking, bitchy-looking woman he'd ever seen standing on the nearby river shore, a lotus tucked behind her ear as she held her bow at the ready while a ragtag group of banditish-looking fellows held themselves at the ready behind her...

Well, it was only reasonable that he fell instantly, utterly, and irrevocably in love.

[land-of-classpects-and-analysis]

Who is the Thief of Space

The mind of a creative person is one of the most beautiful, horrific, perplexing things in the world. To see all the different shades in our day-to-day lives. To think up and create new things that never once existed until you made them. To tie and knit and stitch the loose threads together to create a tapestry of love and dedication. It is a great act to commit, and it is a holy one indeed.

But what about the creative people and their creative minds who have dams in their way? They have all of these ideas of designs and beasts and worlds and galaxies festering in them, much like any other creative. However, they just cannot seem to make enough room for these ideas to grow or flow. The soil is not right, the sun doesn’t shine, it rains too much, the angle isn’t enough to keep the momentum going, what have you.

For the Thief of Space, they are certainly a creative person. They have plenty of ideas and designs in their head, and they so desperately want to put such things on paper. For whatever reason, though, this grand talker of fantastical things simply cannot live up to their words. Why is this, you may be wondering?

Believe me when I say that the Thief of Space asks themself this exact question. However, rarely do they stop to think about the answer. That answer being, to try and put it simply, that the Thief of Space is someone trying to masquerade as a Sylph or Maid. Of course, for the truly gutsy, they could also try to play themself off as a Muse. They are someone who has looked to the creativity of these classes, no matter their Aspect, and taken countless bits and pieces from them and their creativity.

For while they may talk so highly about their skills in creativity, the truth is that they truly have no idea where to even start or apply what they’ve learned and acquired. All the tutorials they’ve watched and read, the tips they have looked at - even the prompts they have seen and collected. The empty, cutesy canvases, the cheap but decent paints, the countless journals, and so on. It has become a hoard for the Thief to sit on, but for what?