#all you have is your fire

[clockwork-ashes]

All You Have Is Your Fire - Part XII

Find Part I here :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge thank you to the lovely @bettdraws who deserves all the credit for the post that inspired me to start writing this :) Another huge thank you to everyone reading! ALSO please look at this post, I gasped it's so lovely. All of @teddyhoneybear's moodboards are stunning <3

Tag List: @anishake / @nocasdatsgay / @mybestfriendmademe / @talibunny30 / @halfbutneverwhole / @wishfulimaginings / @goldenmagnolias / @emmers-bens123 / @cauldronblssd / @xirose / @rarephloxes / @thehighlordishere /

Elain held onto Lucien as he led her to the dance floor, their hands a perfect fit, shards of glass whose broken edges showed no crack when put together. 

Lucien’s steady presence was a comfort to Elain, especially as she felt the captivated looks of countless nobles fall on them. As though he could sense her unease, he traced his thumb along the knuckles of her fingers. 

Days before, Elain was certain she would have found the genuine gesture bothersome, but she was surprised as she felt a nervous weight slip off her shoulders. 

Elain was grateful, had come to the realisation as the two of them had entered the hall that no matter how many negative thoughts plagued her, Lucien and her were on the same side in this. Like allies in battle, Elain had no choice but to place all her trust in the man she had spent years avoiding. 

Elain had been the one to come for Lucien, after all. She had been the one to believe Eris’s words, had been the one to make the decision of travelling to Autumn, had then faced Beron and told him they were to be married. Each choice was her own, and Elain would stand by them stubbornly despite what anyone else might say.  

Elain bit her bottom lip as she looked to the edge of the dance floor, hoping she would spot Cora or even Eris, any familiar face would have been welcome in the sea of nobles. When her eyes instead fell on Lethe, beautiful and dangerous, Elain had to fight her sudden urge to scowl. 

Elain had not liked the way the other woman had touched Lucien’s shoulders, and while she could acknowledge her reaction was ridiculous, probably the pull of their bond, Elain decided that it might be best to keep Lethe away from her mate for the time being. 

She wanted to continue her search for Cora, but Elain knew the importance of remaining focused on the task at hand. Much depended on their performance, and Elain was determined to give everyone watching a show worth their while.

Lucien stopped, Elain’s steps halting as he raised her hand in a prompt for her to turn his way. Elain looked up at Lucien, breathing in sharply as he placed his broad hand on her waist. 

There were layers of fabric between them, and yet Elain felt the warmth of his skin seeping through her dress. She arched into him, hoping the onlookers spotted the subtle movement as she gave Lucien her undivided attention. 

The musicians played a note, letting it ring through the large space as all the couples prepared to dance.  

Elain felt herself blush, speaking to Lucien in a low voice so that no else could catch her words. Her cheeks heated under his gaze, “I hope you’re a good lead,” she clipped, offering him one of her friendliest smiles.  

Both of Lucien’s brows lifted as he flashed her a grin. “The best,” he reassured her, tone serious, but she felt the playfulness behind the statement through the bridge between their souls.

Elain had to fight back a giggle. Lucien was undeniably charming, and also unfairly handsome, especially so when he smiled. 

Elain usually pushed such thoughts aside, not allowing the quiet voice in her head that insisted Lucien was lovely to be heard. If she had considered the mating bond simply based on looks, Elain would already be married to him. Drawn to him like a moth to a flame, Elain let herself feel some of that desire, let it show on her face so that anyone might see it.

Elain kept her gaze on Lucien as he spoke, his golden eye whirring softly. “I trust you’ll be able to keep up?” He was so very fae, his russet eye almost seemed to glow in the dim firelight, hair wine red and looking soft as silk. 

“Definitely,” she said with a confident nod. 

Elain’s lips curled up in a knowing smile as she remembered how Nesta had dragged her to dancing lessons in Velaris. She had spent many evenings a handful of months before with Cassian, Azriel, and her older sister learning about all the popular dances in every court. She promised to herself as Lucien tightened his grip on her hand that she would have to thank Nesta for it when she returned to Night.   

The music rose around them, the beat so fast that despite how familiar Elain was with the traditional Autumn dance, she was still taken off guard as Lucien stepped back. 

Elain followed, laughing, hoping the sound of her genuine joy carried over the instruments, that the couples around her had heard. Beron had been convinced in the throne room, had believed they loved each other, but something in Elain’s gut told her the nobles in the ball room would be just as hard to convince.

Elain moved her feet quickly, hoping that she was dancing to match Lucien’s easy rhythm. He raised his hand elegantly, and Elain readied herself for the turns. 

Lucien spun Elain effortlessly, her skirts flaring around her. Elain gasped at the way the green fabric glimmered in the flames of the chandeliers, making it seem as though it was grass blowing in the wind. 

As Lucien once again pulled her towards him, Elain clumsily missed a few of the steps, his firm grip on her waist the only thing stopping her from crashing into his chest. “Did you see that?” She breathed, still marvelling at the talent Autumn court seamstresses must possess. 

“Breathtaking,” Lucien said, his eye dark with what could only be desire. The way the word fell from his tongue was enough to make Elain swoon, to make her believe he was not talking about the dress at all. 

Elain had to remind herself that he was simply acting the part of her betrothed, that he could not long for her in such a way. They were strangers.

He is mine. 

The thought crashed through her, and perhaps it was because she knew many were watching them, but she let it show on her features. 

Lucien pulled her closer still as the final notes of the song played, they shared the same air, the scent of sweet apples overwhelming her senses. Elain kept her steady gaze on him as the music came to a stop, as clapping could be heard for the orchestra. 

“That was fun,” Elain laughed, feeling awkward now that they were no longer dancing and Lucien still held her. She had always enjoyed dancing, especially when she had been a young girl in the human lands. 

Before Lucien could respond, the next song started, and many moved around them to stand by the dance floor’s edge. Even Lucien furrowed his brow, tucking Elain to his chest as the song continued. 

Elain recognized the music, knew it was a Night Court dance reserved only for lovers. She had seen Rhysand pull Feyre into his arms, humming the now familiar tune countless times so they could dance around the living room. 

She felt a sudden ache deep within her at the thought of her family, missing them all and wishing they were with her. 

Elain was grateful as Lucien spoke and dragged her from such thoughts. “Beron must have been very impressed by you, Lady Elain Archeron.” 

She almost snorted, doubting his words. “How can you say that?” They were nearly chest to chest, hardly any space between them, but Elain was glad that they could at least talk during this dance. 

Hearing her disbelief, Lucien continued. “Night Court music at an Autumn Court ball? That’s practically unheard of.” 

She turned her head to look at him, catching the sharp line of his jaw. They were so close, Elain could only see his profile, and was tempted to rest her cheek against him. Instead, she said, “That’s good, it must mean that I’m endearing myself to your family.” She watched as Lucien could not hold back a wince, understanding that perhaps the topic of his family was not a good one, Elain asked him a question. “Lethe and Kai, they’re old friends of yours?”

Elain was curious, wanted to know more about them and hoped Lucien would share some of his thoughts. She heard his scoff before he replied. “More like Eris’s friends who I spent an unusual amount of time with.”

“Feyre was like that,” Elain offered, the little bit of common ground they shared between them. Younger siblings, Elain had noticed, tended to do that sort of thing, often reminding her of sprouts growing in the shade of larger trees.

She felt him shrug, muscles moving beneath the fingers of her one hand. “It was hard making friends as the son of a High Lord, at least in Autumn.” He added with a short laugh. 

“Poor you,” Elain joked, hoping he would take no offence to it. 

Surprise was like a flash of lightning along the bond, but Lucien’s amused expression remained the same as he responded. “I’m still so upset over it.” 

The song’s final notes played as Elain asked, “Do we keep dancing?” 

“I’ll be expected to, at least for the next couple of songs.” Elain felt a strange possessiveness rush over, but she pushed the feeling down, hoping Lucien did not notice. “Go to Eris, and I’ll come in a bit.” 

Elain hummed in understanding and Lucien pulled away from her, already missing his warmth. 

One hand gripping her emerald skirts, the other still in Lucien’s, she dipped into a small curtsy. Lucien raised Elain’s hand slightly as he bowed at the waist and although he did not kiss her knuckles, as would have been common on the other side of the wall, Elain found herself wishing that he had.

With startling clarity, Elain could imagine Lucien’s lips pressed to her skin and had to suppress a shudder. Elain forced herself to turn away from her mate, taking elegant steps but still feeling the weight of his gaze on her. 

Unsettled by her own desire, Elain was surprised at how quickly she spotted Eris in the crowd of nobles. His auburn hair seemed to flicker in the flames of the fireplace he was standing by, a glass of wine in his hand. 

The musicians began to play the next song, an Autumn Court dance once more, as Elain made her way to the far end of the ballroom. 

She felt as someone came up from behind her, making her pause. “I was promised an introduction,” the voice of the man was low and thick with the accent of those in the Forest House. “Seems as though my little brother has gone back on his word.” For a moment Elain thought she had been mistaken, that Eris had instead come to her, especially when she turned around to face the person who had approached. 

Felix or Ronan, a voice reminded her, one of the two brothers Lucien had already mentioned to her. His long red hair was in a braid that fell past his shoulders, contrasting with his well-tailored jacket, the deep brown of tree trunks. He had a scattering of freckles on his cheeks, and although his dimpled smile seemed genuine, Elain was glad Eris had given her a weapon. 

“Lucien likes to keep me all to himself,” her fingers tightened around the fabric of her skirts. Remembering Lethe’s attitude, Elain raised her chin and flashed the man a sharp smile.  

Elain jumped at the chuckle that came from her other side, as another one of Lucien’s brothers clapped a broad hand on the man still in front of her. “Leave her be, Felix, I can see Eris burning holes in the back of your head.” She felt like a fawn surrounded by wolves, like she was wounded prey and they were simply taunting her before striking with a killing blow. 

Felix shrugged, the gesture elegant, reminding her once more of Eris. “I suppose we still have much time before the wedding to become better acquainted.” 

Elain wanted to take the comb from her hair, to warn them to keep away. Instead, she hoped confidence leaked from her words as she spoke. “I look forward to it, now if you’ll excuse me, my lords.” 

“No need for such formalities, sister.” Ronan added. 

Elain had to fight the urge to frown, but she merely bowed her head in a show of respect and tried to make her way as quickly as possible to Eris. He looked serious, and was left entirely alone, save for Cora who stood several feet away from him. Elain nearly sighed in relief, going to the space between them. 

“What did they say to you?” Eris asked, voice low and unbothered. He hardly seemed concerned, and Elain wondered if he actually cared about what his brothers wanted from her. 

Elain ignored his question to ask one of her own, remembering suddenly both his and Cora’s absence when Lucien and her had first arrived. “Where were you?” 

“I hardly think that should be any of your business,” he said simply while he passed her a glass of red wine. 

With gentle hands, Elain took the glass, looking up at Eris with a raised brow. “Not poisoned, is it?” 

Cora laughed, moving closer to Elain. “He wouldn’t dare.” 

Eris shrugged, amusement flashing in his eyes. “Suppose you’ll just have to trust me.” 

Elain raised the glass to her lips, surprised that she did trust Eris, at least when it came to him protecting her from physical harm. 

Before she could take a sip, Elain paused, feeling someone’s heavy gaze on her. She turned her attention to that burning feeling, almost like a warning, her new fae senses catching a watchful predator. 

Elain’s heart nearly stopped as she looked at the High Lord, surrounded by nobles, arm around his wife. 

Beron Vanserra raised his glass in a small salute as he held her gaze, and Elain raised her own, mirroring him and hoping he could not spot the nervous shaking of her hand.

[earlgraytay]

I'm looking at the Thompson index of folklore tropes because I'm writing more fairy tales for a client, and so many of the ones that are about knowing your place are things we've done.

"Don't try to measure the height of the heavens"- we've done it. it's called the Karman line, it's about 62 miles, and past that "height" has no meaning anymore

"Don't try to measure the depth of the ocean"- we've done it. at its deepest it's about 7 miles.

"Don't try to fly"- Messrs. Wright would like to have a word with you.

and the sad thing is, so many people still live by this kind of folktale-rule, and more like them. "don't try to be too wise", "don't try to be too happy", "don't stick up for yourself", "don't try to change your body to be something that feels good" - all morals of commonly told folktales on this index.

people are intemperately wise and good and happy and are fine. people stick up for themselves every day and are fine. people change and grow in ways that feel good every day, and will keep doing it until the end of the world.

these rules are all just as wrong as "don't measure the height of the heaven" and "don't measure the depth of the ocean".

every time you talk about icarus, you should remember orville and wilbur, too.

[delimeful]

all you have is your fire (2)

a continuation request for an old oneshot! (you know a fic's old when janus is still called "dee" in it, haha) thanks for your patience <3

i ended up writing him as 'janus' here on automatic, so i'll probably go back and edit his proper name back into the old fic at some point :)

warnings: miscommunication, lying, violence/captivity mentions, cliffhanger(?), i tripped and accidentally added a subplot

-

Janus had to admit, there were perks to being caught by an idiot.

Not many, of course, but seeing as that was his situation whether he liked it or not, he was choosing to acknowledge the bright spots where he found them.

For example, the free food and lack of fractured bones were vastly preferable to the alternatives.

Janus knew that the villain monologues from the twins’ giant-slaying games weren’t true to life, that humans were vast and varied and there were plenty of them out there who wouldn’t dream of harming another creature just because it was smaller than them.

Unfortunately, he also knew that for every human that peacefully carried an insect outside in a cup, there was another that kicked over errant anthills just to see the carnage— and, more concerningly, a third that would stick a spider in a jar and watch it waste away.

His current captor seemed like the ‘couldn’t harm a fly’ type, but Janus knew better than to blindly believe in the goodwill of others. Particularly when they held his life in the palm of their hand.

Literally. The human was carrying him around the kitchen like he was giving a guided tour of a room Janus had been in countless times already.

Although never from quite this angle. He shuffled back slightly, grateful that Patton at least had the presence of mind to hold the side of his hand against his chest, providing a solid back wall on one side.

He wasn’t prone to vertigo— not many living Borrowers were— but he was also used to being in control of his surroundings when he was dangling above a fall that meant certain death. The reactive fleshy hand shifting beneath him was a far cry from the stability of his hook driven into the corner of a cabinet.

“And that’s about all the leftovers we’ve got!” Patton announced, finishing off a rambling side note that Janus had been paying exactly zero attention to. “But I can always make something, if you’d prefer that instead! And if you’re okay with the wait, of course.”

Cooking would distract the human for a little while, long enough that Janus could find some sort of escape, depending on where he was placed. That was, if he was set down at all, and Patton didn’t simply attempt to cook one-handedly. He quickly weighed the odds of the human being that idiotic, and didn’t like the way the scales tipped.

“Leftovers are fine,” he said in his most demure tone. “I wouldn’t want to make any trouble.”

“Oh, no, not at all!” Patton exclaimed, lifting his hand up to eye level to peer at Janus with concern. He automatically scrambled for a grip, barely avoiding digging his nails into the human’s hand. “It wouldn’t be any trouble at all, it’s really the least I can do for you as my guest.”

How polite of him. Janus grit his teeth slightly before setting his expression into something less blatantly irritated.

“Really, it’s okay. Warm food is warm food, right?” Patton’s expression softened into pity, and Janus hurriedly added, “I’m sure I’ll get to try something you’ve cooked later. After all, it’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

He managed to only allow a tinge of bitterness to seep through in the assertion, though the feeling grew when Patton nodded thoughtfully, apparently entirely unperturbed by the idea of keeping Janus captive.

“That’s right, you’re more of a roommate than a guest, huh?”

What a quaint way of putting it.

“Absolutely,” Janus lied, his pleasant smile thinning slightly.

“In that case, I’ll get something quick and easy reheated!” Patton announced with a smile, and then turned and slowly lowered his hand to the dining room table.

Janus scrambled off on instinct, relieved to have a solid surface underneath him again, and then turned to stare blankly at the human as he bustled over to the fridge, humming.

Apparently, he’d miscalculated.

Of course, he still couldn’t attempt an escape now, because there was no way to cover all the ground necessary in the measly few moments it would take Patton to microwave something.

How deeply vexing.

He allowed himself one extremely dramatic sigh, and then started casually wandering the table, attempting to look absentminded while also eyeing every inch of the space and measuring its potential as a getaway route.

“Woah!” A hand appeared in front of him, quick and unexpected enough that he recoiled sharply. “Watch out for the edge, little guy!”

Patton was apparently lighter on his feet than he first seemed. Janus’s apprehension about that particular fact was swiftly overcome by sheer disgust at the way the human was disguising his attempts to keep Janus contained as concern for his safety.

He was a Borrower. He’d been scaling heights larger than this for longer than Patton had been walking.

Not that he could say as much without revealing far more than he wished to.

“Whoopsies! Silly me. I’ll be more careful,” he promised, voice as saccharine as he could force it.

The crinkle in Patton’s brow didn’t quite fade away; the human must have been more wary of losing his catch than Janus had thought. “I, um, didn’t mean to startle you.”

Janus’s expression of surprise was genuine. He’d noticed Janus’s tiny flinch? “No harm done! I suppose I’m just not used to other people around, I guess.”

“Right, of… of course.” Patton smiled again, this one a little more faltering in nature. “Well, here we are.”

He set two plates carefully on the table, pulling a chair out to sit down.

Hilariously, the plates’ contents were identical in appearance, two matching heaps of fried rice. He’d apparently dished Janus an entire human-sized serving.

It was a ludicrous amount of food for a Borrower. The twins would have—

Janus cut the thought off, his amusement falling away sharply. The twins didn’t have this, and because of this human, they didn’t have Janus, either. They were alone now, forced to figure things out by themselves when they should still have a guardian looking over them.

He’d survived on his own from a young age, younger than they were now, and it had been hellish at times. Things were supposed to be better for them. Janus was supposed to make things better.

“Kiddo?” Patton asked, drawing his attention. “Is everything alright?”

(Kiddo? He was literally twenty seven.)

“Of course!” Janus replied with a cheerful wave of the hand, seating himself at the edge of his plate. “Everything’s just perfect.”

He kept his gaze on the meal in front of him, mind so caught up in scheming that he barely even registered the novelty of warm, fresh food.

Like he’d said, there were perks to being caught by an idiot.

Unfortunately for Patton, there weren’t enough perks in the world to keep him separated from his nephews for long.

—

Two apartments down, the nephews in question were standing on top of a bookshelf, their progress stalled in favor of a heated argument about directions. One that had grown progressively louder without their uncle there to chide them.

Loud enough to be audible past even the aggressive chords of a My Chemical Romance song, as it turned out.

From his position sprawled out on the floor, just out of their line of sight, Patton’s most antisocial neighbor slowly slipped his headphones off.

[haveyoureadthisfanfic]

Summary: He frowns as he spots an empty table at the other end of the room. “What about him?” The others don’t even follow his line of sight - seemingly already aware who he’s talking about. “The White Wolf,” Istredd tells him, as Jaskier stares at the imposing guy sitting all alone at the table, eyes trained on his plate, face partially shielded by a curtain of white hair. Or: Jaskier is sent to prison for prostitution, where he learns of the White Wolf - a prisoner that doesn't interact with others at all, and who is speculated to have committed some truly heinous crimes. Jaskier, ever curious and with no sense of self-preservation, decides to get to know the guy. Though that proves a bit harder than he had first expected. (Prison AU turned Flower Shop AU)

Author: king_finn

[peterjakes]

aemond tarygaren - ‘all you have is your fire’

Prince Aemond Targaryen has a black heart.

But maybe, just maybe, there is more to the one-eyed Targayren Prince than he cares to admit.

Maybe.

recently finished hotd and now I understand everything

thought it would be fun to write about aemond and his feelings bc he definitely is one of the most interesting characters

potentially may write some more bits

thank you for reading x

also posted on ao3; https://archiveofourown.org/works/46345318

Prince Aemond Targaryen had a black heart. It was what had been said so many times, over so many years. He had been told so often that he believed it to be true. And it was true. His heart was as black as the hole left in his face, the constant reminder of what was taken from him. He had rectified that however, he had made himself whole again, in the only way he could. The sapphire would often glimmer in the moonlight, one of the only times it was ever allowed to be free from the eye-patch that kept it hidden so often. Aemond wasn’t ashamed of it, no other Targaryen sported something so thrilling. It made him different. Made him who he was. Aemond ‘One-Eye’, that was what they called him. Better than his half-sister, ‘The Realm’s Delight’, he would sometimes smirk at the thought of that.  

But in the darkness, when it was just Aemond and Aemond alone, the smirking would stop. The sniggering. The arrogance. The entitlement. It would all disappear. Aemond made a choice to keep his eye hidden, not wanting to present himself in any way that would appear unseemly. His mother wouldn’t approve, and she only wanted what was best for her children. But alone in his bedchambers, with no one there to scold him, to stare, to whisper, Aemond would remove the eye-patch. It wasn’t uncomfortable to wear, and after so many years, Aemond had become accustomed to it. But it wasn’t natural. He couldn’t hide, not from himself.  

After bathing, Aemond would find himself wandering over to the looking glass. He didn’t mind admitting during the daylight he would often glimpse at his own appearance. But once the darkness found him, it was different. The shadows wouldn’t hide what was clear to see, the Gods never lied and even Aemond Targaryen couldn’t hide from the truth. It was ugly, the scar that sat across Aemond’s face. Trailing from above his eyebrow down to his dense cheek. The Maester was correct that night, the scar would heal but the damage to his eye…gone. It was gone. Aemond couldn’t look at himself for almost a year after that night. His 10-year-old self would gloat about his dragon, about Vhagar. The smugness was almost too much, even for himself. But deep down, further than even Aemond could go, there was only sadness. His face would never be the same. He would live with a giant reminder of how he had been beaten by a child. A younger child. The stitches in his face ached, the cut would often bleed, dripping down Aemond’s cheek during the night, the healing seemed to go on for an eternity.  

But that wasn’t just it. He had lost an eye. Blinking, winking, seeing, all had to be learned again. He had to take more care with things, he had to go a little slower, which was not what Aemond wanted to do. There never seemed to be too much rivalry between Aemond and his older brother, they made sure to keep that for their blessed nephews. But any competition that did exist between the two seemed to disappear after that night. Aegon never saw his younger brother as anything else but just that. He may have claimed the dragon, he may have claimed Vhagar, but he couldn’t compete with Aegon. Not with anything that mattered. Things altered that night, in more ways than one. It just took Aemond some time to realise it.  

After that night, Aemond took more interest in the young prince’s training with Ser Criston. He would make sure to practice twice as much as his brother, work twice as hard, use twice as much force. This was one of the only ways Aemond could stop that night from engulfing him. The only way he could become free of those shackles. Free of that torture of reliving that night every single day. He would practice in the yard with Ser Criston during the daylight. He would sneak off after dinner. He would eventually be given his very own sword, one that wasn’t wooden! That was a fine day, one Aemond would even allow himself a small smile at. Soon after, still young in his years, Aemond was proud to boast himself as one of the best swordsmen in the capitol.  

His face had grown around the scar, and even though it had grown small, it still haunted him. The eye-patch he would sport every day couldn’t hide it. It would always be there. A constant reminder of that night, of what his nephew had done to him. Oh, the embarrassment! Aemond would never admit that to another soul, not for all of his days, not even on his deathbed. But it wasn’t just anger Aemond felt, or even humiliation but sadness, there was sadness too. There was more sadness than Aemond cared to admit, even to himself. Watching his appearance in the looking glass, the sadness became clearer to him.  

Aemond’s index finger would drag alongside the skin, trying to find the roughness. This had disappeared years ago, the scar seemed to become part of his face now. He didn’t flinch at the touch; not like he had that night at the hands of the Maester as he had finished the stitches. Not like he had when Aegon had treated a 13-year-old Aemond to a night far from the Red Keep, down in the depths of Flea Bottom, somewhere Aemond would never want to venture down again. But that was different. Aemond knew how to touch it without aggravating it. Those women did not. If those memories ever appeared to Aemond during these late nights, he would often try to be rid of them, not wanting to relive the confusion, the rough hands, the giggles. No. Aemond would not visit those tonight. Tonight, another memory would surround him.  

The night he had lost his eye, Aemond hadn’t realised what that truly meant. An eye for an eye, that was what his mother had wanted. That was never to be, but that no longer mattered. He had something far more important. Yes, he had a dragon. Vhagar, the biggest of them all. At only 10 years old, he rode the dragon for the first time, claiming it as his own. He was a natural now, spending hours upon hours as a young boy riding the dragon. He was so skilled now it was as easy as walking or falling asleep. But that wasn’t all. A dragon was something, yes. But Aemond had something no one else did, not even his siblings. He had a reason.  

Aemond was never going to be a kind young boy, never gentle or sweet. Fierce, bold, hot-tempered. That was who he was, through and through. And that night had only exemplified it. When his younger nephew had maimed him, he was shocked, hurt, in pain. There was a sense of anger, that somehow Aemond had been bested by his younger. But as he had told his mother, Vhagar was now his. His eye would not heal, but that didn’t matter. He had won, in a way. But Aemond had time to think over the years, the mull things over. Things had changed. Seeing the Strong bastards after so much time apart seemed to evoke this. The way they stood alongside their whor-, no, alongside their mother. His half-sister may have committed many acts, but she was still his sister, still their sister. But those dark-haired bastards…Aemond couldn’t stomach them, not for much longer. Their entitlement, how superior they seemed, the way they would smile at each other in a way Aemond never smiled at Aegon. In a way Helaena would never look at Aemond. Why that was, Aemond did not know. It was as if they were flaunting their mother’s sin for all to see. As if it was some joke, that they had managed to trick the realm. Trick the King, their grand sire. But they couldn’t trick Aemond.  

From a young age, Aemond, along with his siblings had been instilled by their mother that Rhaenyra was no better than them. That they too were true-born children of Viserys, of the King. They deserved respect. They were important. This seemed to make both Aemond and his brother, Aegon, believe they were better. Not just better than their half-sister, but than anyone else. Confidence, not arrogance, that was what Aemond believed it to be. They knew their worth, and there was nothing wrong with that. Alicent Hightower had doted on her sons, more so than her daughter, Helaena. Aemond had noticed that growing up, the way she would watch him and his brother. She wouldn’t ignore his sister, but there was something different. Swee t Helaena , she would call her. Sweet Helaena who would play with her bugs, speak in riddles, and avoid Aegon’s eye. Helaena certainly wasn’t arrogant, not in the way her brothers had to be. The whole notion of their half-sister seemed to undermine them. The female heir. Her bastard sons. All of it was completely insufferable. Aemond could see how it vexed his mother. How his father was entirely oblivious. How his grandfather plotted. Aemond could see it all.  

Aemond loved his family, he would do anything for them, kill for them, die for them. He loved his mother, though her tired eyes she would often wear never seemed to flicker over to his. Since his father’s illness, which seemed to become quicker and quicker each day, Aemond became a confidant of his mother. She would ask for his counsel, which he would of course gladly give. He would gladly do anything for her. Both knew that asking or even involving Aegon was not a good idea, no good could ever come from it. Aemond never attended any of the Small Council meetings but could rely on his weekly visits to his mother’s chambers to hear the news of the day. He would listen, he would advise, he would muse, all for his mother. However, it was only recently that Aemond had realised how little he had asked of her, how little she had taken interest in what he had to say. This thought seemed to cloud every other of his mother.  

He loved his sister, Helaena, wanted to protect her from harm’s way. Wanted to make sure her children were safe. Though he knew the type of husband his brother was, he seemed powerless to stop it. If his mother had betrothed them instead of Aegon, things may have been different. He would have done his duty to both his mother and his sister. Perhaps Helaena wouldn’t seem so lost, perhaps she would spend more time in the present. Perhaps she would be happy. But that wasn’t to be, and Aemond hadn’t thought of it often. He would think of his brother’s children, the twins, the way they would latch onto Aemond when he would visit his sister in the mornings. He would think of how he had only seen his older brother visit his children once and the wine escaping from Aegon’s breath would fill up the room. He would think of how Helaena’s face would light up when Aemond would play the same little game with her children. That was what was important, more than anything.  

There only seemed to be two women in Westeros that Aemond would admit a care for. No other deserved it. Though it seemed those two women who Aemond could let his guard down with, could let that face he would wear so often disappear, were faltering. Helaena grew more distance by the day, speaking in riddles that not even Aemond could understand. And his mother…his mother, she was not herself, not who Aemond remembered when he was a child. She doted on Aemond as a young boy, would do anything for him. But she seemed so drained, so exhausted. Her days were filled with visiting her husband's chambers, listening to the Small Council bore her and worrying about Aegon. Things had changed.  

And his father, Viserys. Aemond loved his father the way any son would. But Aemond had often wondered whether Viserys I had loved his children by his mother the way he had loved his first-born. Viserys didn’t look like Aemond remembered as a boy. His face was gaunt, slowly drooping more every single day. Aemond had only visited Viserys a few times, it being requested by his mother and dutifully obeying her. But Aemond couldn’t stomach it for more than a few moments. There was a sense of poetic justice, as if all of those years of favouring his eldest daughter, of ignoring his other children, berating Aemond, had finally caught him and were punishing him for it. These thoughts were not clean, they were not thoughts that the Gods would want Aemond to have. Whenever these thoughts arose in his mind, he would be sure to visit the Sept later that night and pray profusely for their forgiveness.  

But that love he felt for his family, it seemed futile in comparison to his half-sister and the way her little gang of bastards would hang onto her and Aemond’s uncle. Daemon Targaryen. Quite possibly the only man Aemond would ever cower down too. Aemond thought of his grandfather, his mother’s father, the Hand of the King. Aemond knew he could so easily beat him in a sword fight, though he believed that was not his grandfather’s idea of fighting. His words were his venom. Something Aemond had picked up on, but still hadn’t exactly mastered as of yet.  

These two men…Aemond wasn’t afraid , no, that was not it. He knew the power they held, particularly his grandfather. He could see the way Otto Hightower lorded it over his daughter, something that made Aemond uneasy. He was his mother’s son after all. Even as a parent in her own right, a mother, the Queen , Aemond could see the way she would still look for her father’s guidance. Aemond did not have the same privilege. His own father had scarcely recognised him the last time he had visited his chambers. Perhaps it was the milk of the poppy he would so diligently drink. Or perhaps it was his truth. His truth that he never truly cared about Aemond, never saw him for who he was, never saw his son. Viserys had mistaken Aemond for his younger brother, Daemon, more than once. Oh, how that vexed Aemond! To be compared to someone so snide.  

There was a time, a very short period of time, when Aemond looked up to his uncle. Daemon Targaryen, a ruthless man. Aemond had heard of the stories, from his father mostly, the Hightowers did not have a high opinion of the man, particularly Aemon’s grandfather. He truly despised him, perhaps in the same way Aemond despised his nephews. But Daemon, he was a true warrior, a fighter. Aemond heard of how daring and dangerous his uncle could be during his youth. Heard of his skills in the joust, hunting, and swordplay, something a young Aemond could only dream of. He heard of The Stepstones, and of Dark Sister. These feelings of admiration were quickly squashed by his grandfather. And then his mother. Aegon. And finally, Aemond himself. He wished to no longer feel anything but hatred for his uncle. It was what he deserved.  

But it was not his uncle that plagued Aemond’s thoughts. During these dark, long nights, the ones that Aemond would have all to himself, there were certain things he would try to admit to himself. These were things he could never in the daylight, never with his mother, not even with the Gods in the Sept. The darkness would allow it; however, the darkness would even welcome it. It would take some time, but when the admittance came, Aemond would feel a sense of relief.  

Some nights were easier than others. Some nights Aemond would toss and turn in his bed clothes but couldn’t force himself to walk over to the looking glass. Some nights Aemond would remove his eye-patch and allow his working eye to gaze over at the ceiling, following the markings that surrounded the room. Some nights he would remove the sapphire that he so proudly bore during the day to just feel some release. But the other nights, the nights when Aemond was not strapped down to his bed, the nights when with all his might Aemond would force himself up, the nights when Aemond could be brave, he would face it. Face them , even. These feelings, these thoughts, they circled his mind, they spoke to him whenever he was alone, they would always find him. Practising in the yard. Eating dinner with his family. Reading in the library. Watching his sister’s children play. Watching his mother drift off to sleep after a long day. They were always there, always watching.  

What were they exactly? Aemond found it hard to pinpoint that. Sometimes it was anger. Sometimes sadness. Sometimes a sense of not belonging. Sometimes disruption. But there was one that always seemed to linger far longer than any other. Jealousy. That was what it was. Such an awful word. Such an awful feeling. He was jealous. Aemond. Yes, he was jealous. Of what? So many things, too many things. Of his brother, Aegon, how every little mistake he made was seemingly forgotten. Of how it was expected for Aemond to pick up the pieces, to make sure it wouldn’t happen again. Of how his mother would endure so much with little reward, and yet his half-sister could do no wrong in the eyes of Aemond’s father. Of how Helaena could live so freely, without worry. Of his bastard nephews. Of Jacaerys. Of Joffrey. And of Lucerys, damn Lucerys. It was more than jealousy that Aemond felt for the middle child of his half-sister. He had taken, stolen from Aemond. Aemond was hurt at the time, but the anger he felt now for his young nephew was all-consuming.  

Lucerys owed him. A debt hadn’t been paid that night he took his eye. That debt had waited and waited, just as Aemond had. But it seemed that Aemond may not have to wait much longer. The bastard boys, alongside their mother, had arrived back in Kings Landing, after so many years away. They had finally come, after years and years. Aemond knew his father did not have long left. Aemond felt almost vindicated at that thought. He may be his father, but he did not father Aemond the way he would have liked, the way he should have done. Aemond did not care whether he should admit that or not. He did not care if it was sinful, or if the Gods would punish him so. It was the truth; plain and simple.  

But the Strong bastards had come back, right into Aemond’s trap. They had come for their claim to Driftmark, for their claim to his father’s throne. Selfish reasons. It was almost laughable, really. But Aemon would have his chance, he knew that. He would have it, and he would make sure to take it, no matter what.  

Maybe Aemon did have a black heart. Maybe his heart wasn’t pure or true. But it was the way he liked it. The way it had to be.  

[imgoingtoeatyourknees]

The Gangsey as Hozier songs Pt. 1: Ronan Lynch (Arsonist's Lullaby)

"I learned the voices died with me"

"when I was a child I'd sit for hours / staring at an open flame / something in it had power / could barely tear my eyes away"

"all you have is your fire"

"don't you ever / tame your demons / but always keep em on a leash"

"when I was sixteen my senses fooled me / thought gasoline was on my clothes"

"I knew that something / would always rule me"

"when I was a man I thought it ended / when I knew loves perfect ache / but my peace has always depended / on all the ashes in my way"

[ao3feeddestiel]

All You Have is Your Fire

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/NDsOS7W by syrensxng (shootngstxr) Dean Winchester's soul did not beckon him. When first encountering the newly deceased reapers often felt a deep pull at their core, an instinct to guide them to their rightful place. It was in their very nature to shepherd the lost towards their afterlife. They had no other purpose. But looking at Dean, Castiel felt no such instinct. Neither did he feel the urge to comfort him. In fact, despite staring at his own mangled corpse lying 5 feet away from him, the man seemed no worse for wear. This made him unlike any other soul Castiel had ever seen. And the immediate subject of his attention. (A role swap of sorts with reaper!cas, ghost!dean, and a whole lot more demon powers) Words: 2886, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Categories: M/M, Multi Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel (Supernatural), Sam Winchester Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel & Dean Winchester Additional Tags: major character death is here because dean is a ghost. surprise! this is a role swap of sorts, this is also endgame deancascrowley just gimme some time to cook, Reaper Castiel (Supernatural), Ghost Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Demon Sam Winchester, kind of. it's complicated, Role Swap read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/NDsOS7W

[lokorum]

[rendevok]

“Take my hand” pages 12-15

1 - 2 - day 3 - 💙free day❤️ - 4

[autismserenity]

A Chabad synagogue in Pomona, New York, burned to the ground on April 17th, along with its three Torah scrolls.

Torah scrolls are hand-written, hand-made, and kept in elaborately decorated cases or wrappings.

Many of them have long histories; my synagogue has two, I think, that were smuggled out of villages being destroyed in pogroms or in Nazi attacks. One of them is the only remaining piece of that village on earth.

Sometimes, the Torah scroll doesn't even belong to the synagogue, but is on loan from a place like the Memorial Scrolls Trust:

There's an entire Jewish holiday just for taking them out and dancing with them: Simchat Torah, "The Joy of Torah."

In fact, that was the holiday on which Hamas's invasion took place.

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So it's a particular tragedy when a Torah is destroyed.

Chabad itself has a page about what goes into making just one Torah scroll:

"An authentic Torah scroll is a mind-boggling masterpiece of labor and skill. Comprising between 62 and 84 sheets of parchment -- cured, tanned, scraped and prepared according to exacting Torah law specifications -- and containing exactly 304,805 letters, the resulting handwritten scroll takes many months to complete.

"An expert pious scribe carefully inks each letter with a feather quill, under the intricate calligraphic guidelines of Ktav Ashurit (Ashurite Script). The sheets of parchment are then sewn together with sinews to form one long scroll. While most Torah scrolls stand around two feet in height and weigh 20-25 pounds, some are huge and quite heavy, while others are doll-sized and lightweight."

I learned all of this on Tumblr.

Once upon time, in people's "punch Nazis" days, I would've been able to find some mention on Tumblr of this synagogue burning.

There is none, so I'm posting about it.

And I'm going to quote Daniel Weiner, Rabbi of Temple de Hirsch Sinai in Bellevue, Washington, when his own synagogue was vandalized last November:

"It’s horrific and heartbreaking.... [Taking out your feelings about] what's going on in the Middle East by defacing a sacred space of a synagogue -- that’s the very definition of antisemitism."

I'm also posting about the Kehillat Shaarei Torah Synagogue in Toronto, whose windows were broken on Friday, April 19th, by someone who also tried to break the front door down.

And the April 15 graffiti outside a Bangor, Maine synagogue that said, "Nazi Israel 30K murdered," next to a crossed-out Star of David. The same synagogue faced pro-Hamas flyers plastered around it in November.

I was going to include all the synagogues vandalized over the past six months. But there are way too many. Several every week. Lots are swastikas.

I'll go back to just doing attacks on and near synagogues.

Someone has to talk about the 1-year-old who was stabbed outside Temple Beth Zion-Beth Israel (BZBI) synagogue, in Philadelphia, on April 13th.

The foiled terrorist attack on a Moscow synagogue on April 11th.

The man who, on April 9th, screamed at the rabbi at Moldova's Great Synagogue, "What are you doing here? How come no one has finished you off for everything you are doing to the Palestinians?" Just one week after people had vandalized a Holocaust memorial in nearby Soroka, and sprayed "Free Palestine" on it.

The Oldenburg, Germany synagogue that was firebombed on April 5th.

The Florida Las Olas Chabad Jewish Center, which on March 16 burned, but not to the ground. The Torah scrolls were safe, and no one was hurt, but the back of the building was severely damaged.

The planned-but-thwarted-on-March-7th ISIS massacre in a Moscow synagogue.

The stabbing of an Orthodox Jew in Switzerland on March 5th. (He was badly injured, but expected to survive.)

A man leaving a synagogue in Paris was beaten on March 3rd.

People set the courtyard of a synagogue in Sfax, Tunisia on fire on February 27th. Firefighters managed to put the fire out before it consumed the inside of the building.

The synagogue is no longer used; there are no Jews left in its area, and fewer than 1,000 Jews left in Tunisia overall.

(Thousands of Tunisian Jews were sent to work camps during the Holocaust. Antisemitism across the Middle East continued to increase rapidly for decades. By the 1970s, 90% of Tunisian Jews had fled to France or Israel.)

On February 18, an Orthodox Jew leaving Synagogue of Inverrary-Chabad in Lauderhill, Florida, was beaten by an attacker yelling racial slurs.

Someone deliberately chose International Holocaust Remembrance Day, January 27, to smash all the windows in the front of Sgoolai Israel Synagogue in downtown Fredericton, New Brunswick.

On December 29, Turkey arrested 32 people linked to ISIS who were planning attacks on synagogues and churches.

On December 17, a man drove a U-Haul truck up onto the sidewalk between a barrier and the front door of the Kesher Israel Congregation in Washington D.C., got out, and started yelling "Gas the Jews." He also sprayed a foul-smelling substance on two people leaving the synagogue.

December 17 also saw 400 synagogues across the United States receive bomb threats.

On December 11, a man attacked an elderly couple on their way into a synagogue in Los Angeles, screaming, "Give me your earrings, Jew!!" and beating one of them bloody with a belt. (Happily, he chased the guy down the street, and caught him when his pants fell down.)

On December 10, a 16-year-old was arrested in Vienna for planning an attack on a synagogue.

On December 8, on the first night of Hanukkah, 15 synagogues in New York State received bomb threats. And someone screamed, "Free Palestine," and fired shots outside of Temple Israel in Albany, NY. Which has a preschool that was in session.

Meanwhile, the five Jews left in Egypt were canceling public Hanukkah candle-lighting at their synagogue out of fear of reprisals. Particularly after two Israelis in Alexandria had been gunned down by terrorists on October 8. (While Israel was still fighting Hamas in Israel.)

On November 15, a terrorist group set the only synagogue in Armenia on fire.

Armenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia (ASALA) has a history of working with the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP).

(PFLP is part of Hamas's network of groups. Samidoun is their nonprofit arm - which is why Germany banned Samidoun last year, although it's still active in many other countries.

PFLP is also actively supported by the Palestinian Youth Movement (PYM), a diaspora nonprofit group, and Within Our Lifetime (WOL), an SJP spinoff in NYC.)

On November 11, halfway through Shabbat services, police asked Central Shul in Melbourne, Australia to evacuate "as a precaution" due to a "pro-Palestinian" protest that had chosen the neighboring park as its gathering place. Australia has seen some very outspoken antisemitism at protests, including the march shortly after October 7 that chanted "Gas the Jews."

Also on November 11, protesters targeted a synagogue along a march route. They sat in their cars, spraying green smoke and shouting at people leaving the synagogue. The march itself featured a record number of horrifying signs and chants.

On November 7th, Congregation Beth Tikvah in Montreal was firebombed, and the back door of the Jewish organization across the street (Federation CJA) was set on fire.

On November 4, protesters chanted "Bomb Israel," and burned an Israeli flag outside the only synagogue in Malmo, Sweden.

During October, there were 501 antisemitic acts under investigation in France in just three weeks, including groups gathering in front of synagogues shouting threats, and graffiti such as the words “killing Jews is a duty” sprayed outside a stadium.

On October 18, people firebombed a synagogue in Berlin after homes all over the neighborhood were graffitied with stars of David.

And also on October 18, hundreds of "pro-Palestine" rioters attacked the Or Zaruah Synagogue, in the Spanish enclave of Melilla in North Africa, while worshippers were inside.

Based on the video, they seem to have blocked the synagogue entrance completely, while screaming "Murderous Israel" and waving Palestinian flags. (Melilla is an autonomous zone belonging to Spain. It borders Morocco.)

On October 17, during pro-Palestinian protests, hundreds of rioters set fire to Al Hammah synagogue, an abandoned house of prayer in central Tunisia. They hammered down the building’s walls and raised a Palestinian flag on the building. Police did not intervene.

The Facebook page "Tunigate", which has around 88 thousand followers, published a video of the assault. So did "Radio Bousalem”, with 83 thousand users. The vast majority of comments on these videos welcome these acts. The building was severely damaged and almost completely razed to the ground.

On October 15, bomb threats were sent to many East Coast synagogues. Attleboro synagogue Congregation Agudas-Achim received one of the emails, which read, "The bombs will blow up in a few hours. A lot of people will die. You all deserve to die."

On October 8 -- again, while Hamas was still in Israel -- Madrid’s main synagogue was defaced with graffiti that read “Free Palestine” next to a crossed-out Star of David.

And on October 7, an assailant in Rockland, NY fired a BB gun at two women entering a synagogue. Later in the month, a banner at the Stephen Wise Free Synagogue in the area was vandalized with the words, “Fuckin kikes."

[fragileheartbeats]

Me:

Also Me:

[clockwork-ashes]

All You Have Is Your Fire - Part VI

Find Part I here :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge, huge thank you to the lovely @bettdraws who literally deserves all the credit and whose post inspired me to start writing this. I could not stop thinking about this head canon, and it was so kind of you to let me try and make a story from it :)

And a huge thank you to everyone reading!

Tag List: @anishake / @nocasdatsgay / @mybestfriendmademe / @talibunny30 / @halfbutneverwhole

Part VII >>

Elain held tightly to Lucien’s arm, her fingers linked with his, her other hand clutching at his wrist. An anchor, his heartbeat a comfort as they were led down the winding halls of the ancient Forest House. 

Lucien looked entirely unbothered, hardly troubled now that he was no longer in the presence of his family. Elain asked herself how, considering she very much felt as though she had woken from a nightmare. Her thoughts were foggy, her knees shaking in relief with every one of her steps. Elain wanted to sob. 

Lucien’s thumb traced the curve of her knuckle and Elain breathed in deeply to calm her nerves. 

It was almost humiliating, being paraded past the Autumn guards stationed at every corner as she clung to Lucien. She had to remind herself that it was expected of mated couples to behave so attached, that she was not amongst human nobles that would judge her for any open affection that was displayed. 

Elain briefly wondered what Cora had done in her absence, and whether the other woman had been made aware of the change in their plans. Elain’s thoughts turned quickly, though, to what her sisters would say. Elain was sure that Nesta, more than Feyre, would be furious. 

Elain assumed she would have the Inner Circle’s complete support, but she could only guess at their displeasure with how the night had unfolded. 

Elain had told a High Lord that she was marrying his son, and she was only just beginning to realise the weight of such a promise. Elain felt her stomach flip, panic starting to creep along her spine. 

Just when Elain’s anxiety started to take root, Lucien’s hand gripped hers more tightly. Elain felt as he tried to reassure her through the bond, and her annoyance was enough to redirect her thoughts. 

The Forest House was strange and unlike any place she had ever been to. The rough stone walls were a warm grey, closer to the colour of sheep’s wool than to the cool toned rock she had become used to in Night. 

Elain was surprised to see all the wooden furniture considering all the torches, flames dancing and sparks falling but never setting anything alight. She walked by a couple elegant fireplaces set into the walls, but she saw no chimneys, no soot or ashes. 

Like the roots of an ancient tree, hallways connected and split off into different directions, an unnavigable maze. Elain wondered how anyone was able to find their way around. 

One of the guards shoved Lucien towards a flight of stone steps, urging him to turn. Elain frowned when she felt him tense, thinking perhaps he had been offended by the gesture. It was only as a voice rang out beside them that Elain guessed Lucien had scented someone’s presence. 

“Your services are no longer needed,” the words were rough, a demand. “I can take the prince and his lady to their shared suite from here.” 

Much to Elain’s surprise, the guards obeyed. In the time it took for them to leave, Elain had turned her attention to the new arrival.  

The man was handsome, Elain could admit. His short hair a more copper shade of red, his eyes a bright hazel. He was pale, like most of the people she had seen in Autumn, and he looked battle-worn. A slashing scar cut across his throat, just visible above the fabric of his jacket. 

Even if Elain had not just been in a room with Beron Vanserra, she would have still been able to see the resemblance between the High Lord and the man who so obviously was another one of his sons. She took a step beck, knocking into Lucien’s side. 

The man raised a brow, but other than a passing glance, he paid her no mind. His focus was on Lucien, the torches on the wall flared. Elain wondered if that always happened, if flames simply responded to those in Autumn, a reflection of their emotions.

“Where’s Eris?” He snapped, like he had no patience for either her or Lucien. 

Her mate’s shoulders were stiff. “Is the loyal dog looking for its master?” Lucien’s drawl was taunting, as though he was expecting a reaction from his brother. His words were obviously meant to offend.

Elain could feel Lucien’s shock flooding the bond between them when his brother merely shook his head. 

“You always did cause so much trouble, Lucien,” he frowned, looking very much like Eris. With a sigh, he angled his chin to the flight of stairs in front of them. “Follow me.” 

Not like they had a choice, Elain thought. She could feel as Lucien turned to look at her, to check in, but she stared at his brother as he led them to a pair of thick oak doors. His attempt to comfort her was appreciated, but Elain truly thought she could not look at him without her anxiety once more taking hold. With a wave of his brother’s beringed hand, the doors opened to reveal a cosy space. 

The fireplace was already lit, comfortable carpets covered the stone floor, and by the arched window on the room’s other side was a large bed, fit for two. Elain blushed, forgetting for a moment that Lucien and her were to be married, of course their shared suite would have only one bed. 

Elain watched as Lucien’s brother waved his hand once again, this time lighting the candles littered on some of the wooden tables and nightstands. “I hope the rooms have been set to your liking. Should you need anything, let one of the guards know.”

Elain spoke for the first time since having left the throne room, “My lady’s maid was with me, I was wondering…” She trailed off, unsure of what to say next. 

“I’ll let Eris know,” the Autumn prince offered. “I’m sure he’s thought of everything.” There was no bitterness to his words, only an acknowledgement of his eldest brother’s very thorough planning.

Elain dipped her head in thanks, but he had already begun to leave. Elain looked to Lucien as he watched his brother warily, and he hardly seemed surprised when the other man paused at the room’s threshold. 

“Congratulations to the both of you on your engagement,” he said flippantly, over his shoulder. Elain could hear a flicker of doubt in his tone, perhaps a suggestion that he was not entirely convinced by their act. She wondered if Eris had mentioned it to him, if they were close enough to have shared such information. 

Elain noticed the irritation that flashed in Lucien’s eye, how the other one whirred. “Thank you, Callum.” 

It was clear to Elain that there was bad blood between the brothers, and while she was curious, Elain also knew that it would probably be very rude to ask Lucien about it. She watched as Callum left, glad that she no longer needed to play the role she had given herself.  

The doors slammed shut behind the Autumn prince, and Elain promptly let go of Lucien’s hand. She already missed the feeling, but to reach for him would be like an admission of how she so often longed for his touch when he was near. She put distance between them, almost tripping on the edge of the carpet in her rush. 

“Gods,” she mumbled, running her fingers through her curls. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. Lucien’s scent, apples and summer mornings, lingered in the air. 

What have I done? 

Elain decided that she was a fool for coming to Autumn. She had no idea what she had gotten herself into, had been so desperate to save Lucien’s life that she had doomed them both. 

When Elain opened her eyes, she saw Lucien flexing his fingers, like the memory of her hand in his was enough to unsettle him. He had dark bruises along his jaw, clenched in what she thought was concern. There were blood stains, brown and aged, along the collar of his white shirt. A smear of dirt was on his temple and Elain could tell he had been treated poorly until she had come. 

Lucien was still the loveliest man Elain had ever seen, and she hated herself for believing it.  

“How in the hell did Feyre convince you to come for me?” Lucien asked, voice tired, like his own thoughts were weighing him down. 

Elain furrowed her brow, frowning at him. “Feyre?” She echoed, incredulous. 

At her question Lucien seemed to anger, only for a moment, before he spoke once more. “Rhysand, then, made you do this?” 

“No one made me do anything,” Elain hissed, keeping her voice down, remembering how careful Eris was with his words even when they had been alone. “I came for you because I chose to.” She was frustrated, angry that everyone assumed she could not make decisions for herself. It was with great effort that she kept her hands at her sides, that she did not begin pointing at Lucien with an accusing finger. 

“Why would you do such a thing?” Confusion and disbelief lingering in his words. 

“Because I felt like it,” she snapped, feeling very much like a child. Elain did not share with him that after so much death, so much change in the last few years, she did not think she could bear more. “And you should be thanking me, not questioning my motives.” 

Elain watched as he bent ever so slightly at the waist, the smallest of bows. He did not take his eyes off her as he said, “You have my thanks, Elain.” 

At the sound of her name falling from Lucien’s lips, Elain took a step towards him, the movement almost involuntary. “You shouldn’t call me that,” the impropriety of it all had Elain blushing, she attempted to tell herself that was why she could feel her heartbeat quicken. “You don’t have the right—”

“I think I do,” Lucien said with a shrug, “considering we’re about to be married.” 

It looked like he wanted to say more, but Elain interrupted. “It means nothing,” she was shocked at how snarled the last word was. “Nothing has changed between us,” her words held a finality to them.

Lucien ran a hand through his hair, “Not for one moment did I believe otherwise.” He sounded exhausted, Elain noticed. 

Briefly, Elain felt guilty for being upset with him.

Lucien shook his head, and as he spoke he did not look at her. “You shouldn’t have come to Autumn.” Elain could not say it with certainty, but she could have sworn fear leaked slowly down their shared bond. 

“Next time I’ll let you be killed,” Elain waved her hand dismissively. “What’s done is done, I can hardly tell your father I’ve changed my mind.” 

“I think we’re well past that,” Lucien confirmed. The silence between them was awkward, and Elain wished they had separate rooms, despite knowing it was for the best that they were together.

She could feel Lucien’s gaze on her, but Elain was looking at the comfortable armchair by the fireplace. She cleared her throat, “You take the bed.” 

Lucien did not argue with her, a testament to how utterly drained he must have been, Elain concluded. 

“Thank you, Elain,” he said softly, sincerely.

Elain was left with the impression that Lucien was thanking her for more than just the bed.

[daenerysies]

rhaenyra is as much of a girl’s girl as the society she lives in allows her to be.

book wise she has multiple ladies in waiting (not just alicent, which is a grave oversight in the show), one of which is said to have gouged out her own eyes at the sight of rhaenyra’s murder. that doesn’t sound like someone who isn’t capable of inspiring loyalty from the women around them. rhaenys fully and wholeheartedly supported rhaenyra and her cause, even dying in her attempts to make her the first queen regnant of the seven kingdoms. laena betrothed her daughters to rhaenyra’s sons, ensuring that her blood sat both the iron throne and the driftwood throne, all while being a pretty difficult backing to break due to the wealth and naval power of the velaryons (all of this in spite of the bastardy rumors surrounding jace and luke). the agreement also puts forward how politically astute rhaenyra is, and how she didn’t just rely on her father’s word to put her on the throne. she made alliances using her sons hand in marriage; borros baratheon might not have declared for aegon had a proposal taken place the night luke brought rhaenyra’s terms. baela was only held back from partaking in the many battles because of her dragon’s size, otherwise she would have been right beside her betrothed fighting for rhaenyra. there’s even a chance that rhaena would have joined had she had a rideable dragon of her own. she had mysaria, a former sex worker, as her mistress of whisperers, a very esteemed position on her small council. the cases of rosby and stokeworth have no bearing on this, because they were never named as heirs (along with being literal children during a war time) which is what rhaenyra was using as the basis for her rulership. jeyne arryn knew her own position as lady of the eyrie would be challenged (again) if aegon stepped over rhaenyra and subsequently supported her cause. important women like alysanne blackwood and sabitha frey were key players in cregan’s army.

show wise she is shown in the season two trailer to be taking advice from rhaenys and allowing her to be a part of the war efforts. baela and rhaena are explicitly included on her war council, with rhaena as her cupbearer. moondancer is no longer a hardly rideable dragon and baela seems to be taking direct part in the war. rhaenyra is already shown in a set picture to be communicating with mysaria (whether that’s discussing blood and cheese, the aftermath of it, or something entirely different remains to be seen). these are not the acts of someone who hated other women, and using her falling out with alicent and the resulting enmity between them (that is almost completely one-sided due to the difference in power dynamics) as an excuse to otherwise is worse than strange, considering alicent’s canonical goal was to seat her son, a known violent misogynist, on the throne over a woman who was the named heir to the king.

the green’s entire ideological standpoint is that women cannot rule, ever, for it would make the main members of the green’s powerless, and any other lord or heir’s claim would be up for debate if they have an elder sister. if the iron throne had truly been aegon’s by right alicent, otto, and criston would not have left viserys’ body to rot for days AND they would have had the backing of most of the houses. if alicent had cared more for her children’s wellbeing she would have convened a great council before the war began or considered any other effort that would not lead to her children fighting on dragonback. rhaenyra’s (peaceful) ascension would have at least started the necessary changes needed to grant women more authority and (!) autonomy in the seven kingdoms. queen consorts had significantly less influence after her murder, along with the targaryen’s losing their ability to hatch dragons. rhaenyra does not need to be a feminist for her cause to be inherently feminist by proxy.

rhaenyra was not a feminist, but she did have great love for other women. it’s disingenuous at best and downright insulting at worst to try to paint her as anything else. she inspired loyalty even after her murder. if the black’s cause had truly relied on putting rhaenyra on the throne, her armies would have disbanded once she was dead. instead corlys and larys poisoned aegon, with rhaenyra’s son being placed on the throne afterwards. it was ultimately about bloodlines in the end. jaehaera suffered the unfortunate consequences of an ambitious hand because of her status as aegon’s daughter. it plays directly into how alicent outlived her entire family, besides jaehaera, and went mad with grief, learning to hate the color green. how greed and the allure of power can and will corrupt those who choose to make that a priority in their lives, and how the innocent will usually pay the price for those sins.

[wyldhunt]

HADES II ↳ Hecate — Ἑκατη, "The Far-reaching One"

[ziracona]

I can’t include them all so here’s a combo of ‘came to mind first,’ ‘talked about positively most often by fans,’ and ‘stuck in my head’.

Public Apology Big Iron isn’t here. There were a lot that didn’t make the cut but that one specifically I stg I put in and only realized after posting had not. It was 100% meant to be on this list and I’ve failed us.

[dig-jules]

Bones out here like it’s not enough that we're surviving a traumatic event I need him to know that he’ll never experience love in a way that matters