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My latest tiny sewing project:
An alms purse from green, thick woolen fabric, a silk lining an a little stitch work on the front. For the decoration I used some glass beads.
While working my cat always supervised me. That was hard work (for the cat), I can tell you.
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Tender Loving Care
pairing: Aemond x Reader
summary: after a training accident, Aemond's wife takes care of him. In more ways than one.
tags: heterosexual sex, cowgirl, massage, hand job, cum eating, cranky Aemond is a good boy for his wife, mentions of the other members of the Green but not present.
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Training accidents were as common as breathing if one wanted to master the sword.
If one wanted to hold a blade, then one must also be prepared to suffer its bite. Aemond was well aware of this. Even though it was just training, play fighting for the knights & instructors brought in from all over Westeros to teach the prince, he had been cut before. Nothing serious. Nothing like his eye. He wishes it had been. It would make this latest injury less wounding than the others.
A simple misstep, that was all. His own clumsiness was what put him in this bed. His leg wasn’t broken or maimed, but twisted in his fall, to the point that he could put no weight on it. Or at least that was what the maesters said.
2 weeks. That was the punishment for his own mistake. He was not to leave this bed save to relieve himself and the few moments a day he was granted to stand & test his legs progress. Each day was a new torment. Not for the pain, Aemond could handle that, but the failure of trying his leg and only have it betray him again & again. He wondered how his father did it all those years trapped in his bed. Aemond would have begged for death sooner.
“Husband,” the prince looked up from his window and thoughts of limping over to throw himself out of it, when his wife’s voice came into the room.
One of his few constant visitors during his confinement. Helaena came to visit him but was busy with her children. Aegon only came once, to taunt him about his trip more than anything before he left and a back handed ‘get better Aemond the Fierce!’. His mother came as well but flapped between concern and scolding for his ‘recklessness’. She was the only one who seemed genuinely concerned for him, though her concern was not needed. Aemond did not wish to feel more like an invalid than he already did. “What is it?”
“It is time to change the bandage on her leg.” To keep it straight. To keep him bound, he thought with a spat, although Aemond arched a brow at the comment.
“Where is the maester?” His wife was many things, but she was no practitioner of medicine nor magic.
She sighed. “Did you really expect them to come back willingly after last time?” Aemond pursed his lips.
Under the best of circumstances, Aemond was aware that he was not the most agreeable person in the realm. Could anyone really blame him? His existence had taught him over & over that it was better to lash out and cut first, lest you be the one who is sliced. Metaphorically, of course. He wasn’t a mad man like some of his ancestors. And attached to this bed the only weapon at his disposal was his words. He had cursed, jeered, and ranted, honestly uncharacteristic of himself, at the maester who had attended to his leg the day before and had the nerve to tell him his progress was splendid. If it was so splendid then why was he still in this bed? If he was such a great man of knowledge and skill, why hadn’t he healed him yet?! He should go back to whatever dung heap he crawled out of and beg alms for to the gods for wasting a fine Citadel education on an incompetent!!
The prince said a few more unkind things before he forbade any of them from touching him again. He did not think they would take him seriously.
“So, they sent you to do the work of a common barrio healer since they do not wish to do their jobs?”
“I think it was more that they thought you wouldn’t scratch at me. More fool they then, hn?”
Aemond sunk further into his pillows, sulking. He doesn’t mean to scratch at her. He doesn’t mean to scratch at any of them, honestly. He just wanted to get out of his bed and go on with his life. To have the world move on around him, to grow weak and irrelevant in this bed, was the real punishment. “I’m sorry.” He apologized. “…thank you…for helping me…”
“You’re welcome Aemond.”
How quick she was to accept his apology. How quick she was to help him, already coming to his side despite his scratching, when he needed her. No wonder he was always alone….
The prince did what he could for her as he raised his leg from the pillow propping it up and held it there while she unwrapped the old dressing. “Are you sure you know what you are doing?” It was not meant as a slight. Just a genuine curiosity on if she knew the proper way to wrap his injury.
His wife just chuckled. “Yes, Aemond. Despite not wanting to come in here on their own, the maesters did instruct me on how to do it properly.” Cowards, he thought. “There! All done.”
Aemond looked at his leg with his good eye and tried to flex at his foot. His nostrils flared at the persistent pain, but it was wrapped correctly. He was impressed. “Thank you.”
“Of course. I want you healed as soon as possible as well.” Her hand reached for his on the bed and clasped it. “In fact…I was told of another treatment….one that might help with the…circulation in your leg.”
“Oh?” Aemond was curious about that. Trapped in this bed, his legs were not getting the work out that they normally would. Training aside, the walk around the castle was enough exercise for most lords. He hadn’t been able to go more than a few steps for days. His legs teetered between weightlessness and the sharp pricks of falling asleep all the time. “Will it improve my condition?”
“It….could…” She seemed unconvinced. Avoiding, even. But perhaps that was because the last person who made remarks about the improvement of his condition was threatened to be fed to Vhagar. “Will you let me try it?”
What was there to lose, he thought, and Aemond nodded before he helped her take off his lower bed linens so both his legs were bare. A small vial appeared out from her pocket, and she poured some of its contents onto her hands before rubbing them together and placing them on his leg. “Just…try to relax for me.”
A hefty ask, but he does try. All he could do recently was ‘try to relax’. ‘Rest, my prince’, ‘you need time to heal’. It was all he had heard for the past days, to the point that any word close to ‘relax’ had almost the opposite effect on him. But for her, he does try. For her it worked a little. His shoulders finally untensing. Looking at her in the candlelight. Soft feelings swelling at the touch of her soft hands. “Does it feel good?”
“Yes.” He answered, almost without thinking. It did feel good. He didn’t realize how stiff his leg was until this moment.
Aemond let out a deep exhale. Not really a sigh, just the release of all the air in his lungs and tension built in his body. His eye closed as he laid back and let his wife work. They aren’t strong, but persistent. He continued to enjoy until he felt her hands shift up higher. Up his calf where his injury was to above his knee. “What are you doing?”
“What??” Her shocked face was particularly adorable in the soft light. Wide, wild eyes. Body frozen save for a soft tremble in her shoulders. “I..I’m rubbing your leg. I told you.”
“My injury is not there though.” He told her logically. Gaze still fixed on her for any kind of reveal.
“I…I know…” Her hands shift to seem to want to move away from him, but she willed them to stay still. “I just thought…maybe there was some other tension I could help you with….”
It was Aemond’s turn to be shocked, but he doesn’t show it on his face like she does. His wife was a lady. A demure, kind, noble one at that. Though she wasn’t nearly as boring & cow eyed as the other noble ladies on offer to him at the time of his betrothal, or so Aemond assumed as he didn’t pay much attention to any of them, boldness like this was not heard of in their marriage. She never denied him. Seemed fond of when they were together; or at least made all the right noises like she did. But it was always he who initiated such acts in their bedroom. To see her offer, and on offer, as he finally took in her appearance and the thin robe she had come to him in, Aemond would not deny that it was quite arousing.
Without another word, Aemond parted his legs further to give her room. If this was her intention, he would not deny her. There was a flush on her cheeks that bleed down her neck towards the V of her robe when he did this. Her resolve seeming to waiver, and disappointment started to drip into his chest at the prospect he may have ruined this too with his terrible attitude, but she continued.
The prince sighed. Gladdened to feel her hands on him again and closed his eye with a newfound desire for his treatment, now that he knew what was going on. “Higher.”
“Here?”
Her coquettish tone was a tonic to his ears. She was enjoying this. She was enjoying touching him and playing with him. His cock jumped as it filled fuller. More aroused by the fact that his wife truly did want him than her hands close, but not close enough, to his member. “Higher.”
“Here?”
Aemond opened his eye and genuinely growled at his wife. Though this game was amusing, enticing, it had been days since he’d found release. Being stuck in this bed did not really spur a person on towards desire. And though she laid with him at night like a good wife she had been spared from her ‘wifely duties’ for some time as Aemond was either still in too much pain from his leg, or unable to move it to perform the act, or in too bad of a mood to make the effort. Having her close. Feeling her touch. It was like the flood gates opened on a dam he had long since locked up and threw away the key on. “Please….”
His kind, noble, demure wife took pity on him, and also took his cock in her hand. Aemond’s head tilted back as he moaned. Her soft hands stroking his member from under his night shirt slowly, deliberately. She had touched him before, so she knew how he liked it, but honestly she could have touched him anyway she liked. Like a clumsy novice that first night they were together, and he still would have melted in her hands.
“Does it feel good?”
“Yes.” Again, without thought. But headier this time. More needy. He opened his eye to look upon his wife and found her staring at him. Those bright eyes darkened with desire. He’d never seen it before; mostly because when they were together her face was either buried in his chest, or shoulder, or in the pillows. Aemond bit his bottom lip hard. Trying not to cum at just the sight of her.
“It’s ok.” She told him in a whisper. Like it was a secret between the two of them. “You can let go husband. Will you let go for me?”
It was the softest command that Aemond had ever heard, and yet it forced him to obey more than any other. His back pressed further back into the pillows as his head tilted back again. His cock spasming in her hand as his seed leapt out from the tip. Covering her hand and perhaps getting some on her pretty robe by her knee. He would have to get her another one.
He opened his eye again after coming down from his high. Just in time to see her lick his seed off the palm of her hand. “What are you doing?”
“Well, the royal seed is sacred, is it not?” Her grin was soft, but mischievous. “We should not waste it.”
Aemond’s hand darted out to grab hold of her arm and drag her down to him in a deep, needy kiss. Apparently the flood gates he thought were released earlier were in truth just a leak in the levees. This was when the dam broke now. The need he had for her burning so hot that he could almost taste blood at the back of his tongue, his blood was boiling so hot.
He tried to spread his legs wider to make more room for his wife, but when he moved, he was reminded (painfully) of his injury. “Damnit!” The prince hissed against his wife’s lips. The throbbing in his leg almost in tandem with his cock.
��Sssh…it’s ok Aemond.” He wanted to bite at her soft words.
It was not ok! None of this was ok! He was injured, in pain, stuck in this bed, and now he couldn’t even fuck his wife! He felt useless. He felt angry. He felt humiliated not being able to do things as a man should, and he just wanted to get back to normal!
Before he could tell her any of this, however, his wife pulled back and removed her robe from her body. Mesmerizing in the fire light. No Valyrian alabaster, but still just as dazzling to Aemond. Shift discarded, his wife raised her hips and inched closer to hover them over his own. “The maester said not to move unless absolutely necessarily.” He wanted to argue that laying with his wife was absolutely necessarily, particularly in this moment, but all his words left him on a moan as she lowered herself onto him. “So you just stay there. L-Let me take care of you.” The little stammer in her voice as she started rolling her hips almost sent Aemond into a frenzy, but he endured.
He genuinely couldn’t move with her on top of him like this and his position on the bed. Though why would be want to? For the first time since his accident, Aemond was actually ecstatic to be stuck here in this bed. His wife lovingly impaling herself on his member. Riding him with skill just short of a dragon rider. If he had the wits still about him, he would have chuckled at his own joke. ‘Dragon rider’. As it was though he was stupid with lust. Dumb, witless, helpless at her mercy as she took from him everything and gave him back so much. He still had brains at least to return the favor.
His wife cried out when he reached up to cup her breast. The weight of them in his hands something he missed. Aemond does not get a lot of time to enjoy them, however, as his wife suddenly fell forward. Covering his body with her own. Hips still moving but at a much snappier pace with the depleted gap between them. He didn’t care though. His hands just repositioned themselves on her other mounds at her backside and pressed her to move faster.
“A-Aemond!” Her cries were his music. The tempo in which he set a new rhythm.
The wet sound of their sexes kissing along with their actual kissing fill the room, until it all stopped in one bright, shining moment of his wife shaking on top of him while her fists tried to fight his pillows and he spilled inside her this time.
He wished he could hold her like this for longer. Her weight a comfort, like a blanket, in his arms. But she rolled over onto his non-injured side to lay beside him. It was good enough. “Do you feel better now?”
Aemond looked down at her, having to turn his head completely as to not just look at her with the sapphire in his eye, realizing at last what this was about. Her idea of a good will effort. To lift his spirits and relieve his tension. Maybe keep him from trying to execute more of the maesters in the castle. “Yes. I’m feeling better.”
She smiled, then placed a soft kiss on his shoulder. “Good.”
The fingers from the hand around her own shoulders played with her hair as he stared at the ceiling. “Was this all just for me though?”
His wife looked at him with a perplexed look, but then realized what he was asking and blushed. She was smart enough to figure it out. “Not…all of it. I did want you to be in better spirits but…I have missed you.”
The corner of Aemond’s lips ticked up. Pleased, and pleased with himself. He did not think his sexual prowess was worth much compared to his prowess with a sword or strategy. But to hear that his wife wanted him, truly wanted him, was all the praise he would ever need. “So, you came up with this idea to satisfy both of us, ābrazyrys.”
“It wasn’t….all my idea…” Aemond arched a brow at his wife’s words. Curious now where she had got the idea from, as it had clearly come from somewhere. “Aegon commented on your bad mood and how someone should ‘cheer you up’. He gave me the idea, but the rest of it was all my doing.”
Aemond wasn’t sure which comment he was more shocked about. The fact that his brother knew how he was faring in his recovery, or the fact that he made lewd comments to his wife. He was battering between feelings of an odd sense of touched and white hot furry, but he decided to just let it go for now and enjoy his wife. “Well, thank you, regardless. In future I will try not to scratch at you while I am still confined to this bed. Lest you ask.”
She giggled when he kissed the top of her forehead. “And the maesters?”
“They are on their own.” Idiots. “I make no promises on their safety, but I will…endeavor to be of better character in the future.” At least not threaten to feed them to Vhagar. That seemed a reasonable adjustment.
#;pen & paper (fanfiction)#aemond targaryen#aemond one eye#book!aemond#prince aemond#house of the dragon#hotd#aemond x reader#house targaryen#hotd imagine#hotd fanfiction#aemond targaryen x you#aemond targaryen x reader#house of the dragon imagine#game of thrones#game of thrones scenarios#got imagine#got scenarios#imagine#scenarios#hotd smut#house of the dragon smut#female reader
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I have you / Dean Winchester
→ dean winchester x reader, 1,4k words / fem reader
; in which certain feelings are made known, tongue tied and flushed cheeks♡
You watch absentmindedly from across the diner as Dean leans casually against the counter, a grin plastered across his face as he chats to the female server.
His T-shirt rides up ever so slightly as he leans forward and you cough awkwardly, shifting in your seat to face away fro him, pulling the sleeves of your sweater over your hands as if to climb further inside it. Sam, who’s sitting opposite you with his nose buried in his notes, peers up to gives you a knowing look.
“He’s just being Dean,” he says calmly, nodding his head in his brothers direction. You freeze for a second, feeling caught. Sam doesn’t take his eyes off you for a prolonged second, wondering if he should reassure you some more but decides against it. He can tell you feel uncomfortable and so he moves his gaze from you.
It’s not that you don’t appreciate Sam’s attempt at comforting you. He had noticed your affections for Dean a while ago, watching the way you’d lean into him for comfort on every case or how you’d laugh at every stupid corny joke. You swallow, shaking your head slightly. It didn’t do you any good to keep pining after him.
It’s then that Dean returns to the table, a tiny piece of paper gripped in his hand. Your stomach does a painful flip when you notice it. The servers number? You look away again, focusing on the parking lot outside. Dean however takes notice of this, sliding into the seat next to Sam. Sam didn’t bother looking up at his brother and simply slid over a handful of pages, to which Dean rolled his eyes.
Dean instead turned his attention to you, mirroring you as he tries to figure out what you’re so intently looking at.
“What’re we looking at?” he says, startling you. He’s leant across the table, propped up by his elbows as he looks toward the parking lot and then back at you. He gives you a closed lipped smile when you don’t say anything.
“Y/N?” he murmurs softly. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne. It overwhelms you a little and you sit back in your chair. His eyebrows knit together in confusion and he too sits back.
“Just thinking,” you reassure quietly, giving him your best “I'm okay” expression. It feels like a grimace. He searches your face for a moment and then nods, apparently accepting your words at face value.
—
The next evening, you find yourselves holed up in a motel, two rooms between three of you. You try not to look too alarmed at this at the front desk, the bags slung over your shoulders suddenly feeling like dead weights.
“Sam, can I bunk with you,” you ask instantly as you’re leaving the reception kiosk, hoping he can detect the pleading in your voice. Dean frowns at you, scratching his cheek with the back of his hand. Sam begins to agree when his brother interjects, stepping closer to you.
“What about me?” he pouts. Your heart pangs and you try to appear nonchalant, shrugging. He frowns again and Sam, who’s trailing behind you both, chucks the second set of keys at him. "Here,".
Dean catches it with his spare hand and mutters something you don't quite catch. Sam hums in agreement.
You decide to walk in front of the pair, needing to get in bed as soon as possible. Your whole body felt heavy and your feet dragged as you made your way down the hallway.
Dean follows you closely. It’s then that you recognize the right door number and plop your bags down on the door mat finally, groaning as your shoulder twinges.
“You okay?” Dean asks, his hand coming up to rest on your arm gently. You flinch for a second, not realising he was that close behind.
“Y-yeah,” you mumble, trying to ignore the way your arm felt hot under his touch. He rounds you now, standing opposite you at the doorway. He’s looking at you with an unreadable expression, lips pursed.
“Are you?” you ask him awkwardly. His stoic exterior breaks at that and he blinks at you, almost like he’s offended at the question.
“Am I okay?” he scoffs. He doesn’t answer you, unlocking the door instead. With ease, Dean pushes it open and gestures inside. You now blink back at him, not moving. "Ladies first," he deadpans.
“I’m sharing with Sam,” you say lamely. Dean ignores you, hiking your bags over his shoulder and entering the room. You glance back over your shoulder and see Sam entering the room on the far left. He turns back to close the door and shoots you an apologetic look. Traitor, you think.
You sigh, admitting defeat and walking inside the room, closing the door behind you. It’s nothing special, dank and small. Two beds are pushed against the far wall, sad beige comforters draped over cream white sheets. Dean is sat on the furthest one from you, jacket now discarded and hanging over the bathroom door. He's wearing a greyish blue shirt underneath, the short sleeves hugging his biceps tightly. It's your favorite on him. You shift from one foot to another, not knowing where to place your hands.
He’s placed your bags at the foot of your bed. You stand in the entrance for a moment too long and Dean notices. He always does.
“Are you going to sit down or am I gonna have to put you to bed myself?” he asks. You flush slightly, cheeks pink and move hurriedly towards your stuff, muttering a quick sorry as you do. Dean huffs loudly.
“Seriously, what’s wrong?” he asks exasperatedly. His upper body is turned toward you. You don’t miss the note of worry in his tone and you feel guilty.
Usually you’d play along with playful banter or his flirty comments and he wasn’t used to your solemn expressions and your sad eyes. It made his heart twist in a way he wasn't used to. It was painful and he didn't like it.
“I’m just…”you struggle for the right words to say, feeling tongue tied. Admitting your feelings for him was just out of the question. God you wished Sam had roomed with you like you’d asked.
Dean waits patiently and when you don’t finish your sentence, he pushes himself off the bed. You’re perched on the end of the bed now and he crouches so that he’s almost eye level with you.
“Is it something I said, or did?” he questions you. Again, you feel guilty. You shake your head quickly, lips pressed together in a tight line. He makes a “hm” sound that sounds pained and you break.
“I’m just not feeling my best,” you lie, trying your best to meet his gaze as he listens. “It’s not you,”
Dean doesn’t respond for a moment and you think perhaps he’s bought what you’ve said. However he scoffs again. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
His tone is somewhat harsher than you think he means but his face is soft, lips slightly parted as he silently pleads with you. You fidget, not sure how to answer him. “You know I care about you,” he whispers. He’s closer then you had realized. So close that you swear he must hear your heartbeat quicken.
“Did you call that girl?” you ask weakly, taking a sharp intake of breath as you spoke. Dean stares at you blankly for a moment.
“Girl?” he says, bewildered. You nod slowly.
“The girl from the diner,” you say, eyes trained at the tv stand just past Dean’s head in your line of sight. You fidget again.
“Why would I call her? I have you,” he says. You can’t help but laugh at that, it sounding shrill and foreign given the mood. It echos against the silence of the room. It seemed just like Dean to lighten the mood by giving you some line, something to cheer you up. But when you finally look back at him his face is serious. There’s no sign of amusement.
“She gave you her number though, right?” your voice is barely audible. He hears you though and a small smile pulls at the corner of his lips. He half rolls his eyes, clearly bemused.
“And that means I have to call her?” You look at him. So he wasn’t interested in her after all. Maybe Sam was right, he was just being Dean.
He cups your cheeks lightly with his callused hands all of a sudden and you feel like all the air leaves you. “I have you,” he repeats. You feel dizzy.
“Don’t I?” he asks softly. He searches your face as if worried you don’t agree. You notice the way his shoulders have tensed.
“Yes,” you breath. His shoulders relax and he flashes you the most Dean smile imaginable.
#dean winchester#dean winchester x reader#supernatural#sam winchester#supernatural au#supernatural x reader#dean winchester au#supernatural imagine#imagines#dean winchester imagine#jensen ackles
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trinkets on tour — H.S.
hi angel pies this one is very self indulgent!!! i hope you enjoy <3
🎀 warnings/cw: none, fluff, swearing maybe?, kisses, harry being a sweetheart tbh
🐇 pairing: famous!bf!harry styles x fem!reader
💐 wc: 1.3k (short cute little baby!!!)
summary: a few different occasions with harry and your trinkets.
“Ow, fuck,” Harry muttered under his breath, something sharp poking in the skin of his foot. Moving his leg, he finds a small bunny figurine, the ears animated and floppy, wearing a pink dress with a small basket full of strawberries in its arm. “Y/n? Is this yours?”
The girl comes walking around the corner, seemingly doing her skincare in the hotel bathroom if the headband and glowy face had anything to go by. “Oh! Yeah, it is!” A small smile covered her face.
“It’s you, bun! I found it at a small corner store in Horsens and meant to give it to you. I thought I’d lost it since it wasn’t in my purse when I checked for it last night, but you found it! Isn’t it so cute?” She grins, walking over to her boyfriend to slip it from his fingers and roll it around in hers.
Harry had just about melted. She went to a shop and found something that reminded her of him, and just because of that, she bought it? God, was he in love.
“That’s s’ sweet, m’heart,” Harry pulls her into his side, pecking a few kisses to the top of her head, “thank you, sweet girl.”
She looks up from where her head is tucked into this side, wearing a pretty smile and bright gleam in her eyes. Harry looks on at her in awe, entranced by her beauty.
“Of course, H. Think about you always, all the time. Think I’d be broke by now if I bought you everything that reminds me of you that i’ve seen.”
—
“Harry! Harry, look!” His girl comes running to the stage, interrupting his phone time as he waits for soundcheck to start.
“What, wha’ is it?” Harry’s brows furrowed, locking his phone and placing it next to his legs that swung over the edge of the stage.
“I found this in the green room, you haven’t even fully looked in there yet! It’s you!” She carefully tosses a small item onto the stage, not being able to reach up and place it due to how much shorter she was compared to the stage.
“‘S a— strawberry? ‘M a strawberry?” He says confusedly.
“I mean- okay its not you, but it reminded me of you! It’s a gold strawberry ring, and I have a gold strawberry ring too! Look, I’m wearing it right now,” She brings her left hand up to rest on his knee, showing a small dainty ring on her pinky finger, “We can match!”
He looks down at where her hand was placed on her knee and smiles. “Okay, m’love, we can match.”
Hearing her soft giggles, he knew he just couldn’t say no now. There was absolutely no way he could say no.
“C’mere lovie, there’s stairs right there,” With a soft gleam in his eyes, he points to a different area on the floor, “Jus’ wanna hold y’for a bit before the show.”
She squeaks out a little ‘okay!’ and runs over to the stairs, taking longer strides to get to her love faster. Plopping down next to him, she twists in her spot and scooches forward a bit, laying her head on his lap. She plucks the small ring from his hands, pointing at details in it that he hadn’t— and probably wouldn’t have noticed otherwise.
Despite not looking at the ring, and staring at her instead, he memorizes every detail of the ring, while engraving every small peep and barely noticeable rasp in her voice into his brain.
Come showtime, the fans immediately notice a new addition to his ring collection, a small strawberry ring that adorns his right pinky finger.
—
“Oh shit!” A shout followed by a small crash catches Harry’s attention, raising him to his feet in record speed as he nearly flies out of the bedroom and to the living area of the hotel.
“Honey, y’okay?” He says hurriedly, rushing over to where his sweet girl was.
She spins on her heel immediately, a broken wooden box in her hand, a small light purple unicorn in the other. Behind her near her heels laid almost a dozen other little trinkets, some scattered farther away from her feet than others. A sad look glazes over her features as she nods softly.
“Yeah, I’m okay, I accidentally dropped my Love On Tour trinket box, and now I’m a little sad,” She places the box and tiny unicorn onto the table, taking small steps to get to him, resting the side of her head on his chest, “I even decorated it! I’ve been getting small things from every stop on tour and the box I’ve been putting everything in broke!”
Harry’s heart ached for her, knowing how sweet and sentimental his girl was and knowing how much the box probably meant to her. Not saying anything for a few beats, he wraps his arms around the girl and runs his hand up and down the length of her arm. “Hm, m’heart. ‘M so sorry, can I see it?”
She nods, stepping back to go retrieve the box from the table, going back to Harry with it in her hands.
“M’kay, I think I can fix this up for you just right, want me to?” He says, assessing the damage, handling it carefully.
Her eyes light up as soon as the words leave his lips, a soft gasp falling from her lips. “You can?”
“Of course I can, y’gotta give me a couple of days though, Lovie. ‘M sorry.”
“It’s okay!” She chirps. “‘S okay even if you can’t, but if you can, that would make me so happy, thank you, H.”
“I’d do anything f’you, but for now, I think I have a small jewelry box y’can put it in until I fix it. Sounds good?” He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead at her graciousness.
“Sounds amazing, thank you, Baby.”
—
“Lovie? C’mere for a sec, baby.” Harry calls from yet another hotel bedroom, smiling softly as he heard a sweet ‘coming!’ followed by small steps on the floor.
“Yes?” Her head popped into the doorframe, a small furrow in her brow.
“Got a surprise f’you,” He smiles, hands behind his back.
“For me?” She walks over to him slowly, a suspicious look on her face.
“It’s nothing bad! Jus’ a quick something before we leave for the venue.” From behind his back, he pulls out her (now fixed!) box, placing it in front of her on the white duvet.
A gasp falls from her lips, followed by an excited squeal. In gratitude, she cautiously jumps onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck, placing her lips onto his. She places small ones on his lips first, before pressing them together in an elongated, sweet kiss.
“Wait, wait Lovie, there’s another surprise inside the box.” Harry laughs, muttering the words against her lips to keep her close.
“Another?! You’re spoiling me now,” Grabbing the box, she opens it before gasping in shock.
“Always spoil you, don’t I?” He chastises, plucking the trinket out of the box.
A small, red convertible keychain lay flat in his palm, another small charm of a white daisy on it.
“Harry-“ She starts, pulling his hand closer to her face to look at it in closer detail. “Thank you, s’much.”
She turns her head to him, now teary eyed. She knew the sentiment behind both items, making the experience all the more emotional.
“The car, from our fifth date, where I asked y’to be m’girlfriend, and then the daisy from-“ He drawls, a soft and sleepy lull in his voice.
“From the field in Holmes Chapel, where you first told me you loved me.” She giggles breathily, sniffling to contain her emotion. “They’re perfect, baby. Thank you, thank you s’much.”
Twisting around in his lap, she wraps her arms around his shoulders, burrowing her face into his neck. He reciprocates the hug, wrapping his arms around her waist as he lays soft kisses on the side of her head.
“‘S perfect, you’re perfect.”
“Oh shut it, Lovie. Jus’ can’t believe I’m now contributing to your trinket collection.”
#harry styles#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles fluff#harry edward styles#harry styles fanfictions#harry styles x reader#harry styles x fem!reader#harry styles x you#harry styles x y/n
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Sonnet of the Lone Cardinal, Ch. 9
A/N: *YELLS "GOOD LUCK, BABE!" FROM THE ROOFTOPS*
WE MADE IT TO THE GALA, HOLY SHIT
Thank you to every single person that has liked, commented, sent anons, or showed any kind of support in any form for this silly little story. These last two months have been some of the shittiest of my life and I'm so happy be here with ya'll. I love you all so much. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Rating: Explicit (due to the themes, really. No smut this chapter.) Word count: 9.9k (I love you guys SO MUCH I'M SORRY) Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Female Tav (DU, named) Warnings: 18+, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, pregnancy, implied alcohol abuse, trauma, past abuse, PTSD themes, depictions of physical abuse, unhealthy relationship, death mention, depictions of murder and gore
Summary: It's the night of Wyll's charity event. Will Tav receive the answers she seeks from the Duke, or will more present themselves?
♥ Previous Chapter ♥ Link to Ao3 ♥ Playlist
They descend the master staircase, Tav drawing in a shallow breath as she hits the final step. As they turn the corner, arm in arm, she realizes how unsettled she is. Astarion was so close to saying it. Admitting to what they both know to be true, only to tear himself away at the last moment.
Her throat feels tight as she tries to swallow. Should he have said it, there's no doubt in her mind as to how the night would end up. Possessed by the urge to say it back, over and over, spending half the evening wrapped in each other's arms, making up for lost time. She'd guide his hands to her stomach, foreheads pressed together, and speak softly against his lips of what lay within. Of what will be, soon enough.
None of that will happen, now.
The thick aroma of the hors d’oeuvres being served wafts through the air, pulling Tav from her thoughts. The subtle sweetness of wine is complementary, surely free-flowing like waterfalls into the mouths and bellies of those gathered within the grand hall. She can hear muffled chatter from within the ballroom, along with the occasional clinking of glasses. Drawing in a breath, Tav dares herself to stare ahead.
Astarion turns to her, and she catches him from the corner of her eye. But as Tav raises her head to meet him, he quickly adverts his gaze. He’s silent for some time beside her, save for a conveniently timed clearing of his throat. Finally, he asks, “Are you ready, my dear?” Although he continues facing forward, Tav catches stolen glances from his periphery.
She's still so very raw from their earlier bout, and the booming depth of Astarion's voice causes a shiver to run down her spine. Despite its seriousness, Tav can hear the concern laced within his tone. Her body jerks involuntarily as her nerves alight. “Yes,” Tav replies, forcing a smile to materialize on her face. She now dares herself to look upon him.
Astarion simply grunts in acknowledgement, refusing to meet her. He can't even look at me, now? she ponders to herself. A pit forms in her stomach, alongside a sharp cramp that leaves her wincing. She rests her free hand over her lower abdomen, closing her eyes as she draws another breath through her nose. Pursing her lips together, Tav breathes out. The tension pitted high within her chest unravels as the breath leaves her lungs.
But when she looks at Astarion again, she's awash with emotion once more. His jaw is taught with tension, threatening to snap. There’s a sheen over the reds of his irises, highlighted by the dull light of the candelabras lining the hallway. Tav knows this look. And as much as she'd like to blame the drink that lay heavy on his breath, she knows that isn't the only cause.
He looks far away.
Astarion only wears a distant expression when he's desperate to remove himself from the current. When his mind is elsewhere, shielding him. Protecting him until it’s safe to come back out. As if a switch has been flipped – the mask of the entertainer, the people pleaser, is falling into place. The actor is almost stage ready. To give the people what they came here to see.
The dissociation is taking root.
He's uncomfortable. Tav’s entire body shakes from the realization. What's worse is that he's forcing himself to do this. Putting himself on display for everyone, strutting around like some proud peacock for all to fawn over. Astarion once told her that a handsomely crafted face can open any number of doors. She wonders how many times he’s been forced into opening those doors. What prizes lay behind them.
Tav shutters again at the thought of all he's been made to endure. A deep ache settles within her chest, her gaze falling to the floor in front of her.
It's obvious now that Astarion was hoping for a better outcome to their earlier discussion. Perhaps a kiss or two, maybe even something more. Anything to help soothe the ache within him, knowing he was sending himself out to perform. Instead, he got the complete opposite – Tav backing him into a corner, pushing him to admit something he clearly isn't ready to share.
Doubt begins to rear its ugly head within Tav’s heart.
Maybe she should have gone easier on him. His history is complicated. Of that, she knows. There are things Astarion doesn't understand due to two centuries of indentured servitude, like emotion, and how to coexist alongside another. Perhaps she should have been more patient with him. Perhaps she shouldn't be so demanding of him. He’s trying, afterall. Isn’t he?
Her heart skips heavy in her chest – a defiant thud, then a pause before resuming its normal rhythm. Pressure mounts once more and she suddenly finds herself choking back tears as her vision clouds.
No, Tav reassures herself, screwing her eyes shut.
Astarion isn’t an innocent child needing protection behind her skirts. He’s taken lives – many, to be frank. He, himself, has died. He understands the delicate balance between the life before and thereafter, better than any mortal being could ever dream to. When Tav reopens her eyes, she lifts her head and looks straight in the direction of the ballroom. All sound drowns out from her ears. She clenches her jaw.
I deserve more. He should be more.
It's been a process, learning to give herself the grace to truly feel. Tavaria has taken the lives of so many people without second thought. Faces that are no more than blurs behind her mind’s eye, barely able to decipher one from the other. All she recalls is the incessant chanting within her mind. Scleteras’s shrill voice echoing, encouraging her to kill, kill, kill. The voices only grew louder when she found the others. Daydreams of what pretty corpses they'd make.
Especially Astarion.
She'd gotten close, one night. Did her best to warn him before the urge took her completely. All Tav remembers is writhing against her restraints as Astarion looked on. Concern clouded his visage, mixed with the smallest drop of fear. Visions danced behind her eyes, of how beautiful his flesh would look laid out within the palm of her hand as she fileted it clean off his bones. How delicious his blood would taste on her tongue. Would it run hot, she wondered? Smell of rot and decay? She'd bathe herself with his entrails, feeling impossibly close to him, but not before successfully copulating with him. A high offering to her Father, securing the next generation of cursed Bhaalspawn.
Bhaal must be furious, looking upon her now.
But that was all months ago, and she rejected her birthright. Refused to be her Father’s vessel of chaos and murder. The day she turned her back on him is the day Tavaria chose life. And to her surprise, the chanting stopped. The urge stopped. She could breathe for the first time in what was likely years.
Since then, Tav has tried her best to walk the path of redemption. She can never bring back those who have fallen victim to her sins. The young tielfing bard’s face haunts her daily, smashed beyond recognition. But she's vowed to do better with however much life she has left. To be kinder. Show the compassion she was never given to others.
She’s chosen to be a good person. That should be reason enough as to why she deserves to hear him say it. To hear from his own mouth that he loves her and not have it be a figment of her imagination.
And it's perfectly fine that she does. There's no reason to feel guilt for wanting what you deserve.
At this very moment, Tav stands next to a man that feels more like a stranger to her than ever before, all while their child grows within her. A man who wears the same face of the one she loves, yet acts so foreign to her.
She deserves to be loved in a way that is befitting of her, and she will not settle for anything less than what she deserves.
Without so much as another word, Astarion steps forward. Tav follows almost seamlessly, their arms still interlocked. They cross the threshold into the ballroom and are immediately greeted by copious pairs of prying eyes, all focused on them. Music swells from the band as they travel to the middle of the room, neither of them missing a step.
As Tav looks out into the crowd, she recognizes a few faces from her short tenure in the City Watch – noblemen and ladies all dressed in their evening best. Their silk dresses and velvet frock coats are dyed in various elaborate colors and patterns. Jewelry adorned with precious gems hangs plentiful from their ears and necks. She nods and smiles as she passes, catching more than a few people ducking their heads after making brief eye contact. Their lips move in silent chatter to one another, but Tav can imagine their conversations: one of Baldur Gate's most eligible bachelors arriving arm-in-arm with the city's hero. The same hero who left him at the moment of their triumph.
How terribly poetic.
The band suddenly cuts out as they reach the middle of the room. Astarion retrieves his arm from around hers rather swiftly, and Tav steps back. The vampire takes a quick breath, wiping his head up. Applause rings out as he then turns to address the crowd. Astarion bows repeatedly, each time in a new direction, the reception growing louder. Tav again surveys all in attendance and decides to clap in tandem, all the while retaining her best face.
The vampire lord then raises a hand – a gesture to signal the quieting of the crowd – and the applause slowly dies off. A smile is etched across his face, but it isn't his usual smile. Not the one he reserves for her. Tav shivers.
“Thank you all for such a warm introduction!” Astarion exclaims, boisterously. His open-mouthed smile stretches now across his face from ear to ear, the tips of his fangs gleaming in the light.
Do they know of his true nature? Tav wonders as his teeth catch her eye. It's a question that hasn't dawned on her before this moment. He’s not necessarily trying to hide it. Many in the city knew of Cazador, but only as an aristocrat, bred from a long line of wealth. If they do know the truth about Astarion, it doesn't seem to bother anyone much.
Tavaria again looks out among the crowd, studying them intently. Many of the ladies have fans covering their faces, though the ones who do not, Tav easily catches the barest glint of a blush sitting upon their cheeks as they watch Astarion swish about the floor. A single thread of what must be jealousy pulls tightly within her. It fades as quickly as it comes, dissolving into vapor as she releases the breath she’s holding.
Signs of Astarion's vampirism are so obvious to her, now that she's looking at him. Pointed fangs just peeking over his bottom lip as he smiles, ruby red eyes that glimmer in the light of the chandeliers, Cazador's bite scarred into the column of his throat. His complexion used to be ghastly, like that of one raised from the dead. But since the ritual, he's as pink as any mortal being. He blushes, even.
And, gods, is he handsome. More so than any other man in existence. The sharp lines of his face, the subtle bump along the bridge of his nose. Tavaria understands all too well why the women, and even some of the men in attendance, look upon Astarion with such hungered stares.
Astarion clasps his hands together. He turns again to the crowd and says, “I'm sure we all know why we're here tonight, yes?” He gives them a moment to murmur an audible response before continuing, “And, no, unfortunately it's not just for my handsome face.” The room erupts into laughter. The vampire then raises a sharp brow, mouth curling into a sly smirk.
A horrid realization comes over Tav: These people could easily be sacrificial lambs, ripe for Astarion's picking. And he knows it. Worse yet, loves it. Loves having fools wrapped around his finger.
This is Vampire Lord Astarion, the entertainer. The socialite. The deceitful. Pulling from his past life as an at-will aristocrat; as many times as his master made him perform. It's such a well-practiced act that Tav can hardly tell when her Astarion ceased and this version took over. The transition occurred seamlessly right before her eyes. And if she didn’t know him better, she’d be thoroughly convinced that this is what he truly consists of. Tav watches in awe as Astarion flits across the floor, continuing to address all before him. Not a drop of worry remains present on his face, his countenance bright and inviting.
It makes her gravely uneasy.
He lets the room swell for a moment, continuing his speech once it dies back again. “My dearest Lords and Ladies,” Astarion’s tone sends another shock wave down Tav’s spine. He speaks with the same sweetened vitriol as when they first met. Bile builds near the back of her throat, her mouth turning bitter.
“We come together tonight to celebrate one man who surely gets the job done,” the vampire continues. Astarion looks out into the crowd, lifting a hand to wave one finger. Tav follows his eyes. “One man, who puts honor and duty before all else.” Suddenly, he halts, having found his intended target, and he extends his hand. And as Tav traces his arm, she finds the man in question on the other end.
“Esteemed guests,” Astarion boasts, “it is with great honor that I introduce our man of the hour.” Astarion hesitates for a moment, the room eerily silent. He glances toward Tav; her breath hitches. She can see the contempt within his eyes, but he continues, loud and prideful. “Wyllyam Ravengard, your Grand Duke!”
Thunderous applause erupts from the crowd. Wyll, surrounded by the other members of the Watch, tilts his head politely in acknowledgement, giving several small bows. Servants then descend upon the guests, holding silver trays lined with glasses of sparkling liquid.
“And as such,” Astarion says, choosing a glass off the tray a servant presents to him, “may I propose a toast to our young Duke, who does oh so very much for his belovéd city.”
Tav retrieves a glass from a servant, giving the contents a quick whiff. Champagne, and a damned good one, too. Astarion then holds out his glass, those in attendance following suit. Silence befalls the ballroom – the only audible sound being the fizzling of champagne. All eyes are on Wyll, who stands with his own glass, ready to receive his due.
“To Wyll,” begins Astarion, “for I could have not asked for a better traveling companion during our plight against the Absolute.” His eyes are thin slits as he speaks, expression forcibly strained.
He's lying. And so brazenly.
Astarion despised Wyll during their journey. Teased him about being the golden boy, only agreeing to be a dog for Mizora due to a subconscious desire to bed the she-devil. Some, if not all in part, influenced by Tav and Wyll’s short-lived romance. Astarion’s quips escalated in intensity not soon after, and remained sour right up until the end of their adventure together.
It's unsettling to her just how easily Astarion can slip into the mask of a perfect gentleman. Play any hand to his advantage, win over even the most suspicious of individuals. Is that what he's been doing to her this entire time, she wonders? Playing a game? Is there even still a line between what's real and what's for show?
Who is this man that wears the liar’s grin so unashamedly? He wears her lover's face, but this is not him.
Unless… their dynamic has changed?
Tav finds that difficult to believe, but perhaps they've come to an understanding. Perhaps she shouldn't be so quick to judge their relationship. The men are partners now, after all. That demands some level of mutual respect.
…Right?
Raising the glass to his lips, Astarion drinks his champagne. The other occupants of the ballroom soon follow suit, as if following orders from a leader. Placing the glass to her lips, Tav tips it back just enough to make contact with her mouth before bringing it back down. She quickly scans the room – hardly anyone is looking at her. Likely no one has realized she didn't truly drink, and she sighs in relief.
Wyll then steps forward, glass still half full. He wears a white satin full suit with golden trim. His long locs are pulled back behind his shoulder in a low ponytail. A rapier sits upon his hip, swishing gently as he steps forward. “My sincerest gratitude, Lord Ancunín,” he says, taking his place by Astarion's side. The ballroom is silent again as the men stand eye-to-eye. Only the occasional sound of someone clearing their throat travels through the air.
“Truth be told, I had my doubts about Astarion when we first met.” Wyll then turns toward the crowd before continuing, “but now, through his gracious donations towards the restoration of the Lower City, I can tell his heart lies in the exact same place mine does.” He begins nodding his head, as if agreeing with himself. “The abundance of love he has for this city and her people rivals my own.”
The patrons begin clapping and Tav furrows her brow. Idiots, she sneers to herself. Astarion would sooner watch this city burn than save it, especially if it meant protecting himself. How can Wyll not see that? How can they not see it?
“And so I also propose a toast,” Wyll exclaims, holding his drink up in the air. “To Lord Astarion Ancunín, the rogue-turned-hero. An undeniable asset to this city, and someone I am grateful to call a true ‘friend.’” His face is tightly guarded, wearing a well-practiced expression. Diplomatic in nature.
The room tips their glasses once more to their lips, and Tav does the same. Again she only allows the liquid to grace her lips for a moment before bringing it back down. Her stomach lurches as she watches the two men then embrace one another.
The discontent on Astarion's face is clear to her: He wishes for nothing to do with Wyll and this entire affair. And then Wyll – precious, gracious Wyll who makes the best out of every situation – smiles brightly, genuinely welcoming of the vampire's embrace. If Wyll has any reservations surrounding their current situation, they're well hidden.
The men separate, eyes locked to one another, and Astarion raises a hand to Wyll’s shoulder. He gives it a pat, and then the two men turn toward the crowd. Applause rings out again and Astarion speaks, “I say it's about time we start this thing!”
Wyll nods, taking a quick sip from his glass. “Agreed, friend.” Their voices are loud and echo throughout the room. “Everyone!” Wyll states, “Please, enjoy the festivities! This is a night for all! Thank you!”
Astarion's hand then slips from Wyll's shoulder and he departs, but not before managing to squeeze out another smile. The band resumes playing, chatter resuming within the ballroom. Tav loses sight of the silver-haired vampire as he blends within the crowd. She bites at the inside of her cheek – Astarion is unhappy. But she can't worry entirely about him, at the moment.
Her eyes find Wyll as he crosses the room, back to the small gathering of people he was initially with: Marceline, a half-elven paladin of Lathander; Oliver, a human fighter like herself; and Lester, a high-elf who is a cross between a fighter and a mage. Together, they make up Wyll’s personal division of the City Watch.
Admittedly, Tav had found Lester’s skill quite peculiar. ‘I'm somewhat of a battle mage,’ she recalls him saying. Tav had initially laughed at the insinuation, though she soon found it to be true. One afternoon, Lester used his magic to hold his enemies in place, and then proceeded to bring his mace down hard over them. Needless to say, Tav found a new respect for the man, after that.
Tav places her still-full glass of champagne on a tray held by a servant, then smooths out her dress. Astarion had suggested speaking to Wyll, should she wish to know more about their arrangement. And as she makes her approach toward Wyll, Marceline is the first to notice.
“Tavaria!” the half-elf exclaims. She bolts over to Tav, raven hair lifting off her shoulders from the momentum. Marceline hugs her, warm and tight, nuzzling her face against her hair. Tav returns the hug, raising her arms to encircle the woman. As Marceline steps back, she says, “Gods, we were all so worried about you!”
Tav raises a brow, allowing Marceline to take her by the hand and lead her back toward the group. “What ever do you mean, Marceline?” she asks, curiously.
Marceline stops, as does Tav. As she looks at her, Tav can see the slight pull in her bottom lip. “...You didn't show up for work yesterday, Tavaria.”
Tav’s eyes grow wide with surprise. “I… I what?”
“We were going to send a patrol to your flat,” Marceline explains, resuming her initial course, “but Wyll refused to grant it.”
Tav feels herself being brought closer to Wyll; watches as his eyes land on her. Though, her mind is a million realms away. Has she really been so preoccupied that she forgot her duty?
…Has she forgotten herself?
“Ah, there she is!” Wyll states jovially, a smile stretched across his face. His demeanor is warm and welcoming. It hints nothing of him being cross with Tavaria, despite her most recent transgression.
“Your Grace,” Tavaria says with a bow. “I am so–”
“Oh, Tavaria, please,” Wyll interjects, huffing out a laugh. “We know one another far too well for formalities. Please, speak to me as you would a friend.” He brings the champagne glass to his lips. “That is what we are, yes?”
A calm falls over Tav. One would think she'd grown used to it by now, but Wyll's patience and understanding always surprises her. “Of course, Wyll,” she agrees, giving him a smile of her own. “But I am still so very sorry for abandoning my post yesterday.” She shakes her head. “I fear that I don't know what's come over me, as of late.” Not necessarily a lie.
“You ’n this fancy lord fella have history, don't ya?” asks Oliver, outwardly. He's a stoutly man, bald and fills out his dark blue suit with hardly an inch of give. His words are slurred, his cheeks red and flushed. The tone he uses is somewhat accusatory, though Tav knows him well enough to be certain he means no harm.
Despite herself, Tav cocks a questioning brow in his direction. “We do… but how do you know about that?”
“Aye, Tav,” Oliver answers with a haughty laugh, “there are sonnets written ‘bout the two of ya.” He points his glass in her direction. “Down in the brothels, the bards sing of a young woman fallin’ in love wit’ an evil prince.” Oliver nods his head. “Pre’ty sure that’s you ‘n lover boy, no?”
A scowl settles on Tav’s face. She can feel the anger rising within her. It's on the tip of her tongue to inform the man that Wyll was once the closest thing to an actual devil, though she manages to hold off. No reason to throw him under the table. “Oliver, they've sung for ages about that,” Tav bites back. “I doubt it's just Lord Ancunín and myself they refer to.”
Lester then snickers quietly, turning away as he brings a hand to his mouth. The blond is a man of few words, a stark contrast to Gale and other mages she's met. Yet when he does speak, his words carry heavy meaning. He and Tav share a sly grin. It's obvious to both that Oliver is full of drink and hardly worth the argument currently mounting.
“It's more than fine, Tav” says Wyll, finding an opportunity to break the tension. “I figured you needed a day off. You haven’t been yourself, as of late.” Wyll takes another sip from his glass. “But what I didn't expect,” he says, lowering his glass as he tips his face up toward Tav, “was to find you here.”
The fine hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Gooseflesh breaks out over her arms, quickly glazing around the room. This isn't a conversation she wants to have out in the open, especially with Astarion lurking about. Tav dips her head and asks quietly, “Wyll, may we speak privately?”
The group exchanges glances, their expressions flat. They then nod to one another, and soon Marceline, Oliver, and Lester depart toward the refreshment table at the far side of the room, each giving Tav an uptick of their head as they walk past.
“Why are you here, Tavaria?” Wyll asks sternly once the others are out of earshot. He turns his whole body toward her. “I can only assume this means you're both–”
“It's complicated,” Tav answers, quickly. Wyll’s face then falls, an exasperated sigh escaping him. She feels her stomach nearly drop through the floor. She should have expected slack from Wyll about this. Or, really… from anyone.
“I see,” he remarks, placing a hand on his hip. Wyll chokes back the rest of his champagne just as a servant passes by, and he places the glass upon their silver tray. “Are you sure you want to do that?” he asks Tav, nodding politely to the servant as they depart. “Should I remind you of what he's done?”
Tav meets the questioning gaze of the servant looking back, and they quickly duck their head. Astarion has eyes and ears throughout the entire manor – not a detail she's forgotten. Though, she screws her eyes shut and draws a deep breath in.
Wyll speaks of the ascension.
The moment Astarion, the rogue, fell and Astarion, the vampire lord, took his place. Tav still hears them, even now – the shrieking of over 7000 souls perishing from this realm, banished to the depths of the Hells.
She remembers the fire behind Astarion's ruby red eyes as he rose, as if born anew. The manic laughter that tumbled forward from his chest as he confronted Ulma, slitting her throat. The pulsing artery of her carotid bathing him in blood, flowing freely into his mouth.
She remembers the moan he let out as the woman's blood hit his tongue. The gurgling noises arising from her throat as she grew limp, falling into his arms. His body rocking in time with her twitching form as he finally sealed his lips over the wound, drawing more and more blood into his mouth.
And within moments, it was over. Ulma grew still, and Astarion dropped her to the floor in an unceremonious heap, completely lifeless. Astarion stood still for what felt like ages. The Gur who arrived with her soon fled when Astarion finally lifted his head, vowing to return with stronger numbers. And all the vampire lord did was laugh.
In the immediate aftermath, Tavaria and the others were horrified. The chance of Astarion turning on them next ran through each of their minds. Wyll vowed to stake him through the heart should he draw closer; Gale promised to cast spells to hold Astarion in place. Tav had never feared Astarion up until that point. Even with his fangs seated deep within her neck, she still trusted him to take just enough. Though, as he turned to face her, blood smeared across his face, dripping down his chin… A chill ran through her heart.
His smile is what did it. Wide, almost goofy. It was as if he expected her to be as proud as he was. Finally, after two centuries of horror, he was now the cat who got the clotted cream. And, by the gods, did it feel good.
“I remember well enough what he's done,” Tav remarks solemnly, opening her eyes. She shifts her gaze away from Wyll. “And all he continues to do.”
Wyll cocks his head upward, narrowing his eyes. “So you know?” he probes, cautiously.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Tav confirms, moving her head in agreement. “In fact, that's the entire reason I stand before you now. Astarion suggested I speak with you about what happened.”
Wyll is stoic for a moment, unwavering. Tav questions for a moment if she somehow misread the situation, but Wyll bursts into a sudden fit of laughter, placing a hand on his chest. The duke then shakes his head. “At least he's still a character,” he says, continuing to laugh. His arms fall back down to his hips. “But petty, no less. The man doesn't even have the common decency to wear a suit.” He then gestures toward Tav, hand waving up and down. “Though, he made sure you look the part.”
Heat floods her face. “H-how do you know I didn't choose this myself?” Tav argues. How embarrassing, she thinks, for it be so obvious that Astarion clothed her. Like his personal doll.
Though, much to her relief, Wyll only chuckles. “Tavaria, you are capable of many things,” the Duke says, reassuringly. “But this?” He waves his hand up and down her form again. “I don't think you'd ever choose this for yourself.” And just as Tav's heart begins to sink, Wyll adds, “It's not necessarily a bad thing.”
“Wyllyam!” she scolds through gritted teeth. Tav then scans the room, silently praying no one is eavesdropping on their conversation. “Mind yourself, please!” She can feel how brightly her cheeks now burn, and before she turns back to Wyll, Tav catches Astarion's scowling at them from across the ballroom. “I-I’m your subordinate, Wyll,” Tav states within a hushed tone. A cold chill passes over her, and she finally meets the Duke's gaze once more.
Curse Astarion's attuned hearing. He's likely heard everything they've said.
“Of course, of course,” Wyll agrees. “My apologies; I may be a bit deeper in the drink than I realize.” He shakes his head. “Right. You're here to talk about my agreement with my lovely friend, Astarion.”
A jolt of pain shoots through her chest as she feels her cheeks flush. Their performance earlier was exactly that – an act. There's still no love lost between the two men. However, it sounds even more strained, now.
Tav gives Wyll a sullen glance. “I'm sorry, Wyll. When I found those men laying in the crypts below, I demanded answers from him.” She clasps her hands over her stomach, looking down. “But he refused to tell me everything.”
“Of course he did,” Wyll is quick to remark. He shifts his weight onto one hip. “Because your opinion of him is the only one he cares for, just as it's always been. Wouldn't want to sully that, now, would he?”
Tav raises her head to meet Wyll. How much of what Astarion told her is the truth? Perhaps she knows nothing at all. Would that be so out of the realm of possibility? “Wyll, what happened that night?” she asks, plainly. “Why was Astarion even with those men?”
Wyll sighs, casting his gaze to the floor before looking back up. He clicks his tongue, placing his arms over his chest. “When I became Grand Duke, I knew one of the first things I had to do was keep an eye on Astarion.” He wags a finger in the air. “The Szarr family has been around for centuries, and is considered one of the wealthiest in all of Baldur's Gate. For Astarion, in all of his unpredictability, to inherit such an estate, alongside boundless physical powers…” Wyll seems lost in thought for a moment before he continues, “...It’s a recipe for disaster.”
Tav nods in silent agreement. She knows he isn't wrong to assume as such. Only minutes after ascending did he test the boundaries of these new abilities, much to everyone else's horror. Mere hours after the ritual is when he demanded her mortal life be given to him. Wyll was absolutely correct to not trust Astarion. A fact that's difficult to argue against.
“So,” Wyll explains further, “I invited him to Wyrm’s Crossing one afternoon and proposed an agreement: Astarion aid me in cleaning up Cazador's morally questionable affairs, and I give Astarion his privacy. No meddling in his records, nor his personal business. And he agreed.” Wyll then smiles. “But only after I made good on my promise to position patrols outside of the palace, ready to move in should I give the word.”
Tav’s eyes widen in shock. “You would have laid siege upon him?” she asks, voice quivering.
“Without question,” Wyll answers, sternly. “Tav, I know of your history with him. I can only imagine how complicated it is now.” He leans in closer to Tav, nearly face to face. “But heed my words – the man is a devil masquerading as a man.” There's a sharp bite to his words that sends a shockwave shooting down her spine. Wyll shakes his head again. “He is not the Astarion we knew. Not even close.”
“...How can you be so sure?” Tav’s lips pull into a quirk. Astarion can't be all that horrid… Could he? Surely, she would know by now.
Wyll draws a deep breath in, releasing it with forced effort. “Cazador's depravity ran deeper than I thought. I knew the man would be involved in terrible business, but never did I think it would include the trafficking of humanoid creatures.” The Duke swallows, taking a moment of respite before adding, “I used this as leverage to broker a deal with Astarion. He'd continue business as usual, gathering sensitive information to help me build a case. And I stay out of his other affairs.”
“You used him?!” Tav exclaims, worriedly. “And with slavers, no less? Wyll, that's low! Even for you.”
“Is it crueler than Astarion forcibly taking half the city as his spawn?” responds Wyll, coldly. “I needed an in, Tav. Surely you can understand why.”
Just then, the leader of the band speaks, welcoming all to gather for their next song. Tav meets Wyll’s eyes, and he gestures toward the dance floor, holding out his hand for her. Reluctantly, Tav accepts, and they both head toward the floor.
They stand before one another, one set of hands interlocked adjacent to their waists. Tav's free hand rests atop Wyll’s shoulder, while he places his on her hip. The band then kicks in – a slow, melodic song – and the two begin to sway. Tav remembers the night they danced around the campfire together. A soft smile comes to her face, but it’s short lived.
“I'm the reason Astarion was present that evening,” Wyll continues. “But I never instructed him on how to act.” The two part as Wyll stretches out their conjoined hands, and Tav twirls under both of their arms. She returns to him, and the two spin as they glide across the floor, the hem of her skirts swaying as they go.
“He told me he had no choice but to kill them,” says Tav within a broken breath. “That they would have gotten him first.”
Wyll then chuckles, throwing his head back. “And I'm sure he's expecting me to tell you the same. But that would be too far from the truth.” Wyll then separates from her again, releasing their hands to lay his palm flat against hers. Tav then follows his lead, moving so their bodies are parallel to one another, and they walk in a circle together. “You're a smart woman, Tav. I know that as fact,” Wyll states, confidently. “Do you really think the vampire ascendant is so defenseless? That he’d find himself trapped?”
Wyll then drops his hand, holding up the opposite, and Tav does the same. They mirror their previous formation, circling now in the opposite direction. “He had every chance of escaping, had he any desire to do so,” Wyll continues, facing Tav.
Tav meets his eyes, her body almost on autopilot. A chill runs down her spine as her mind makes sense of Wyll's inference. “Wyll, are you implying–”
“That he murdered those men on purpose?” Wyll interrupts, almost emphatically. The band then slows, music winding down, and Wyll comes to stand before her. “Yes, Tavaria. That is exactly what I'm implying. Because that's exactly what happened.”
Applause rings out around them as the music cuts out, but Tav can hardly hear it over the sound of her heart hammering away in her ears. Her blood runs cold.
Wyll speaks sense; Astarion always had control of the situation. His life was never in danger. He killed those men for no reason other than he could.
A game. A way to test his new powers.
The smell of iron dancing beneath her nose pulls her violently from her thoughts. Saliva pools thickly in her mouth as she scans the room, desperately searching for the source. She gasps aloud when she finally finds it.
There, in the far corner of the ballroom, stands Astarion. His eyes are fixed on her as he raises a silver goblet to his mouth. They share a glance long enough for Tav to watch the goblet then fall away, a small bead of crimson liquid dripping down his stained lips. Astarion is quick to snatch it up with the side of a finger, bringing it to his mouth.
The smell is intoxicating, and Tav’s vision grows fuzzy. She's suddenly hungry, starved for something she knows not what. It's what happened to her at the butcher shop, but it’s worse. So much more intense now than it was then.
Astarion's tongue darts from his mouth to envelop the digit, swiping the liquid from his finger. His eyes have yet to leave hers, and Tav feels an enigmatic pull overtake her.
Is that… blood?
The urge to lick the essence from his lips swells within her. To bury her tongue as deeply as possible within his mouth, savoring every last drop of blood. To swap their tainted saliva back and forth, until the taste all but fades into nothing.
Astarion then smiles, as if privy to her thoughts. Her mouth falls open with sudden realization.
…Has she grown a hunger for blood?
“Tavaria!”
Her concentration is broken as Wyll’s voice bellows in her ears. She whips her head in his direction, staring wildly. “I'm sorry,” Tav says, rushed. She sucks in a sharp breath and screws her eyes tightly. “My mind was elsewhere.”
Wyll’s gaze shifts to the far corner of the ballroom, where Astarion stands. The two men exchange deep scowls. “I don't want to get between whatever business you have with him, Tavaria,” he says, shifting his eyes back to her. “But if I were you, I’d run.”
Tav huffs out a laugh. She then looks to Astarion and finds that despite the women who have now joined him, he's still focused entirely on them. “What do you mean?” Tav asks innocently, turning her head to Wyll. “I don't think Astarion would ever harm me.”
“You have no idea who Astarion is anymore. None of us do.” Wyll states with finality. “And I'm deeply concerned by what may become of you should you stay.” He lifts his hands then to Tav’s shoulders, and she shudders under his touch. “There will come a time when he grows bored of this game.” Wyll tightens his grip. “I don't think I have to tell you what happens next.”
Tav’s eyes grow wide.
It's… a game. Their entire dynamic is a game of cat and mouse – who can outsmart the other first. How could she have been so blind? There's no love in this. No, this is about possession. Control. Deep down, a part of her always knew that. But she didn't think it was evident to anyone else.
“Your neck, Tav – I see it.” Wyll's eyes draw tightly together, his voice dropping an octave as he tilts his head. “He's already marked you.”
Bile pools in the back of her throat again as a sudden wave of nausea rushes forward. A hand flies to her neck, covering the remnants of Astarion's bite.
Tav wants to vomit. She wants to run, scream, forget she ever let Astarion back into her life.
The realization dawns over her that Wyll is right: Astarion will inevitably force her hand, should she stay long enough. He will never let her live out a mortal life. Tav will become his puppet, his trophy. His most prized possession, completely dependent on him for sustenance. Astarion will keep her sealed tightly within this palace, never to see the light of day again. She will be expected to lay with him as he commands, satisfy him as he commands… To become completely subservient to all his desires.
She was right, and has been right this entire time. Astarion has only given her the illusion of choice, hoping that she gives into him willingly.
She feels hollow.
Tav stares blankly at Wyll, placing both of her hands over her lower belly. Her mouth struggles to form the words racing through her mind, unable to grasp them. She wants to tell Wyll everything. About her and Astarion, about the baby. He could hide her, far away from Astarion's reach. So that he could never find her or their child ever again. She knows he would.
But the aroma of a certain spiced cologne distracts her, and as Tav turns her head toward that particular corner of the ballroom again, she sees Astarion drawing closer.
Panic grips her throat, and almost instinctively she's ripping herself away from Wyll. “I–I need some air!” she shouts in his direction, briefly looking back. Wyll moves to speak, but Tav is beyond earshot.
The urge to run consumes her, but to where? She scans the room desperately, tunnel vision beginning to set in. Finally, she finds large window pane doors leading out into the garden.
Tav dares to look back and finds Astarion now chatting with Wyll. Their expressions are taut, strained – she can see Astarion's fangs under the curling of his upper lip. Her heart skips strongly within her chest, and she looks again to the French doors.
It may be futile, as Astarion can simply sniff her out should he choose, but anything is better than staying here. She may as well try. With that logic in mind, Tav makes a desperate dash towards the doors.
—----------------------------------------
Bursting out into the courtyard, Tav barrels down the stone steps. She runs into the hedges, stopping just short of a rose bush. The sound of tearing fabric rings in her ears, but she doesn't care. All that matters is keeping away from him right now.
Fearfully, she dares herself to look back to the top of the stairs. Astarion soon comes into view, surveying the garden. Though, he makes no effort to follow her. Instead, he turns, wine glass in hand, and heads back into the ballroom.
A choked sob then escapes Tav's throat. Her body is overcome by violent shaking as she drops to her knees, clutching herself. How could she have been so blind? Was she charmed? Has Astarion been whittling away at her subconscious this entire time?
Just as she feels her resolve begin to shatter entirely, Tav catches the silhouette of another standing where Astarion just was. Brown hair tied into a high bun atop the man's head, the rest flowing down his shoulders. Mauve and midnight blue evening dress, complete with a vest and jacket. He seems to be searching for something.
“Gale?” Tav questions tentatively, poking her head from beyond the bushes. “Is that really you?”
The wizard looks out into the garden, his face lighting up as he finds her. “Tav!” he exclaims, running down the steps to meet her. “I knew I saw you talking to Wyll earlier! Though, I must ask…” Gale then extends a hand to her. “...are you hiding?”
Tav pouts as she takes his hand, letting Gale pull her up. “It's a long story,” she deflects, patting herself down. There's a small tear in the dress just below her left breast, and she scowls. “I'm surprised to see you here. I wouldn't think of Astarion inviting you.”
“Well, fortunately for you, the guest list wasn't his to command.” The magician places his hands on his hips, staring intently at Tav. “But really, why are you out here? You all but ran from Wyll.” Gale then searches her up and down, bending forward and sideways. “Are you hurt? Did he say something unkind?”
Tav sighs and shakes her head. “No, no. It's nothing Wyll said.”
A blatant lie – it's everything Wyll said.
“I just needed some fresh air, that's all.” She tries her best to put on a smile, but she knows Gale doesn't buy it.
“Tav,” he states, sternly. “What's wrong? You look beautiful, yes, but I can also see that you're shaken.” He dips his head to stare up at her from under his brow. “I'm your friend, Tav. You can talk to me.”
She looks at him. Emotion swirls within her chest, and she begins to heave with heavy breath. Tears well up within her eyes, and it's not long before Tav rushes forward, throwing her arms tightly around Gale’s neck. She sobs, heavily, messily, into his shoulder.
It's cathartic – like a dam finally giving way after keeping a rushing river at bay for far longer than ever intended. She feels arms encircle her and realizes they're Gale's, prompting another rush of tears to flow down her cheeks. For the first time in months, she feels safe. She hadn’t realized she'd forgotten what this feels like, until now.
By the time Tav lifts her face, the shoulder of Gale's jacket is horribly stained. She must look like a child's painting right now, make-up askew. But Gale simply gives her a reassuring look, reaching into the pocket of his jacket to retrieve a handkerchief. “Here,” he says while holding it out for her.
And for a moment, Tav wishes she could have fallen in love with him instead.
Tav accepts his offer, muttering her thanks as she lifts the kerchief to her eyes. “I'm sorry for not having answered your most recent letters.” She then blots the skin over her cheeks, scowling as her foundation stains the cloth. “There’s so much I have to tell you, Gale. So much has happened in such a short period of time, and I've no time to process it.”
“I'm here now,” Gale states triumphantly, placing his hands on his hips. “No better time to start than the present.”
She gives a soft laugh, sniffling before she says, “I suppose you're right.” She swipes the handkerchief under her nose. “Well, for one… I'm pregnant.”
Gale doesn't answer. Instead, he cocks his head slowly to the side, eyes growing wide with surprise. “...Whoa,” he musters. “Well… That's… certainly one way to start.” He then rights his posture, shifting his weight to one side. “I… wasn't aware you were with anyone.”
“That’s because I'm not.” Tav stares at the ground, sticking out a foot to run her shoe mindlessly over the small stones that make up the garden’s pathway. “At least not officially.”
The wizard crosses his arms over his chest. “I see. Is it someone that you know?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” Tav answers quickly. “We both know him quite well.” She then pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, adding, “Or, we did.”
“I think I'm beginning to understand,” says Gale with a snicker. “I can see how tensions may run high in your line of work.” Tav quirks a brow but remains silent, curious as to where Gale is taking the conversation. “And how your superior may seem like the best person to relieve them with.”
And then her mouth hangs open for a moment, dumbfounded, though she quickly gathers her thoughts to argue. “Gale, I don't think you–”
“You know,” he continues, sticking up a hand to wave a finger, “when I was at the academy, I had a professor who–”
“Gale!” Tav shouts. Heat floods to her cheeks in embarrassment. “Gods, no! It's not Wyll!” Placing her face in her hands, Tav begins to pace back and forth. A groan escapes her as she drags both hands across her face, further smearing her make-up. “Why does everyone assume I'm still infatuated with Wyll?”
Gale shrugs his shoulders. “I don't think he's that hard on the eyes.”
“He isn't!” Tav shouts again. “But, sweet Hells, he's my boss!”
“Alright, alright,” Gale holds up his hands in defeat, then crosses them over his chest. “So, if not him, then who?”
Tav sucks in a breath through her nose, exhaling slowly through her mouth. Her heart pounds against her chest as Astarion's name dances across her mind. She wants to say his name, but her mouth won't cooperate. Instead, she slowly lifts her hair, turning her head to expose the healing bite mark on her neck to Gale's curious eyes.
“That… looks like a recent bite wound,” comments the wizard, pupils dilating.
“And you would be correct,” Tav confirms, flatly.
His squints, leaning closer to Tav, then stands upright. “Judging by the spacing of the marks…” Gale says, hesitantly, “...I would say that's the bite of a vampire.”
Tav nods, lips drawing into a thin line. “Right again.”
“Huh,” huffs Gale. “But, there's only one vampire we both know.”
Her heart is pounding again, so loud it's drowning out any sound in her ears. “Indeed,” Tav agrees, willing herself to continue despite her discomfort. “And we happen to be standing in his garden.”
She watches Gale's face as it contorts, the phases of acknowledgement written clearly for Tav to see. The magician's face ranges from confusion, to shock, to acceptance, back to shock again. “Oh, Nine Hells,” Gale mutters. “...How? When?!”
Tav throws up her arms, laughing to herself. “Not sure, Gale! Because if I did, I certainly wouldn't be in this mess!”
Shame settles in. Tav’s face burns again, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. Hearing these words said with her own voice somehow makes this real. Makes the empty hole within her chest ache, once occupied by Astarion. The desperate desire to be held by him, to disappear into the night and fall in love all over again.
“Gods, Tavaria… I don't even know what to say.” Gale lowers his arms to his sides, holding one hand to his hip. “How did he react when you told him?”
The air is knocked from her lungs, and Tav sucks in a desperate breath. “...I haven't,” she says, quietly.
“What?!” exclaims Gale. “Tav, you have to tell him!”
She glares at him, balling her hands into fists, shame quickly warping into anger. “Gale, if I tell him, you can kiss ever seeing me again goodbye.” She's shaking now, emotions boiling over.. “I will be his, forever, whether I want to be or not! I will no longer have a choice!”
“Oh, poppycock,” says Gale with a wave of his hand. “If there's one thing we both know about Astarion, it's that he'd never let any harm come to you. Especially by his doing.” Gale moves closer to Tav, voice dropping in decibel. His gaze remains glued to her. “Is this what you were discussing with Wyll? You know how he feels about Astarion, Tav,” says the wizard.
Tav swallows thickly. Her jaw is clenched tightly, teeth grinding against one another. “Gale, he's not the man either of us think he is,” she states, boldly. “Not anymore.”
Gale leans back with a laugh. “I somehow doubt that,” he argues, raising a hand, then both. “Sure, he's grown to be a bit of a recluse over these last few months.” With a shrug of his shoulders, Gale adds, “And the Gods only know how familiar I am with such a state. But it doesn't seem his heart has changed, when you're concerned.”
“What are you talking about?” Tav retorts in frustration. Does he mean to mock her? It's unlikely, but still infuriating how wrong he is at this moment. “Gale, he had fucking bodies in the crypts, what are you–”
“Did you ever think that perhaps Astarion sought you out again because he knew he was losing control?”
Tav’s eyes grow wide, shocked by the wizard’s declaration. “...What?” The whispered sound that escapes her throat is foreign to her. “I don't…” She shakes her head slowly in disbelief. “What do you mean?”
“You're the only one he's ever felt safe with, Tavaria,” explains Gale. “Astarion never spoke to us the way he spoke to you. You two had a language all your own.”
…He’s right. Tav’s gaze wanders off toward the French doors of the ballroom. Astarion confided in her like no other. Spoke to her in a tone that was reserved strictly for her. His hardened edges gave way to a soft, pale underbelly after a time. And never to another.
The panic in his eyes as Cazador rendered him utterly helpless, entrapped within an enchantment. Desperate pleas to free him ripping through his throat. Astarion shook violently within her arms as she broke the spell, his body collapsing against hers. His nails nearly pierced the thick leather of her armor from how tightly he gripped her, and when it came time for them to separate, Astarion refused to let go.
‘Please,’ he cries softly, pupils blown wide. He's shaking something fierce, as if reliving the worst moment of his life on repeat. He clings to her forearm as she tries to stand. ‘Please, I can't, he's going to, to you, he's going to–’
‘Hush now, Astarion,’ Tav coos, trying to soothe him. She runs a hand gently through his hair and kisses his sweat-soaked brow. ‘We’re here. He can't harm you.’
Astarion turns to her. He lifts a trembling hand to her face, cupping her jaw. ‘...I don't care about what happens to me,’ he says, voice hoarse. ‘I don't want him to have you.’ His jaw cinches tight, spitting through gritted teeth, ‘He has no right.’
The magician sucks in a deep breath and brings a hand to his face, exhaling as he begins stroking his beard. “Look, if Astarion wanted to harm you, he would have done so already.” He then tosses his hand to the air, lips molding into a soft pout. “I think he's asking for help in the only way he knows how.”
Heat crawls across her skin, and suddenly the air is too hot. Tav draws in a deep breath, fanning herself with her hands. Her eyes sting from the threat of fresh tears and she once again begins to pace back and forth.
“I never wanted any of this,” she admits to Gale, looking up at him each time she passes. “Gods, sometimes I wish I chose my Father.” Tav chokes back a sob. “At least then I would never have to think or feel again.”
A moment passes before Gale says solemnly, “Pain, happiness, sorrow, bliss – emotions remind us that we're alive, Tavaria.” He shakes his head. “To deny them is to deny life itself.”
“I don't wish to argue that,” Tav replies. “I just mean–”
The words die in her throat as her eyes catch a glimpse of someone standing by the French doors.
At the top of the marble stairs is Astarion, glass of wine in hand. As he descends the steps, Tav swears there's an additional button undone on the crimson dress shirt he wears. The fabric ripples across the pale plane of his chest, moonlight glinting off the golden amulet hanging around his neck. He reaches the bottom step and takes a swig of wine before sauntering over.
“The Wizard of Waterdeep!” Astarion bellows, almost mockingly. “Fancy seeing you here.” As he comes to stand next to Gale, Tav can smell the alcohol on his breath and notes that his eyes are slightly glazed over. He fidgets to find a comfortable pose, inevitably settling on leaning to one side with his free hand on his hip.
He's… drunk. Reminiscent of the night he helped himself to a cave bear within the Underdark.
“Astarion,” Gale replies with a nod of his head. “Good to see you, too. Love what you've done with the place. It feels so much more–” Gale rolls his wrists, as if to stimulate a response, “–alive, than it did before.”
The vampire gives a soft grunt before saying, “Well, yes. That was the entire point, no?” His eyes then land on Tav, and she feels the small hairs on her arms and neck stand on end. “I hope I'm not interrupting anything?” Astarion inquires with a grin.
The ruby red of his irises burn into her despite their sheen. “Not at all,” Tav manages to reply, turning her head to Gale. “Gale and I were just catching up. I've admittedly been a poor friend,m neglecting to answer his letters.” She makes sure to give a laugh after her sentence; Astarion is studying her.
The magician’s gaze flits momentarily between Astarion and Tav before settling on Tav. “Oh, no, of course you're not,” Gale says with a chuckle, “it's no issue, really. Just happy to know you're doing well.” Tav gives him a small nod of her head, thanking him for having taken her lead. Gale returns the gesture.
“Splendid,” Astarion states flatly, albeit sarcastically. “Then I'm sure you wouldn't mind if I borrowed this lovely lady?” He brings his glass again to his mouth, throwing the rest of the wine back. As the cup drops from his face, Astarion meets her eyes again, brow drawn tightly together. “I’ve been looking for her.”
Again Tav and Gale share a look, and Tav nods approvingly. “N-no, of course not,” Gale stammers. “I think we're sufficiently caught up.”
“Indeed we are,” Tav comments, moving closer to Astarion. “It was a pleasure to see you, Gale. I'll do my best to be better about answering your correspondence.” She then slips her arm around the vampire's, only to feel Astarion flinch against her. “Shall we?” she then asks Astarion, giving his forearm a pat. He's tense alongside her, though he returns her gaze.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Gale,” Astarion says to Gale, turning toward the palace. His voice edges on bitter, but there's still enough pleasantry about it to be considered cordial.
Tav waves to the wizard, then follows Astarion's lead back toward the ballroom. Her stomach is in a mess of nerves and her heart is practically in her throat. Drawing a deep breath in, she manages to blink away any hint of tears forming within her eyes. The signature scent of Astarion's cologne envelops her and she clings tighter to his arm as they ascend the stairs.
Before entering the ballroom, Astarion gives Gale one final glance as he ushers Tav beyond the French doors. He then follows swiftly behind her.
“Huh,” is all Gale can mutter to himself.
#sotlc#cw: gore#pregnancy mention#tw: gale#astarion fanfic#astarion x durge#astarion x female tav#ascended astarion
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Alms purse depicting a woman with a falconry glove holding two mounted falcons and a dismembered raptor’s leg (top), and a falconer embracing and crowning his lover (bottom). In the lower panel, a mended patch obscures where a raptor once perched on the falconer’s glove.
France, ca. 1340
Lyon, Musée des Tissus (photos: Sylvain Pretto)
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symptoms of the culture
Summary: Last call at the bar and you’re still here? Jesus Christ girl, get yourself together!
Pairing: e.m. x f!reader
W.C.: 1.9k
A/N: a continuation of our meet cute with eddie ☺️
Meeting Eddie at the bar was like something from a romantic comedy, and unlike everything you’d experienced before.
He did end up letting you buy that drink after all, which turned in to him buying you a drink because “it’s the polite thing to do.”
Your friend checked in maybe once or twice before deciding you could handle yourself, if it came to that (she didn’t seem to think that would be the case though). The crowd had dwindled down to mostly the regulars and friends of the bartenders, and you didn’t realize how late it had gotten until someone bellowed, “Last call!”
Eddie’s deft fingers traced the rings of condensation on the wooden table, dragging droplets of water into various shapes. Enthralled, you quickly realized that you could watch him do something like that all day, if you weren't careful.
“Shit,” You say, downing the last of your beer, “I didn’t mean to hold you up for so long.”
His lips kick up to one side, dimples prominent despite the low light. There’s a glint in his eye as he looks you up and down, a slow assessment that has you shifting in your seat.
“Riddle me this, sugar,” He says drumming his fingers on the table, “You really think there’s any place I’d rather be?”
And with that, he leaves to pay the tab, leaving his question hanging in the air.
Not that you could have formulated a semblance of a response anyway. Grabbing your jacket from the back of the chair, you shove your free hand into your purse to scrounge up your card to cover the tab as you sidle up beside him at the bar top.
Eddie’s got two bills in front of him, one large hand over each so you can’t figure out which is yours. Going to pluck either one from his grasp is useless, and after the second attempt, he simply holds it above your head and out of your reach.
“Try me, short stuff,” He taunts with a huff of a laugh. “Besides, your money’s no good here.”
Thinking twice before you could potentially demean yourself by actually jumping up to steal the bill from him, you turn to the bartender with a smile instead to ask:
“Can you print another bill please?”
And once you’ve supplied your last name, it should be a done deal. You expect him to reply with a nod and a ‘you got it’, accompanied by the familiar sound of a receipt being printed.
Instead, it goes a little something like this:
The bartender turns to glance at Eddie, and he gives the bartender some sort of look— which, what would the bartender need approval from a patron? Then, he shoves both receipts into the jar by the register and leans against the bar top and props an elbow on it as he faces you, like he’s waiting for something.
“Can’t do it.” The bartender sighs, “The bossman says you’re money’s no good here, them’s the rules.”
You try, and fail, to keep your jaw from dropping.
“Y-you own this bar? You’re that Eddie?”
“In the flesh and at your service.”
A beat of silence passes between you as the bartender clears his throat and begins closing preparations.
“Well, technically,” Eddie allows, with a twist of his lips, “I co-own it with a buddy of mine. This and couple of other places around town.”
And, well. For someone who dresses like they should be in a biker gang or fronting a prog-metal band, Eddie sure didn’t strike you as a real estate mogul.
“That’s cool,” You say with a nod, hand shoved into your purse once more. Rifling around a bit, you come back with a glorious fist of cash and shove it into the kitty near the register that simply reads, Alms for the pour.
“Soooo,” He drawls, the awkward end of the night coming upon you rapidly. “You good to drive or…?”
“Oh, no worries,” You say flippantly, quickly debating whether your should call an Uber at the hour of just suck it up and walk home. You could cut through campus and maybe shave five minutes off of the journey, anyway.
“I can get you an Uber—”
“No, it’s fine, really.” You adjust the shoulder strap of your bag and grab your keys, “I live just off the campus, it’s walkable from here.”
Eddie’s fingers loop around your wrist before you can say your goodbyes and high-tail it out of there. The silver of his rings glints in the light and the cool metal contrasts with the warmth of his hand as it engulfs yours.
“Nuh uh, not happening.” His tone leaves no room for discussion. “I’m not gonna let you walk—”
“It’s not even a mile!” You interject, “I cut through campus and skirt the park and I’m golden.”
“The park? At three in the morning?” He shakes his head, fingers forming a bracelet around your wrist, “Not even sorry to say, that is unequivocally not happening.”
Eddie tugs you with him as he passes behind the bar and down a small corridor to the back office.
“You good closing on your own Matty?”
The bartender, Matty, you assume, nods with an easy smile.
“Sure, Ed.”
Eddie releases your hand to grab a backpack and a helmet. He tosses the bag to you saying, “Throw your purse in there, you don’t mind wearing that on the bike, right?”
“I really am fine walking home, I haven’t fallen or stumbled in years,” You say as he turns back around, “That’s how good I am.”
“It’s not your walking capabilities I’m worried about here, sugar.” He holds the black helmet in his hands, fingers drumming on the closed visor. “It’s the creeps.”
“This from you, the man that very nearly creeped me out earlier tonight?”
Matty fails to stifle his laugh from the desk.
Eddie rolls his eyes in exasperation, “Yeah, laugh it up newbie.” Taking you by the shoulder, he steers you toward the service entrance and you find yourself not even trying to come up with excuses anymore.
Well, except for:
“Oh, you meant bike as in motorcycle.”
He snorts from behind you, finishing the job of zipping the backpack, now containing your purse, and looping the straps around your shoulders.
“Well it’s certainly not a pennyfarthing, if that’s what you were thinking.”
“I’ve never been on one before.”
“No time like the present.”
Clapping you on the shoulder, he turns you around to face him and pries a hair tie from his wrist. You take it from his outstretched hand, your fingertips brushing for a fleeting moment. Without much fuss, you throw your hair into a loose bun at the nape of your neck.
“May I?” Eddie asks, presenting you with the helmet.
After you nod, he deftly flips the helmet around and takes a step closer to place it on your head. It’s not a perfect fit, but it’ll have to do. He has you shake your head left and right, then up and down before he’s satisfied you won’t crack your skull on the pavement.
In a few strides he’s near the bike, and mounting it in one fluid motion. His legs are long and pretty fucking perfect for, oh you don’t know, maybe straddling later yourself.
But now you’re just getting ahead of things.
You follow his lead and step toward the bike; taking his offered hand as you find your seat behind him.
“So,” Eddie says leaning to start up the bike, once he’s satisfied that your feet are on the foot rest. “All you really gotta do is hold on.”
Your hands go to his shoulders and you can feel them rise with his soft chuckle.
“That’s cute,” He says, taking both your hands in his and moving them to his waist, which causes you to bridge the few inches of space between your bodies to accomodate the movement.
I mean, there are worse things than having your tits smooshed up against some guy’s back on a motorcycle, right?
“You good?”
And you can barely hear him over the rev of the engine, so you nod and raise your voice to rattle out your address. He half-turns toward you, eyes finding yours through the visor of the helmet and giving you a wink.
He grips the handles, pulls the clutch, and kicks off.
“Alright, sugar, let’s get you home.”
Holding on for dear life, you quickly learn that as he leans, you lean. There’s a lot of movement on a bike that you hadn’t anticipated, so much so that Eddie’s shirt, at some point, rides up his abdomen. Too busy gawking at the sights and sounds of your first motorcycle ride, you don’t notice the subtle warming of your fingertips against his bare skin until it’s too late.
You were confident that the sound of the engine would drown out the unfortunate squeak that escaped your mouth, but at the feeling of Eddie’s stomach muscles contracting in what could only be laughter, and the shaking of his shoulders, now has you second guessing yourself.
Oh, well.
Rolling to a smooth stop in front of your apartment, he kills the engine and helps you off the bike.
Back on solid ground, you slough off the backpack and unzip it to grab your purse and keys. You pass it back to him and remove the helmet, mourning briefly the soft scent of tobacco and clary sage— his cologne, maybe?
Hooking a finger through the hair tie at the back of your neck, you pull it out, and shake your hair from its confines before offering it back to him.
Eddie just smiles with a shake of his head, “Nah, keep it— I gotta million of ‘em.”
He stays seated on the bike, eyes whiskey-warm and crinkling at the edges. With a shrug, you push the elastic up and around your hand to settle on your wrist.
It’s relatively quiet for a winter’s night around the campus, all the undergrads gone home for the holidays and not expected back until mid-January. A brisk wind blows and a shiver runs through you, one hand rubbing furiously along your arm, while the other grips the helmet resting against your hip.
All the while, Eddie simply sits there to drink you in. Eyes roving across the full of your cheeks, the elegant slope of your neck and the necklaces strung there. Your hair wild and waving in the breeze. And even if it’s cold outside, he can’t bring himself to notice— not with you looking like that standing there before him.
“Hey, Eddie,” You say, stepping toward him. Taking the helmet in both hands, you put it on for him and have half a mind to make him go through the head shaking nonsense he was adamant over back at the bar. But it fits him perfectly, just your luck.
Before stepping back and retreating into your apartment, he takes your hand in his and gives it a slight squeeze. You can feel the heat skittering under your skin, terribly welcome in the cold morning air.
Squeezing his fingers back in return, you part with a soft, “Happy New Year.”
He watches as you open the front door of your ground floor apartment, giving him a shy wave as a dog barks from somewhere behind you. He can see your lips moving as you turn back to say something to the dog, smiling as you bend to greet them.
Kicking off as the door closes and the lights flick on in your home, Eddie cruises down the deserted street with a smile on his face.
And maybe, this could turn out to be his year after all.
#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson fanfiction#fic: ml#Spotify
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Imperial Domesticity: New Year’s Festivities
Penelope’s first new year’s celebration as the Empress meant that everyone would have their eyes on her. But she also wanted her New Year’s Kiss. Thankfully, her husband was willing to figure out a way to do it.
There was much to be done for the New Years ball, this was Penelope’s first new years as the empress, before that, she’d helped with the preparations as the Emperor’s paramour and fiancée, as well as the highest ranking woman in the empire. Now though, all eyes would be on her and they would be picking through the entire event, eyeing each detail to see what could be criticized and what parts of the traditions and rituals had she messed up.
Callisto tried to get Penelope to rest, trying to reassure her that he could take care of everything. Whenever such a thing would be brought up, Penelope would turn to him with a fierce look on her face.
“No! I’ve always handled this, even before we were married and now that we are, I am not going to give it up!” She said furiously.
Callisto tried to calm her down, subtly moving to soothe her by catching her hand and rubbing the back of her hand. He entwined their fingers together and kissed the back of her hand. The effects were instantaneous. Penelope’s shoulders relaxed, her breathing calmed.
“I’m sorry, I know you’re worried but it’s just…” so much of the tradition had been cut away by the late and unlamented former Queen that when Penelope had begun reinstating them, there were some push backs. The woman had been truly vain and lazy, discarding some of the more solemn traditions that had been the empresses and queens traditional roles, things of solemnity, and turned it into a mockery, a spectacle, of excessive extravagances, indulgences, and vice.
Part of the tradition had been to honour the fallen soldiers and others who had sacrificed for the good of the Empire, instead they toasted the fat purses of those which had managed to ingratiate themselves with her and her son, she had also done away with the new years alms and winter charities where the poorest within the city, the orphanages, and those who were the sickest were able to receive a meal.
The Queen’s excuse? There wasn’t any budget or funding for it. But of course there wouldn’t be, not when she and her son threw balls every other day, served only the finest wines and purchased gowns with money they’d taken from the coffers and funds set aside for such charity works. The empires worst state of finances was recorded during her tenure as the reigning lady of the empire.
And Penelope had no wish to leave the empire in such a state for her child. So she worked hard to set an example, to make sure that her babe and all other children they would have in the future would be beloved by the masses and would have their support. Because she knew one thing, there were far more commoners than there were nobles, and far more commoner knights than landed and enobled ones, and among them, quite a bit of the titled knights had relations still among the commoners.
And so, Callisto knew Penelope was trying her hardest to set things to right. He kissed her forehead and drew her close. “I know, love. But you don’t have to work so hard, let me share your burden.” He said. “Let me carry this weight for you so that you don’t have to be alone.”
“Alright.” She said as she hugged him back.
-
-
Callisto could see Penelope with her eyes out on the time. As they danced around the room, their eyes on one another, she would frequently call out the time under her breath.
“Is there something special that’s going to happen at midnight?” He asked.
“Oh, it’s just that I wanted to make sure I got the midnight kiss right for our first new year as a married couple.” She said.
“Hmm? A midnight kiss? Come to think of it, you did always pull me away in to the balcony just before midnight.” Callisto said, recalling the last few years.
“It’s meant to be good luck. If mistletoe kisses meant you’d stay with that person, then midnight kisses means a deepened bond and good luck, especially in our relationship.”
“Is that so?” Callisto said thoughtfully, an idea beginning to form in his mind.
-
-
After his speech honouring the soldiers, the scholars, mages, and the artists, and every other person who had worked hard to ensure the continued prosperity of the empire, it became increasingly clear that they wouldn’t be able to sneak away for their midnight kiss.
Callisto didn’t mind. He pulled Penelope up, a glass of wine in his hand. Everybody stared at him in confusion, the first half of the rituals had been performed to close out the old year, the speeches were done, so why were they suddenly to raise their glasses in a toast? He could see their looks.
But he took a sip and swallowed before he pulled Penelope into his arms, dipped her, and then kissed her full on the lips as the clock struck midnight marking a new year and then fireworks lit up the skies simultaneously in their first public kiss since their wedding.
Throughout the empire, the people celebrated the new year, magic used to broadcast to the people throughout the empire showed the observation of the rituals, a broadcast that allowed the people to familiarize themselves with their rulers, also showed the kiss.
In the aftermath of what would become a tradition of its own to see the Emperor and Empress mark the turn of the year with a kiss before they returned to the rituals of peace and prosperity for a new year and then to the festivities of the day, many couples would begin their own tradition of a midnight kiss, though none would get it quite as right in timing as the Emperor.
My idea is that the traditions would herald back to the time of the golden dragon and the old religion, i.e. the ancient mages, and despite the people not remembering the ancient mages for a long time, they still kept those traditions and held them sacred. The fact that some of the nobles and the Queen in particular, moved away from them left a bitter taste in their mouth. Especially when the war began shortly after the Queen began to do away with it. While it was never mentioned what had begun the war, the people still saw it as a bad omen and thought that the fact that they had taken away those rituals, many of which had to be done by the Queen or Empress, had a part to play in it, and let’s not forget the fact that a lot of the funding for the charities were cut by the Queen while she threw large celebrations and feasts, it was like a slap in the face to the people who had laboured hard but had no food to eat, and their husbands, brothers, and sons were dying on the battlefield.
So when Penelope brought back those traditions, gradually at first, until that year when she became the empress, they saw it as a good sign. And then Penelope gave birth to what people saw as the golden dragon’s second coming and they were convinced. Also, Penelope was the one who came up with the idea of broadcasting the wedding, well, technically, Callisto did, she just mentioned watching the royal weddings back when she was in Korea and he was so enthralled with the idea of showing his new wife off that he made the mages figure out how to do it. And when they had succeeded in that, Penelope thought about broadcasting just the ritual parts. And it did work and it became a tradition as ingrained as the midnight kiss.
Anyway, that’s it for now. Happy New Year! Stay healthy and safe!
#villains are destined to die#death is the only ending for a villainess#vadd#callisto regulus#death is the only ending for the villainess#fanfic#death is the only ending for the villain#penelope eckhart x callisto regulus#penelope x callisto#penelope eckhart#Imperial domesticity
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"The queen’s (Elizabeth of York's) greatest generosity went to her family and those connected even peripherally with family—expenditures revealing the importance of personal ties to this queen who had lost so many loved ones to wars, executions, and natural death. One poignant expense in her Privy Purse is tiny: 3½ yards of cloth to “a woman that was nurse to the Prince, brother to the Queen’s grace.” Nineteen years after the young prince disappeared, his older sister remembered the nurse who took care of him. Similarly, she regularly sent alms to “a poor man” who was a former servant of Edward IV. ... Perhaps Queen Elizabeth was a soft touch. On December 9, 1502, she gave 12d to a “man of Pontefract” who claimed that he had lodged in his home the queen’s uncle Anthony Wydeville, earl Rivers, during the year of his execution—19 years earlier in 1483!"
Arlene Okerlund, "Elizabeth of York: Queenship and Power" / Joanna Laynesmith, "The Last Medieval Queens: English Queenship 1445-1503"
"Elizabeth Darcy, the lady mistress of the nursery for Elizabeth Woodville's children, was appointed to the same post for Elizabeth of York's children, probably as a result of the younger queen's childhood affection for Darcy."
#Meanwhile Ricardians will claim that Elizabeth of York never knew true affection and care until she arrived at Richard and Anne's household#historicwomendaily#history#elizabeth of york#edward iv#anthony woodville#edward v#queue
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FE2 Novelization Translation - Chapter 2 Part 1
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Chapter 2 - Mila’s Restoration Army
Part 1 - Celica Embarks on Her Journey
Black rain. Few people knew what it meant - just a fraction of clergy units - who learned of it in their studies and through their heightened spiritual senses.
The sky and earth are not filled with only good substances, such as the nourishment that fosters life. For whatever amount of good exists, so does an equal amount of bad. The black rain was the result of those bad substances gathering in such a great amount that they boiled over.
It was also proof that Earth Mother Mila was abandoning her very duties as the Earth Mother. That was the true meaning behind the black rain.
And why was Mila abandoning her duty? Had a god appeared that commanded greater control than she did? Or could it be that she was dead? So long as the black rain fell, ascertaining its cause was the sole duty of all clergy units in Zofia.
…About as far south as Ram Village, but off the southeast coast instead, was Novis, an island that took roughly three days to reach by boat from the Zofia Castle town harbor. If the Mila Shrine on the northernmost tip of Zofia was the Mila Faithful's mecca, then Novis was the central location for their clergy units to train and study.
The very same black rain that dirtied Sister Silque's cheek was also streaking down the windows of Novis' priory. A black thrush, resting its wings by the window to escape the rain, looked inside a room in the priory, and saw the bright lights of a lively banquet currently ongoing.
On this very day, a holy woman of the highest rank had been named, a Priestess unit who appeared only once every one hundred years, and excelled in both magic and sword. Because one of the core teachings of the priory was a life of modesty and simplicity, its members only drank herbal wine together. It was not a luxurious beverage, but it possessed a very deep meaning.
"May Mila bestow her divine protection upon Celica, of which she is more than worthy! May she guide this priory as Priestess to further deepen our faith."
This new Priestess' name was Celica. She was a young woman with thick hair as red as a strawberry. It had never been cut once in her entire life, and curled around her waist like a lion's mane. Transcendence need not happen at a specific age, but it was considered exceptional that she had transcended to Priestess at age eighteen. If Alm was a prodigy of swordsmanship, then Celica was a prodigy of spiritual wisdom.
After all of the various ceremonies were over, only the units closest to Celica gathered to celebrate, so the number of people at the banquet table was small. After the priory's highest ranked male clergy unit, the Sage Nomah, proposed the toast, Celica did not even drink a single drop in her glass, pursing her rose-colored lips.
Celica was still just a baby when she was brought to the priory. To Nomah, that was as unusual as her transcending to Priestess so young. He'd watched her grow her entire life.
Nomah said, "Celica, tell me what is weighing on your heart." He saw straight through her, taking her by surprise. "I will support your decision. Though I am three times your age, you are a Priestess, and I am a Sage. We are equals. I cannot stand in the way of your path."
Celica had been impatiently awaiting this day for a long time. Now that she was a Priestess, her mind was finally made up. She said, "I've decided to go to Mila's Shrine. I want to find out where she is, and learn why the black rain is falling."
Nomah was ready to hear those words. When he became a sage, he decided to devote his abilities to teaching the students who all loved the priory dearly. But Celica was different. She was choosing to go out into the world.
"The shrine is located on the northern tip of Zofia. You will need to travel across the entire continent. But Zofia is currently being ravaged by the civil war caused by Chancellor Desaix's coup-d’etat, and groups of Brigands are taking advantage of the chaos. I have even heard that evil spirits are being set free by selfish and heartless Mage units. The roads you travel will be a far cry from what they normally are.'
"I know the violence in Zofia is because of the strange things happening to Mila."
It was also unusual for a person of the highest clergy unit rank to thrust themself into the secular world. Priestess and Sage units were a symbol of every unit's soul, and their purpose was to serve as leader of a priory or shrine, and be a sacred figure who could not be swayed from their faith. But if one looked from Celica's perspective, they would know immediately why she was so determined.
And beyond all of those details, the black rain was currently a very real reality dirtying the roof of the priory. Nomah did not even attempt to stop Celica because he felt his aging body might prevent him from taking the long journey to the shrine; and as a holy man, he should devote himself to his sole duty.
"You should take as many people as you need with you." Nomah said.
In response, out of the numerous people sitting around the banquet table, three young units all stood up at the same time and walked behind Celica. Among them were two Mage units, a young man named Boey and a young woman named Mae. The final member was a cleric named Genny, who shared the exact same ideals with Celica. They all still had youth in their facial features, but Nomah knew they were the three top students at the priory who would go with Celica. She did not even have to ask.
-
"Sage Nomah is so formal it's a huge pain! He was like that the other day, too! He already knew that Lady Celica had decided to travel, and when he ordered me to travel with her, he also told me which chair to sit in, and exactly what to do, step-by-step!" Boey said from the back of the group.
Celica was the lead, the middle was Sister Genny, and Mae was in the back with Boey. They traveled in that formation down the road at night, the priory lights already far off in the distance.
Mae answered, "It's all because he loves her so much! You may not have noticed because you're a boy, but he had tears in his eyes. He really did! He even remembers changing her diapers! …Oh, that was rude of me to say out loud."
Celica looked back with a smile on her face. Mae bowed in response, but did not look too sorry about her own mistake, as she also quickly stuck her tongue out.
Boey snorted, folded his arms underneath his mage's cloak, and said, "Nomah is old. He's just gotten soft."
"Don't try to tell me you're some kind of big manly man!" Mae retorted to Boy's rude words without skipping a beat.
"You're such a child! I'm gonna call you babbling baby Boey!"
"I'll never forgive you for talking to me like that, Mae!"
"I'm just saying that a baby like you, who can only cast Thunder, can't understand how deep his feelings are."
"Is that a threat?!"
"You are so rude to women! How are you going to fight me when you slack off in your wind magic training every chance you get?! You know I'm better than you in every way. After I wipe the floor with you, you'll be begging me to forgive you! You're such a baby you can't even drink herbal wine without adding sugar to it. Babbling baby Boey!" Mae shouted.
Genny finally couldn't take it any more, and angrily stepped between them.
Ever since they came to the priory as children, as they both concentrated on their studies, they had developed a relationship like that of siblings. To outside observers, they sounded as if they were having an intense argument, but their fights were actually a sign of how close they were.
However, there was no time for them to have such fun right now.
There was a reason why they had decided to set out not in the morning, but at night. The base of Grieth's Pirates was located in the deserts of central Zofia, and they had for some time been sending ships out into the strait between Novis and the Zofian mainland. However, they were now finally beginning to act like Novis itself was their land to do as they pleased with. Though at first they acted as thieves stealing in the night, being little more than an annoyance to the people; recently, they had begun to show themselves during the day. Now, the greatest danger at night was simply the darkness, making it once again the safer time of day to be outside.
So long as nothing got in their way, they would make it to Port Novis by daybreak to secure a ship and travel to Zofia. However, that would not end up being the case, as Celica realized when she sensed a presence nearby, and stopped moving.
"Someone's coming! Stay in formation!" She said, and drew the sword at her belt.
"Is it Brigands?!" Boey whispered.
"No, not Brigands!" Mae answered. "I don't feel any warmth from their bodies in the night air. They aren't human!"
"Ghosts!" Genny shouted in response to the figure that appeared from the darkness.
Ghosts are the spirits of the dead, both those that no longer have a corpse; and those whose corpses had long ago been buried beneath the ground, then come out from the ground to gather together and take new form. One of Earth Mother Mila's duties was to keep the souls of all dead life within the ground so that they could not escape. Their appearance made Celica feel that something very, very wrong must be happening.
They had no idea how many ghosts there were. The ghosts wore withered plant matter, innards and bones of beasts attacked by wolves, and rotting flesh on their bodies to give them human-like form. Thinking that killing a human would mean they could obtain a new body that perfectly matched their desired form, the entire group inched closer and closer, their intent to kill very clear to sense in the air.
"Boey, Mae, protect Genny!" Celica said, and raised her sword. "This is a new type of Terror I have never seen before. Don't cast any spells until I give the order!" She jumped like a deer crossing between two rocks, and swung her sword at the head of a ghost.
Having taken a direct hit from the Priestess' sword, the ghost vanished, leaving behind its small pile of rotting matter.
"These guys are total wimps!" Boey breathed in surprise at the sight of how easily the ghost went down. "I'll show you what my wind magic can do, and you'll never say I slack off ever again!!" He said to Mae, underestimating the ghosts.
"Don't do it! What did Lady Celica just say?!" Genny shouted, but it was already too late. She tried to grab the hem of his mage's cloak to stop him, but it slipped through her fingers, and Boey ran off towards a group of ghosts still far off from them.
"Wind! Cut through my enemies!" He chanted a wind spell. For a moment, his body was enveloped by it, then the gust shot out and shook the ghosts' flesh and leaves. However, that was all it did before the wind petered out.
Without mastering a spell first, there was no chance that it could have an effect on any foe. The ghosts immediately circled Boey.
"You're such an idiot!" Mae shouted, and started running. As the ghosts wriggled their way closer and closer to Boey like maggots, she chanted a Thunder spell. "Thunder! Slay my enemies!"
A bolt of lightning appeared in the sky and pierced the darkness, falling amongst the group of ghosts, smashing them to pieces. After they all disappeared and returned to piles of rotting matter, Boey stood up from the middle of it all, covered in viscera and clumps of putrid stems and leaves.
Contrary to her ashamed expression, Mae was actually furious, but it was only a moment later that something made her freeze where she stood, and forget all about Boey's rash move..
She whirled around to see that Genny had been captured by a ghost. It was dragging her into the even deeper darkness of a cluster of trees.
When Genny looked at Celica, she saw her slashing away with her sword, surrounded by a group of seemingly never ending ghosts.
Mae ran after Genny, with Boey following after her. 'The ghost that took Genny must have disappeared around here!' She guessed, and walked into the trees, but their thick branches blocked the sun, and the area was truly pitch black. Then, a small ball of fire appeared from within the darkness when her torch went out.
The fire slowly got bigger and bigger, proving that it was coming closer and closer.
Was the fire the faint light that a ghost emitted? Or perhaps another new enemy? Mae froze once again, this new development making her nervous once more. She instinctively reached out to grab Boey's hand, who was standing next to her, proving that no matter what she said out loud, she still depended on him. Boey spread his cape open to hide her in its shadow and protect her.
The fire was now close enough that they could clearly see what it was - the light of another torch. A unit, holding a torch in their mouth, was always coming their way through the trees. Because of where they held the torch, Mae and Boey could clearly make out their facial features, and see that he was a young male unit with unkempt hair.
He had his torch in his mouth because something - or rather someone - was in his arms. It was none other than Genny, unconscious but safe.
An eye patch made from wolf hide covered his right eye, and judging by the light armor he wore, he was a Mercenary, a unit with their own freedom that worked under contract. A Mercenary's core principles were centered around their own personal profits. The benefits they could reap from their contract was their absolute. And so, when they met a Mercenary they did not know, it was common sense for all units to first judge whether or not they were an enemy. And on top of that, while Brigands ignored all rules, no units were truly allowed on the holy island of Nova aside from clergy, meaning his presence here was very suspicious. Boey did what was only natural, and shifted into a fighting stance.
"Thank you for your assistance. I have no intention of fighting you." The unit spit out his torch atop the grass and said. He paid no mind to Boey and his threat of a fight, instead gently laying Genny down beside the grass now brightly lit by his torch. "This cleric's quite a beauty. I assume she's with you religious sheep, and got snatched away by that lump of garbage."
Boey's face turned red with rage upon hearing words that belittled his sacred duties. "A hired thug like you has no right to speak to me like that!" Boey shouted, and drew the mark of a fire spell into the air.
"You may be overreacting, but seeing as how you couldn't protect a lone cleric, you don't seem to know much about magic!"
“Fire!” …Boey chanted and tried to attack, but the mercenary was too fast.
He must have been experienced in battle, as he danced expertly through the shadows of the complex and twisted trees. Whether wielding a physical weapon like swords or magic, terrain has huge influence over the effectiveness of an attack. That was why he put his back against the trees, and would never reveal himself on open ground like Boey and Mae were on. All Boey's fire magic did was turn three trees to ash.
"I'm not sticking around to be cooked and served for dinner! I'm not a sheep!" The mercenary shouted from the darkness before all signs of his presence finally disappeared.
#fire emblem#fe#fire emblem 2#fe2#gaiden#fe gaiden#fire emblem gaiden#fe15#fire emblem 15#shadows of valentia#fire emblem echoes#alm#celica#japan#japanese#translation#novel#light novel#fe2 novelization translation
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Holidays of Skyrim, Part II
Still riding that headcanon train to get back in the habit of writing! Here’s some more Skyrim holidays reimagined:
Warriors Festival
While the Warriors Festival is little more than an excuse to buy a half-priced blade in other parts of the Empire, the Nords of Skyrim see the event as a rite of passage. Warriors of all stripes, from the freshly-blooded to grizzled veterans, travel to Skyrim’s city to test their mettle in tournaments of strength and skill. While there’s a heavy purse of gold for the winners, the bragging rights and the ability to claim the title of strongest warrior in the hold are the true prize.
Though a wide variety of events are on display for spectators— wrestling, ax-throwing, bare-knuckle boxing, and one-on-one dueling being particular favorites— none is more popular than the melee, a mock battle where teams of two to five warriors fight for dominance. While blood, bruises, and broken limbs are a common occurrence, modern tournament matches are rarely fatal. This was accomplished by means of a steep weregild for fighters who kill their competitors, first introduced by High Queen Jolethe in 3E 152.
The glittering spectacle of the Warriors Festival extends well beyond the ring. Warpaint, in a dazzling array of colors and designs, is used to display the affiliations and aesthetics of the warriors. Fighters of all sexes commonly go shirtless to better display their designs. Blacksmiths and arms merchants travel from far and wide to display their best wares, sometimes gifting weapons and armor to particularly prominent warriors in an attempt to raise their own status. Street food vendors are out in force to sate the appetites of the ravenous, bloodthirsty crowds. The mead flows freely at these events, sometimes leading to brawls among the spectators (a practice that is highly discouraged, and often ends with a night in jail).
North Wind’s Prayer
By the ides of Evening Star, winter has blanketed the land of Skyrim. In this landscape of frigid stillness the North Wind’s Prayer is a traditional day for visiting one’s local temple to give offerings and prayers, both for the boons or woes already encountered and for those still to come. Prayers for the winter are common on this day. Interestingly, while some Nords pray for a gentle winter and early spring, others request the kind of bitter cold that allows them to test their worth against their harsh homeland (one wonders, then, if the two prayers cancel each other out).
Knowing that many who come are suffering the hardships of the long, dark winter, temple priests often provide food or alms and offer healing and blessings at reduced prices. The followers of Tsun, god of trials against adversity, are an exception to this, and pilgrims to his shrines often choose to suffer ascetic— and occasionally fatal— trials in their pursuit of worthiness.
Old Life Festival
The Old Life Festival, coinciding with the winter solstice, is a somber and holy day that takes place deep in the darkness of winter. It is associated with the dead god Shor, ruler of Sovngarde, and his widow Kyne. Many Nords visit shrines to leave offerings and messages of remembrance for loved ones. This is a time for reflection on one’s past deeds and reminiscing on companions who have since passed.
The Old Life Festival is one of the only Nord holidays where asceticism is regularly practiced. Fasting during the solstice is common and drinking, especially to excess, is deeply frowned upon. Some claim that this is done to mark the solemnity and sobriety of the occasion; cynics counter that it is done to leave room for the excesses of the New Life Festival’s feasts. As with most things, the truth lies somewhere in the middle.
New Life Festival
Having made it through the long, dark night of the winter solstice, the Nords of Skyrim make merry and celebrate the dawning of the new year with raucous joy. In some parts of southern Skyrim this festival also celebrates the return of the sun following the polar night.
Massive midwinter feasts, hosted at long communal tables in the town squares, are the centerpiece of the occasion. A wide variety of local delicacies are shared; in The Pale, honey-glazed horker seasoned with juniper is particularly popular. Snowberries, ubiquitous and available year-round, feature heavily in dishes ranging from succulent pies to snowberry and sage-stuffed grouse to snowberry wine.
Dancing, singing, and comedic performances by local bards are popular events, as are a wide variety of games. These games vary by region: sled races are popular in Winterhold (particularly among the College apprentices; rules have had to be established about magical interference), while a popular game in Haafingar involves blindfolded players trying to track down an “it” who wears a ring of jingling bells.
Brave souls living around the River Yorgrim in Eastmarch have a long tradition of jumping naked into the icy river to prove their courage and receive good fortune for the new year. In southern Skyrim, especially Whiterun, there is a long-standing tradition of gift-giving between the Jarls and their subjects. Citizens provide a gift to the Jarl— often a livestock animal, bushel of grain, or artisan craft— and are given a gift in return, usually in the form of valuable spices, ceremonial weapons, or even (for those particularly in the Jarl’s favor) lands or a title.
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LIVING LIKE JESUS
All the prophets of old prophetic utterances came to a fullness of time juncture when the young virgin agreed with Heaven and answered, "Let it be according to your Word" (Luke 1:38). And the Word became flesh and dwelt among men and brought with Him the fullness of the Father's prosperity.
FRUIT OF THE SPIRIT
True prosperity is not the accumulation of wealth -- it is health, joy, peace and all nine fruit of the spirit. Peace is a victory that overcomes the world (Galatians 5:22-23).
The woman at the well-received spiritual prosperity. She became the first evangelist in the world. She came to the well for a drink of water but what she received was far greater; she received the gift of everlasting life. Through her prosperity she caused all of Samaria to prosper as well. The whole village got saved because she spread the good news of her Messiah.
In Acts 3 we read the account of the man lame from birth that lay at the gate of the temple called Beautiful. When Peter and John approached the temple, the lame man asked them for alms. Instead of money the lame man received the greatest prosperity of his life when Peter told him to pick up his bed and walk.
The woman with the issue of blood received her physical prosperity when she touched the hem of Jesus' garment. She touched the anointing and that is our greatest prosperity.
The Gadarene maniac not only experienced mental prosperity but spiritual, physical, and emotional as well when Jesus cast a legion of demons from him.
"And they came to Jesus and looked intently and searchingly at the man who had been a demoniac, sitting there, clothed and in his right mind, [the same man] who had had the legion [of demons]; and they were seized with alarm and struck with fear." -. Mark 5:15
SENT TO ADVANCE THE KINGDOM OF GOD
God is trying to bring His people to a place where they learn how to live from heaven towards earth. The reason is that His heart is for heaven to exist on earth, thereby advancing His Kingdom. The desire to go to heaven can never cancel out His command to us to bring heaven to earth.
When Jesus sent the disciples out He said, "Freely (without pay) you have received, freely (without charge) give" (Matthew 10:8b). He did not send them out to get but to GIVE. Near the end of Jesus' ministry He checked with the disciples about their experience when He sent them out.
"And He said to them, When I sent you out with no purse or [provision] bag or sandals, did you lack anything? They answered, Nothing!" - Luke 22:35
They did not travel with luggage or money, yet they lacked nothing. They GAVE freely out what Jesus had imparted to them.
It's important to see that we can live in that same place of abundant prosperity.
ALBERT FINCH MINISTRY
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“… she handed the headsman a purse containing some coins: his fee and alms for the poor. Her ladies then removed her hood, gloves and mantle and caught her auburn hair into a white linen coif. Next, they bound her eyes with bandages so that she would not see the ground rising to meet her in those final few seconds before the darkness came. They then withdrew to the back of the scaffold. They still had one more duty to perform for their mistress. Katherine knelt and said her prayers; then she positioned herself on the block just as she had rehearsed during the last short night of her life. Mercifully, the headsman removed her head with a single stroke of the axe. Katherine’s ladies stepped forward now and covered her body with a black cloak before laying it to one side.”
— Josephine Wilkinson, Katherine Howard
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After the ceremony, one of the ‘poor women’ returned to the queen’s almoner, presumably John Skipp, to ask whether the purse she received was indeed meant for her, as she had never received such a generous sum before. The incident is used to highlight Anne’s largesse and Katherine’s miserliness, since Latymer states that the woman had received royal alms before and was ‘well acquainted therewith’. While it’s obvious that Latymer was attempting to paint Katherine in an unfavourable light, it does appear that Anne spent significantly more on her Maundy ceremony than her predecessor. In 1536, the Queen’s Maundy cost £31. 3s. 9½d, equivalent to around £14,000 in today’s money. This sum would have included the gifts of money and clothing for the poor women, as well as other goods needed for the Royal Maundy, including aprons, towels, tubs, bowls and transport costs for ferrying the goods from place to place. That Anne felt a responsibility to the poor is undeniable, but Katherine also took her role of almsgiver very seriously, so much so that she was unwilling to give it up, even when commanded to.
The Final Year of Anne Boleyn, Natalie Grueninger
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Someone will remember us
Chapter 24
Cw: some ableism
Taglist:@arrthurpendragon @fyeahhotdocs @stargaryenx @ocappreciationtag
Gif by:@alicentloyalist
Jaehaerys and Alysanne, they call them.
She wears a white riding coat over her blue dress and her hair is bound in a thick braid with a white and blue ribbon.
Aemee is a social creature, she enjoyed these sorts of outings.
Aemond loathes them with a passion.
He hates being put on display like that as he accompanied Aemma to give alms, visit shopkeepers and check on her charities, but he does it because he would never forgive himself if she had a fit and died like Princess Viserra did.
Gerardys had missed that in his studies, Viserra had only lost control of her horse because of a sudden loss of movement in her hands.
It had been removed from public knowledge, but his father had grown up with his aunt as children and remembered his aunt’s fits.
Aemma has fits, he had told Viserys in secret when he knew there was no one hearing them.
“Stop fretting, Aemond, you are starting to remind me of mama.” Aemma hates having people hover over her. Makes her nervous, always has. “I am starting to think I should have never told you about it.”
I have dreams, Aemma had amended when her grandfather looked at her with pity, war is coming, the dragons will die if your succession is not clear.
“I only seek to protect you from yourself, Aemee.” He forced a smile and waved at the people who cheered for them.
They only cheer for him when he is with her or Helaena. Never when he is out with Aegon or his mother, two people who do not seem to share their moment in the sun with others.
“I am fine, Aemond. I have had these since I was ten, you need to trust me on this.” She shook his worries off. “Didn’t you hate it when everyone hovered and tried to keep you from living your life when you lost your eye?”
She shouldn’t compare their situations, but she does because she can’t even think straight when people think she is a damsel in need of a knight to protect her from everything.
His right eye narrowed in agitation, he had beautiful eyes, closer to blue than purple, but that wasn’t about that.
“That isn’t the same.” He argued.
“Oh, really, the both of us are hampered by something that is completely out of our control and people expect us to just roll over and die instead of fighting to not only to live, but thrive despite it?” she points out and he pursed his lips in annoyance.
She was right, sure their disabilities were vastly different and Aemond’s is far worse by a long shot, but people treated them the same way for it.
They treat Aemma like she’s made of glass and as an invalid despite being perfectly fine, and people treat Aemond like his life and dreams of proving his mettle should be over because he has no left eye.
“I am not saying that my thing is just as terrible as yours, but you of all people should know better than to tell me what I can or can’t do, Aemond.” She whispered furiously.
“Aemee—” he begins but can’t form an argument against hers. “I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you.”
I love you and don’t want you to die, that is his argument.
“I know, and I love for it, Aemond, but I need you to trust me and remember I know my own limitations.”
Just like she trusts him not to push his own limits and doesn’t run interference on his life.
“Gods, I had this exact conversation with mother after I told her I was resuming my training with Cole.” I’m sorry that is what he means to say. Will he ever say the words? Who knows.
“I am not going to die, Aemond. Best be assured of that.” Aemma assured him that.
-----
“If I had been given your Pearl of Dragonstone, I don’t think I would have left her a maid the second I was left alone with her.” Aegon comments loudly and he thanks the Seven Aemee did not come to dine with them. “Tyrell sends his congratulations, Laenor wasn’t lucky enough to have a maid on his wedding night, you know.”
“What are you on about, Aegon?” He asks in confusion.
He hadn’t dishonored Aemee, and he has no idea why her honor would be called into question when he was sure no one saw him. Besides, Teora would have skinned him with her needle if he had tried anything but a chaste kiss after he properly asked her for her hand.
“Didn’t Cole tell you what business mother dearest and the Maester had in your sweet Aemee's rooms this morning?”
Aemond looked at his mother hoping his drunken brother was wrong.
“It had to be done.” His mother answered his unspoken question. “Your visit to her rooms two nights ago was seen and I had the small council asking what should be done about your trysts with Rhaenyra’s daughter.”
“So instead of asking your own son about it you choose to publicly humiliate the heir of the Princess of Dragonstone, mama?” he asks her wondering what was going on through her head.
To have her examined without the consent of her mother or Vaemond’s meant that the queen assumed she was a whore and had no trust in her own son to behave honorably.
A bad play, one that will anger the blacks and one that hurts him deeply.
She didn’t trust him.
She had made him swear to never betray them, and yet his mother believed him to have fucked his intended and judged him guilty the second she heard of it.
“Do not judge me, Aemond.” She defended her actions.
“What did mother do, why is Aemond wroth with her?” Helaena asks naively when she comes in late.
“Our lady mother had Aemma’s virtue inspected instead of asking me if I had dishonored her.” He answered not hiding his anger at her lack of trust.
His own mother, his mother who always fought his corner, does not trust him.
“Mama, how could you?” Helaena asks their mother in disbelief.
“It had to be done.” She repeats herself, but only looks at him. “You hate me now, but you will thank me when no one questions the paternity of your children when they are born.”
“If anyone would have even insinuated such a thing, they would be making their arguments to Vhagar, but it isn’t about that, you showed the entire realm you do not trust me, mother.” The wine isn’t strong enough to make the bad taste leave his mouth.
He loves his mother, and he knows she loves him, but not once has she ever been distrustful of him.
-----
“She did what?” Rhaenyra raged in her council chamber.
“Princess Aemma’s virtue was called into question when a rat catcher saw Prince Aemond leave her room in the hour of the wolf. The rat catcher said he had seen the princess kiss the prince who called her his betrothed.” Daemon read the report his spies had sent. “Queen Alicent believed her son to have deflowered the princess and had her examined by Maester Orwyle. The girl flailing and kicking the entire time, broke the nose of a handmaiden, bit another and told the Queen she would die alone and forgotten.”
“It is one thing for her to slander me, but it is another thing to go after my daughter. Gods, I cannot believe she would call my daughter a whore when it is her fucking son who’s seducing my little girl.” Rhaenyra paced in fury.
Ungrateful child her Aemma turned out to be, she refused a perfectly good man and now gives into the machinations of that one-eyed prick.
He will turn her against them, she knows it in her bones.
Love makes you stupid.
Stupid enough to stop taking moon tea and conceive knowing how difficult Viserys’ birth had been.
Stupid enough to think a baby would be enough to stop Daemon from fucking the Lyseni banker the moment her back was turned.
“That isn’t all, Nyra. Mysaria says your girl plans to elope with the sapphire-eyed fuck on her name day banquet with the blessing of your father. Something about ensuring the matter of your succession being secured with it.” He handed her the coded letters for her to read with her own eyes.
“I dislike this, Daemon. He will claim her unfit because of her condition, they will steal her throne the moment I am dead. I just know it.”
How could Aemma be so stupid? How could Rhaenyra let Aemma be raised to think she could trust young men with enough ambition to fill the sea.
“I need to stop this.” She concludes. She will fly to Kingslanding, force her to marry Stark and save her sweet girl from a life of misery.
“You will do no such thing, wife,” the Rogue Prince crossed his arms. “You could send her to the end of the world, and she will just take Silverwing and fly back to his arms, the only thing you will have succeeded in doing will have been in making it easier for the Green Witch to poison her against you.”
“How can you say that? This is my child, Laenor’s only child we are speaking of!” she shouts at him in disbelief. “Marriage is a life long commitment, the moment she weds Aemond he will ---"
“The moment he hurts her he will be answering to Dark Sister and Seasmoke will have the privilege of finishing the job, my love.” Daemon assured her with a wicked smile.
Rhaenyra won’t need her husband to kill Aemond One-Eye should he ever hurt her precious daughter, no, Rhaenyra Targaryen will kill him with her bare hands if he ever hurts Aemma.
#aemma velaryon#asoiaf fanfic#someone will remember us fic#house of the dragon#asoiaf au#oc fanfiction#aemond targaryen x velaryon!oc#asoiaf#hotd#hotd fanfic#fyeahhotdocs#ocappreciationtag
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morinel's ridiculous time travel au -- the fic
Part Two; in which introductions are made. Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |
Morinel blinks.
Several times in a row, actually. She must look like there is something in her eyes.
Around her, the two others are also blinking.
“I would ask where we are,” says the one with shaggy hair and bruises – and she would say that she’s 60% sure she knows who this is but she would really rather not make assumptions – “But I think that’s fairly obvious.”
Aman, of course, in the Years of the Trees.
(Hundreds – or potentially thousands – of years before Morinel is born.)
Great. Fantastic, actually.
“So… Ought we introduce ourselves to each other?” In… not Quenya now, Sindarin, but flavored with an accent Morinel doesn’t quite know.
Morinel considers. “I think that might be a good idea.”
They all stare at each other.
Eventually, the one who proposed the idea rolls her eyes. “I’ll go first then?” She takes a breath. “Finduilas Faelivrin.”
The one with shaggy hair goes next, inclining his head gravely as if it were a matter of life and death. “Maeglin”
“Morinel,” she purses her lips. There is no sign of recognition and then she adds: “Daughter of Caranthir.”
She should not be upset -- she'd been young when Maeglin died and that was in Gondolin, which recieved little news, and younger still when Finduilas died, but still.
It rankles, having to introduce herself and having to add her father's name for context (again).
But, Maeglin and Finduilas take her being Feanorian remarkably well -- she knows that some of her other cousins would not have -- and she is grateful for that.
A long moment of silence.
“So, why are we here?” Finduilas asks, frowning at the sky.
Maeglin is preoccupied with studying his hands.
“What do the three of us have in common?” Morinel says.
The other two frown and Morinel turns away from Laurelin – it is too bright for her and the others do the same.
“I think the most obvious is that we are descendants of Finwe, no?” Finduilas muses, and she is very, very calm for someone with her own blood still drying on her dress.
“And we were all born in Beleriand.” Morinel glances down at Tirion.
There is an addition to the bell-tower that she remembers her parents saying was added after a mishap that somehow involved her father and his cousins.
She doesn’t remember what the mishap was, or if it was before or after Morgoth was unchained, but it at least gives her a pretty good guess at when they are.
Maeglin looks up then, playing with the chain on his necklace. “That means that if we are in the past, and not dreaming, we cannot run into ourselves.”
“And there are three of us.” Morinel knows Three is an important number to the Eldar – maybe even Eru and the Valar.
Three sets of Luminaries (Lamps, Trees, Sun and Moon), Three groups of Eldar (Noldor, Vanyar, Teleri), Three Rings, Three Silmarils, Three stages of Arda (Unmarred, Marred, Healed), Three sons of Finwe…
“That seems relevant.” Finduilas says finally. “And each of us is from a different House.”
“We are all grandchildren of the leader of our house too.” Maeglin theorizes. “Not great-grandchildren.”
Three.
“That means we are the third generation. From Finwe.” Morinel says, running her hands through the grass.
(The grass here is incredibly soft and green.)
Finduilas asks what the last thing they remember was, before waking up… she makes a vague gesture… here.
Morinel tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I was reaching for something I shouldn’t have, upon reflection–” She realizes how this sounds. “Not a Silmaril. A small mechanical bird. I touched it – but I think I touched something else in the process, something bad, and blacked out. Woke up here.”
Maeglin shrugs.
“Falling.”
He says it so simply.
Finduilas gestures to the stain on her dress. “My death.”
The three of them sit in a long silence before Maeglin breaks it. “So, again, I ask why we’re here.”
Morinel has no answer.
Finduilas shrugs. “Could we ask the Valar?”
Almost at once–
“Do you think that they’ll help?” – “Are we sure they can help us?”
Finduilas tilts her head.
“That is why we ask, is it not?”
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