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shivunin · 6 months

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WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @greypetrel---thanks, as always! 💗

Tagging in turn (no pressure!) @star--nymph @ndostairlyrium @daggerbean @zenstrike @blightbear @inquisimer @dreadfutures @dungeons-and-dragon-age @nightwardenminthara @vakarians-babe

First, Warden scarf update: Progress is much quicker now that I am working on a more standard stitch. I am really enjoying the silver next to the blue and looking forward to the chainmail-y look it'll have as I add more rows. I am toying with trying to make an embroidered griffon, but that's an ambitious amount of embroidery for my current skill level. Still workshopping it a bit, but hoping to finish for the end of the month. Also, I finally found the right purple for the Leliana scarf, so I can finally finish that one, too!

And also, I have been working on some Baldur's Gate fic (below) as I feel out voice and dynamics:

“Back to camp?” she asked the others.

Grumbling, they staggered their way back toward the clearing they’d chosen for the night.

“What was it like?” Shadowheart asked, some time later. “Being a prodigy, I mean.”

Tav glanced sideways just in time to catch Gale’s grimace. The orb troubled him, she knew; he’d called himself prideful before, and perhaps losing so much of his skill had humbled him. Even so, nobody liked to have their nose rubbed in what they’d lost. Very well, then. She would take this blow much as she’d taken the arrow aimed for the wizard’s neck not half an hour earlier.

“Lonely,” she said, finding the path before her and focusing on it. “You are held apart. Always praised before anyone else. Your peers resent you, even as they wish to imitate you. Mentors teach you your art at the exclusion of all other skills; the holes left by that sort of thing are never found until years later. One day, you realize that you are a master of your craft—this is around when everyone else has already learned how to make friends and fall in love and plan a life outside of your specialty. In this, you are woefully behind. But the acclaim—from far away, everybody loves you. They talk about you in their fine halls and in the city streets. They write poems and songs about what you’ve done.”

She sighed, still trying to find the words.

“But by then—you never get to be a person again. It’s already too late.”

A bird sang in the tree overhead. Distracted, Tav paused and peered up at it. A simple tree sparrow, she thought. It blended almost perfectly with the branch it perched atop.

“Lovely day, innit,” the bird said, and she smiled slightly.

“It is. The best I’ve seen in an age.”

“You take care down there,” the bird said, peering down at them. “Big crowd of arseholes wandering round the woods these days. Burning trees, like.”

“I’ll be careful,” she promised, and the wound on her shoulder ached at the words. “Safe flight. Warm nest.”

“And you as well, mum,” the bird said, and fluttered away into the shadows of the wood.

Tav hummed to herself, thinking about the smoke they’d seen in the distance. How far away might it be from camp? If someone really was burning the wood, they ought to do something about it before it caused even more harm than the crashed nautiloid.

“Gods,” Astarion said, abruptly at her elbow, and she started. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say so many words at once. Did that spider knock something loose in that hard—I mean darling head of yours?”

“Yes,” Shadowheart agreed, peering at her. “Awfully specific, too. What was it you said you did again? Before the tadpole and the crash, I mean.”

“Oh, nothing,” Tav told them, turning again to catch the last sight of the sparrow through the trees. “I’ve lived at the temple for years. I’m no one of any account.”

She started walking again. This seemed the best way to avoid the question—the other two being the ones most likely to spend long hikes grumbling than any of her other new companions. Unfortunately, Astarion kept pace with great ease. This was the trouble with all the armor, she decided unhappily. Once she got going, she could barrel right into an ogre and knock it over, but he had her beat for sheer speed. There would be no escape.

“Oh, really?” he said. “And yet I somehow get the feeling you aren’t being entirely honest. Come now, darling, you’re among friends. Surely it wouldn’t kill you to share something. We’re all just dying to know more.”

Something delicate and sharp crawled up her throat. Glass; always shattered glass. Tav choked it back and focused on the trees and the ground beyond.

“We hail from the same place,” she reminded him, glancing at the pale elf from the corner of her eye. “You said yourself you don’t recognize me.”

Because she had shut herself away in her workshop for years. He almost certainly knew her name—the old one—but he would not know her now. What a blessing that was, from the hands of her Morninglord himself. How little it mattered then that she did not recognize herself when it meant that nobody else would, either.

“I suppose I did,” he said, but his eyes remained narrow.

“Say now,” Gale called from behind them, “about those boots you found. I think I’ve deciphered the enchantment on them. Rather clever—and simple to explain, too. You see—”

He launched into a detailed explanation not only of the boots in question, but also the method by which they might have been enchanted in the first place. Tav breathed a small, private sigh of relief and nodded to him in thanks. Gale smiled back, eyes crinkling at the corners. The topic, it would seem, had been dropped.

For now, at least.

#wip wednesday #scarf wip #tav tag #shivunin scrivening

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elysiumxii · 1 year

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for hyacinth's first christmas, alena has made sure to get him many gifts and teach him all of the nymph yuletide songs. their nest is decorated top to bottom with seasonal lampad trimmings. beomsoo had surely grumbled once or twice about it, but hyacinth seems enamored by all of the greenery and glowing bulbs of this time of year. the demon would no doubt come home to his mate bouncing their son on one hip as nym fixed herbs to the windowsills and doorways, darting about and cooing to hyacinth if he fussed. of course alena would gift beomsoo something material. a simple hand knitted black sweater that had taken months to complete due to their mate's sheer size. namtar's main gift would, of course, be the yuletide dinner alena would work over for three days straight. three types of meats, at least a dozen sides, and several kinds of desserts. hyacinth had thrown a monstrous temper tantrum (six arms, acid breath, and a screech that had broken one of their good wine glasses) when his mother had denied him raw gizzards before dinner, but alena had managed to calm him. the nymph would finish up dinner with a sniffling hyacinth clinging to enis right leg, gnawing on a soup bone as he waited for his father to get home. yuletide was a family affair, as alena had always dreamed it would be.

Beomsoo's arrival home is very rarely anything less than stomping and loud. The large man ducking through the doorway, swinging to the right to avoid the hanging yule spring hanging over their entrance for some reason and shuffling in to kick off his boots. All of this mixed with huffs and grunts as he moves tired limbs in a far too small entrance way. Shucking off his leather jacket he lets it drop by the small seat for shoes (and wrestling their son into his outdoor jackets, which is hard when he's sprouted more than the standard amount of arms in protest), his keys jingling as it lands.

This night, however, he has something extra under one arm. "Where's my boy?" He calls out, his voice its usual low boom as he moves to the doorway, in no doubt that their son is bothering Alena mercilessly - but is pleased to hear the gargled, elated coo as the tot tumbles back onto his squishy behind and is up quickly to run to his father on tiny, bowed legs, arms already lifted ready to be scooped up. As soon as he is in reach, Beomsoo has him up, thrown up over his head and catches him under his arm. Present under one. Hyacinth under the other.

"Babe" he rumbles, moving through the kitchen to press a kiss to Alena's cheek, but also glance down at what the nymph was cooking. It wasn't boiled vegetables - a good night! "I have something for you" he murmurs, because gift giving wasn't exactly his strong point, and having turned away he sets it down on the kitchen table.

At first it looks like a log, well, it is. Wrapped very badly in festive paper with each end open. It was a relatively large, dried piece of very old wood, a piece of Alena's home that Beomsoo had worked very hard to get his hands on. It was priceless, but he has his ways...

Then demon wanted their son to also connect with his nymph side, though often the traits inherited from his father were more visible on the surface, that side was also important and Beomsoo hopes that by the piece of sacred tree (harvested a long time ago as an offering, not by him), Alena might be able to share some of that with him, and teach him. It's effect is almost instant. As soon as he had set it down Hyacinth begins to wiggle in his arms, gurgling around the bone in his mouth - little hands grasping towards it, wanting to touch it, though he doesn't know why.

"Mnn... Happy Christmas, or... whatever it is they say" the demon grumbles, more than a little awkward, but quickly shifts his attention to readjusting their sone against his chest before he tumbles out of his arms.

#replies;beomsoo #unavernales #/ im obsessed with how badly behaved hyacinth is

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dandelionflower · 4 years

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She hikes alone

Marinette skipped to her friends, tapping Adrien on the shoulder before hugging him tight.

“Hey, Princess,” he gave her a smile that melted her heart, “we were just talking about things we could do on our free day.”

He gestured to the class, who were all deep in a debate over ice cream place or pizza parlor.

“I was thinking we could go to a park; a new friend of mine has a couple of places we could check out. I think it would be really good as a lazy activity to get rid of jet lag, or in Kim’s case, excess energy.”

“Sounds really nice!” He smiled and began to open his mouth to tell them; he had become Marinette’s representative to the class, when Lila stood up.

“Hey guys! What if, since today doesn’t have anything planned, we went to a park and hung out?”

“That’s a genius idea, Lila!”

“I could play frisbee!”

“I’d enjoy observing the local flora.”

That’s genius Lila. You’re so smart. Marinette growled under her breath, Lila obviously overheard her talking with Adrien and took credit for her idea.

“I actually know some parks we could go to, from when I visited with Jagged Stone a few months back. We could go to one of those, if you want?”

“That sounds great Lila!” Adrien cut in before Marinette could protest. “Let’s go now!”

“Don’t worry,” he whispered to her as the class cheered and stood up, “I’ll make sure we go to a nice park.”

That’s not what I’m worried about. Marinette thought as she watched Lila attach herself to Adrien’s arm.

She followed at a fair distance from the class; not by choice, her friends just seemed to speed up whenever she tried to walk near them.

“Marinette!” Grace tapped on her shoulder, a broad grin on her face. She was wearing the headband. “Where did you decide on going?”

“A park.”

“That’s great! Which one are you going to? Because if you haven’t decided, I have a ton of great places for you to go...” she plucked some pamphlets from her back pocket and displayed one. “I think this one would suit your needs best.”

“Thanks, Grace, but...” Marinette spared a glance at the pack of students, led by Lila and Adrien. “I think it’s already been decided.”

Grace’s expression soured. “Okay, but keep ahold of that pamphlet, will you? You might end up finding time to go.”

“I hope I do.” She waved Grace a quick goodbye and dashed back to her friends, who were already going through the door.

—

They hopped on a bus and Marinette smirked as Lila worried her lip, eyes darting towards every sign that could possibly lead her to a park.

As fun as that was, Marinette quickly got bored and began perusing the pamphlet Grace handed to her.

Quarry Stone Park

Known for its towering pillars of black stone, it is rumored that Quarry Stone Park was where the brick for the famed Culpa Manor was mined.

While the parks naming is rather obvious, it also contains many hidden paths, leading to waterfalls, gem-filled caves, and even the ocean.

A popular landmark of the park is Quarry Ledge, which overlooks the ocean. The natural black spires and stark white sands make for an amazing view.

That’s where we should be going, Marinette mused, not wherever Lila’s going to take us.

“Here we are!” Lila sang. “The best park in the whole town.”

Sure... Marinette glanced at the rotting wooden sign, the crumbling letters reading, Wooded Glade Park.

The class ran in, Alix already tossing a frisbee for Kim to catch. Adrien fell back and greeted Marinette with a silent smile and had just grabbed her hand when everyone fell silent and stared at the open field surrounded by borderline rotting trees.

“Uhh, Lila?” Ivan asked, shielding Mylene’s eyes from the mistreated plants. “Are you sure this is he place? It looks a little run down.”

“Definitely!” Lila protested, and though her back was facing Marinette, she could almost see the false tears welling up in her eyes. “I- I don’t know what happened; it used to be so beautiful... I’m so sorry everyone.”

“What if we helped you clean it up?” Rose offered. “Got rid of any trash and planted some flowers!”

“Yeah!” The class cheered, voicing their agreement.

“You- you would all do that for me?”

“Of course!”

“I can’t believe this! I... thank you!”

Mylene pulled Ivan’s hand from her eyes and glared at the offending trees. “Babe? I need a lift.”

Ivan picked her up and placed her onto his shoulders.

“Alright everybody!” She shouted, voice abnormally loud. “I need someone to carry heavy stuff, a couple people for trash and, Marinette! Can you organize our efforts?”

She smiled and was about to pull out her notebook, when Lila opened her mouth, which had proven to be a tragedy in itself.

“I don’t know guys, remember how late Marinette came in? She didn’t even get to have breakfast, we don’t want to tire her out what with the jet lag and all. I can just organize, you know I was an organizer to a famous charity.”

“That’s a great idea, Lila! I’ll help!” Adrien leaned over to whisper in Marinette’s ear. “Don’t worry, I can keep her out of trouble while you just relax and walk down one of the trails, it’s a win-win.”

But I want to walk the trails with you...

She smiled, gave him a kiss on the cheek and walked to the closest trail as fast as she could so Adrien couldn’t see the tears collecting in her eyes.

She loved how selfless Adrien was, she did. It was just... he never seemed to choose her.

She stood there for a moment and allowed herself to cry. This was supposed to be a fun trip where she could hang out with her boyfriend and friends as they all explored her favorite place in the world.

Marinette finally looked up and observed the signs marking the different paths she could take.

Daisy Walkway.

Riverside.

Quarry Stone Path.

Quarry Stone?

Marinette pulled out her pamphlet and compared the names.

Maybe I will get to see Quarry Stone after all.

—

It was a fair hike to Quarry Stone, but it was so worth it.

The trees were lush and green, every bench and table were in perfect condition, people were everywhere, and interspersed across the field were dozens of giant black pillars of rock.

Marinette gave a glance to the other trails.

Waterfalls, meadows, beachside.... there were so many choices.

“Excuse me, sir?” She touched the arm of a nearby elderly man, who was exiting one of the trails. “I was wondering, do you know these trails well? Could you maybe recommend one to me?”

“Never been to Quarry Stone, have you dear?” He gave her a friendly smile.

“No.”

“Well, when I was young and adventurous, I would go on the Nymph’s River path. On a sunny day like this, it’s sure to be a magical sight.”

“It’s cloudy, you old coot!”

A frail old woman in a worn pink dress stumbled from the same path.

“What?” The man put on a thick pair of spectacles and squinted at the sky. “So it is.”

“I’m Henry’s wife, Meredith, and what’s your name, sweetie?”

“I’m Marinette. It’s nice to meet you.” She grinned at the familiar banter that reminded her of her parents.

“Likewise, dear.” A bony hand grasped her own. “Now, what’s a little thing like you doing out here all alone?”

“Um, my class, we’re here on a field trip and we had… a disagreement on what to do.”

“Ah, and they let you do your thing but it’s not as fun alone, is it?”

“No, not really.”

“I’ve got just the place for you dear. Henry, what about...” she leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“You’re a genius, Mere. Kiddo, just go down that path,” he pointed her to the forest, “and I promise it will be a sight worth seeing.”

“Okay, thank you both so much!” She waved to the couple as she headed down the path, memorizing their faces in case they encounter one another again.

—

It truly was a sight worth seeing, as promised.

When Marinette finally broke out of the dark greens in the surrounding the trail, she was met by the most soothing sight she’d ever laid eyes on.

She was standing on a large ledge carved out of the hill; metal posts and railings were surrounding the platform. Nothing noteworthy.

But the sight it was there to show was unimaginably perfect. The sand was a pure white, which would have been blinding if it wasn’t for the clouds covering the sun. The stone spires that decorated the entire forest were dotting the beach in all their splendor, rising proudly and casting barely noticeable shadows across the sand and the pale, rolling waves.

She leaned on the railing; taking in the soothing spectacle. It was almost like she was falling asleep, her consciousness drifting until she had no other thought but the muted colors in front of her...

“Meow?”

Marinette screamed and leapt away from the sound, pushing her back against the railing and gripping it with both hands likes she was on a crashing elevator.

A black cat with startling blue eyes stared at her, tilting its head in a quizzical motion.

“Mrrrrrr.” Was its only reaction to her panic.

“He- hello?”

It stared at her waved hand, like it was the most interesting thing it had seen.

She held it out tentatively, in an open gesture, leaving enough space for it to leave.

It stared at it for a moment longer before tentatively leaning forwards to place its head in her palm. It purred as she scritched its chin.

“What’s your name, kitty?” She mused. “Garfield? Like the Culpa that started the mansion?”

It leaned its head into her pinky in a silent gesture to go on.

“Harriet? Darrian? Abigail?”

No cigar.

“What about Culpa?”

The cat purred and nuzzled her hand with a vigor.

“Culpa it is.” She brought her other hand to pet at the newly-christened Culpa’s ear.

Culpa mewled with a satisfaction that seemed... almost human on the face of the pitch cat.

—

The rest

@miraculous-of-salt @calliopeia @drama-queen-supreme @kaydenth3gayden @mcheang @nomiegnome @never-say-donuts @vixen-uchiha @miracul0us-multishipper @hauntedfreakdeputyhero @chocolatecustarddanish @iwantswifttoblessmysoul @digitalmagpie @ilseofskadi @nerdy-and-a-little-birdy @minty-goose @nataladriana9 @aestheticnpoetic @constellation-king @animegirlweeb @persephonebutkore @ahalloweengirl @r0sebutch @marinettepotterandplagg @beelzzebop @akalovelymaybe @pleasefollowmeuwu @angelost4r @constancetruggle @speaknowtome @some-oxymoron @nerdy-scifi-birdy @toodaloo-kangaroo @purplesundaze @aestheticnpoetic @neptuningkai @2confused-2doanything

#felinette #ml felix #felix culpa #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #ml marinette #ml adrien #lila salt #class salt #adrien salt #ml lila #lila rossi #haunted mansion au #adrienette #ml class #ml alya #guess who this cat is...

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princecharmingwinks · 3 years

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Another fail date! The last was very specific (and you made it so much better!) this one I’ll leave more wiggle room

I took him canoeing down a river in our back paddock that lead to a billabong. Specifically told him not to get in the water (because various reasons) He thought he’d be cool and jump in anyway, telling me it wasn’t deep water and therefore not dangerous. I told him it wasnt the water he needed to worry about.

(Billabong might be a bit too Aussie, so you can leave that out if you want 😉)

Hey again concussed-dragon! The last one was lots of fun! Oh I am so intrigued by your billabong 👀 While I love the Aussie billabong twist, I'm going to roll with a different body of water because I couldn't work out a reason for our boys to fly to Aus. Maybe for their honeymoon? ;) I've made Stiles the accident-prone one recently so let's switch it up, shall we?

---

Setting the scene: The Quintin Pack (an old friend and ally of Talia Hale) reaches out to the Hale Pack after sensing something has been amiss in their territory. The Quintin Pack's alpha and emissary are away on pack-alliance-duties so have requested the extra assistance for the remaining betas. Talia sends Derek, Stiles, Boyd and Erica on recon. The team of four have decided to divide into pairs to cover more grounding but all within howling range.

"Dude, how long have we been walking around for?" Stiles groans, trying to stretch out the knot beginning to form in his shoulder muscles. He may run with the supernatural but that doesn't mean Stiles actually likes hiking.

"You're ridiculous." Derek huffs but all Stiles can hear in the tone is fondness. The fact that Derek Hale is his mate will never get old. But somehow the fates had aligned and the two of them had worked out that they were just meant to be, sass, snark, huffs and all.

"But I'm your ridiculous." Stiles quips back.

Derek rolls his eyes but also kisses the spark on his template so Stiles calls that a win.

They walk on for a while until they reach a clearing and a large lake. It appears fairly shallow and genuinely nonthreatening.

Derek’s nose twitches as he scents the air, “There’s something in the water.”

Stiles doesn’t fully register the statement, too distracted by his spark waking up. There’s something supernatural around and his spark is giving a warning.

"Derek, hang on a sec-"

"Stiles, the water literally comes up to my ankles. I'll be fine." And with that, Derek is stepping into the murky depths that does in fact only just hit his ankles.

For a split-second Stiles is wondering if his spark had miscalculated. That is until he sees a twinkle of light to his left. He definitely didn't imagine that. It could only be one thing. He spins back to the werewolf walking towards the centre of the lake.

"Babe! Get out of the water!"

But it's too late. The water nymphs have already detected Derek. The water swirls around the werewolf's feet, faster and faster.

Derek tries to move but the pull of the water keeps his legs locked in place, “I can’t move.”

Stiles almost rolls his own eyes, this is why it was always important to listen to the spark, “Water nymphs. I gotta find their leader, hang on." He ducks off towards the light he had previously seen.

After some skilful negotiations (because Stiles is a Boss), the water nymphs reluctantly agree to release Derek. They mostly just wanted to cause some chaotic fun… with maybe the accidental death or two. By the time the water nymphs let Derek go, the water has risen to his neck. Stiles arranges for the water nymphs to move on to other pastures before the Quintin Pack have to take more permanent measures.

Derek is wringing out his shirt and shaking the water off himself like a cute drenched puppy when Stiles finds him after supernatural negotiations are complete.

“While I am very much admiring the view, I think you have something to say to me.” Stiles smirks, leaning against a tree.

Derek throws the shirt over his shoulder, accepting he’ll go shirtless for the trek back before coming to stand in front of Stiles.

“I think you’ve grown cockier since connecting with your spark.” Derek says.

Stiles feigns shock, “How dare you insult me. Your hero and savour. Next time I should just let the nymphs keep you locked in their watery prison forever.”

Derek rests a hand on the tree just above Stiles’ head and leans in. Stiles can feel the ghost of the werewolf’s breath on his lips.

“My hero.” Derek kisses him, pressing himself more fully against Stiles.

Stiles enjoys the kiss, considers it a worthy prize for saving the day. That is until Derek is smothering him in a cuddle for the sole purpose of getting Stiles covered in lake water too.

“Get off me, you wet dog!” Stiles laughs but there is no heat to his words.

“But I’m your wet dog.” Derek grins, dusting kisses all over Stiles’ face.

Driving back to the Quintin Pack’s house, Boyd sniffs the air from the backseat none too subtly, “Huh, you really do smell like wet dog.”

Erica and Stiles cackle with laughter. Derek is less impressed, shooting a glare at Boyd who throws back his shit-eating grin.

---

Ta da! Hope this one was ok! I know it didn’t really use your prompt super heavily (sorry!). I’ll try to work it in more next time. Also sorry it has taken me a while to get to this one haha but it was very fun to do. Now you must tell me the real reasons your billabong water is not a concern. I am so curious! As always, thanks for popping in!

#princecharminganswers #sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #teen wolf #princecharmingwrites

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harrylee94 · 2 years

Text

In Calm Or Stormy Weather - Chapter 18

You can also find this on AO3!

Summary: “Upon you I place my gift. Time will not touch you, you will not age or grow, your body will still, but be untouched by decay. Nature will not touch you, but neither will you experience it. Trapped in a moment, you will not know the passing of time around you, and until the kiss of true love, you shall remain frozen.”

Notes: Not entirely happy with this one, but I am also happy with it? Either way it's so nice to have this done.

TW for injury description!

Chapter 17

——————————————————————

Listen well

“No no no no, Mando, Mando stay with me, stay with me .”

The man was heavy in Cobb’s arms, his head rocking limply on his shoulder. He was still weak from the wound he’d sustained from the Mand’alor’s blade, even the small cut sapping both his strength and magic from him. He’d felt useless, more vulnerable than a newborn babe, and now that Mando wasn’t responding it felt like everything was slipping through his fingers.

“Come on, come on, wake up,” he said, pleaded, begged, tearing Mando’s helmet off to hold his cheek, to get him to open his eyes, but still, nothing. “Mando, please.”

He looked down at the wound, the one he’d seen Mando holding during the fight, and pressed his hand over it, ignoring the way the slithers of iron within, remains from the weapon that created the wound, burned at his palm.

The fighting had stopped, or at least calmed enough that the forest had become quieter. There were still cries and screams in the distance, but those nearby had gone quiet, watching him as he tried desperately to keep his heart from fading. Watching, and doing nothing.

“You,” he said to the figure nearest to him, a Mandalorian soldier, and they jumped in surprise at being addressed. “Do you know any healing?”

“Uh, I, n-no sir,” they stuttered.

Cobb growled and turned to the next. “Do you?”

“A little,” the new Mandalorian said, confused, but already stepping closer.

“Help him,” Cobb said. “Please. He was one of you once.”

They hesitated a moment longer, then came to kneel beside them, removing their helmet and gloves and pulling a water bottle from their belt. Cobb watched them carefully, keeping an eye on their movements, even as they – she – told him to move his hand, washing her hands and the wound with the water from her flask before working to remove the metal splinters.

Cobb envied their ability to so easily touch what burned him, but he knew little of healing in the first place, a fact he now deeply regretted. What he did know though was that, since the wound had been created with iron, even if he had known healing magics he would not have been able to help.

Eventually, some of the denizens of the forest came forwards, a pixie from a nearby nest and a tree nymph who looked like their tree had been partially burned from how the left half of their body looked blackened, and they shooed the Mandalorian woman away. She didn’t stray far though, nor had any of the others left. In fact, the Mandalorians had begun to whisper about a new Mand’alor, and they all seemed to be looking at Mando.

“Vanth.”

Cobb blinked, turning back to the nymph who had spoken. “Yes?”

“We… There’s nothing we can do here to heal him,” the nymph said with sad eyes.

“What do you mean?” Cobb asked, sure he’d heard wrong. “I know our magic can’t do much for iron wounds but-”

“The wound is too deep,” the pixie said. “There’s nothing our skills can provide that will save him. I could curse him so that time doesn’t pass for him, but you’ll need to find someone who can heal him, or he’ll never wake, even if you can lift the curse.”

Curse him or let him die. “There’s no other choice?”

“None,” the nymph replied.

“... Do it.”

The two fae creatures shared a look, and the nymph nodded, allowing the pixie to take the lead.

“Listen well,” she said, her voice quiet, but even the trees fell silent to hear her. “Upon you I place my gift. Time will not touch you, you will not age or grow, your body will still, but be untouched by decay. Nature will not touch you, but neither will you experience it. Trapped in a moment, you will not know the passing of time around you, and until the kiss of true love, you shall remain frozen.” She pressed a kiss to Mando’s brow, and the magic fell upon him.

Cobb shuddered against the magic, the curse a sharp sting against his skin where he was still holding his love, and when Mando’s breath – shallow and strained as it was – fell silent and his chest stilled, he had to hold off on his panic. Instead he took a steadying breath, allowing the tears that had gathered in his eyes to fall, and nodded his thanks to the pixie. She smiled sadly in return before, again, sharing a look with the nymph and flying away.

Much though he wanted to carry him, Cobb had to wait for help to lift Mando from the cold ground, but before he could take him away he was stopped by the female Mandalorian who had attempted to heal him.

“The sword,” she said. “You have to take the sword.”

“The sword?” he repeated with a scowl. “You mean the ancestral sword of the Mand’alor? The sword that is rumoured to, and likely is, cursed so that any being killed by it will have their soul stuck inside it for the rest of eternity? The sword that your Mand’alor used to try to kill us and gave me a wound that will probably never heal right? That sword you’re talkin’ ‘bout?”

The Mandalorian swallowed and nodded.

“Now why would I go and do a thing like that?”

“You… You won it,” she replied. “Or he did. Or you both did. Either way, you should take it.”

Cobb huffed and moved to the side of the cart that held his love. “You keep it,” he said. “Neither of us want anything to do with that place anymore.”

The woman blinked at him in surprise, but bowed her head with a fist over her chest. “My thanks, your majesty.”

“No thanks necessary,” he replied, grunting as he climbed into the cart, settling down at Mando’s side. “You have a week to collect your dead and remove yourself from my people’s lands.”

She nodded in understanding and turned away, already taking up her new mantel.

Cobb didn’t care to watch after that, focusing instead on the warmth of Mando’s hand in his, and not how, in almost every other aspect, he appeared to be dead.

-*-*-

The weeks it took to get back to Mos Pelgo were an eternity. Cobb healed slowly, though it was through the help of needle and thread rather than spells by a gifted healer. He would bear the scar for the rest of his life, he knew, but he would bear a hundred scars more if he could do anything for his love.

The curse Mando had been placed under had enough of a loophole in it that magic could still affect him, and so he had asked for help from those amongst his people to use their skills to help him once those most grievously injured had been tended to, and yet still the iron that had inflicted the wound kept their magics from touching it.

He felt so useless, and he knew it showed in his visage; he couldn’t hold onto his glamour here, not at Mando’s side, not while he lay there, unbreathing, his heart unbeating, and yet still warm to the touch. Just barely.

He’d been told by more than a few of the healers that, had they waited only a few minutes more, it was likely that Mando would have died. He was told that he was lucky, that Mando was lucky, and that he was still alive because of the pixie’s quick thinking. But what use was luck when it meant that Mando was stuck like this forever without a chance of living for more than a few breaths after the curse was broken?

When they reached the gates of Mos Pelgo Cobb was able to ride, so ride he did, but at Mando’s side. He took the thanks of his people with solemn nods, and their sympathies with a heavy heart. They saw his pale visage and assumed that his love was lost, and while his hope was almost as barren as the desert, he was too selfish to let him go just yet.

If he had the ability to let him, of course. His lips hadn’t once touched upon Mando’s in all the time they had been travelling, nor had he done more than hold him at night when he couldn’t bear the loneliness any more.

It was only after he’d set Mando on his bed that he remembered one crucial detail.

He was sitting at Mando’s side, brushing his hair from his face when the door opened. He couldn’t see who’d opened it from where he’d positioned himself, but he could hear the slow and unsteady tapping of bare feet on the stone of the floor before the sheets were tugged on the other side of the bed. Cobb slowly rose, looking up and over the edge of the mattress until he could see a familiar head of hair.

“Kid,” he sighed, his voice cracking with the guilt of pushing thoughts of him to the side. So wrapped up in his grief he hadn’t thought of the child Mando had fought for – whom they had both fought for – and now he was here, trying to pull himself up onto the bed.

The child whined, tugging and pulling on wobbling legs, and Cobb sighed again, getting out of his seat to step around the bed to hold him in his arms.

“Mando, he… Your daddy’s been hurt, kiddo,” he said, even as the boy squirmed and reached for the man. “He’s been hurt real bad.”

The kid turned back to him, understanding in his wide eyes. His small fingers curled into Cobb’s shirt and Cobb expected him to start crying, but instead he pointed down at Mando insistently as he made noises of impatience.

“Alright,” Cobb said, setting the boy down. “Just… He won’t be wakin’ any time soon. He’s sleeping real deep.”

The child cooed as he crawled the rest of the way to Mando’s side, his small hands touching at the clean bandages that had been wrapped around the wound. It might not have been bleeding anymore, but neither was it healing, and no one had wanted to keep it exposed. Cobb didn’t think anything of him curling his small fingers into the edges of the white linen, thinking it was simply a physical cry for comfort, so when the kid pulled them away enough to reveal the wound it was a shock.

“Kid!” he exclaimed, pulling the child away. “Don’t do that! We’ve got to keep the wound covered.”

Unsurprisingly the kid started to wriggle in his grasp again, reaching out for Mando and all but screaming.

“Kiddo!”

“Vanth?”

Cobb looked over his shoulder to find Issa-Or stood in the doorway, her hand on the hilt of her sword at her waist, only for it to fall away with a small smile.

“Having a bit of trouble?”

Cobb huffed as he tried to settle the wriggling mass, but instead he ended up holding him upside down. “I’m fine.”

Issa-Or snorted in disbelief. “Let him see his daddy.”

“He pulled the bandage off.”

“So? You know he can’t hurt him.”

That was true, and yet still he couldn’t help but try to keep Mando as safe as possible.

Issa’s hand settled on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Let him go.”

Her voice was so sad and so soft that he didn’t know who she was talking about, so he slowly set the child back down on the bed in the hopes that this was what she meant. He wasn’t ready to let Mando go. Not yet.

The toddler made his way back to Mando’s side, pulling at the bandages and struggling to remove them as Issa gave Cobb’s shoulder one last squeeze before turning and leaving, shutting the door behind her. Cobb watched the kid for a few seconds, wondering what he was doing, why he was so adamant in his need to see the wound, but his struggles tugged at his heart and he drew his knife to help cut the fabric away.

The child’s hands batted at the material until Cobb pulled it all away before resting against the side of the wound.

It was a deceptively narrow cut, the edges clean and smooth, though the corners were a little ragged from where Mando had pulled at it from fighting. The blood had been wiped away, making it look less dangerous than it was, but it was deep. The blade had pierced his liver, cut through it and damaged it beyond non-magical repair, and yet magic was the one thing that couldn’t touch it.

Cobb put his hand on the child’s back, the kid looking up at him again with those wide eyes, and he tried to smile back, only for tears to well in his eyes.

“It doesn’t look that bad, does it?” he asked. “You… You know sometimes, when you get an apple with a hole in it, you think it looks okay, but then, when you bite into it, it’s all full of holes?”

The child nodded.

“Well, that’s sorta what happened to your daddy.” Should he be saying this? Should he be explaining what had happened to a child who was only now beginning to get the hand of walking? Maybe, or maybe not, but whatever the answer was he couldn’t stop now. “There were some bad people, and your daddy and me, we had to go and fight them, but your daddy… One of the bad people got him, and they hurt him.”

The child frowned and looked back down at Mando, at the wound by his hands, and he ran his finger around the reddened, irritated flesh around it.

“We put him to sleep,” Cobb continued as he petted the kid’s hair, “so we could keep him safe, so we could keep him from… from never wakin’ up.” He sniffed. “But we don’t know how to make him better.”

He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be breaking down in front of the kid, but being strong now was so hard.

Much to his surprise, the child patted his hand, the one still tangled in his hair, and smiled up at him, like he was trying to say that everything was going to be okay. A strange reversal of roles that Cobb didn’t understand but was ridiculously and embarrassingly grateful for.

It didn’t last long though, as the kid’s attention was once again taken up by the wound in Mando’s side. Cobb couldn’t blame him; it was such a small thing, and yet it was causing so much pain for all of them.

When the toddler grew still beneath him, he thought it was the prelude to tears, that the kid was finally beginning to understand the enormity of the situation, and he prepared himself to pull him into a hug. But then–

Then the air was charged, static, like the moment before a lightning strike.

His hand tingled from where he was touching the child’s head.

The magic around them both sang and screamed in equal measure about them.

“... Squirt?”

The child bent over himself, his hands on either side of Mando’s wound as… as the edges began to seam themselves together, fusing into a pale line. Cobb pressed his own hand over the child's, allowing his magic to mingle with that of the child’s until he could feel it. Feel how it was reaching not just for the superficial, but also the internal, touching at the torn edges, the ragged tears, and softly moving them back into place, like puzzle pieces. The flecks of iron that Cobb’s and any other fae’s magic couldn’t touch, the pieces that kept them from healing, were carefully removed with greater skill than a child not even a year old should possibly have, and then…

And then, with a yawn and a moan of exhaustion, the wound was gone, almost as though it had never been, and the child blinked slowly as he fell back into Cobb’s arms.

Cobb could barely breathe, could hardly even think as the small boy snuggled against his chest, his arms coming up to hold him protectively. How was this possible? How could any magic do this? Was this what the Mand’alor had so treasured about the child? Whatever the reason, he was profoundly grateful.

But still Mando slept on.

Even though he was now out of danger, the curse was still keeping Mando from waking. At the time Cobb had accepted out of desperation, but now he wondered if he had the power to break it.

“Am I your true love?”

They had said ‘I love you’ on numerous occasions, but being someone’s true love meant trusting them with your whole being. Did Mando trust him that much?

Uncertainty still plaguing his mind, Cobb shifted closer to his love and leaned over him, holding the child to his chest with one arm as he slept.

Kissing Mando now felt strange, wrong even. His lips were still and unresponsive, the smile that usually emerged after a moment disturbingly absent, and as he pulled away his chest remained barren of breath. The tears that had been gathering began to fall then, dripping onto Mando’s cheeks as something inside him broke.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he held Mando’s cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

His tears dripped again onto warm skin as he rested his brow against Mando’s, his eyes falling shut as his grief kept him from staring his failure in the eye, even as he wished to be as close to Mando as possible.

True love of Mando’s he might not have been, but Mando was certainly his. He had given him his heart, his soul, and his name, and he didn’t think he could give it to any other. Nor did he want to.

“I love you.”

“... I love you too.”

Cobb froze, his grip on the child tightening as he felt a familiar, calloused and run up his arm and cup his cheek, thumb rubbing the tear tracks away. “Mando?”

He couldn’t open his eyes, not yet. If he did then this could disappear. It could be a dream, his imagination playing tricks on him, and he wanted to hold onto that for as long as possible.

“Din.”

“What?”

“My name,” Mando said. “I want to give you my name.”

Lips kissed away the tear tracks on his other cheek, and he couldn’t help but allow his eyes to flutter open.

Mando – Din – was smiling up at him, his eyes shining in the light of the day, and Cobb almost choked on his tears as he felt his breath brushing against his damp skin.

“Cobb,” he murmured as he rubbed at Cobb’s side. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“I thought I’d lost you.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Cobb sniffed and pressed a desperate kiss to Din’s lips. “I love you. I love you so much.”

Din hummed. “My name is Din Djarin.”

Cobb grinned and kissed him again. “I will protect it, always.”

“I know.”

——————————————————————

Did you catch the Maleficent/Sleeping Beauty reference?

Also, care to guess who the Mandalorian woman who helped clean Din's wound was?

Only one chapter left now! The epilogue...

Epilogue

#writing #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian #fantasy au #fae and fairies #cobb vanth #din djarin #grogu #fae king!cobb #changeling!grogu #tw wound #dincobb #issa-or

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north-shore-witch · 4 years

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What to do with: Ash Trees Edition

Ash trees are tied to several religions. In Norse mythology, Yggdrasil, the world tree, is an Ash tree. In Celtic mythology, Ash trees are sacred to Lugh, who we celebrate during Lammas. In Greek mythology all the Meliae are said to be Ash nymphs. So in general, different aspects of the Ash tree can be used in such a variety of spells that it’s one of the most versatile ingredient sources there is.

Leaves: Can be used as a replacement for clovers for good luck. And unlike clovers, as long as it has just an even amount of leaflets, it’ll be extra lucky. They can also attract love.

Sleeping with them under your pillow can cause prophetic dreams, or in a bowl filled with water next to you to ward away illness.

Berries: A handful of berries in the cradle of a new babe can keep away the Fae.

Sap: A spoonful of Ash sap before a newborn leaves its mothers bed can ward away illness.

Wood/Bark: Traditionally, witches besoms were made out of Ash and it was a common wood for Druid’s wands. It is strongly linked to healing magic, as well as communication with the Gods.

Wearing a garder with shavings from a green Ash tree can be a powerful protection.

There’s quite a few other uses for Ash out there, that I don’t know, or didn’t list. What are your favorite uses for it?

#witchcraft #witch #witchblr #tradcraft #trees #witch tips

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snowbellewells · 4 years

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A Cottage by the Sea: Part Three

Hello there, lovely shipmates and readers! I truly never meant to keep you waiting so long for this next installment, but there we are. I went back to school, and then somewhat over-committed myself in other fic events and ideas as well, and time just flew by before I could get this update to you! I hope that you will still enjoy all the same. I’ll stop making excuses and just let you read. This may seem like a bit of a “talky”, slower chapter, but I needed to let Killian learn and work through some things, and to set Emma on her course...

** So many thanks as always to @cssns for the opportunity to participate in such a fun and amazing event, and to @searchingwardrobes for the gorgeous and stunning cover art I simply adore. And a special shout out in this chapter to @winterbythesea for the suggestion of a name for Emma’s horse that sounded just right as soon as I heard it! :)

Summary: Princess Emma has always been drawn to the shores of Misthaven, where the sea meets the shore near her parents’ castle. When an unknown boy washes up on the sand, with eyes as fathomless and blue as the waters that brought him to her, he soon becomes Emma’s best friend, her partner in crime, and her other half. But the tides give and the tides take away, and as her blue-eyed boy sails in her father’s navy and risks all in defense of those who made him family, unexpected danger and challenge will try to tear them apart, and might well show him just where he came from that day he first appeared to her from the sea…

Read it from the beginning HERE or on AO3

Part Three

“My mother?” he questioned, voice hesitant and perplexed as he scrambled to stand and face the ethereal being who had stepped gracefully from the pool, and after just a moment appeared miraculously dry with not a hair out of place - as if she had never been underwater at all.

Killian blinked, half expecting her to disappear when his eyes reopened. When the beautiful nymph - for that was what she must be - still stood before him, watching curiously, he shook his head and wondered vaguely if he had hit it after all, either in the wreck or once washed to shore. “My mother died… long ago… when I was a mere babe, according to my father. It cannot be possible for you… that you… I mean…” Gesturing helplessly with awkward hands, Killian finally let his words trail off, beseeching her with a look to understand.

The mysterious lady’s eyes seemed to darken their blue shade with the sadness glistening in their depths. Shaking her head, she stepped closer, practically gliding over the ground between them. “Killian, my dear,” she crooned, her cool, soothing hand caressing his cheek with the lightness of a butterfly’s wing. “There is so much you do not know…” she shook her head sadly, beckoning him to follow her to a spot in the shade of the trees around the clearing. “Come, let me explain. It has been kept from you long enough. And…” she swallowed some deep emotion. “I’ve waited so long to talk to you.”

Biting his tongue against more indignant and disbelieving outbursts, Killian found he was greatly comforted by the soft press of her fingers on his own, and followed her dutifully to a large, flat rock at the clearing’s edge and took a seat. He had a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue and nearly as many rebuttals to her claim. Yet, he found he also wanted her to stay there - whoever or whatever she might be. He needed to know what she had to say.

When the woman’s large eyes turned to meet his again, she asked, “What do you remember of the time before you came to Misthaven?”

Running a hand back through his damp hair - dark like hers, in almost the same shade, he realized then - ruffling it up off his forehead and making it stand wildly on end, Killian shook his head at a loss. His hand fell back to his thigh with a slap as he shrugged and answered her with sheepish honesty. “I’m afraid you won’t gain much from my memory; it’s frighteningly blank beyond boarding a tall ship for some long journey with my father and my brother Liam. Then, somehow…” he shrugged again, knowing there should be more, but instead he had only ever found a mystifying blank. “Then my father is just… gone. Liam and I were alone on that vessel, little better than slaves.” His eyes fell to studying his rough-calloused hands, as if he felt abruptly unworthy to meet her eyes. “We were trapped there for years, Captain said we had a debt to pay and we weren’t getting free until we did so. Never let us out of his sight when we docked, so we couldn’t run. It was too far to swim for freedom on some shore, even though we could both swim like seal pups.” A bitter and raw half-smile pulled up one side of his mouth in a crooked smile before he continued.

As if she could sense his hurt and the hesitation that plagued him, the lovely being reached out once more to take his hand in hers, rubbing cool, soft fingers over the back of it in comfort. She did not speak, nor try to press or hurry him, merely waited patiently for Killian to find his words and purge the rest of his story.

“Truth be told,” he finally sighed in resignation, “I would still be a servant to that wretched captain… if not for the storm…”

That serene face only stared back at him, listening kindly and conveying the sense that she understood - more than he could remember being understood before. Eyes as blue as his own looked deep beyond his outer appearance, the sadness at his suffering as clear as if she had spoken it aloud. Instead, she gave a gentle nod, and once more waited patiently.

“There was a storm at sea, some years ago now,” he finally pressed on, reaching the part of his tale that both lead to his greatest loss and his truest joy. “It blew up suddenly and many were washed overboard - Liam and I among them. I do not know if they left us purposefully, not worth the risk and effort, or if they genuinely couldn’t see us in the rough waters. At any rate, I do not know how I survived. Through what twist of fate I washed ashore in the kingdom of Misthaven when Liam did not, but that was where I woke. I was found by the princess, who was just about my age, taken in and nursed back to health by the royal family - unbelievable as it seems - and eventually I joined their navy. Only, it would appear, to be shipwrecked once again on my first mission as a lieutenant.”

Here the woman returned his rueful smile at the course that had shaped his life thus far. There were many details he had omitted - his love for Emma, and her for him, chief among them - but it seemed needless to prattle on. In fact, it was clear his mysterious companion was at last ready to speak.

Remorse was clear in the face entirely too beautiful and flawless to be fully human as she reached the hand not still holding his up to trace the scar on his cheek - made long ago by a sadistic bosun before a nine-year-old Liam had jumped between and taken the brunt of the punishment. Tenderness and wistful longing filled her gaze as she did so. Her voice was still mellifluous when she spoke, though soft and slightly broken with her emotion. “My son, what you’ve been through… it pains me more than I can say. The hardship you endured, the abandonment and mistreatment you suffered, none of it was anything like the life I wished for you and your brother when you were born. Such dreams I had for you both as we sat outside our little cottage, watching the tides roll in and little sandpipers running over the sand. Liam was so sweet, so attentive, bringing me seashells as I held you and sang lullabies, anxious to help you learn to swim and build sandcastles…”

She trailed off for a moment, her pearly white teeth pressing into her lower lip as she struggled to suppress a new swell of emotion before continuing. It was just as well. Killian’s mind was racing, hardly able to make sense of such idyllic, wonderful scenes of which he had not even the slightest recall.

Her other hand fell to her lap and her fingers were pulled free of his as he lurched to his feet and began to pace with the unsettled agitation overtaking him. “Why do I remember none of this?!” he implored, his every breath bringing an emotional swing from anger to stark devastation and back. It was as though he had been robbed anew of the loving family and carefree childhood he had grown up missing - this time by the assertion that he had possessed such treasure once and could not even picture it. “If you truly are who you say,” he finally demanded, returning to the lovely, dark-haired woman and crouching to peer into her face once more. His fist tightened and then opened reflexively, his adamance on gaining some answers, some understanding, clear. “If you really are my mother… What happened all those years ago? Why did you leave us? Where were you when Liam and I were taken into servitude? Where have you been for all this time in between? … Why… why were we all alone in the world?”

He blinked rapidly, unwilling to show more weakness than his ragged question had already revealed. For the lost little boy who had never known his mother, who had never understood why he and his brother were surrendered to such a cruel fate, was still inside the grown lieutenant, but Killian could not let that broken child surface now, not when he might finally gain answers. His mouth was a firm line as he stared down this mysterious nymph; his eyes hard as he refused to let her look away.

A tear escaped her eye and ran down her porcelain cheek, a luminescent drop of liquid glowing brightly on its way. She was clearly suffering at the admission of his hurt, whatever else he might think of her. And when she spoke again, her voice was flinty and resolved; he could doubt her sincerity no longer. “Killian, I am your mother. Whether you accept it or not, that is as much truth as the waves coming in to meet the shore. But your father - he beguiled me. He had more power - and more darkness - than I knew. He stole you boys, my dearest loves, from me. By the time I had located you once more, and made preparations to bring you both here to Ogygia for safety, it was too late. Liam had been lost to the depths - stolen forever where your father could keep him for himself eternally. And you had been taken in by the royals of Misthaven. I watched that evening as they found you, and I came back unseen to watch you many other times with your crewmates, your golden-headed princess… any glimpse I could steal of you as you grew up hearty, strong and brave - just as I always knew you would. It seemed unfair to make myself known then, to uproot you once more… not when you appeared so happy…” She searched his face as her words came together in dawning realization. “What that - Was I wrong?”

Overcome, Killian shook his head, not sure how to address his reply. Finally, he managed to murmur, “No, no you were not mistaken. They treated me as if I were their own. I was as happy as I have ever been…” His eyes seemed to be attempting to focus on something far back within his memory, long ago and leagues away. “But - “ he tried again, wetting his lips and plunging forward with his unbelievable question. “If all that is true, does that make… Is my father…?” He found he could not speak the ridiculous question his mind was urging him to ask.

She nodded instead, relieving him of it. “Yes, he is Davy Jones. And I am Calypso, daughter of Atlas.”

Killian knew his mouth must have fallen open, gaping at the woman before him, returning his gobsmacked look with nothing but open honesty. “Son, please believe me,” she urged, reaching for his hand once more. She nearly beamed with fragile-seeming hope when he dumbly allowed her to twine their fingers again. “I know it must seem like a lot to take in… a monstrous amount to believe on good faith, but I am telling you the truth. Never did I wish to be parted from you or your brother. I would never have left either of you by choice. That Liam is lost to us…” here she solemnly shook her head, bowing it over their joined hands to press a kiss to his knuckles, “For that, I can only apologize that I was unable to save him. You must know that I tried, Killian.”

Slowly but surely the rushing sound that had taken over in his head, the pounding of his heart and the strange sense of hysteria which had very nearly enveloped him, began to ebb away. The hurt and doubt did not vanish - and he had so many questions for her that he hardly knew where to start - but the hardest knot of bitterness and anger in his chest eased, loosened enough that he could catch his breath and study this woman before him - his mother! - with a focus that brought acceptance, and even a sort of thrill. He had a mother, who loved him and wanted to know him. How could he in good conscience turn away? And if all she said was true, of which he felt all but certain, then she had already suffered just as he had. Why should he force either of them to bear anything more?

Leaning in, an uncertain, almost eager look transformed his face as he spoke in an awed whisper. “You searched for us?” he repeated, letting the comfort of it sink into his soul. “You tried to get us back? To save Liam?”

Tears were pouring down the sea nymph’s face now, to the point that she didn’t even speak, merely nodded vigorously and opened her arms wide to him in welcome.

“Mother,” he exhaled, and gave in. He could hold back no longer. Resting his head on her shoulder, Killian leaned into a maternal embrace of the sort he had been missing all his life. His shoulders hitched with silent weeping, letting out much that had been buried so deeply he had not even known it still pained him.

Gentle, soothing fingers ran through his hair, rubbed his back as she rocked back and forth gently, at last feeling completed to have her child back in her arms, grown though he might be. She let him purge the torrent of grief and fear, lightly humming a melody that eased him and that Killian felt vaguely he had heard somewhere before.

His mother! His mind could hardly grasp the revelation, and yet, she was there. He might still be shipwrecked and stranded - lost - but he was no longer alone.

~~***~~

Under cover of dark, the very night after they had received news that Killian’s ship was lost, Princess Emma was using the filtered light of the full moon to sneak from her apartments and down to the stables. She had listened all day as her mother and father spoke to their trusted inner circle, debating and considering if there were any possibility of even some of the ship’s crew having survived - and how they would go about seeking them in a rescue mission if the chance existed. Was it even possible to look for a ship that was by now shattered in pieces and likely sunk to the depths, invisible to their eyes? And yet, Queen Snow had interjected more than once, her boundless well of hope apparent, could they truly do otherwise when their adopted son and dozens of other loyal sailors might still live?

Her husband and their advisors agreed, and yet, there was the other practical concern that any search voyage might only be sending more innocent lives into a trap - a snare set by a supernatural foe they did not understand well enough to combat and survive. Eventually, all left the council chambers but the King and Queen, and Emma herself. It was then that they used a mirror - a magic one enchanted to allow them to communicate, which had been gifted to Snow by Ariel as a wedding present when she married her ‘Charming’. Using it, they contacted the maritime kingdom’s rulers for more information.

The news had been dire. Emma shivered even then, hours later, under her heavy riding cloak as she gingerly gripped the vine-covered trellis next to her balcony and swung out onto it, needing to climb down and cross the lawn to the stables undetected. The memory still haunted her, of Ariel explaining how legend had it that Davy Jones took any prisoners left alive aboard his phantom ship, eternally pressed into his cursed crew.

What it had boiled down to in the end was that they could not send more men out on a fruitless mission; not knowing where to send them, or even where they should begin, and especially not when most likely the only result would be their capture or death as well. All the same, Emma had felt hurt and betrayed on Killian’s behalf - despite the decision making logical sense. It was maddening that they would do nothing when Killian would have left no stone unturned, no island or inlet unsearched, if the roles were reversed and any of those who sat debating whether to search for him or not were lost. She had just barely managed to bite back such recriminations, knowing they were unfair, but she could not help storming from the meeting, unable to helplessly stand by any longer. She had heard her father gently urging her mother to let her go, to give her some time, and she had been in her rooms ever since. Not crying or grieving as most probably believed, but plotting her next move.

Though she had no evidence to back it up, Emma knew - simply knew it in her marrow, as sure as she felt her heart beat and her blood pound in her veins - that her lieutenant was out there somewhere alive. Just as she had since the first shock of the shipwreck’s announcement had worn off, she still believed that, were her sailor no longer in the world, she would be aware of the loss, the lacking in all that he left behind. There had been a link between she and Killian since he washed ashore and she found him all those years ago; in her deepest being, Emma felt it was because they were meant to be together, always destined, two halves of the same whole, just like her parents. She might not profess such girlish dreams aloud, but she harbored the belief nonetheless. And, since she had not felt the agony she would fully expect if he had been ripped from life, no inkling of the void she knew would split open her chest if he ceased to be, then he could still be found. It was as simple - and as much a challenge - as that.

It mattered not that she didn’t yet know where to go, she would be on her way before any could stop her or hold her back. She could chart a course from there. That afternoon as she had prepared and packed, the messenger bird she had sent out returned with her letter for Killian unopened on its leg. Yet, even that could not deter Emma. He could be somewhere the creature simply had not found. It didn’t mean… but she shook her head abruptly and refused to contemplate that possibility.

Alighting on the ground with a little hop, Emma glanced back up the ivy-trellised wall she had just descended, allowing a moment’s pride that no alarm had been rasied and none seemed the wiser. There was a fair dose of irony in the fact that she was now trying to steal away under cover of night to escape her parent’s watchful concern and protection, when it had been her mother, the Queen herself, who had first shown her how to make that scale down the outer walls in case they were ever under attack and Emma found herself in need of an alternate means of escape. Regardless of its original intention, the lesson had stuck, and the princess put her skills to good use. The cool wetness through her thin slippers brought a delicious sort of shiver up from her toes through her legs and the rest of her as she dashed across the already dew-kissed grass.

Upon entering the royal stables in a state of warm and cozily quiet peace - as if all inside were bedded down and drowsing for the night - Emma blew out a breath of relief. Her returning calm was encompassing enough that she gave a startled jump of surprise when her mare, Lady, whickered and bobbed her head to her in greeting.

“Hey there, Sweet,” Emma crooned, offering an apple to her beloved pet, her favorite mount since she first learned to ride as a little girl. Her father had given Lady to her when the mare was still a young colt, and they had been fast friends ever since. The horse playfully bowed her head to her mistress, nudging Princess Emma’s shoulder with her long velvety nose and munching the treat contentedly. As Emma’s fingers continued to scratch along the gentle creature’s forelock, she murmured soothing words and the horse seemed to almost nod in delight, bobbing her head and huffing approval with short snorts of air.

“Ready to go for a ride?” Emma continued, making quick work of saddle and bridle before leading Lady out of her stall and back towards the entry of the large main stable. It was as if the animal could indeed pick up the nervous excitement radiating from her rider; the sharp clopping of her hooves made quick staccato taps along the solid floor and seemed to mimic Emma’s ever-quickening pulse in her ears.

With one last glance around, making sure they were still undetected, the princess stepped into Lady’s stirrup, swung herself up onto the animal’s back, and gathered the reins in hand as she quickly doused the lantern she had lit in the hanging sconce just inside the large enclosure. Stealth was imperative, but now that she was in the clear, she would never risk a fire that could endanger the other horses, grooms and trainers. She would see well enough by moonlight once outdoors again.

A slight shudder ran through her as she glanced back at the castle over her shoulder once more. Lady trotted easily into the forest once Emma had found the gate watched by her uncle who was known for his habit of falling asleep at the most inopportune times. Slipping past him while he snored unawares, the going was easy and the path familiar from there.

Horse and rider made swift time, passing through the trees and down toward the harbor in nighttime shadows unmolested. When at last they neared the more rickety end of the docks where local fishermen and merchants kept their smaller sailboats and personal water crafts, Emma dismounted and moved toward one particular skiff, alone and completely abandoned, bobbing quietly on the gentle waves. At first glance, it appeared forgotten there without owner, but as Emma drew even with the small yet sturdy vessel, she could see it was just as she remembered - simple and unassuming certainly, but well-cared-for and more than adequate for her needs.

With little time to waste, knowing it would not be long before her absence was discovered back at the palace, and she needed to be far enough out to sea by then so she would not be spotted or returned home by well-meaning rescuers who wished to see her safe even before having Killian found. She simply couldn’t agree with that logic - royal duty or no - and in the end it was her life. She stroked lovingly over her horse’s withers again, one last scruff at the velvet muzzle in affection, before murmuring, “Head on home now, girl. You know the way,” before removing bit and bridle and watching as the little mare nodded her head as if in understanding of the command, turned and trotted back the way they had come, hooves clipping first against the wooden planks of the pier, then the cobblestones of the street beyond, tail swishing as she moved further into the distance.

Puffing out a short breath, Princess Emma consoled herself with the fact that her horse did know the path back to the castle well, and that nothing untoward would befall her - especially not so early in the pre-dawn hours when the streets and forests were almost completely deserted. Urging herself back into motion, she loosed the ties holding the small craft to its place along the pier and hopped fron the docks onto the boat deck without lingering any further. She allowed barely a moment of anxiety for the rush of concerns flooding her mind - tasks to bring the boat ‘round, set her on course, and guide her safely from the harbor and the proximity of other ships, pier and shore into open waters. She had no time to be timid; she knew what had to be done, had practiced and rehearsed it in her mind numerous times in the last few hours as she put her plan in motion. Now she simply had to follow through.

Luckily, the water was smooth and still, the wind with her, and the others vessels nearby safely anchored out of her path. With her mind on her route, eyes clear and hands steady, Emma was soon leaving the mouth of the harbor and gaining speed as the wind truly caught in the sails overhead. Her sailor had taught her well, and she was on her way to find him.

Tagging: @cssns @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi @jennjenn615 @therooksshiningknight @tiganasummertree @lfh1226-linda @capswantrue @spartanguard @optomisticgirl @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @tornadoamy @xhookswenchx @bubblegum1425 @jarienn972 @courtorderedcake @gingerchangeling @ilovemesomekillianjones @thisonesatellite @profdanglaisstuff @mariakov81 @ineffablecolors @shireness-says @snidgetsafan @carpedzem @let-it-raines @stahlop @hollyethecurious @winterbaby89 @darkcolinodonorgasm @resident-of-storybrooke @kday426 @nikkiemms

#cssns20 #cs au ff #cs au mc #a cottage by the sea #part three #lieutenant duckling au

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faeryqueenwitch · 5 years

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☀️SLAVIC FAIRIES☀️

Maybe it’s because of the bitterly harsh winters and times of scarcity. Maybe it’s because of the seemingly endless nights. Whatever the reason, many fairy tales from Russia, the Balkans, and Eastern Europe ooze doom and gloom. The fairies who appear in the folklore of these regions are more likely to drown, shred, or devour you than make your wishes come true. That’s not to say they’re all bad. Slavic nature spirits, like their counterparts elsewhere, are essential to our planet’s survival- they take care of the plants,animals,water, and land. If you pay them respect, they may offer healing or wisdom. Legend tells us that even some of the most ferocious fairies won’t harm people who have pure hearts.

☀️ THE RUSALKI ☀️-

Among the most beguiling water spirits of Russia, Ukraine, and parts of Eastern Europe, the rusalki (singular rusalka) live in lakes, streams, and rivers during the daytime. After dark, however, they come ashore to dance and sing- and to capture men. Even guys who’ve heard about the dangerous shapeshifters from the time they could toddle still can’t resist these gorgeous girls. Young,lusty,with full breasts and long legs, they show up as seductive as Playboy centerfolds and prance lewdly about the moonlight. They even climb trees and swing among the branches like beautiful birds. Not only that, they sing like angels.

ART BY @IRENHORRORS ON DEVIANTART

But the rusalki’s heavenly appearance belies their evil intentions. Yes, they seek mates, but only briefly. Once they’re done with their partners, they drown the smitten mortals without a second thought.

These bad-news babes might be a cold-hearted version of the Greek nymphs. Also akin to mermaids, at times they sport fishy tails and sit on rocks near the water, combing their lovely hair. Their enchanting voices,too remind us of mermaids. Some folktales say the rusalki are the souls of women who drowned. Others suggest they’re fertility spirits who govern the waters necessary for life. Whatever their true nature, be wary if you’re out at night with your buddies and see a bunch of nakes ladies emerge from a river, singing and begging, for your body- they may not be what they seem.

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yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy · 4 years

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WIP WEDNESDAY

Yet another one where I try desperately to make friends and tag people that don’t like me to read my work. @solas-disapproves @pikapeppa @scharoux @itsalexistrvlyn

Context: Solas ruminating on his relationship with my Lavellan. I just really love writing internal monologues instead of having my characters actually, you know, interact. (/o_o)/

I should also point out that my Lavellan is 24, despite Solas repeatedly referring to her as a child. When you’re 40+, everyone under 25 is a child. “Kids these days”, etc. Plus remember he considers the Dalish to be “children” across the board like an asshole.

Bracketed parts are what I’m personally debating whether to keep, or else contain text that needs to be replaced with a more appropriate equivalent.

------

She kisses with innocence and an earnest desire to please. He quietly damns himself all the while, but his mind cannot help but dredge up the whisper of a memory from long ago, of similarly wide-eyed and precocious young slave girls gifted to him like furniture. In his youth he acted as much of the part of the rakish black sheep that the Evanuris required of him. [The question that still remained unanswered after all this time, however, was whether he became the character in this particularly decadent play, or if such power afforded him to simply allow such tendencies to flourish unrestrained.]

Whatever the case, it had not been an uncommon occurrence for him to offer the comforts of his bed to two, three, four women on any given night. Servants, slaves, merchants' daughters (and wives).. all eager to please, all determined to curry his favor or catch his eye in the hopes that they would receive a blessing, and what ever that implied. They tried to ply him with distractions--music, art, dance; lewd and debauched scenarios to be acted out for his amusement; as the nights wore on and the wine flowed like a river in his veins, he called for them to submit to more embarrassing requests or risk being permanently ousted from his ever-revolving circle of beautiful nymphs.

Even at his most drunk and at the highest peak of ecstasy, he never lost sight of their motives. To them, he was a meal ticket, a refuge from the painful drudgery of everyday living, a shield from yet another night of painful servitude to his more [visceral] colleagues.

He did not begrudge them: Arlathan swallowed up innocence as readily as a debutante would her first cup of red grape wine. Even the youngest and most inexperienced of his partners still possessed an idea of what to expect from him, either from rumors spread among those beyond his abode or through personal demonstration with a captivated audience.

No, no one was innocent, he had long since been taught, but its absence did not necessarily translate to knowledge. And what he instructed those girls was not wisdom as he once proudly thought, but a functioning form of shrewd cynicism. One did not deserve praise for recognizing the follies of a system they continued to benefit from, and hadn't he benefited from their desperate need for acumen? Indeed, it had always been a secret thrill of his to watch the glimmer of recognition sparkle in someone's eyes, the bittersweet understanding that, ultimately, [knowledge] held as many rewards as it did caveats.

[But as he stared down at the fidgeting ingenue beneath him, he found his heart stir alongside his loins. A crude, blasphemous combination was what he originally thought. [[I have no idea what to do here. This sentence throws off the tone of sincere love but what the fuck do I write]]] An unfortunate side effect of being interred in the Fade for countless centuries. To taste precociousness and sincerity on a person’s skin after all this time..

He was surrounded by shades who unknowingly haunted a false world. Its destruction was imminent, he had resolved that to be its ultimate fate, had accepted that his commitment to the lonely path must continue. He would live, in the loosest sense of the word, among these dead souls, but only for a short time. That was what he had told himself, and in his haste, he had extended the time in which he must dwell in this unbearable purgatory and somehow chained himself to a barely-whelped shadow of his People who now wielded a fragment of his power with as much finesse as a young mage with a training wand.

Still, he would endure. Cordiality where it was required and expected, fleeting pleasure in the spirits he could still approach and the sweet desserts that thankfully never vanished from the imagination, temperance in all else. Another trial, another penance to be paid.

But a self-inventory summarily revealed] that his heart now thrummed with a quiet music not unlike the layered echoes resounding from a strummed harp. Sentiments built like a scale. He closed his eyes and listened, and to his surprise he discovered it whispered the name of the Inquisitor, and in the next breath urged him to recall the moments in their involuntary alliance that shook him from hypnotic stoicism.

Pity, pity for this Dalish girl, this innocent who was to have their life drastically torn asunder by yet another one of his mistakes.

Compassion, compassion for an unprepared child to be enlisted in a cause filled with those just as resolute in condemning her as they were in deeming her a necessity. Like a helpless babe tossed to wolves, she did not so much as whimper for fear of reprisal by forces she could barely comprehend.

Uncertainty, uncertainty at how such a skittish, stuttering, nervous da'len would be able to survive the trials set before her. She lacked understanding in the finer points of what moved the hearts of men. Her shyness intensified when in the company of human nobility to the point that her thoughts were rendered unintelligible. She commanded no presence, projected no confidence, [rested no worried hearts ]. When she spoke it was with a habit of editing her own thoughts in a messy and redundant manner.

Fondness, fondness for the way she listened to him like a child engrossed in a yarn regaled by an elder. The questions she asked, the desire to know and understand the foreign, intangible world he had come to call home long before her grandfather's grandfather's grandfather had been born.

Paternity, paternity because she struggled so very hard with her tremendous self-doubt, her [flagging] sense of belonging, her poor intuition in everything but the art of the bow. The others teased her as colleagues were wont to do but they did not see, as he and Cole saw with such painful clarity, that their words were as damaging as a sharpened knife against the bark of a new tree. That her face was in a near-permanent flush not because of the heat or sun damage but [perpetual embarrassment] at the thought that *she was truly a fool made to be mocked and [unloved]*.

But he kisses back. He kisses back and silently wills that these good intentions--Truly, they were good. Truly, he loved her in every sense of the word. Truly, he now cannot imagine a life having never known her--would leave similar indelible fingerprints on her heart as she has done to him.

When they part, his eyes rove over the glassy sheen of gray eyes holding back nervously-happy tears; the disgusting, artfully-inked crow of Dirthamen marring her full flushed cheeks and child-like upturned nose and soft sweep of her constantly furrowed brow, he is struck by the desire to cherish her for all time. Hold her and kiss her and pour all of his devotion into her ears until she was reduced to a quivering mess. It would be better for her, so his fantasy narrated, because she is too pure for this world as it is, too good.

She was, the rational side of him agreed, but ignorance was not the proper path toward true happiness. Balance, balance and understanding and righteous action were.

#tallin lavellan #solas #solavellan #fanfiction #my fanfiction #wip #wip wednesday #DA:I

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wildwhiskey236 · 5 years

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Character Interview Tag

I was tagged by @albarnesauthor!

We will be interviewing my OC’s from my NaNo WIP Embracing Shadows. (A/N- I wanna do this a little differently than what I’ve done before, so it may get long but stick with me.)

Our five assholes sit in the laughably nondescript room, scowls immediately crossing their faces, protests on their lips at the description. The author reminds them of their current behavior in their story and all protests die on their lips, several of them muttering an agreement that yeah, maybe they were assholes.

1: What is your full name?

“Hector Greatsnarl.”

“Lauren Rosewing.”

“Lindsey Hallowedstrike.”

“Davy Evenflaw.”

“Natia Stoutblossom.”

Eyes turn to Natia, Hector and Lauren giving her a flat stare while Lindsey smirked, Davy commented, “We all know that isn’t your real name, no need to lie about it anymore.”

“Fine. My real name is Aster- but I prefer Natia.”

2: What does your full name mean?

“Well Aster means star and Natia means light, which is why I chose it.”

“Ever the romantic. Lindsey means from an island, which is appropriate I guess but I think my parents were trying to pick the least elven name possible.”

“I like your name. Davy means beloved.”

“Lauren is vaguely based off of a tree, Laurel.”

“Not surprising for a fairy. Hector means to hold fast.”

3: What are your other names/nicknames

“Most of us respond to ‘that asshole’.” Lindsey leaned back in his chair. “I call Davy my vhenan.“

“You have literally never called me that.”

“Maybe I should start. It means ‘my heart’ in elven.”

“No offense,” Lauren cut in, “But you two are about as far away from elven as I have ever seen.”

4: What’s your gender?

Everyone glanced at each other. Hector, Lindsey, and Davy were all men, built like the soldiers they were. Natia was lithe and strong like the assassin and hunter she was, but she still took hold of her own femininity. Lauren, ever the academic, was softer and had the gentler curves of someone who didn’t spend her life training and fighting with weapons.

5: What’s your sexuality?

“In case you didn’t pick it up, I am Not Straight (TM). Men, women, elf, dwarf, fairy, human, nymph- but I’m taken.” Lindsey said, casting a soft look to Davy.

“I’m gay.”

“I’ve never been interested in romance or sex. What the word for it? Asexual?Aromantic? Yeah, those are me.” Lauren offered up, somewhat satisfied that she finally got to say it.

“I’m straight.” Natia said, followed by Hector’s “Me too.”

6: Where are you from?

“I’m from the Highlands, just East of Provda and Ebarria. I’m here to study human and dwarven magical practices.” Lauren perked up before quieting herself and rambling.

“I’m from Ilseburry up north. It’s much better here in Provda.” Lindsey said.

“Natia and I are half-Provdan half-Ebarrian.” Hector offrered.

“But you grew up in Provda and I grew up in Ebarria. They are very different places.”

“I’m also half Provdan- my mother was an elf from the Highlands, but I’ve never been there.” Davy added.

7: How old are you?

“Go ahead Lauren. Tell them hold old you are.” Natia smirked, heat rising to the fairy’s face.

“Fairies mature slower than humans or elves. Just because I’m in my forties-”

“Really? I thought I was the oldest one at 28.” Davy signed in relief. Lindsey smirked.

“I’m 27.”

“I’m 25.” Hector said, eyes turning to Natia again, who had sunken down in her chair.

“I didn’t realize how old all of you were.” She muttered. “I’m only 23.”

“So Lauren, how’s the baby-sitting going?”

“I’m going to outlive all you humans and elves.”

8: What is your magic form/what species are you?

“Well, I’m a fairy with a natural affinity for magic.” Lauren restated.

“I’m elven. But not a stuffy, traditional, better-than-you elf. ” Lindsey’s pointed ears twitched.

“I’m half elven. The worst kind of elven apparently.” Davy commented, a slight bitter tone tracing his words.

“Better than us humans.” Natia offered, her own tone lighter and more playful as she glanced at Hector.

9: What does your human form look like?

“I take offense at that.” Lauren joked, her long brown hair curled over her shoulder, green eyes practically sparkling with humor.

Lindsey also snorted, his own blue eyes rolling at the question. Above his brow his straight blonde hair was slicked back as he ran a hand over it, stretching out in the chair. Davy sat still beside him, brown eyes and curly brown hair speaking for themselves, his slightly pointed nose giving him an impish, elvish effect, the tips of his smaller pointed ears just visible through the curls.

Hector also leaned back in his chair, his longer black hair curling around his neck, his deeply tanned skin and dark brown eyes speaking for themselves. Natia’s skin was darker, her long dark brown hair pulled back in a braid and lighter brown eyes watching me with an exasperated face that said, “Move on to the next questions already.”

10: What’s your aesthetic?

Natia fingered her daggers, exquisitely crafted from silver and decorated with obsidian, heavily enchanted and small diamonds inlaid to represent the gods she worshiped.

“Beaches with gold sand and dark blue water. We didn’t have beaches like that in Ilseburry.” Lindsey said wistfully, longing to be there instead of answering more questions.

“The forests at sunset, the dark green and golden pink skies.” Davy added quietly.

“I miss the flowers that grew in the Highlands, with blue petals and pink centers. They were really pretty.” Lauren picked at her dress of the same colors.

“I like when night turns into a red daybreak before a storm.” Hector said, giving no other explanation.

11: Who’s your best friend?

“Lindsey,”

“Davy,”

The two of them said together, Hector poutning. He wasn’t sure what he expected from them but he muttered, “Davy and Lindsey,” anyway, sad still that they were his best friends but he wasn’t theirs.

“My brother Zach.” Lauren said.

“...” Natia hestiated. “Probably Hector.”

The group glanced at each other and then at me, indicating that it was time to move and make a sharp change of subject.

12: Would you ever get a piercing/ tattoo?

“I’ve got a few piercings.” Natia indicated to her ears with several studs placed up an down her ears. “I was never into tattoos.”

“I’ve got a tattoo of my parents names in respect for them.” Hector indicated to his forearm where the two names were inked.

“I always thought it would be sexy if-” Lindsey started, but Davy cut him off.

“No. I said I wouldn’t do that.” Blood rushed to Davy’s face and ears.

13: When are you happiest?

“In the tavern with my friends.” Hector was the first to speak up.

“With Lindsey, after getting back from a hunt or scouting mission and just getting to eat or fall asleep together.” Lindsey looked at Davy again with soft eyes, nodding.

“When I finally perfect a spell or potion or enchantment, seeing my effort turn into something.” Lauren continued.

“I don’t feel like answering this question.” The others gave Natia a look. “Fine, bickering with you all, you assholes.”

They awed.

“The baby enjoys our company.”

14: What’s your biggest secret?

Everyone looked to Natia.

“I mean, it's not a secret anymore.” She started, sighing. “I was part of a group of assassins and my kill count is somewhere in the hundreds. I ran away, changed my name, and lied to everyone about it for two years. Anyone else got a secret?”

“My parents were killed by said assassins.” Hector said darkly.

“This is supposed to be a light-hearted interview not couples therapy. My biggest secret is that my father was King of Ilseburry.”

“You’re just now mentioning this?!” Davy gasped, a grin breaking across Lindsey’s face.

“No, I’m just a notorious trickster. Davy’s secret is that he gets very cranky when his socks get wet.”

“It’s an unpleasant feeling!”

“Back in the Highlands, I’m actually considered to not be very pretty according to fairy standards. I’ve never told anyone that.” Lauren casually dropped, the others once again glancing to each other. Somehow that seemed unbelievable but no one knew enough about fairies to object.

15: What was your first impression of your S/O?

“What a giant dork.” Davy muttered, earning a laugh from everyone but Lindsey, who looked away, slightly embarrassed. “He was trying to flirt with me and tripped over a tree root, falling face first into thistle bush.”

“Thanks, babe. Here I was going to say you were the exact image of what I thought an elf should be- graceful, good looking, and into nature shit, if not just a little short. Are we done here yet? We have people to kill now.”

Lindsey didn’t wait before getting up and leaving the room, Davy and Hector following after him, Lauren profusely apologizing as she left, closing the door behind her.

I started gathering my notes before- hey? Where did Natia go?

“Don’t move.” I heard the voice after I felt the press of a cool blade against my neck, Natia grabbing my hair to hold my head back and expose my neck better.

“This is a warning. You better finish this damn WIP and you better give them a good ending. If not I’ll reach through the computer screen and give you the worst writer’s block you’ve ever experienced.”

In an instant the knife was gone and I sucked in air, breathing heavy before turning around, Natia just gone.

I, uh, I’ve got work to do.

I’ll tag @weathershade, @crypticsx, @emdop, @milkyway-writes if any of you feel like doing one of these!

#character interview #writeblr #writing #embracing shadows #tagged #was this even interesting or a good idea #or was it dumb #probably both #this was really just an experiment of how many times I can use 'said' without using 'said'#sorry its so long

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lady-plantagenet · 4 years

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A Bygone Era - Chapter 1

A fictionalised account of Isabel Neville’s life from the point of view of her and those close to her.

So far told through the points of view of: Anne Beauchamp 16th Countess of Warwick.

5th September 1451

As each gust of wind veered and swooped around the pointed turrets of Warwick castle, it would not surrender its strength before first claiming a tawny leaf from the hazel trees. The emerald blush of the castle grounds: the summer green that made the tableaux of the landscape ever more poignant just a few months ago, was now fading into a browner more lifeless hue.

Having seen twenty-five summers, the countess was hardly a young lass at the cusp of womanhood. Her half-sister Margaret was six years younger than she when she bore her first child, Elizabeth even more so. Labour was harder for those years past their first flowering. The pain in her back and hips seemed to sting her everytime she drew breath, her head felt uneasy on her shoulders as the exertion of the birth seemed to have pushed all the air out of her. However, there were none to pity her or lay at her feet praising her for the beautiful daughter she had just provided - the Earl of Warwick needed a son.

Even my wretched ladies seem less eager to attend to me. Especially Martha. She thinks herself above me now, for the whelp she bore her minor knight of a husband was a boy.

‘Jesus wept’ snapped Anne ‘may I not be washed and given a morsel of food or even the child?’

A tremble hit Martha and Agnes before they bound down the castle stairs, one with a washbasin nestled under an arm and the other clutching at a gilded platter. Not since she was a little girl had Anne raised her voice beyond a ladylike drone. Those two did not know that, hence the agitation.

‘Begging your pardon milady’ said a breathless Agnes while handing her some bread and salt and Isabel, rosy and clean from the nursemaid’s scrubbing.

Anne tilted her head letting her long auburn tresses fall over into the silver washbowl that Martha brought. While the labour of childbirth was scrubbed off her, she looked at the babe before her. Isabel slowly opened her eyes with a lack of enthusiasm so uncommon to a newborn babe. They were the phantasmagorical green of the turbulent sea.

A beauty that would rally the men of the field to pick up swords and fight god himself it was not.

Though not even an hour unto this world, Isabel’s fair face had no suggestion of roundness, but was a slender oval. The small mouth had a suggestion of full lips and the thin tuft of hair on her head appeared flaxen - though Anne knew it would darken to Richard’s chestnut brown in little time.

A beauty of ice instead maybe. A Despenser, Montacute, Beauchamp and Neville fit for a king or at least a duke who would be immensely drawn to those features, so like those of a statue. Let the golden haired, sky-eyed buxom jezebels catch the eyes of peasant boys and mercenaries. My Isabel shall rouse the very rose of Plantagenet with a face that only generations of careful breeding since the age of the conquest could produce. Because with these she shows herself a daughter of Warwick - and what man would not rally behind that?

At first Anne thought she could hear the pitter-patter of raindrops, but the sound grew sharper resembling a thundercloud heralding a Warwickshire late summer storm.

As the sound of the bailey’s gravel amplified the countess’ entire body shot up so fast that she could feel a surging pain through her spine. The kingmaker had arrived.

The years have proven that the lack of a heir did nothing to dull the earl’s affections for his wife. As he leaped from his horse in one refined movement and took Anne into his arms, she once more felt like a newly wed bride greeting her betrothed outside Bisham Abbey.

She winced as he roughly pulled her into a arduous kiss marvelling at how deliciously crude this gesture was in contrast to his previous elegant one. He may be an earl but he is also a soldier, and above that a man quenching his thirst after months on dry land. And how could he not? At just a couple of inches below his height and still lithe and thin after just moments of childbirth, Anne had the elegance of a water nymph. As Richard was stroking her cheeks he could not help but gaze in awe at the bonny eyes whose colour so much resembled the burnished emerald of her ancestral land.

‘My son how fare he?’ He asked with impatient excitement ‘A strong lad is he not?’

Anne’s chest tightened as if the gusts of wind from a few hours ago were filling her lungs like saltwater would a drowning sailor’s. It is my entire fault. I should never have told him I knew I was carrying a son. All mothers share the same musings about their firstborn, they can not all be right.

‘My Lord husband’ she began adopting a more formal tone ‘It is a girl and I have decided to call her Isabel after mother’

To her relief his smile reappeared. ‘How fitting. The second Lady Isabel Neville’

Anne looked noticeably confused.

‘Ah you do not know then? Isabel de Neville was the daughter and sole heiress of the Norman Geoffrey de Neville and wife of Robert Ritzmaldred a son of the Earls of Northumbria and Etheldred II’ he grinned ‘By the time Lionheart was crowned and fighting his wars in the foreign lands of the east, no one could then gainsay the Plantagenet dynasty so Geoffrey took the Neville name as his own to sit at the high tables of the Norman nobility’

Her husband was so taken up with his tales of Saxon princes and Gospatric of Northumbria that she had to lead him through the great hall and up the winding staircase like a mother hen guiding a sleep-heavy child to its bed. I have done this before she started to remember I was nine and he seven, and we were right here on those stairs. If truth be told my mother had invited Lady Alice to introduce her son as my betrothed in guise of a St Crispin’s day luncheon invitation. By then I have perfected my curtsey and broke the nasty habit of handling my skirts, so I was finally considered worthy of social presentation. They bid me go show him all around the castle grounds and I played hostess thinking I had merely gained another playmate - though he might not have been so easily duped. To think where we are now.

In her apartments Isabel lay satisfied in her cot having just received her milk and with Margaret and the nursemaid hovering over her dotingly.

‘Ah dear wife’ proclaimed Richard ‘it seems her and Margaret would make splendid companions - she had always wanted a sister’. With one small step he picks her up and kisses her on the forehead. The little girl giggled at that, her wide smile squeezing her cornflower blue eyes in satisfied lines.

Ah yes the bastard daughter. Richard’s little indiscretion. The newborn girl that greeted me at Middleham where we first appeared as man and wife, before all our sisters, John and dear Henry- could it really have been eight years past? It feels like just yesterday I buried my dear brother.

Anne became a stone statue as Agnes was at work binding her straight auburn strands into a china blue crespine whose cauls were covered in wide copper netting to complement her Burgundian gown. The dress’ saffron skirts were piercing beams of summer against the burnished autumn hue of the kirtle that latched tightly against her pert chest. The image of his darling wife rushing past the stony keep and into the courtyard seeming more woman than countess with her hair tumbling about her, must have made the earl’s heart wrench with delight for this sun goddess of a woman that he now possessed. I chose his favourite dress, but for that remark I shall choose the most matronly headdress - the one he hates. I shall take it off when he begs my pardon for all this inappropriate cooing over the bastard.

With the classic lack of concern customary of a pre-occupied magnate, Richard did not notice his wife’s minuscule act of defiance. Ever since the death of little Anne two years past, one of England’s greatest earldoms had burdened her husband with its great expectations. Ever since parliament declared her sole heiress over her half-sisters, Richard’s mind was constantly operating in tandem between the world before him and the world next morrow.

Thankfully he eventually sensed the tension surrounding him soon enough to act swiftly and pick up Isabel. The baby’s eyes that only moments ago seemed to lay frozen in her face, lit up with an excitement spreading throughout her whole expression, culminating in a joyful squirm as her father cradled her. Anne started to worry that the disappointment surrounding her sex had started to be rescepted by Isabel. She was now relieved to see the prevention of that.

‘Dear god Anne’ said Richard not tearing his eyes off Isabel ‘What a jewel you have given me’

The heartfelt display thawed the ice that previously had a hold over Anne’s heart as she let out a smiling sigh of relief that after months enraptured in the gripping power plays and intrigues of a royal court, Isabel did not disappoint.

‘As beautiful as her lady mother’ he continued before flashing a knight’s dazzling smile. A smile devoid of vulgarity and void of mummery. A smile so chivalrous that it belonged in Camelot.

He knows to appeal to my vanity the wicked man. Shame on him and his courtier’s tricks.

Before she could damn him further he gently tugged at the hem of her sleeves, bringing her close enough to folder her in his arms with Isabel. She made her peace. ‘Remind me, my sweet, what is the meaning of her Christian name?’ He asked

‘Pledged to God’ Anne smiled ‘As we all are’

‘As we all must be. The war against France has weakened our king. That shrew of a maid of Orleans has marked the demise of any chance we may ever have to hold true power in France’ he started complaining vociferously. And now he recommences. I find it passing incredible how nearly everything I say he takes as a prompt to indulge himself into one of his soliloquies. Today he bemoans England’s fortunes in “the useless war.” ‘... with any luck our recapturing of Bordeaux would at least render this war not a complete loss.’

‘I hear Talbot shall be leading the command. If Gascony were taken back that would bring glory to-’

‘The glory of the Lancastrian rose is of no concern to me Anne’ Richard interrupted suddenly ‘I need this wasteful war to cease so that my father may regain his men and deal with Percy once and for all.’

‘For shame my Lord husband! You mean to tell me you’re heart does not yearn for the chivalry of defeating the lily of France?’ teased Anne playfully ‘Does your heart not beat red for Lancaster and the quest of justice to fulfill their ancestral claims?’

Any other day Richard would respond to Anne’s coyness the way she liked. It was one of their oldest customs. A couple of japes would be passed back and forth always leading to him jokingly proclaiming her a disobedient woman while slowly lifting her skirts and punishing her as if she were an unruly wench eagerly accepting what punishment her lord sees fit. Today something was different and Anne admittedly felt a little more than hurt.

‘Nay wife. Red for the bear and ragged staff. The only cause I believe in. My father was right; this simpleton of a King is incapable of responding to our petitions. We are of royal blood and wardenship of the West March does make us far more capable of keeping Percy tenants in good support. If the Lancastrians of Westminster choose to preoccupy themselves with the lost cause which is the French crown I see no reason to continue blindly serving this line of usurpers.’

Anne froze. Though far from an emotional man, Richard usually delighted in being the cause of his own flights of fury. She would sit on the ledge by the solar windowpanes attentively as he would in his lectures damn half a dozen men and complain endlessly about anything between Beaufort’s incompetence and the treacherous Percys. The series after the Scottish wars was the most heartfelt.

Today’s sermon was delivered in a frigid manner devoid of any of the four humours nor spite. It was the discourse of a man already deep in planning

Choleric or not, Richard was ravenous, downing one slice of capon dipped in melted spiced butter after the other. His return was especially rejoiced by Cook Royce whose pregnant mistress’ cravings for the mundane poussin and squab had left him with no opportunity for great culinary creative expression.

The Goyart tapestries on the soot grey walls of the great hall have been changed for the richer and more sombre Flemish tapestries. Her favourite depicted a fair haired maiden lying sombrely on the juniper grass guarded by maned lions. She pointed her mirror towards the unicorn as if to reveal to him his own magic, though his horn did not reflect in the mirror like the rest of his comely face. Ah the scintillating nature of magic. God reveals himself in ways that elude most. She thought back to all the miracles she thought she had witnessed in her girlhood. Blue roses appearing in winter, the butterfly with transparent wings, even the draft and light from the glass window working in conjunction, turning her to the appropriate page and shining blue light upon the bible passage so her governess would not realise she was not attentive...

‘Ah yes, do you like them Anne? They were part of the Dowager Duchess of Bedford’s dowry, given to the crown in part payment for the dishonour that was her illicit marriage’ Richard said after finally lifting his head from the plate

‘The lady Jacquetta led quite a scandal’ started Anne ‘How is she fareing shacked up with her squire?’

‘Last I heard he was made Baron Rivers’

‘A fanciful title’

‘Still not one a mere country squire merits. I highly doubt it will ever bring in the income to sufficiently maintain the widow of Prince John in the luxury to which she grew accustomed.’

‘The luxury she grew accustomed to as the daughter of Peter of Luxembourg would prove to be the more insurmountable standard for Woodville to reach.’

‘What are you trying to say my lady?’ Richard began teasing ‘Do our English comforts no longer satisfy yours or the Duchess’ lofty needs?’

‘I only say, husband, that just as the Italian duchies are rife with classical art, bards singing dulcet tones and those technologies - whatever they would be, Duke Philip has his own cohort of artists and inventors. The ‘Burgundian School’ is so accomplished our very own John Dunstaple has joined their ranks...’ Richard’s fatigue was waning his attention until his wife stood up from the oak long table and spun around. The flashes of the yellow silk at the skirts extending out with each movement and encircling the amber coloured kirtle as if she were the sun itself come down from the heavens to grace and bring calm to her particularly agitated earl. ‘...and this.’ Anne finished referring to the Burgundian fashions. For dramatic effect she pointed her elbows high to present the same pomegranate pattern adornishing the trimmings of the long jagged sleeves - and as he later noticed - the lining of the deep v-neckline of the dress.

‘Jesus wept’ Richard exclaimed ‘What could have possibly possessed me and drawn me away from noticing the beauty of your gown, for so long?’

By then all the food was dispensed with and the hall was clear of servants. In the privacy of the ancient great hall and enraptured with the smell of fresh rushes the Earl of Warwick drew his wife onto his lap. Anne happily obliged as eagerly as a moth to a flame and threw her arms around his neck tangling her long fingers in his shoulder-length woodland brown hair as she kissed him. Improper public displays like this were a rarity and almost never passed between the Earl and Countess of Warwick, but betwixt the lengthy separation, a wife’s adoration and splendid supper neither could help themselves.

I see Isabel’s birth has not made him wroth at me. Perchance he will one day grow to love her as much as I do.

As if capable of reading her mind Richard drew her in even closer for a longer more ardent kiss. Not the polite type a knight would give his elusive ladylove.

‘No verbalisation of mine could ever express my gratitude for your birthing of such a perfect babe, I shall love Isabel as dearly as others love their sons’

‘God will give us a son soon my love, I promise you that....’ Anne started

‘Even if he does not, lest we forget the running tradition of female heiresses in both our lines’ Richard gently said while his fingers traced the hem marking the end of Anne’s kirtle and the tender skin above her breasts. It was no secret that her vast inheritance served as a point of pride for her husband; few knew it was also an aphrodisiac. ‘The finest men in the kingdom will vie for her hand in marriage’.

Anne nestled her weary head in the crook of his neck adjusting so the sharp corners of her caul do not dig into his neck before saying ‘She is too young to even contemplate such a thing.’ She was playing the doting mother. I would not admit to anyone that just hours after her birth I had been lining up a list of names in my head. Most women would think that only shrews and wicked mothers work in that way. But these women were not born to be heiresses like I was and Isabel is. Her and I are of a different breed.

‘Margaret of Anjou is taking very young girls into her service nowadays. Jacquetta Rivers’ eldest Elizabeth had been appointed lady-in-Waiting since she was just ten and three’

‘It never ceases to amaze me how many lives those Woodvilles have’ Anne chortled ‘not even the biggest scandal of Christendom could bar them from the court or king’s favour.’

‘For all of Lady Rivers’ ambitions this is the highest her or any of her brats could ever rise to. For all her fabled beauty, last I heard Elizabeth is pre-contracted to marry a modest Leicester knight like her father. Now just imagine the great marriages Isabel will have to choose from, when the time comes for her to be brought to court’ said Richard

‘Just imagine’ replied Anne wistfully ‘the greatest lady of the land - second only to the Rose of Anjou herself.’

Read the other 4 Chapters here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22268239/chapters/53175664

#isabel neville #george duke of clarence #wars of the roses #the white queen #the kingmaker #anne beauchamp #fanfic #richard neville earl of warwick #anne neville #fanfiction #house of york #please r and r :)

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