#ancient clamor

[mournfulroses]

Robert Desnos, from Essential Poems & Writings; "Ancient Clamor,"

[blueiskewl]

The 'Carnyx' Nightmare of the Roman Soldiers

The Carnyx was a brass musical instrument used as a psychological weapon of war by the ancient Celts between 300 BC and 200AD in western and central Europe and beyond.

The carnyx was once widespread throughout much of Europe, although only a dozen or so fragments are known to us.

It was carried by bands of Celtic mercenaries; it was present at the attack on the Greek sanctuary at Delphi in 279 BC; it defied Julius Caesar in Gaul; and it faced Claudius when he invaded Britain. They are even shown on a Buddhist sculpture in India, proof of the far-flung connections of the Iron Age world.

However, they were not only used by the Celts; they were also used by the Dacians in modern Romania. The term “Celtic” is a complicated one. The concept of a pan-European Celtic culture is a myth; rather, aspects of art and technology were shared across vast distances by diverse cultures. The carnyx was one example of this.

A 12-foot-long, thin bronze tube with right-angle bends on both ends made up the carnyx. The lower end ended in a mouthpiece, and the upper end flared out into a bell that was usually decorated to look like a wild boar’s had. Historians believe it had a tongue that flapped up and down, increasing the noise made by the instrument. The carnyx was played upright so that the boar’s head bell protruded well above the warriors’ heads. Its primary goal was to create more noise and confusion on the battlefield.

The Greek historian Polybius (206-126BC) was so impressed by the clamor of the Gallic army and the sound of the carnyx, he observed that “there were countless trumpeters and horn blowers and since the whole army was shouting its war cries at the same time there was such a confused sound that the noise seemed to come not only from the trumpeters and the soldiers but also from the countryside which was joining in the echo”.

And the Roman historian Diodorus Siculus wrote, “Their trumpets are also of a peculiar and barbaric kind which produce a harsh, reverberating sound suitable to the confusion of battle.”

Archaeologists discovered a hoard of ritually destroyed weapons in 2004, including a dozen swords, scabbards, spearheads, a shield, bronze helmets, an iron helmet shaped like a swan, a cauldron, animal remains, and seven carnyces. Before the Tintignac discovery, the remains of only five actual carnyces had been found.

The finest was unearthed in Deskford, Scotland in 1816. The Deskford carnyx only has the boar’s head bell and is missing the mane, tongue, and tubing. Images of Carnyx players have been found as well. A Roman denarius, dating from 48 BC bears a representation of a Carnyx. Three carnyx players are featured prominently on the Gundestrup Cauldron, which was found in a Danish peat bog.

One of the seven found at Tintignac, on the other hand, was almost entirely complete. The Tintignac Carnyx was broken into 40 pieces. When puzzled back together, it was found to be just an inch short of six feet long with a single missing section of the tube. The bell was a boar’s head with protruding tusks and large pointed ears. Once restored, the Tintignac Carnyx proved to be the first virtually complete carnyx ever found.

By Leman Altuntaş.

Music video by John Kenny.

[undercoveravenger]

The Haunted House

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Male!Reader:

Requested: Yes

Request: “getting dared to go into the shrieking shack on Halloween (wow, a full moon on Halloween? How weird...) and finding a big scary werewolf waiting for you. Except he's really not all that scary, he just won't let you leave because Remus really likes you and his wolf form can't quite say that, just wants to keep you there.”

A/N: This is post number 4 for the 2023 Spooky Month event. Y’alls trick or treat is coming next Tuesday, October 31st. Hope you’re ready.

-----

The Shrieking Shack had well earned its name throughout the years you’d been at Hogwarts, with guttural screams and groans echoing from it each month around the time of the full moon. You’d heard dozens of different stories- ghosts, ghouls, poltergeists like Peeves. Someone from your Transfiguration class even thought it was some long-abandoned merfolk in a tank that’d grown too small.

Whatever it was though, you were going to find out.  The lot of you had had to sneak out of your commonrooms and were nearly caught by patrolling professors or prefects a couple times, but now here you are with your friends crowding around behind you clamoring encouragingly, you stand just past the fence separating the Shrieking Shack from the rest of Hogsmeade. The full moon looms ominously just over the ramshackle eaves of the decrepit building, providing just enough light for you to pick your way through the snowy yard and up to the front door.

A mumbled spell is enough to break away the locks and rotting boards holding the door closed and you’re able to force it open the rest of the way with a forceful shove. You only allow yourself one fleeting glance over your shoulder at your friends before making your way into the house and closing the door behind you, resolved to completing your friends’ dare and staying the night in the haunted house.

The floorboards creak with every step you take, wavering slightly under your shoes as your weight puts pressure on long-damaged planks as you make your way deeper into the house, each room revealing deep gashes carved into the walls and floors. Tattered strips of fabric from what might have been blankets or clothes are strewn about, stained a dark rust color in places from what you can only assume is blood. Some rooms even have shards of what would have once been furniture, a splintered chunk of wood that may have once been the arm of a couch tossed thoughtlessly against one wall of a ruined living room and the stuffing from a gutted chair cushion decorating an old bedroom, but no matter how many torn apart rooms you explore, you aren’t been able to find the source of the screams.

It finds you.

You’d wandered into what you think was once-upon-a-time a study, an ancient oak desk sitting on two broken legs in the middle of the room and its chair upturned nearby. The contents of the desk had proven uninteresting by the time you’d dug through the second desk drawer and you’ve gotten to the point of boredom that you’re considering just leaving altogether when you see it standing in the doorway. You’re not sure how long it had been watching you, but it stands, still as a shadow, with pitch dark eyes locked squarely on you.

You can see the beast’s raised hackles over the top of its head, lowered so it can fix you with a brutal stare, and a growl so low it rumbles through you like thunder fills the room as it takes a looming step closer. As it creeps forward, a brush of moonlight from the cracked window pane behind you catches it, giving you just enough light to make out further details of the creature.

At first glance, you might’ve thought it was just a wolf, but the longer you look the more your situation begins to sink in. The creature before you was nearly double the size of any wolf you’d ever heard of, back easily brushing the doorknob as it stalks into the room. Its legs are long and its paws splay when it walks like they’re not quite right, but the real telling point are its eyes. It doesn’t look away from you as it approaches, not even for a second, weaving through discarded furniture and debris like it was second nature until it stands just on the other side of the desk from you. It doesn’t look like it’s questioning whether you’re a threat like any other wild animal would, and the growl has started to subside now that it’s gotten a good look at you. The look in its eyes, while certainly somewhat wild, is too human to be anything else.

You’re not quite sure what to do at this point, not with a massive werewolf between you and the door, but being in a werewolf’s den during the full moon certainly can’t be a good idea. With that in mind you begin to move, edging slowly around the corner of the desk in order to not spook the wolf, already surprised by its calm demeanor and unwilling to test its good graces. The wolf allows you to pass by it and slip from the room, though you can hear the heavy footfalls of its paws as it follows you. You move back toward the front door, intent on leaving the same way you’d come, but you’re stopped by the massive wolf letting out another thunderous growl and shoving its way between you and the door. It bullies you on with more furious growls and pointed nips to your heels and hands, further into the house and up a narrow back staircase into a near demolished bedroom.

You obey when it gives you a pointed glare, settling down against the wall opposite the door. A satisfied huff escapes the wolf and it pads after you, flopping carelessly down to lay beside you and resting its large head heavily on your lap. The reason behind the werewolf’s behavior was confusing, certainly, but werewolves had been known to be territorial and prone to violence from what you’d heard, so if sitting here for a few hours while you waited for the wolf to shift back meant it’d keep you safe, then that was a small price to pay. 

-----

It’s not the watery morning light that wakes you, but the shift against you. The aching, tortured gasp of pain that escapes as the person curled against you moves. The sound has you on high alert straightening against your back’s own cry of pain from sleeping sitting up all night, eyes blinking open blearily and finding the now-human werewolf trying to shift away from you.

It takes you a moment to recognize him without his signature posse of idiots and the bright red Gryffindor robes, but you are able to place the jagged pink scars across his face and his curly brown hair from some of your shared classes - Remus Lupin. 

“Remus?” His name escapes you before you can stop yourself from speaking and you can see the way the tension takes root in him, joints and muscles coiling under his skin like he was preparing himself to run from some threat.

He seems to have to force himself to settle before he can speak, dark chocolate eyes examining you thoroughly. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? When I was-” He cuts himself off with a clear of his throat, eyes dropping back to his lap. He must’ve managed to track down his clothes from before he’d shifted since he was using them to cover himself. “I can’t really remember anything when I’m… like that.”

“No,” you say, and you can see the relief wash over him, tension easing in his shoulders and he no longer looks like he is going to accidentally shred his jumper. “No, you, uh, well you brought me here and then decided it was a proper time for a cuddle apparently.” You try to force a laugh, though the situation is certainly still awkward, “I thought that werewolves were s’posed to be scary, y’know? Think you’re just a were-lapdog instead?” 

A startled laugh slips out of Remus and he looks almost as stunned by it as by your words, “I- I don’t know. This is kind of a new reaction? I’m, uh, I’m usually not so nice when I’m not myself.”

“Huh,” you say, more curious than ever about the wolf’s odd behavior, “I wonder why you were acting like that then? It didn’t really seem to be aggression, even when you growled at me - more like herding behavior like my uncle’s collie.”

Remus flushes at that. This close you can see the dozens of tiny freckles that scattered over his cheeks and down his jaw and neck. “I… have a theory,” he says quietly, like he almost can’t bring himself to say it. His gaze drops back to the bundle of cloth in your hands and you almost wonder if he would’ve tried to sneak out before you had woken up. You wouldn’t have blamed him if he did. “I think it’s some sort of passively shared consciousness? I can’t really connect to it at all, but maybe it can get a sense of my feelings? Like if I strongly disliked someone, it would probably act accordingly, and if I liked someone…” Remus trails off at that, flushing impossibly redder.

An amused little snort escapes you then and you lean forward, supporting yourself with your arms as you push yourself into his field of vision. “Is this you saying you like me, Remus?” You can’t help the chuckle that escapes you at the way you can already see him scrambling for a response, but you lean forward to press a light kiss to his cheek before he can find the words. “Cute,” you say, grinning as you watch the realization hit him. “Sit with me at breakfast?”

He nods slowly as he wraps his mind around your words, eventually letting you help him to his feet and back into his clothes. The two of you eventually make your way back to Hogwarts through the secret passage under the Whomping Willow that he shows you, taking breaks when he needs them and trading banter and kisses all the way.

And while your friends were curious about the shy Gryffindor sitting beside you at breakfast with his hand curled tight with yours, none of them questioned what really happened to you during your night in the haunted house.

[ninsletamain]

Fluffbruary Day 6: tie | embarrassment | dessert

My contribution to RebelCaptain Fluffbruary PLUS @quarantineddreamer's super ultra amazing fic addition below the cut!!!

The lines of code on the screen were no longer making sense. Somewhere between coffees 4 and 5 of the day they had slipped from Jyn’s grasp, gone from familiar symbols to something more akin to ancient hieroglyphics–as sure a sign as any that it was long-past time for her to take a break from her assignment. 

Reaching her arms skyward–tight knots in the muscles of her shoulders and along her spine protesting–Jyn glanced blearily at the alarm clock that perched neatly on the corner of the desk. 

Shit. Was that really the time? She scrambled to her feet, socks slipping on the linoleum floor, and threw her hair quickly into a bun. (Or what she hoped would pass for one anyways.)

Pants. I need pants. Jyn cast about the room, throwing the covers of the bed back, checking over the back of the roller-chair she’d spent the day–no, longer than that apparently–glued to, but found nothing. 

She could have sworn she had at least dropped a pair of sweatpants at the end of the bed at some point…

Cassian must have tidied up before he left (the neat freak); she hadn’t even noticed. That happened sometimes: the computer consuming her when she was locked onto a particular idea. But it shouldn’t have happened today. Today she had planned to wrap up her coursework early, surprise him… 

Okay screw the pants, Jyn decided, marching from the room towards the kitchen with all the determination of a soldier approaching the battlefield.

(If a soldier’s uniform was your boyfriend’s oversized, university sweatshirt and the fight ahead was the arduous task of preparing a meal.)

It took her more than a few tries to find everything–despite how organized Cassian kept his kitchen cabinets–but before too long Jyn was staring down at the black, glinting surface of a flawlessly seasoned cast iron pan and the looming depths of a large pot, a box of spaghetti, its matching jar of sauce, and an assortment of meat and vegetables thrown on the counter beside them. 

“I’ve got this,” Jyn muttered to herself, eyeing the recipe she’d taped to the fridge like it might grow fangs and snap at her. (Or catch fire and nearly burn the place down as had happened on her most recent foray into chefdom). “You’ve hacked into government systems before,” she continued. “This will be easy compared to that. A piece of cake, or a pot of pasta.” Hopefully anyways. 

She checked the oven clock. If she stood any chance of getting this done before Cassian (Impossibly-Punctual) Andor came home she had to start now. 

The empty apartment should have been quiet, peaceful. Instead, it suddenly seemed impossibly loud, noises swelling in her ears the longer she stood staring at the array of ingredients and tools––footsteps from the neighbor above, the distant rumble of a washing machine next door, the clicking of the fridge beside her, all clamoring in some insane harmony. 

The longer she stood there waiting (for what, she had no idea) the more power the sounds seemed to hold, quick to dredge up each and every anxious thought she had been so diligently shoving to the furthest corners of her mind since Cassian had told her of his plans to travel to Yavin…

When he cooked, Cassian always had music playing. Maybe that would help. Drown out the worry and the fear.

Jyn pulled her phone from the pocket of the red hoodie and tapped a playlist at random. Something upbeat began playing, muffled through the fabric as she tucked the phone back into the pocket, rolled up the too-long sleeves of the sweatshirt, and drew a deep breath. “Alright, here goes nothing…”

Turning down the hallway that led to his apartment, Cassian smelled something…interesting. 

He tried to pin down what it was. Starch, yes. Tomatoes, yes. Onions and garlic, most likely. But then there were other unexpected notes, the heat of what might have been chili powder tickling at his nostrils, growing stronger with each step closer he got to his door, and maybe the cheese he was smelling was parmesan or pecorino? The combination wasn’t exactly bad, just off–out of balance. 

He thought for sure it was one of the neighbors; maybe Mrs. McCleod experimenting again–after all, she had stopped him just last week to ask him about his favorite market for finding fresh produce.

But as he passed by Mrs. McCleod’s apartment, he noticed the crack under the door was dark, a small pile of mail collecting beneath her welcome mat. She was probably away visiting her niece again. Which meant that the smell was most likely emanating from the door at the end of the hall.

His door. 

Cassian tugged his tie looser, a warmth kindling in his stomach, a smile slowly spreading across his face; Jyn. 

He’d insisted she should stay at his apartment while he was gone–enjoy some solitude away from distracting roommates and loud neighbors–but he hadn’t been entirely certain she would take him up on it. She’d given him a strange look at the suggestion (despite the fact that after nearly a year of dating, she seemed to spend more time in his apartment than her own) and returned to her keyboard, completely absorbed in the endless numbers and symbols flashing wildly across the computer screen at her command.

The reaction hadn’t been a total shock to him. Jyn had been unusually quiet ever since he’d first mentioned his job interview in Yavin. He’d tried to tell himself she was just preoccupied with the workload associated with the final semester before she earned her degree, but deep down he knew that she was likely asking herself the same questions as he was: If I get this job, what happens to us? 

Cassian reached into his suit pocket for his key, twisted it in the lock, and slowly opened the door, his eyes tearing up at the overwhelming burn of capsaicin in the air. Dropping his backpack by the door, he followed the sound of hissing steam, music, and occasional cursing into the kitchen. 

It had been just over a day since he’d seen her, but even so, Cassian had spent the plane ride home longing for the moment when he could wrap his arms tight around her again, kiss her until they were both oxygen deprived and gasping for air. 

He’d envisioned a quick, eager reunion. Unable to hold himself back from rushing towards her; clumsy, grabbing hands and awkward clashing of teeth. 

But then he saw her: standing in his kitchen with her hair wild atop her head, dancing from the stovetop to a nearby drawer; humming along to the song playing faintly in the background as she poked uncertainly at a pan of sauteed vegetables and shot a quick glance at a boiling pot of water–and all he could think to do was lean his shoulder into the doorframe and stare, his breath catching in his chest with a fierce and sudden ache. 

Cassian knew he was helplessly, hopelessly lost–had known it for a while–but it had never been more apparent to him than in that moment, hovering at the threshold. He was certain that if he did nothing else for the rest of life but watch her, he’d still die the happiest man on earth. 

She’d decided to borrow his favorite sweatshirt while he was away–red, well-worn, with Ferrix University emblazoned across the front. As she rose on her tiptoes to reach into the spice cabinet, the bottom of the sweatshirt rose too, revealing the faintest glimpse of black panties, serving in sharp contrast to the perfect, pale curve of her ass. 

The sight inspired a different kind of ache. Cassian made his way across the kitchen, and placed his hands on Jyn’s shoulders. Somehow, the only words he could seem to find were, “You’re cooking.”

A string of swear words fell out of her mouth in quick succession. “I could’ve stabbed you,” she grumbled, even as she set down the knife she was holding to lean backwards into him. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that.”

“I’m surprised I managed to.”

He felt her shoulders rise and fall against him. “I was distracted.” 

“I can see that,” he mused. “You’re cooking. You hate cooking.”

He could just make out the faint flush that rose in Jyn’s cheeks as she glanced back at him, her hair tickling his chin. “I do hate it,” she agreed, “but I figured you’d be hungry and…well, I don’t hate you.” 

A soft laugh escaped him, “What a relief.”

“Shut up.”

“No really,” he said, pulling her closer. “I was beginning to wonder.”

“Do you want food or not?” Her scowl was made significantly less believable by the smile catching quickly at the corners of her mouth. 

Cassian gave a considerate hum. His stomach had been rumbling as he stepped off the plane, but now a different kind of hunger was taking hold. His skin was hot beneath his suit where Jyn’s body pressed against his own; all he could seem to think of was her in his sweatshirt–in only his sweatshirt. 

But Jyn seized his brief lapse of silence as an opportunity to change subjects. “So…How’d the interview go?” she asked lightly, though her muscles went tight as she dipped a wooden spoon in the red liquid that bubbled on the stove in front of her.

He watched as she blew steam away from the spoon before bringing it to her mouth to taste and wincing. “The interview was fine,” he murmured, pressing (what he hoped she would as) a reassuring kiss to the top of her head.

The smile had already vanished from Jyn’s face. “You think you got the job then?”

Cassian moved his hand slowly up and down her arm, earlier ideas already forgotten. “They made me an offer,” he admitted quietly. 

“They did…” The energy seemed to have drained straight out of her–the dancing, humming, swearing woman from moments ago turned to shadow. 

Like she didn’t know. Like she couldn’t feel the frantic stuttering of his heart where his chest pressed between her shoulders blades. Like she couldn’t sense him, standing right here beside her on the knife’s edge. 

“I told them I couldn’t give them an answer yet,” he told her. Of course I did. As though there had been anything else he could do…

“You did what?” Jyn twisted in his arms. “That is your dream job. You know you want to go, so just go. Why would you–”

“Jyn,” he cut in, and she went still–let him hold her in place for at least a moment longer while he continued. “I said yet. I told them I couldn’t give them an answer yet.”

Her knuckles were white, wrapped tight around the wooden spoon. He reached past her and switched off the burners before anything could start smoking or boil over.

Cassian’s own nerves were starting to take hold. He gave a hard swallow, trying to clear the tightness from his throat. “I don’t want to go to Yavin. Not without you… I don’t want to go anywhere without you.”

“What are you saying?”

“Come with me. After you graduate in the spring, come with me.”

“Cass…”

He was about to tell her she didn’t have to answer right now–to delay whatever pain he sensed was coming from inevitable rejection–when she closed her hand around his tie and tugged him closer, tilting her head back to press her lips to his. 

Beneath his mouth, he could feel her smile forming, but it still took his breath away to see it when they broke apart. “Is that a yes, then?”

Jyn wound his tie tighter around her hand. “I like this suit,” she commented, eyes sweeping across the blue fabric and back to the black silk of the tie. 

“I’m taking that as a yes…” Cassian told her, his attention splitting as she began to playfully undo the top buttons of his shirt. 

“I cooked for you…” Her lips passed over his throat, her voice muffled. 

Heat was racing up Cassian’s spine, his thoughts going increasingly hazy. “You did…” he replied, inhaling sharply as the hand not wrapped in his tie found the back of his head, fingers tugging lightly at his hair. 

“I’m a terrible cook, but I cooked. For you.”

She still hadn’t answered him. Not really. He wanted an answer, a definitive answer. “What does this have to do with–”

“Are you still hungry?” 

“Jyn–” he pleaded.

“Because I was thinking we should forget about the food,” she continued, her mouth brushing over his ear–words like sparks to his skin. “I changed my mind. There’s something else I want to do for you instead. Something I’m much, much better at…”

He relented slightly, instinct shoving reason aside as he tugged at the hem of the sweatshirt, her skin soft against his fingertips. “What did you have in mind?” 

“You mean, aside from moving to Yavin?” she murmured with a teasing grin, pressing even closer, tips of their noses brushing, her breath warm against his cheeks.

“So that was a yes earlier…”

Jyn rolled her eyes at him. “What do you think?”

He lifted her off her feet, and she laughed, wrapping her legs tight around his torso. “I think you’re coming to Yavin with me,” he said, slightly breathless, not quite daring to believe it. 

“I’m coming to Yavin with you,” she echoed, delivering a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Welcome home, Cassian.”

[olderthannetfic]

"Why I don't write F/F" thread proceeded just as unproductively as I expected. It wasn't about moralizing about the women not writing F/F, it was a question about why personal reasons for avoiding a configuration aren't reflected in opposite directions by other groups. Unlike race, gender has an almost 50/50 split, there's a scale to the proportions not there for other types of identity category. "The femslash police suck" is a factor I can understand. But why wouldn't "personal reasons I just don't feel it towards this configuration" end up an even distribution across the population? The expectation for women to write about women isn't a moral rule, it's that if you allow the logic "men in control of stories write about men (and that's why more mainstream stories center men)", then the flip side is, well, why people clamor for more women behind the camera and in the writers' room. Either accept the logic for both sides or challenge it for both sides. Instead we have the worst of both worlds, we accept it for one side and challenge it for the other. Where's the parallel universe where this imbalance somehow resulted in a different quadrant being the smallest proportion of ships?

--

Why wouldn't "personal reasons" be even? Because the kinds of issues people face based on their demographic aren't.

But I think the larger factor is how socialization affects choice of hobbies and volunteer efforts. Cis men and cis women, on average, go in for different flavors. The dudes tend to be more bothered by the idea of "not getting anything back" for what feels like work. When they do do unpaid labor, it's often the kind that accrues glory and career prospects rather than less showy social ties. Open source coding projects where they can be important, yes. Writing fanfic, no.

Looking up any analysis of volunteering and unpaid work that makes such-and-such a part of society function will get you a lot of discussion of this gendered difference. It's pervasive.

Of course, this is just a broad trend. Plenty of guys do write fanfic, and when they dominate a fanfic space, we see tons of fic focused on the female characters they find attractive, including f/f fic.

And if you're asking about cis gay men specifically... well... again, gendered socialization means that the issues faced by cis lesbians and cis gay men are not equivalent. The reasons and ways that people employ allegory to talk about things "too close to home" will likewise not be exactly the same. Traditional US gay male culture goes in for drag and for an obsession with Hollywood divas and The Golden Girls. Plenty is being mediated through female personas; it's just not translating into fanfic specifically. But most people making "Leave the fujoshi alone" arguments are not thinking about cis gays: they're thinking about people in messier identity categories.

The biggest difference is not behavior but simply that cis men are a small minority on FFN, AO3, and Wattpad, the three big fanfic archives. (Some ancient FFN research found that it was 78% female, and that's the archive known for having more men!) The places with more cis guys are much smaller and don't get talked about as much by most fandom history and fandom meta types from the AO3 side of things.

The reason cis men's taste in favorite characters isn't being "pushed back against" isn't a double standard: it's because:

Cis men simply aren't that relevant to site-wide trends on AO3

and

2. The reverse pattern does happen all the time with vanishingly little m/m and lots of f/f

You sound like you think we'd make this fanfic-specific argument about pro media. In fact, plenty of queer women are open that they produce original f/f but not f/f fanfic or they produce f/f fanworks but not fic. A lot of the "too close to home" arguments are specifically about the kind of id fuel, naked-in-public vibes of AO3-style fanfic. Writing that is less id-driven may not feel that same way. A given woman might have a much easier time writing a mystery novel about a lesbian detective who never gets laid on page than a steamy f/f bodice ripper.

The parallel universe you ask about exists. It's horny imageboards full of fan art of anime girls.

The reason you sound judgmental and are getting "unproductive" responses is that you're phrasing things as though we're refusing to solve a problem. In reality, we're attempting to analyze the situation that exists. It's a descriptive approach.

[pettania]

Let me tell you a story

about a giant cat

ginger

like dry August grass

with a lone chest of white

and sad eyes

of green

as green olive oil

so often he squints his eyes

like has a thesis to study

‘cause here there’s not much of a sun

and when have you seen it last time

once

when autumn just started

he was a local mice’s bane

hey

that's the big ginger cat’s dugout

run for your life

pronto, pronto

they whispered one to another

Once he

tried to catch one of them

in a lazy

but phenomenal leap

flying over the stove

with the fire open and blue

and now burned

unkempt

funny curled

like one famous painter’s

and not-so-long-now whiskers

remind us of that epic leap

He’s sitting on the edge of the sleeping shelf

near the entrance of our dugout

covered with two layers of blankets

and watching something

through the little slits

or maybe

someone

an enemy or a friend

a fox or a human

he’s waiting

The cat knows

every small trail

every trench hole dugout

he has a secret

when outside roars and bellows

terribly loud and fearsome chaotic clamor

and the ground shakes

that’s ancient giants awaken

to go somewhere mind their own business

in a second, he jumps

into the hole in the sheathing

and he won’t lean out

no, no way

until the giants are tired

When he goes to sleep

he slowly stretches his tiny front paws

he dreams of summer

of an intact brick house

of chickens

that run in the yard

of children

who can treat with a meat pie

I accidentally drop my helmet

it falls into a mud

the cat awakens

squints his eyes

carefully checks his surroundings

that’s kin:

falls asleep.

The author of the poem is a Ukrainian poet, warrior Maksym Kryvtsov, who was killed yesterday. The cat died with him.

[hogwartslegacyreactions2]

Hey, glad to see you're back! Are you up for some professor reactions (plus the usual students) to MC getting themselves in a dangerous situation to protect them?

HLC REACT TO MC PROTECTING THEM FROM DANGER

A/N: ENDEAVOURRRRRRRRR I missed you 😭 This was a BEEFY ask so it's under the cut

WARNING: some violence, implied death

MC was enjoying a well earned day off in Hogsmeade. They were in conversation with a friend when the whispers of ancient magic interrupted them mid sentence. It was a powerful intuition granted to them by their unique gift. Something was coming. Something fast. Something powerful. They needed to act, now!

MC grabbed their friend and dove to the side. A bright green beam of light missed them both by inches, breaking the cobbled street on impact. MC was on their feet quickly, wand in hand. They spot a lone masked wizard peeking over one of the rooftops. The masked wizard's eyes widen in realization that's he's been spotted, and he tried to scurry away. It was already too late.

Wordlessly MC commands their magic to grab the wizard and pull him from the roof. The wizard helplessly tumbles to the ground. He fumbles his wand and as he tries to crawl to it, MC holds it in place with their boot. The wizard helplessly looks up at MC, defeated. MC keeps their wand trained on the masked wizard until the aurors come to take him away.

~~~

SEBASTIAN SALLOW: His travels with MC and adept dueling skills has him up on his feet as fast as MC. Too bad MC's ancient magic is faster than his confringo. Then again, perhaps an exploding fireball wouldn't be the best spell to use in a populated area. He digresses.

Instead he takes the time to admire MC's powerful stance over the dark wizard that is so pathetically laying at their feet. You'd swear they were the hero out of some storybook. (Lovers or not, MC fascinates him)

OMINIS GAUNT: Perhaps half a second before MC threw him to the ground, he heard it. Death. The fast approaching silence. He's heard it enough in his own lifetime to know it's haunting aura anywhere. He's shaken but stands with MC as the aurors drag the offender away. "Thank you." He says quietly. He needs to be taken back to Hogwarts. He's looking a bit paler than normal.

ANNE SALLOW: Dark wizards are people she wants nothing to do with after being cured. She has her wand out but half hides behind MC until the dark wizard is out of sight. "Wish I had reflexes like yours. Would have saved myself a lot of trouble. How about a butterbeer? My treat."

IMELDA REYES: "What the bloody h-!?" She's up quickly but the attacker was on the ground before she could even finish her sentence. She storms up and kicks the wizard in the face, breaking his nose. MC has to drag her away from him. "That's for ruining my afternoon, you bloody git!" She shrugs MC off. "And you. Next time you want to push me to the ground, at least buy me dinner first."

NATSAI ONAI: She's quick enough to get a basic cast off as MC yanks the wizard off the roof. She pats MC on the shoulder at the wizard is taken away. "Very impressive timing. Even knowing what you're capable of, you still manage to surprise me. I'd say you've earned a drink after that excitement."

GARRETH WEASLEY: When he sees MC has the situation handled, he concerns himself with the pouch of delicate flower buds that were crushed by him landing on them. 100 galleons down the drain. He silently curses and shoves the pouch in his pocket. He's grumpy for the rest of the day.

LEANDER PREWETT: With his luck, MC didn't just push him aside to the ground. No, they were standing next to the square fountain when the attacker shot at them. He clamors out cold and drenched. He was not looking forward to the walk back to Hogwarts in his waterlogged shoes. "Thanks for saving my life." He says as he rings out his robe. "But did you HAVE push me in the direction of the fountain?"

AMIT THAKKAR: He gets up next to MC and casts protego around them both in case the wizard tries to do anything else. Even without a wand, they could still be dangerous. He only lowers it after the rogue wizard is taken away. "That was incredibly quick timing on your part. You weren't even looking in his direction. Are you sure you're not at least part legilimence?"

EVERETT CLOPTON: He's in shock. Someone just tried to KILL them! He doesn't even think to stand up until MC turns to him and asks if he's okay. He swallows hard and shakily stands. "Yeah...yeah, I'm alright. How in Merlin's name did you do that? How did you know?" He asks questions to distract from the panic.

POPPY SWEETING: She doesn't wait for the aurors. She takes a small round white object from her pocket and rolls it towards the surrended wizard. He looks down at it, confused. She smiles. "Do you know what queen acromantualas do if they find you're in possession of one of their eggs?" The wizard's eyes widen and he gets up to flee, only to run right into the aurors. He pleads for his life, trying to get as far away from the object as he can. She calmly picks up the harmless stone she had collected as a pretty little paperweight and puts it back in her bag. "Well, I'm starved. Care for a meal at the Three Broomsticks?"

ELEAZAR FIG: He was going to feel that trip to ground in the morning, he was getting too old for this. "Well done, MC. You'd think with Harlow gone, these goons would take the hint that you're not to be trifled with. Let me buy you a butterbeer."

MATILDA WEASLEY: She's concerned for the overall safety of the citizens of Hogsmeade, as well as the safety of students visiting. There are safeguards in place to prevent things like this from happening, how did he get around them? She briefly thanks MC but goes with the aurors. She wants to know if there's something more going on.

AESOP SHARP: His wand is out and he fires from the ground as the wizard is yanked from the roof. When the wizard surrenders, he accios the dark wizard's wand and snaps it. If anyone asks, it broke in the fall. He doesn't say much after the incident. There's a darkness to his eyes. Seeing a dark wizard face-to-face like that brought up memories he thought long suppressed.

DINAH HECAT: Her body may be artificially aged, but her muscles still have memory. She tucks and rolls from the dive and fires a spell as MC pulls the wizard from the roof. Their teamwork looks so well choreographed, you'd swear these situation was staged. When she and MC get butterbeer afterwards, she slips a bit of whiskey into her own drink.

MIRABEL GARLICK: She's quick on her feet and is checking MC for injuries. She fusses over them even after the threat is long gone. She's also glad no one questioned the chomping cabbage that mysteriously appeared and clamped down on the wizard's ass.

ABRAHAM RONEN: "You know, if you decide to pursue a career in becoming an auror, I will personally write a letter of recommendation." He's not kidding.

CUTHBERT BINNS: He's a ghost. He really doesn't know what MC thought they would accomplish by attempting to push him. Good job dealing with that vagabond, though.

BAI HOWIN: "A dark wizard? In Hogsmeade?" She's upset this could happen in the first place. She walks with aurors to tell them off. They need to do better. Letting a thug in like that is unacceptable, ESPECIALLY after Harlow.

CHIYO KOGAWA: She never hits the ground. MC lunges at her and she jumps back. When the death curse hits the ground, she has her wand out and fires back, "Glacius!" The wizard freezes solid before smashing into the ground. She winces. She hadn't expected MC to pull them off the roof at the same time. "...let's not discuss this incident with the Headmaster. That's paperwork I'd rather not deal with."

MUDIWA ONAI: "Now I understand why Natty never stops talking about you. That was an impressive display of warrior cunning. You should consider studying abroad. The Masters at Uagadou would be fascinated by your abilities."

SATYAVATI SHAH: She's a little disheveled but fixes her appearance promptly. She looks down at the dark wizard with utter distain. "Such filth wandering the streets of Hogsmeade. I'm going to have a long talk with the barrier keeper about this. I suggest you get back to Hogwarts, MC. And thank you... Your quick action saved my life. Your deed will not be soon forgotten."

PHINEAS NIGELLUS BLACK: He didn't even notice the attacker. He's entirely outraged over MC suddenly shoving him to the ground and ruining his perfectly good suit. He doesn't know why this random man is being arrested, nor does he really care. "This was an Armoony Original!! Ten points from your house!"

[acey-wacey]

Hello (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠) congratulations on hitting 1000 followers I'm sure you'll continue to grow even bigger in the future (⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠)

Here's my request: can I get strawberry+ Lilia

Thank you and have a great week (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

Pairing - Lilia Vanrouge x Reader

Prompt - "Sevens, that was kinda hot."

Notes - it is implied that the reader is also older than they look.

...

That's what Kalim had said the day before to convince you to come to his concert for the pop music club.

"Come on, Y/N! It'll be fun! Pleeeeaaase?"

An average person wouldn't need to be badgered into seeing one of their best friends perform, but you were no average person and you had a very stupid good reason for not wanting to go.

Lilia Vanrouge had been the bane of your existence for a long time.

Long before you had enrolled at Night Raven College, the "young" boy had pestered you, scared you, and teased you to his hearts content. You couldn't help from feeling like he was using you as a plaything to pass the time. You couldn't exactly blame him. Ancient beings need a way to stay entertained but you hated being on the receiving end of immortal antics.

You hadn't always hated Lilia, of course. You actually thought he was really cute when you first met him but you soon realized that he manipulated people with the cutesy kid facade and it rubbed you the wrong way.

It made it hard to be such good friends with Malleus when you despised his vice dorm leader with a burning passion, especially since all of Diasomnia loved you. Even Sebek (begrudgingly) accepted you as his master's companion and granted you permission to stay by his side.

Since you spent so much time in the Diasomnia dorm, you saw much more of Lilia than you would've liked. Out of pure proximity, you saw a whole different side of the mischievous fae. It felt like he had a nicer twin brother, one that only teased out of love and cared for the dorm members like his children.

The moment your perception of the boyish fae changed for good was when you had lost track of time and stayed at the Diasomnia dorm rather late. Silver had fallen asleep on your lap and you couldn't leave now without waking the boy.

"Someone's gotten quite comfortable," Lilia had said, whispering fondly from the doorway, somehow startling you more than his usual scare tactics. He draped a blanket over Silver's sleeping form before kissing his forehead gently. "Goodnight, little prince."

As he left, he noticed your eyes on him and turned around just to smile.

"Sleep tight, Y/N."

It was such a oddly domestic moment, with Silver resting on your lap like a child. You'd never thought much of Lilia except that he was annoying until you saw how he treated Silver so tenderly.

Ever since then, you'd avoided Lilia and the whole dorm by extension like they all had contracted the plague, not trusting yourself to be around him without having some life-changing revelation that you weren't ready for. Night walks with Malleus were the only exception, lest he get pouty and you suffer the rage of his guard dog (Sebek).

But tonight, you had been compelled by Kalim to go to the pop music club concert where you knew you couldn't avoid seeing Lilia. It wasn't your fault that the Scarabia dorm leader had his puppy dog eyes down to a T.

"It'll be fine," you thought, taking a deep breath as you hovered outside the cafeteria door. You could already hear the crowd clamoring inside the makeshift auditorium. "I'll just say hi to Kalim after and then be gone. Lilia won't even know I'm there."

You said one final affirmation and stepped inside.

The cafeteria looked completely unrecognizable. You whistled quietly as you admired the satin streamers on the wall, no doubt courtesy of Kalim's wallet. It looked like it was decorated for a middle school dance, though what else you expected from three of the school's pluckiest upperclassmen was a real mystery.

Since you were still pretty early, you managed to cop a spot right near the stage. You chose to linger more toward the wall so you wouldn't get crushed in the mosh of people but the stage was right in your line of sight.

After a while, the stage lit up with spotlights, revealing the very boys you were just thinking about. The crowd screamed as they caught sight of the band all had been anticipating.

Kalim was spinning his drumstick and beaming in his black beanie and flannel. You rolled your eyes, remembering the long nights you and Jamil had spent trying to teach him how to do that trick.

You watched as Cater posed for the many cameras aimed at him. Somewhere in the crowd, you knew Trey had been roped into recording the whole concert on Cater's phone to get some good shots.

And center stage was the very person you had dreaded seeing. Though you had to admit that the ripped jeans and slicked back hair suited Lilia's aesthetic very well, you couldn't help from scoffing as he winked at the crowd.

The music started up and you tapped your foot to the beat, allowing yourself a smile when Kalim grinned widely at the crowd.

~Can't count the years on one hand that we've been together~

You fought the urge to roll your eyes as you recognized the song. Of course Lilia would be the lead singer for a Paramore song.

~I need the other one to hold you, make you feel, make you feel better~

The crowd sang along and you spotted more than a few phones held high above the crowd to capture the band.

~It's not a walk in the park to love each other~

"Has his voice always been this nice?" You cursed yourself for blushing, grateful for the cramped environment to blame it on. You slapped yourself in the face, refusing to let Lilia ruin your day without even trying.

~But when our fingers interlock can't deny, can't deny you're worth it~

Lilia winked at the crowd, causing a wave of shrieks from fangirls you didn't even know existed until that night. Knowing Lilia, he tended to attract people wherever he went like moths to a flame. Maybe it was a fae thing.

~Cuz after all this time, I'm still into you~

You were snapped away from your thoughts when you realized the singer was looking into the crowd with a smile that seemed more sincere than his usual smirks. The moment lasted far too short but some part of you knew he was looking right at you.

Before you could react, he ran a hand through his hair and started belting the chorus.

~I should be over all the butterflies, but I'm into you, I'm into you~

You absentmindedly brought a hand to your cheeks, covering the blush you knew was present. You tried to convince yourself that the quickness of your breathing was due to the heat of the room but Lilia kept stealing glances at you from the stage, making your traitor heart flutter.

Eventually, you couldn't take it anymore. You pushed your way towards the back of the cafeteria, apologizing to everyone you passed, and ran into the hallway.

You plopped down on one of the benches and leaned back against the wall. You huffed as you remembered the expression on Lilia's face as he looked at you. Since you were out of the cafeteria, you couldn't pretend it was just the heat of the moment anymore.

"Sevens, that was really hot."

"What was?"

You almost screamed as you spotted the mop of white hair on the floor next to you.

"Oh, Silver, it's just you. What are you doing on the floor?"

He groaned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

"S'comfy."

You laughed at his simple logic and patted your lap, gesturing for him to rest his head on something more comfortable than hard polished marble.

He laid down on your lap and yawned while you started combing through his matted hair.

"Are you here for Lilia?" you asked, curious as the why the narcoleptic would be seen anywhere near a rock concert.

He only offered a hum in confirmation.

"I just want to see Kalim perform and then get out of here," you lamented your worries. Silver was a surprisingly good listener when he wanted to be. "This isn't really my scene."

"Why have you been avoiding us?" Silver mumbled, making you perk up. You didn't think him or any of the others had noticed the distance you'd forced. "Did Fa- Lilia say something mean? Because if he offended you, he didn't mean it."

"No, no, it's nothing like that," you chuckled. If Lilia could've offended you, you would've stopped coming to the Diasomnia dorm a long time ago. "I've just... been busy."

"Did you finally realize he's in love with you?"

You straightened. Now that was something you never expected to hear.

"Who do you mean?" You knew the answer but you were praying you were wrong.

"Lilia, obviously," Silver said through a yawn and nuzzled your hand, gesturing for you to keep running your fingers through his hair. You were in a complete daze as you processed the words Silver just told you.

"He... Is in love with me?"

"He's not very subtle about it."

You scoffed and inhaled loudly, ready to prove Silver wrong about everything.

"First of all, if he loves me, why is he such a b-tch to me all the time? He's not a child. If he loved me, he would act like it."

"You overestimate him."

"Hush, I'm spiraling. Second, have you met him? You're right that he isn't subtle. If were in love with me, I would've noticed. Plus Malleus would've told me by now."

"All due respect to my master, but he's just as clueless as you are."

"And third, WHAT?! I don't need this right now! I was supposed to distance myself from Lilia until I went back to hating him and stopped having stupid little domestic fantasies."

"Can you cook?"

You paused your thought process to look at Silver incredulously.

"Yes, I went to culinary school at one point, if I remember correctly. Why?" you answered dubiously. Silver just shrugged and curled into himself more.

"You and Father are perfect for each other. We need at least one parent who can cook without burning the kitchen down."

"Silver!"

[pumperpup]

Once, in a realm where ancient magic wove through the fabric of reality, there was a scholarly man named Edmund, whose thirst for change led him to the door of Alden, a renowned alchemist. Alden's shop, nestled in the heart of a medieval city, was a haven for those seeking the mystical and the extraordinary. Among his many concoctions, one stood out – a potion of growth, rumored to bestow upon its drinker a size and strength beyond imagination.

Edmund, a man more accustomed to the world of books and scrolls, yearned for a physical transformation that would match his intellectual prowess. With a mixture of hope and apprehension, he purchased the potion and drank it outside Alden's shop, on the bustling cobblestone streets of the city. The potion, a shimmering liquid, coursed through him, and soon, he felt the first stirrings of change.

As the potion took effect, Edmund's body began to grow. At first, it was a welcome change – his stature became taller, his muscles more defined. Passersby gazed in awe as the once unassuming scholar transformed before their eyes.

But the growth did not cease. Edmund's muscles swelled to an incredible size, his height towering over the surrounding buildings. His clothes, unable to contain his expanding form, tore into tatters.

Stricken with terror, Edmund realized that the transformation was uncontrollable. He grew so large that he dwarfed the city itself, his colossal figure casting a shadow over the streets he once walked as a mere mortal. In a desperate bid to escape the confines of the city and the horrified stares of its inhabitants, Edmund fled.

He retreated into the countryside, growing larger with every step. His massive form loomed over the rolling hills and serene landscapes, a giant moving amidst the tranquility of nature. Yet, as he receded into the horizon, a sense of desolation enveloped him. He had sought change, but not like this.

Back in the city, Alden's shop became the center of a frenzied clamor. News of Edmund's transformation spread, and people from all walks of life gathered, eager to obtain the potion that had wrought such a miraculous change. The alchemist's shop, once a quiet haven, was now besieged by those who wished to follow in Edmund's colossal footsteps.

Thus, the tale of Edmund and Alden became a legend whispered in the streets of the medieval city – a cautionary tale of desire, transformation, and the unforeseen consequences of meddling with forces beyond human understanding. Edmund, the scholarly giant, remained a figure of myth and wonder, a reminder of the fragile balance between ambition and the natural order of the world.

[fafnir19]

Historical Values

Frank carefully folded his clothes and placed them inside his brown leather sack. His blue eyes sparkled with excitement as he prepared for the new archaeology project. "I can't believe we're actually going back in time!" he exclaimed to Professor Tendris, who was organizing his own belongings. "It's quite incredible, Frank," the professor responded with a smile. "The university's invention of the time machine is a breakthrough in our field. Now, we have the opportunity to experience history firsthand." "I'm ready for anything!" Frank zipped up his suitcase and hoisted it off the bed. "Living as Alemanni farmers in 507 AD is going to be an adventure." The time machine, no larger than a cell phone, hummed softly as they activated it. In an instant, they were surrounded by a blinding light, and then they found themselves in the year 507 AD, amidst a small Alemanni village.

Frank's heart raced as he took in the sights and sounds of the ancient village. The buildings were made of wood and straw, and the air was filled with the smell of livestock and earth. "This is incredible," Frank whispered, awe-struck. "Indeed," Professor Tendris murmured. "Now, let's blend in and experience life as the Alemanni did." As days passed, Frank and the professor worked the fields, tended to livestock, and engaged with the Alemanni people, immersing themselves in their daily activities. Two and a half weeks in, a thunderous clamor echoed through the village. Frank and Professor Tendris peered out to see Roman legions descending upon the settlement. "We have to go back!" Frank exclaimed, panic rising in his chest. "Quick, into the hut!" Professor Tendris urged, and they hurried to the tiny shelter where they had hidden the time machine. As they reached the hut, legionnaires blocked Frank's path, but Professor Tendris managed to activate the time machine and vanish, leaving Frank stranded. The terror gripped Frank as the Roman soldiers encircled him. He expected the worst, but instead, they took him captive. "What's your name, boy?" a gruff voice demanded as they dragged him through the village. "I-I'm Frank," he stammered, his heart pounding in his chest. "Not anymore, you're not," the soldier spat. "From now on, you're Flavius, slave of Rome." In Rome, Flavius was handed over to a slave trader, who sold him to a gladiator school.

His once blonde hair was now shorn, and he was renamed to fit his new identity. "Here's your new recruit," the trader announced, pushing Flavius forward. Flavius surveyed his surroundings, the harsh voice of the overseer drilling instructions into the other gladiators. The air was thick with the clinking of weapons and the grunts of the fighters. "Welcome to your new home, Flavius," a fellow gladiator muttered as he passed by. "Better get used to the dirt and blood." Flavius was put through rigorous training, his muscles bulging from the intense workouts. His determination drove him to perfect his fighting techniques, but he remained lean compared to the other gladiators. Because he was the weakest, he had to take on tasks that all other gladiators refused, such as feeding the lion. The clink of chains echoed in the dimly lit room as Flavius grabbed the metal pail and hurried to where Leon's enclosure was situated. He poured the chunks of meat into the pail and added a sprinkle of herbs for flavor. The only sound was the rhythmic clinking of chains as Flavius moved through the stone corridors, the weight of slavery heavy on his shoulders. "Such a majestic creature," he whispered, gazing into Leon's golden eyes. The lion paced rhythmically, the thump of his footfalls resonating through the enclosure. With tender, steady hands, Flavius extended the pail through the bars, the metal clinking with the rustle of chains. "Easy, boy," Flavius cooed, ensuring Leon's sustenance. The ritual of feeding Leon was a moment of trust and companionship, a symbol of their shared captivity and the only comfort in their constrained existence. Flavius ​​hoped every day that Tendris would find him and bring him home to the future. But his hope grew smaller day by day.

As the date of his first fight approached, Flavius felt a surge of fear. The overseer's voice boomed across the arena, announcing a battle to the death between 25 gladiators and a lion, with only the top four survivors. "You're going to be lion food, Flavius," the overseer jeered, a cruel smile on his lips. In the arena, the sound of cheering and roaring filled the air as the battle commenced. Flavius fought valiantly, his every move accompanied by the clash of weapons and the gasps of the audience. The lion lunged at him, and Flavius found himself pinned to the ground, the weight of the beast bearing down on him. "Agh!" he cried out, struggling beneath the lion's ferocious grip. Flavius regretted feeding the lion in the past! Just when he thought it was the end, the unexpected happened. For a moment, the arena fell silent as the lion hesitated, its low growl reverberating through the space. The lion let Flavius free. "What's going on?!" Flavius gasped in disbelief. The unexpected turn stunned the spectators, and Flavius seized the opportunity, mounting the lion and riding into battle.

The crowd erupted in a combination of gasps and cheers as Flavius and the lion fought as a team, vanquishing their opponents. From then on, Flavius had a cell to himself, which he shared with the lion  named Leon. The growls and purrs of the majestic creature became a soothing lullaby in the quiet of the night. "Leon, my friend," Flavius hummed, leaning against the bars of the cell as Leon purred in response.

As he earned victories in the arena, Flavius caught the attention of Senator Sixtus, who admired his bravery and skill. "I've purchased you," Senator Sixtus informed Flavius, a glint in his eyes. "You and your lion, Leon. You shall come to my villa and serve as entertainment for my guests."

At Sixtus' villa, Flavius and Leon were tasked with serving as extravagant entertainment for Sixtus' opulent parties, serving to the guests' frivolous pleasures. "Meet my newest acquisition," Senator Sixtus announced, a proud smile gracing his features as Flavius and Leon entered the grand hall. Flavius hesitated, unsure of the etiquette and he was morally hesitant about the frivol encounters between the guests an him.   After a while he enjoyed the opportunities and pleasured man an women alike.

"You fight like a hero, Flavius. Are you a hero in bed as well?" a lady asked, her laughter chiming in the air “I don’t need a bed to be your hero. Let’s enjoy the hero right here,” Flavius replied, a smirk forming on his lips. He became the epitome of lust and pleasure.

Senator Sixtus observed Flavius with a mixture of pride and amusement, intrigued by the newfound confidence and charm that Flavius exuded. "You are the epitome of vigor and pleasure," Senator Sixtus complimented, eyes twinkling. "Perhaps I shall find other roles for you in my household." With time, Flavius found himself adapting to his new life, embracing the indulgences and extravagance of Senator Sixtus' villa. "You've become quite the sensation, Flavius," Senator Sixtus remarked, his hand resting on Flavius' shoulder. "But I sense a restlessness in you." "I desire to engage my mind," Flavius said, surprising the senator with his words. "There must be more to life than mere entertainment." Senator Sixtus nodded thoughtfully and arranged for a private tutor to educate Flavius, recognizing his potential for growth.

The bond between Flavius and Sixtus deepened, and Flavius began to wield a certain dominance over the other slaves, echoing the authority of Senator Sixtus. "You surpass expectations, my dear Flavius," Senator Sixtus acknowledged, a sense of paternal pride in his voice. "Thank you, Senator," Flavius replied, a title of endearment that had gradually slipped into his vocabulary. As months passed, Senator Sixtus approached Flavius with a proposition. "You have proven yourself as more than a slave. I shall adopt you as my son, and you shall carry my name." Flavius was speechless, the weight of the honor settling upon him. He had seamlessly integrated into the Roman way of life, the values and customs now intrinsic to his being. "I am honored, Father," Flavius uttered, a sense of belonging and acceptance blossoming within him.

In the midst of revelry and frivolity, a house slave interrupted, announcing the arrival of a visitor named Tendris, stirring a flicker of recognition in Flavius' mind. "I shall receive him at once," Flavius declared, excitement lacing his words. "Tendris shall witness the life of a true Roman senator's son." At the grand dining hall, Flavius welcomed Tendris, exuding the confidence and refinement of a nobleman. "Tendris, you must partake in the splendid feast with us," Flavius insisted, gesturing towards the lavish spread before them.

Tendris took a seat, regarding Flavius with a mix of disappointment and concern as they dined. "I find your behavior troubling, Flavius. This is not the life you should lead," Tendris remarked, his tone solemn. At the end of the evening, Tendris took Flavius aside and reprimanded him for his frivolous behavior and condescending treatment of the slaves. "You don't understand, Tendris. This is the way of life in this era," Flavius argued, growing offended. "These modern moral concepts like human rights and wokenes hold no significance here, Tendris," Flavius declared, his resolve hardening. "I am a Roman senator's son, and this is my life."

The following day, Tendris returned, determination etched on his features as he stood before Flavius. "It's time to leave this era behind, Flavius." "No," Flavius spat, the weight of his decision palpable in the air. "You shall return to your woke future without me. I am here to stay." Tendris hesitated, his gaze meeting Flavius' defiant stare. "You must reconsider, Flavius. This is not where you belong." "I belong wherever I choose to," Flavius asserted, his voice unwavering. "If you remain here in ten minutes, I shall have you thrown to the lions in the arena!" Tendris's eyes narrowed in resignation, and with a heavy heart, he activated the time machine, leaving Flavius to his chosen path.

Flavius relinquished the vestiges of his past and embraced the decadence and extravagance of his new life, reveling in every indulgence and luxury that came his way. The sounds of revelry, laughter, and pleasure filled the grand halls of Senator Sixtus' villa, echoing the reassuring rhythm of a life firmly embraced. And as the days melded into nights, Flavius, the former  archaeology student, became indistinguishable from the Roman nobility, his laughter and gaiety resounding through the lavish estate, a testament to his complete surrender to the decadence of ancient Rome.   

[chiropteracupola]

it's the time of year again for another original spooky story... and thus we present to you:

"THE RAT PIPER"

“…..Now, all you who’re here, what story would you hear? Shall I tell you the tale of the boy who taught himself to speak to bees? The story of the sailor who won a mermaid’s heart? The story of the old inn and the ghostly hand?” The storyteller looked down at the children surrounding them and watched as they clamored, each cheering for a different old favorite out of all her tales. She smiled, teeth still bright in a worn, warm, age-freckled face.

“Oh, but those are far too often told, I think. I’ve another story, just right for a winter night like this one…”

“A new story?” asked one of the children, his eyes wide with hope.

“In that you have not yet heard it told, it’s new. But I shall begin first off by telling you just how old this story is.” The storyteller nodded to the boy, and began her tale….

——

Listen. There was, and there wasn’t, and there was a girl called Tamsen, and she was a child of only a few more years than you back when your grandfathers were young. She was a piper’s daughter, and went with him when he traveled to play the flute and the fife at betrothals and weddings and dances and sometimes funerals, for some people like that sort of music for a dirge. When her father was not piping away at music that would make trees shake their leaves just as you nod your head and clap your hands, Tamsen played the flutes as well, and even what she piped on an old tin whistle felt like a song that might make a forest lift up its roots and dance.

But Tamsen was a hungry-hearted girl, as many children are, and the space between her father’s notes never seemed enough to please her. So off into the woods she went, when the work of the day was done, and on the battered whistle her father had used as a boy, she played his songs and her own for no one but the forest. Or, so she thought.

The woods have a way of knowing when someone is wanting, and cascading through the branches above and the roots below and in every network of the forest, the song of such a hungry heart traveled far and wide. And something that had been waiting a terribly long time for such a tune to be played heard, and oh, how quickly he came skittering.

In that clearing in the forest where Tamsen went to whistle, a stump of an ancient tree served well enough to stand on. It was cracked across in places, all hollow beneath where its roots once had fed deeply from the earth of those woods. And up from one of the cracks came clambering a man barely the height of Tamsen’s two hands put together. He scrambled to stand a little in front of her on the stump, expression sour as he dusted splinters of wood from his fox-red hair and long blue coat.

Tamsen looked down at him with more curiosity than apprehension at first, cataloguing him as if she could manage to fit him into any notions she’d had before of the sort of creatures that might dwell someplace underneath a tree stump. The little man had a sharp face like a weasel’s and a pointed beard, and bright, clever eyes like a pair of polished silver buttons, which looked back at Tamsen with just as little worry as she’d felt. Tamsen, being a rather over-bold girl at the best of times, reached out and grabbed at the back of his coat, hoisting him up to her eye level.

“What the hell are you?” said Tamsen, holding out the little man in front of her at arms’ length.

“Do you kiss your grandmother with that mouth, tall girl?” said he, smiling like a knife blade.

“My grandmother lives two villages past the edge of the forest, and I only see her when my father is there to pipe at a betrothal or a wedding or a dance or a funeral, for some people like that sort of music for a dirge, and even then, I don’t kiss her at all, with this mouth or any other. What’s more, I don’t see what you mean, talking of grandmothers when I asked a question of you.”

The little man crossed his arms and pouted, kicking his feet in the air as if to emphasize his point.

“If we’re aiming for politeness now, one ought not to shake their acquaintances about like sacks of potatoes!”

“Oh. My name is Tamsen. How do you do?” she asked, and as she made her clumsy, father-taught bow, she made the mistake you must never make if you happen to be a character in a story. She gave her name to a creature of a sort she did not know, and so swung open a door to a place she had never intended to visit.

“Gannet will do for now, if you must call me something,” said the little man. That was not his name, of course — the sort of thing that he was did not have names as we know them to be, but we shall call him that as we tell the story. We are not that sort of thing, and we are fond of names. Now, we shall go on with exactly what he was doing, and the sort of power he liked to offer.

Gannet held up an ivory whistle, as long as he was tall, and Tamsen took it. It was carved all over with animals, long and twisting and tangling tails and legs together in a marvelous woven pattern.

“Now, tall girl, that’s no flute for betrothals and weddings and dances and funerals, even though it can play the right sort of music for a dirge. Play it just right, and you can pipe down a thunderstorm that will rain so long and hard that the mountains themselves will be washed away.”

Tamsen raised the whistle to her lips and blew, a note as sweet as coming inside from the cold, as sharp as an autumn wind all braided with dry leaves.

“Why did you give this to me, just like that? I haven’t got any money, I can’t give you anything in trade for it.”

“The whistle must be played, tall girl! And I cannot do it myself,” said the little man, pointing out his height with a sweeping gesture of one hand. “You’ve got the music to play it properly, so play it you must! Now, a tune, if you would, and we shall see who comes to dance.”

She played again, a song quick and merry as any young person running to visit their lover, and the wind came up and sang along with a voice all its own. The little man shivered within his coat, for the day was cold, and with a rush of wings, a thousand birds slalomed through the trees and spiraled around them. Tamsen gasped, nearly dropping the whistle, and the whirlwind of wings slowed.

“Tall girl, it’s you who’s called them up! Play on, they want their dance!”

Tamsen, you know, had a piper’s soul, and all the cleverness in her little finger that most have in all their body. So up she stepped, and making the same bow and scrape that her father made before he played, whistled up a song for the birds to dance to.

Scarlet and ash, black and white, a swirl of feathers patterned out a dance Tamsen knew. This song was a courting song, the sort played when the young folk just grown-up enough to be thinking of sweethearts would be dancing the night away. Tamsen had often stayed up to see them, and now, found the beating of wings and the fluff of feathers just as marvelous as the tapping of boots and the swish of skirts as the couples joined and turned and parted. For as long as she played, the birds danced for the two watchers in the clearing, and just as the song ended and Tamsen lowered the whistle from her lips, they were gone again in a flurry of color. She stared after them, breathless with awe, the surging pride at what she’d wrought filling her from the soles of her boots to the tip of her nose.

“With a talent like yours, no doubt you’ll find fortune in no time!” said the little man, bright and self-assured. Tamsen considered for a moment. She was the sort to like being petted and praised a good deal, and she got little enough of that as it was.

“How exactly might one go about doing that?”

“Well, say you were to set out on your own, see a little of the world, have a try at finding out just what that whistle there can do. And I’d come along of you, of course, for on one hand I should very much like to see you try your paces and on the other I have rather an interest in finding out some fortune for myself as well.” Now, to Tamsen’s mind, that sounded just the sort of thing she should like to do, and her hungry heart, which had begun rather to gnaw at the inside of her ribcage, bit a little harder in her chest as if to say “yes, yes!” But a bit of her father’s instruction beyond the methods of the music had worn on her, though not enough to keep her home.

“I’ll get my coat, then, for I’m not supposed to go far off without it. And then we shall go a-fortune-seeking!” And off she ran back to the little house where her father the piper dwelt, slamming into the front-room as brisk as the autumn wind. Tamsen took her coat from the hook by the door, put a loaf of bread in its pocket, and laced her boots up tight once more, for one bootlace had come a little loose in running.

“Pa, I’m leaving to seek my fortune!” she called, for her father was beside the hearth in his usual chair, not quite expecting her to be home or to be away.

“You’re doing what now, Tam?”

“Leaving to seek my fortune! Tell Grandma I love her! Bye!” And with that, she stepped out the door and back into the wind.

“What took you so long?” said the little man, who had been waiting at the hollow tree until she returned.

“I was hardly five minutes.”

“Well, everything’s slower when you’re small. Slower to get from place to place, slower to get attention…”

“What if I carried you, then? If we’re traveling together, it would be better if you could keep up.”

The little man paced back and forth, considering.

“Fine, then, but carry me careful. I am more fragile than you think.” Tamsen snatched him up by the collar and set him on her shoulder. “Not so rough, tall girl!” He wavered, wobbling, for a moment, then got a hand around the shoulder seam of her coat and held on tight.

“Onward!” said Tamsen, and off she went, running along the path with the wind at her back and the little man clinging to her shoulder like a rat to a railing. After a few minutes, she paused and turned to him. “Where exactly are we going?”

“Over the edge of the world and back again, even to the deep waters below where Chance and Luck swim like fish in a fishbowl. But you know the stories well, tall girl! Bold knights and brave ladies must quest first before they find where Fortune dwells.”

“That’s all?” said Tamsen, and gave a little hop and skip that made the man squeak with surprise.

“Of course not! We shall meet with adventure and you shall play the whistle for a betrothal and a wedding and a dance and a funeral, and you shall play the whistle for Fortune itself and see what comes of it!” And so they went, and the sun turned about the sky as it spun hand in hand with the moon, and the road passed beneath Tamsen’s feet as easily as the notes of the tune she played as she walked.

But before too long had passed, she came to a fork of the path, and what had been the road that led from the wood now was two, one that led down to the water and the other to the town. Down the road that led to the town, the miller’s daughter and the smith’s daughter were walking arm in arm, the smith’s daughter smart in her blue Sunday coat and fine silk cravat, and the miller’s daughter with her white petticoat all showing where the hems of her faded skirts came short. They saw Tamsen as soon as Tamsen saw them, though Gannet had seen them earlier and yet said nothing.

“Where are you going, little girl?” said the miller’s daughter, looking down the length of her nose at Tamsen.

“I’m not a little girl, I’m a piper!” said Tamsen in return, with a sharpness she regretted.

“She’s the piper’s daughter, that she is,” said the smith’s daughter, “and I’m sure she is as good a piper as ever her father has been. He played at my father’s marriage, you know."

“I’m a better piper than ever my father will be,” said Tamsen, sour and eager to defend herself, and behind her braid, Gannet laughed a little laugh to himself. “I can whistle down the birds from the trees and the rain from the mountains, so I can!” And she spun the ivory whistle between her fingers as her father had taught her, and made it shine so that every carved creature all down the length of it seemed to twist and dance in the last of the sunset’s light.

“Sing me a dress, then, Tamsen?” asked the miller’s daughter, then, with a little hope behind her haughtiness, and smoothed down the faded front of her skirts where water and wear had half washed the print from the calico.

“Well, it may not keep you warm, but I shall see what I can whistle up for you.” Tamsen blew the whistle, and remembered a song that her father had played at a dance, years and years before. It was a rollicking, rambling song, and her fingers flickered up and down the flute and made the tune ring out, just as bright as ever it had been. The wind came up, and whirled a gown of fallen red maple leaves, weaving stems and vines into a trim bodice and a wide skirt.

“Tall girl, don’t dawdle! Fortune’s waiting, come along!” Gannet tugged on one of her braids, and Tamsen turned and put away the whistle.

“Won’t you come with us instead and go dancing?” asked the miller’s daughter, plucking at her crackling-bright hems, her smile shy but just as bright.

“Let her go her own way, my apple,” said the smith’s daughter, and took her by the hand.

“I’m going to find my Fortune,” said Tamsen, “and perhaps I’ll come back some other day when I’ve got it in my hand.”

“You can’t just go around saying such things out loud!” said Gannet, half-offended, into her ear. His breath was very cold, and Tamsen shivered as though the wind had crept in and laid its cold fingers all along the edge of her cap. But she ignored him, and, standing up on her tiptoes, tucked a last bright leaf into the smith’s daughter’s buttonhole.

“There. Now you match, and may be on your way, and we will be on ours.” The smith’s daughter grinned and bowed, and the miller’s daughter curtsied, and Tamsen made her bow in return before they parted ways. Down the road to the river they went, Tamsen with her heart light and Gannet’s fingers clutching at her collar, and the whistle at her mouth all the way. As it had not been a long way from home to the turning of the road, it was not far to go to reach the water, and Tamsen was glad of it, for she had begun to tire of running, for all that the road to the place where Fortune dwelt seemed to be a smooth one indeed.

“This way, tall girl!” said Gannet, all sprightly and sharp, and pointed down the hill and out toward the broad horizon. The water lay out before them both, wide and dark and as smooth as the road had been, but Tamsen could not run down the current of it as she had run down the road, and beneath her coat, a shiver stroked her spine at the sight of it.

“I haven’t money for the ferry,” said Tamsen, in an attempt at practicality, and Gannet scoffed.

“Show them what you can do, and there’ll be reward in it for the both of us!” So down to the docks Tamsen skipped, and halted just before the ferry.

“I can play for my passage,” said Tamsen, drawing herself up as tall as she could. Gannet made a fierce face. The boatman smiled slow, and the boy perched near the prow put out a tar-smudged hand and hauled the two of them over the side.

“Would you whistle us a wind, lass?” asked the boatman, pointing to the whistle in her hand. Tamsen nodded, and played a shanty that spun up the waves to whiteness and sounded like a seagull’s call.

“I know this one!” said the boy, grabbing at Tamsen’s sleeve. “Do you know the words to it, miss?”

“No,” said Tamsen, setting down the whistle as the wind went on. “My father taught me the tune of it, but I’ve never heard it sung. Has it got a story to it?”

“It ends unhappy,” said the boy.

“Lots of songs do,” said Gannet, smiling sharp as ferrets’ teeth.

“Aye, but some don’t. Why don’t you play a happy song, the kind where everyone ends up all right at the end and they have a feast?”

“Feasts are a tricky thing too, lad. Oh, when you’re serving up and it comes time to carve in, you never do know just what’s on your plate. Meat’s messy, and it goes rotten quick as false-told tales. Better dry bones for me, strong and simple just as songs are.” Gannet snapped his teeth and smirked, and the boy shivered away and didn’t speak to them again, although Tamsen could always see him just at the edge of her vision, keeping a fixed look on Gannet out of the corner of his eye.

The boy did not speak to Tamsen or Gannet again, and his father did no more than smile softly as Tamsen played the last sweet chorus of the song, but sang the verse that told of sorrowful shipwreck, and the king’s fair bride dead before she ever was married, and all the captain’s bravery come to nothing. But though the shanty that Tamsen had chosen was no story of a smooth sail, they came to the other side of the water in good time, and the boatman wished them well as they went on their way, but the boy said nothing, and Tamsen clambered down alone.

And now that the further shore of the water lay before them, there was nothing else for Tamsen to do but to walk, and to play the whistle, and to walk again. To another town they came, larger than any one that Tamsen had ever seen, and so it was nervously that she passed the slow-swinging gates and into the empty avenues within.

“Where is everyone?” she wondered, but there seemed to be no one else but Gannet to hear her, and no sound but the padding of her own footsteps. That, and something more. A rustling, a skittering, a scratch-of-nails-on-slate sound, coming from everywhere at once. Tamsen spun, and saw a crooked shutter swing out on its half-rusted hinge, the wind picking at paint gone cracked and peeling with heat and sun and the fingernails of time. Her feet felt unsteady on the cobblestones, and scraps of paper and sackcloth blew about before her.

Tamsen knelt, plucking a bit of paper from the ground, the back of it dark and yellowed where glue had gone long dry. It was a label, but the writing of it was a mystery to her, for the paper seemed to have been chewed half out of existence by a myriad of tiny pointed teeth.

“Gannet, do you—“ she asked, the wind clawing at her coat and rolling dust over the toes of her boots, but before she could finish, Gannet shrieked “Tall girl, here!” and she snapped upright as if tugged by a marionette-string. Now the cobbles were all too solid, though Tamsen wished that they were not, for down through the windows and out through holes in the plasterwork and from every crevice of those long-left houses came a flood of rats, skittering and scuttling so that the streets rang with the sound of their claws all a-scrape against stone. Rustle and scratch and down came rats from roofs of moldering thatch, creak and squeak and clatter and out came rats from the cracks between boarded-over doors. Tails twined together in a wriggling mass of scaled skin, mangy fur showing through the spaces in between.

Tamsen put the whistle to her mouth, the instinct to do so as quick as a lightning-bolt and just as snapping-bright, but her fingers were frozen, and everywhere around them the rats were running. Gannet got a foothold in her braid, and climbed atop her cap, his sharp little fingers digging into her scalp, and Tamsen nearly shouted with the start of it, for his hands were clay-cold in the sun of that town that had been left to the rats.

“I don’t know what song to play!”

“Whistle, tall girl! You’ll know!” And so Tamsen placed her fingers on the whistle and played, and the rats rose like a river. They flowed up out of gutters and drains, poured out of windows and doors, scampered in a tidal wave of skittering feet and piebald fur. Gannet slipped down, but clung to Tamsen’s coat collar, pressing himself up against her neck with all his strength. All around Tamsen’s feet, the rats swirled and spiraled, dancing to her tune. She breathed in, and played faster and louder than before, and stepped up, up onto the backs of the rats, dancing with them light as leaves.

“Tall girl, have you lost your mind?” Gannet grabbed hold of her hair with sharp little fingers, but Tamsen only laughed into the whistle and played on.

“They’ll take us to find Fortune!” And the rats did, cascading along under Tamsen’s feet as she strolled along their backs. Rats can run a long time, if they’re caught up in such a thing as music. And human children can run a good long while, just the same. They’re not so fragile as one might think, both children and rats, though their bones are more brittle and their bodies smaller.

And so the day turned to night, and to day again, and the rats ran on, and Tamsen played the ivory whistle far past the point where she’d have gasped for breath before. But something new and wild had come up like the wind now, in her lungs and in her mouth, and over and over she played that song that told of lost loves and the fading ends of summertimes and bright beauties faded.

At last the rats slowed, for the town was long gone by, and the forest had faded first into chaparral, and then to plain, and then to nothing but sheer white stone, marked with deep and gaping cracks. Just as quick as they had come up from the houses and the holes, the rats scuttled down between the stones, and hardly before she knew it, Tamsen was all but alone again. The last notes of the song rang hollow on the empty air, and she looked to Gannet, questioning.

“What am I to do now?”

“Why, play on, tall girl! What else?”

“And Fortune?”

“The whistle must be played, the year must spin! With summer’s end, the piper calls the harvest in! There are to be dances, and betrothals, and weddings, but in the autumn must the funerals be held.”

“What—“

“You’ve had your betrothal and your wedding and your dance and your funeral, and now it’s time to play your dirge. Party’s over, tall girl.” The man crossed his arms, his face skeletal, his teeth sharp. There was an odd light to his eyes, once which Tamsen had rarely seen before. He clawed his way back to her shoulder, and though she tried to shake him free, he only dug his sharp fingers the more fiercely into her coat-sleeve. As he spoke again, he was right against her ear, shrill and demanding.

“Now, play the whistle, play it well! Pipe me one last tune!”

And Tamsen put the whistle to her lips and played a song her father had played after nearly every funeral. Not mournful, and something you danced to, to be certain, but slower, softer, the song the coffin-bearers might walk in step with as to the grave they went. The last song of all.

The wind came up, and the ground shook beneath her feet. Tamsen nearly lost her balance, and felt Gannet’s sharp hands grab at the back of her neck as he slipped off her shoulder.

The stones cracked and split, heaving up to reveal deep chasms beneath. Tamsen clambered to perch atop a spar of rock, missing a few notes as she played one-handed. And up out of the earth came the dead, dressed in bones clean and clattering, and danced. First a cascade of birds, somehow still flying despite their wing feathers having long rotted away, then people, of all ages, bones rattling as they stepped from foot to skeletal foot. Tamsen noticed one skeleton missing a leg, others with cracked-in skulls or fractured rib-cages, though it seemed not to impair them as they dipped and turned. Watching the dead in their dance from her place atop the jutting stone, she began to recognize familiar movements, familiar steps, though all danced to the same tune. Some made the box-step of a hornpipe, while others twirled their partners back and forth, skeleton after skeleton rising up to join the swirling rings of dancers.

Then, last of all, a new tide of bones, smaller than the rest, shook from the earth and solidified, scampering underfoot. A hundred million skeletons of rats, their bones bleached and shined, their tiny toe-bones skittering and clicking on the stone.

“You made this place.” The certainty settled on Tamsen’s shoulders like a pall, heavier yet than Gannet’s weight on her shoulder. “You’re not Fortune, are you.”

“Oh, but I am, tall girl! Fortune’s as much me as it is anything else, you see. There’s a fortune that’s your luck, and a fortune that’s your fate, and a fortune last of all, that is your death. The world turns, tall girl, and Fortune turns it, but my hands are small, small! I cannot gnaw through the threads of life all on my lane!”

“And exactly what is it you do, then?” Tamsen’s sharpness served her well, even as Gannet preened and smirked so near to her ear.

“Every year I take one, a clever tall girl or a bright tall laddie, no matter who so long as they can play. And every year they play the flute, and down at Fortune’s hands they go to clay.”

“It’s them, isn’t it?” Tamsen asked, but the certainty of the truth was already on her lips. Gannet only smiled, and she played on. The music came harder and faster and sputtered and crackled in her lungs, and her fingers moved so that she feared they might slip from their sockets entirely. If she did as Gannet asked of her, she’d die here too, and the next year, her skeleton would be among the dancers. But the music had her in its grip, Fortune had its hand wrapped tight around her shoulders and— and she was the piper. She called the dance with her tune, left right left right, hop and step and cross and back with every note. And just as she had begun it, Tamsen could end it.

She took a deep breath. Then Tamsen dropped the whistle from her mouth. The dance went on without her playing, the rattle and clatter of the skeletons keeping time in perfect morbid percussion. Tamsen watched for a moment, ignoring Gannet as he tugged at her hair and shouted at her to keep playing. She got a hold on either end of the whistle, then, and brought it down on her knee. It snapped in two with a crack, and every empty-eyed skull out of all the dancing dead turned to look at her.

The house of Fortune went silent. Not a clatter or a creak of bones, just a thousand empty sockets pointed like eyes, and Tamsen, her face set, staring back. Gannet, still clinging to her coat, shrieked, more shrill and piercing than the whistle had ever been. The world seemed to shiver under the weight of such a sound as that.

Tamsen reached up and caught him by the coat collar, and ripped him from her shoulder. He dangled from her hand, limp, eyes shut tight. Then he opened his eyes, steely-silver, and then, as if he had opened another set of eyes, somewhere else, he was gone, and Tamsen’s hands were empty. She let out a long breath that she hardly realized that she had been holding, and the silence broke, too, as she dropped the shards of the whistle to the ground. A clatter and a crack, and all the twisting and twining of the carved ivory creatures was no more movement than the wind blowing low over the drought-cracked ground.

The wind came up, catching at her coat-sleeves and her braids, and the skeletons turned to one another, looking lost. Tamsen watched them stumble about, then put her hands to her mouth and shouted.

“Go home!” The skeletons turned to face her again. “You found your fortune, all of you, didn’t you? Your families are waiting for you back in the world — go there! I think…” and at that, her confidence slipped a little, her voice half a whisper. “I think they miss you.”

Then, gaining confidence again— “What are you waiting for! Go!” Tamsen stared, standing, panting, and a hundred pairs of empty eye sockets stared back. The foremost of the skeletons cocked its head to one side, as if in confusion, and turned to its fellows, gesturing wordlessly. There were a few sharper cracks amid the general clatter, as of bones being hastily snapped, and when the spokesman turned back to Tamsen, it had in its hand a long leg-bone, all drilled with holes to make a flute.

“Oh,” said Tamsen, all the air knocked from her lungs. “Oh.” She took the flute carefully from the bony hand that held it — bowed over that hand as best she could as she did so. The skeleton, though it always had shown its teeth, seemed to grin at the prospect.

“…I’ll give you a dance for the way home, if you’ll have me.” Tamsen said the words very quietly, but the skeleton appeared to hear her, and curtsied, knee-bones clattering. And so she placed the flute of bone to her lips and blew, and the wind stayed where it was, but Tamsen was a piper down to the hungry heart of her, and all the wind she needed to dance the rest of the way was the breath curling in her lungs.

——

“And what happened to Tamsen afterwards?”

“Well, friends, this story is over, you see. The tale is done, the mouse has run, and whoever catches it shall make themself a fur hat out of it. That is the way of the world. But perhaps, if you are good and quiet, I’ll spin another story and show you the weaving of it.”

[alicent-targaryen]

CURSES (DAEMON x RHAENYRA)

A desperate, lovesick Daemon harnessed the power of the moon in secret, invoking the powers of Old Valyria and channeling them into a simple Valyrian steel necklace for his beloved niece. The desire to have Rhaenyra overpowered the little voice in the back of his head that said that the ancient magic of his forefathers was not to be trifled with. And so she fell in love with him, madly, deeply. But all magic comes with a price. In the end, the necklace began clamoring for blood. Her blood. Their love turned into a curse. And there was nothing he could do to save her.

for @daemyradiscord's halloween event 2023

[comicaurora]

How quickly would each of the floof squad put it together I’d put in dainix’s situation?

oh my god your icon

To be honest, this whole situation would've played out so differently if any of the others were in Dainix's place - in large part because none of them are quite that good at unintentionally pushing Falst's buttons. But assuming things had somehow played out basically the same up until that point-

Kendal: setting aside that the Ancient defenses probably wouldn't clock him as anything recognizable, he'd probably figure out the place was treating Falst like an Ancient the first time Falst managed to get a door open. Also… Kendal might just understand spoken Ancient. It feels like the kind of knowledge Vash might've had rattling around. If so, he'd clock it pretty much immediately.

Alinua: the thought wouldn't cross her mind at any point. Just not the way her brain works.

Erin: would not independently figure it out except by stochastic methods, as too many other things would be clamoring for his theorizing and attention. It would, however, hilariously frustrate him that Falst can get the doors open when he can't.

Tess: a little too good at breaking rocks and zapping things to need Falst's help getting through the place, but she might eventually figure out that the automatons are trying to protect Falst from her and make a few guesses from there.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 76

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 76: A Golden Crown of Sorrow II

AO3 - Masterlist

(13K words)

The vast expanse of Westeros unfolded beneath her gaze, illuminated by the dim, haunting light of candles that cast their quivering shadows across the carved map on the ancient table. This piece of history, dating back to the Age of Conquest, bore the marks of past battles and decisions that had shaped the realm. Opponents were signified by the bronze figures, while her supporters were denoted by exquisitely carved wooden pawns. Despite the apparent support, a tight knot of unease coiled in her stomach.

The room itself bore the weight of history, its stone walls and high vaulted ceilings echoing with over a century of decisions, power struggles, and conquest. Shadows danced ominously across the walls, adding to the tension that permeated the chamber. The flickering candlelight cast elongated figures that seemed to reach out, as if grasping for control over the continent laid bare on the table. 

This charged atmosphere enveloped Rhaenyra, a prelude to a storm of decisions yet to come, weighing heavily upon her. Her fingertips lingered on the map at the name ‘King’s Landing’–where her daughter remained imprisoned, and her rightful throne had been unjustly seized. Gwayne Hightower’s arrival had brought not peace offerings, but demands cloaked as terms, dictated by his sister and his father. 

“It is no easy thing for a man to be a dragonslayer,” Daemon asserted, his voice carrying the weight of authority and the conviction of a seasoned warrior. “But dragons can kill dragons. And they have. The simple truth is this; we have more dragon’s than Aegon.”

Rhaenyra interrupted, raising her eyes from the map. “Viserys spoke often of the Valyrian histories. I know them well. When dragons flew to war… everything burned. I do not wish to rule over a kingdom of ash and bone.”

Lord Bartimos, unable to hide his apprehension, inquired,“Are you considering the Hightowers’ terms, Your Grace?” 

The palpable tension that filled the air seemed to thicken with shared apprehension as all eyes settled upon her, awaiting a response from the Queen. The collective gazes upon her felt as prickling as needles, an attempt to dissect her every thought and intention–to lay her heart bare for their scrutiny. Yet, amidst this invasive assessment, she preserved her poise, shouldering their gazes with unwavering steadiness. 

With a voice edged with a commanding clarity, she addressed the room. “As Queen, what is my true duty to the realm, Lord Bartimos?”

Weariness clung to her body, an oppressive shroud of exhaustion that seemed to transform her bones into lead, her every movement met with silent protest from her weary muscles. The constant, dull ache that pervaded her being served as a relentless keepsake of the agony she had withstood, coupled with the painful reminder that her crown had already cost her one daughter. 

Within the council chamber, the air was thick with the clamor for war, each lord more eager than the last to see the skies alight with dragonfire against their foes. Yet, amidst this clamor for war, Rhaenyra found herself adrift in the sea of weariness. Her heart was fraught with apprehension, not for the crown she might lose, but for the daughter who still remained within the grasp of her adversaries–and for the lives of those around her. 

Her voice carried a steely resolve as she posed her question, “Is it to ensure the peace and unity of the realm? Or that I sit the Iron throne at any cost?”

With an exasperated roll of his eyes, Daemon uttered something that was close to a sneer, “That is your father talking.”

With his patience visibly fraying, Daemon let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. His voice, tinged with a dismissive sneer, carried his frustration as he spat, “That is your father talking.”

If Daemon had meant to rile her, he had succeeded. Her eyes sharpened into a focused glare, following him as he moved around the painted table, and she snapped back at him, “My father is dead.”

Daemon paced around the council table to its far end, the sound of his boots scraping against the stone floor marking his path. A wave of irritation washed over her, yet she maintained her composure, her eyes locked onto him with unwavering intensity. She sharpened her own words, knowing how they would land. “And he chose me as his successor, to defend the realm, not plunge it headlong into war.”

Seemingly unable to contain his vexation, Daemon let his voice climb in provocation. “Well, the enemy has declared war! What are you going to do about it?”

Rhaenyra understood his fury as intimately as she understood her own, yet a sense of unease still clung to her. Daemon thisted for war, a fact she couldn’t simply disregard. Given the chance, he would have them march on King’s Landing immediately, regardless of the consequences. While his desire for conflict was unmistakable, she did not share this eagerness for it. She knew all too well how men would rush into war, blinded by pride or vengeance, without fully weighing the consequences of such actions. She stood firm in her resolve not to let the realm bleed unnecessarily for her ascent to power. The thought of blood being shed so freely under her command was a burden she refused to bear lightly. 

Rhaenyra sensed the weight of every gaze in the room settle on her, feeling them like a tangible pressure against her skin. The sting of her husband’s public challenge lingered sharply in the air, each word resonating with an intensity that tugged at her resolve. Her posture remained composed, yet beneath her calm exterior, a storm of emotions brewed, fueled by Daemon’s confrontational words. 

“Clear the room,” she commanded, her eyes never leaving her husband. 

As the chamber gradually emptied of lords and advisors, Rhaenyra felt her own frustration colliding with Daemon’s simmering rage. He moved with a restless energy, finally stopping in front of the heart. There, the firelight bathed his face in a warm orange hue, momentarily softening his features before deeping the shadows in his eyes–his eyes seemed to burn darkly. 

“Does the promise of war excite you?” Rhaenyra inquired sharply, an indictment in her tone. Her voice cut through the silence of the room–almost heavy with emptiness, only the two of them remaining. Her inquiry hung in the air, accompanied only by the sporadic crackles from the hearth and the somber howl of the wind outside. The elements themselves seemed to echo the tension and the foreboding sense of conflict. 

Daemon’s response was charged with exasperation, yet controlled, “You cannot bend the knee to the Hightowers–they stole your birthright.” 

His intense gaze fixed on her, searing and unyielding, igniting a sensation that felt akin to an itch beneath her skin that she couldn’t quite reach–it only served to further add to her frustration. 

“If you could take the Iron Throne without putting Otto Hightower’s head on a spike, would you?” Rhaenyra countered, her steps measured as she closed the distance between them. She was acutely aware of his deep-seated resentment towards Otto Hightower, yet she harbored no desire to ignite war over a personal grudge. The warmth from the hearth caressed her chilled fingers, offering a semblance of comfort while simultaneously serving as a reminder of the danger of getting too close. Daemon was much the same as the fire in the hearth, his fiery passion a potential for destruction–his essence bore the latent capacity to either illuminate the darkest corners of existence or, in a turn as swift as a spark in dry wind, lay waste to all within his reach. He was dragonfire made flesh, and that in itself was dangerous. 

“Are you not angry?”  His question was laced with an implicit challenge, designed to pierce her defenses and stir the embers of her own anger. 

“I should declare war because I’m angry?” Rhaenyra retorted, her voice laced with incredulity. 

Daemon’s response was immediate, his patience faying as he bridged the gap between them. Illuminated by the hearth’s fiery glow, he appeared almost at one with the element, a living embodiment of the flames that danced behind him. 

“No,” he asserted sharply. “Because it’s your duty as Queen to crush rebellion.”

The intensity of his gaze remained unyielding–unforgiving, a blaze that refused to be tamed. 

“We can extinguish this treachery swiftly, before the moon’s turn, if we act now,” Daemon pressed on, each word infused with a palpable sense of urgency and conviction–his hunger for war remained steadfast, and it seemed nothing would satiate it save for bloodshed. “With our dragonriders and the support of our allies, we can secure the throne with minimal loss of life–but only if we do not delay any further. We’ve already allowed them ample time to prepare and rally their own allies. We must act now.”

As he stepped closer, the space between them diminished to mere inches, their breaths intertwining. “I understand your hesitance to engage in bloodshed, especially as we nurse our own losses…”

Rhaenyra’s head tilted slightly, her jaw clenched in a silent warning. She would not allow their daughter’s death to be weaponized in an attempt to force her hand–especially not force her into a war that she wasn’t sure would be worth it.

Daemon’s hand came to rest gently against her cheek, his thumb caressing her skin with a firmness that spoke of his intent. “I am committed to defend your claim. I will protect our family, and the legacy of House Targaryen, with steel and blood.” Each word was spoken as though cleaved from stone, firm and biting. “Our house, our lineage, and your sovereignty are under threat, and I stand resolute in their defense.” The warmth of his touch seeped into her, burned against her skin. “Grand me your command, and I will see to the rest.”

The sincerity and desperation in his words clashed into a resonant urgency–almost a plea. 

“Should we act against King’s Landing, there’s a risk they may harm my daughter, Daemon. My only daughter,” Rhaenyra asserted, clutching his wrist tightly, her thumb caressing against the beat of his heart. “The thought of losing her too is something I cannot endure–do not ask it of me.”

Daemon pulled away slightly, eyes remaining locked with hers, as though attempting to read her thoughts. “Otto Hightower is cunning, not reckless. He’s well aware of her significance to us. He knows it’s in his best interest to keep her alive and well.”

The weight of their situation seemed to curl around them like the flicker of the flames, the heat radiating onto both of them. Rhaenyra’s gaze remained intense, burning. “And yet, we are both aware that in the face of defeat, they would not hesitate to sacrifice her out of spite just to wound us further.”

Rhaenyra could see it lurking in Daemon’s eyes, the unsaid belief that Daenera would understand her sacrifice, just as she had been prepared to make it herself. Yet, these thoughts remained unspoken, cloaked in the silent communication between them–lingering in the shadows of their minds.

Daemon shifted his stance, a determined glint in his eyes as he laid out his strategy, “If we act swiftly, encircle King’s landing, and lay siege, showing our undeniable strength, they will have to reconsider. They won’t dare harm her if she becomes their last bargaining chip–the only thing keeping their heads on their shoulders.”

He paused, taking a deep breath, as if weighing his own words, contemplating the risks and stakes involved. “Give me the order, and I will ensure that we get Daenera back. Alive and well.”

Rhaenyra fixed her gaze on Daemon, her heart pounding furiously. “There’s no certainty in that strategy. If we march on King’s Landing, the risk is too great…”

Her voice trembled slightly with the weight of the decision, the fear of unintended consequences lurking in her words. 

“Maybe we should consider a different strategy–let us negotiate with a currency they understand. A life for a life,” Daemon suggested, already considering the tactical implications. “I could detain Gwayne Hightower before his return to King’s Landing. They wouldn’t have gotten far.” 

Rhaenyra’s expression darkened with concern, and she instinctively took a step back, distancing herself from Daemon. Her fingers restlessly fiddled with a ring, the gesture betraying her inner turmoil–a sliver of annoyance burning within her chest as he once again spoke of breaking convention. “I cannot in good conscience defy convention, Daemon. We cannot detain an envoy. Such an act would be a declaration of war.”

Daemon’s impatience was evident as he scoffed, his exasperation clear. “We are already at war! It is your duty to respond to the treachery of usurpation with fire and blood!”

Rhaenyra softened her tone, seeking to remind him of their higher responsibilities. “You know my oath reaches beyond our personal ambitions. If the path of saving my daughter and preventing the realm from being consumed by war is to kneel, then I must consider it–the realm mustn’t be divided when the war against the darkness comes upon us.”

At her words, Daemon’s frame shifted, his gaze sharp with disbelief and irritation. “What?”

“A Song of Ice and Fire,” Rhaenyra drawled, her voice low, a confused frown settling upon her own features–almost a mirror to the one on her husband’s face. “The Conqueror’s Dream…”

His head tilted, the disbelief starting to burn brighter in his eyes as he stared at her incredulously. 

“The war against the darkness descending from the North…” She elaborated, trying to convey the gravity of the prophecy–to spark some sort of recognition with Daemon, but there was none to be found, and the realization slowly dawned on her. 

Daemon’s glare was unyielding, his visage as if carved from the same ancient stones of the castle itself. Every line and contour of his face was marked with disbelief, and within his eyes, something dark and dangerous seemed to bare its teeth at her. “You speak of dreams now?”

“The Conqueror’s Dream,” Rhaenyra reiterated, her voice tinged with slight frustration. “Viserys confided in me about the prophecy the night I was named his heir… It foretells of a great threat coming from the North.”

“The Starks have always stuck to their oaths.”

“No, not the Starks,” she clarified, her voice laced with a growing urgency. “This threat comes from beyond the Wall. Should we stand divided, the ensuing darkness will spell doom for all, heralding a winter so severe, so devoid of light, that no living thing would endure…”

The realization dawned fully on her then–the realization that Daemon knew nothing of what she was speaking of. And this only seemed to intensify his disbelief and exasperation. 

“He never told you, did he?” Her voice was softer then, and she felt her heart feel both a sliver of relief and a stab of pity. 

“Tell me what, to heed fanciful old wive’s tales?” Daemon’s response was laden with a thick layer of incredulous sarcasm, his face twisting into a grimace of disdain as if the mere suggestion was a betrayal. Yet, it wasn’t the proposition itself that felt like a stab of betrayal, she knew–it was the realization that his brother, Viserys, had withheld such crucial information from him, even if he wouldn’t believe it. This revelation seemed to stir a deep, bitter resentment within him, a sense of betrayal that went beyond the words spoken, cutting into the very core of his bond with his brother. 

“My brother,” Daemon sneered with a certain amount of resentment in his tone, “was a slave to his omens and portents. He would clutch at anything that lend any semblance of meaning to his weak rule.”

“Daemon…” Rhaenyra extended a hand, a gesture of conciliation, but he retreated further, frustration tensing his shoulders. She wondered whether Viserys had withheld the prophecy because he anticipated Daemon’s skepticism or if it was because he never truly regarded him as his successor. 

On the very night Viserys had made her his heir, he had confided in her, entrusting her with the knowledge of Aegon the Conqueror's dream. He had told her. He had never told Daemon, not even during the years as he was considered the heir apparent. But he had told her. She was his chosen heir, the sole recipient of this prophecy, a distinction that held a profound significance for her, perhaps more than it rightfully should.

Standing at the precipice of war that could fracture the realm, Rhaenyra felt the weight of the crown more oppressively than ever. Her father’s words echoed within her, branding the crown not as a symbol of power, but as a heavy burden–and it was. 

Daemon had withdrawn towards the hearth, where he leaned heavily against the mantle with his head bowed, staring into the flames. His hand was clenched tight, and she saw the rage in his posture–the hurt. He turned his face towards her again as she approached, an unpredictable storm in his fiery eyes, reflecting the orange tongues of the fire. 

“Surrendering your rightful claim over mere stories is fucking insanity,” Daemon bit out and Rhaenyra felt the sharp sting of his bite. 

“If surrendering is what is best for the realm–” Rhaenyra began but was swiftly cut off by a derisive scoff. 

“Do you truly believe that that drunken usurper cunt and his council of Hightowers would be more capable of uniting and safeguarding the realm from this… this threat from the North?” Daemon argued sharply. “When my brother imparted this prophecy, did he specify when the threat would descend upon us? Will it be within our lifetime?” He faced her directly, his presence imposing as he loomed over her. Yet, his voice softened, if only a little as he murmured. “Or was it as vague as all dreams and prophecies tend to be.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra cautioned lowly. 

“I’m merely seeking clarity,” he persisted, his skepticism remaining. "Because it seems you’re willing to wager your legacy, your claim to the throne, and the future of your sons on the premise that this threat from the North is both real and immediate.” 

Rhaenyra found herself wrestling with the gravity of her father’s prophecy and her husband’s pointed disbelief, each word a testament to the chasm between belief and skepticism, between duty and destiny. 

The silence between them stretched as she found herself bereft of words that could possibly bridge the chasm of disbelief between them. She had nothing tangible to offer but the words given, and those words would not stand unchallenged in his eyes. Doubt crept into her thoughts, a seed of uncertainty threatening to take root and grow unchecked unless she managed to dispel it swiftly. Her hesitation didn’t stem from a lack of faith in her father’s words or the prophecy of the Conqueror; rather, it was the inherent ambiguity of the prophecy that cast a pall over her convictions.

The prophecy resonated within her, a truth she still keenly felt. It had manifested as an icy shiver trailing down her spine, a cold that penetrated deep into her marrow. And in that moment, as she gazed into the cavernous eye sockets of Balerion The Black Dread’s skull, she could have sworn she heard the distinct cracking of ice. This eerie sensation had solidified her belief in the prophecy. 

But Daemon’s disbelief remained, underscored by a deeper, more personal wound. His words were laden with a blend of entreaty and reprimand, as he closed the distance between them, his hands gently framing her face. “To wager everything on the premise of a dream is folly, and an even greater folly to let the realm languish under the Hightowers.” His thumb caressed her cheek, calloused and hardened. “My brother named you as his heir. He imparted this prophecy to you.” A note of bitterness made it into his voice, even as she saw his attempt to quell it. “He believed in your ability to protect the realm. He didn’t pass the burden onto his sons; he didn’t share this vision with them. Surrender now, and all that we’ve endeavored to achieve will crumble to naught.”

Tears gathered in Rhaenyra’s eyes, lending a glassy sheen to her gaze as she said, “You have no faith in the prophecy, but it is for that and the stability of the realm that I must consider surrendering.”

Daemon let out a weary, disappointed sigh, a gesture of resignation rather than agreement, and gently shook his head. His frustration was obvious, even as he closed the distance between them, pressing his forehead to hers, a moment of intimacy amidst the storm of contention. 

“Dreams didn’t make us kings. Dragons did,” he murmured, then withdrew, leaving the room with a finality that felt like a cold gust, scattering the remnants of Rhaenyra’s determination like ashes in his departure. 

Rhaenyra closed her eyes momentarily, turning her face towards the crackling fire. She let the weariness of the day wash over her, soaking in the comforting warmth that radiated from the hearth. The heat seeped into her bones, providing a brief respite and fortifying her resolve. Gathering her strength, she stood a little straighter, taking a deep, steadying breath before turning to leave the room. 

She left The Hall of the Painted Table and waved off the assembly gathered outside, her voice firm yet fatigued. “We will continue in the morning, once we have all rested and I have reached a decision.”

As she traversed the halls of Dragonstone, the weight of her physical and emotional exertion was palpable. Her joints creaked with each step, her muscles tense and sore. A persistent ache throbbed between her legs, a constant reminder of the difficult birth she had endured, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Despite the discomfort, she pressed forward, her path illuminated by the flickering orange light of torches and braziers that cast eerie shadows against the ancient stone walls–these walls, hewn from the same rock that formed the formidable Dragonmont, seemed to echo the labyrinthine caves beneath, adding a sense of deep, primordial continuity to her surroundings. 

Rhaenyra tiptoed quietly into her youngest son’s bedchamber, gently pushing the door open and closed. Inside, the fire crackled softly, its warm glow battling the chill from the howling wind outside. Lady Sheran, seated in a rocking chair, was knitting quietly, keeping a watch over the two young princes as they slept. Her eyes lifted as Rhaenyra entered the room. She started to rise, but Rhaenyra gestured for her to remain seated. 

“How are they?” Rhaenyra whispered, her gaze tenderly settling on the two boys in the bed.

“They are well, Your Grace,” Lady Sheran replied softly, her eyes affectionately observing the boys. “They sense that something is amiss, though they can’t grasp the full extent of what's happening–only that things are different. 

Nodding understandingly, Rhaenyra sat down on the edge of the bed. Aegon was sprawled on his stomach, one arm thrown over his brother as if to shield him, his blond curls tousled around his head. And Viserys lay on his back, his head turned towards Aegon, clutching tightly to the blanket their sister had crafted for him. Aegon’s own blanket, that his sister made him, was tugged beside him, crumpled under his head as a pillow, a dark pool of drool slowly growing on the blue fabric. 

As Rhaenyra gently brushed her hand through the soft curls of her youngest sons, a welling of tears blurred her vision. She leaned down to kiss each of them tenderly, feeling the steady rhythm of their hearts before pulling back. Watching them sleep peacefully, she couldn’t help but wonder about their sister Visenya. Would she have shared the same wild curls, or would her hair have been straighter? Would her eyes mirror the same pale blue? And her cheeks, would they have been as round and rosy? 

Rhaenyra wondered if Visenya would have been as inseparable from her brothers as Aegon and Viserys were now. The boys had been so eager to embrace the role of older brother’s, just as Jace, Luke, and Joffrey had for them. Would they understand that Visenya was gone–never to be?

At their tender age, the concept of death remained elusive and abstract–hardly distinguishable from a prolonged absence. Rhaenyra harbored a deep-seated fear that as Daenera remained away, the memories of her might start to fade from the young princes’ minds. Yet, hope flickered as their elder brothers kept Daenera alive in their minds. Jace, Luke, and Joffrrey consistently reminded the younger boys of their sister, recounting stories and weaving her presence into their daily lives, ensuring she remained, even as she wasn’t here. 

They would remember Daenera, unlike Visenya–who had never really graced their lives in the first place. Visenya’s absence marked a silent void, her quiet passing at birth slipping into the shadows of oblivion rather than leaving behind the palpable scar of loss on their young minds, the ache of missing someone dearly loved. 

Only Rhaenyra and Daemon would truly carry Visenya within them as a deep, enduring scar–a poignant reminder of what could have been. 

And perhaps, to a lesser but still significant degree, Jace, Luke, and Daenera too would beare some traces of this loss. The older siblings, more aware of the world’s harsh truths, might not feel the sting of her absence as acutely as their parents, but they too understood the weight of the sister they never got to meet. 

Rhaenyra longed for Daenera’s presence as she leaned down to kiss her sons once more, savoring the sweet, innocent scent of their slumber. Rising from the bed, she sighed softly, “One day they’ll understand all of this, but for now, it’s best we shield them from our worries.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Lady Sheran replied, her voice a soft echo in the quiet room.”

With a heavy heart, Rhaenyra left the room and made her way down the hall to Joffre’s chambers, seeking to check on her other children. As she entered, she found Luke awake, sitting up in bed with his dark hair around him. He glanced up at her, his expression somber. Beside him, young Joffrey lay deep in sleep, clutching a wooden dragon toy that hung precariously over the edge of the bed, as if ready to take flight in his dreams. 

Rhaenyra stepped forward, gently retrieving the wooden dragon from Joffrey’s loose grip and placing it on the bedside table. Her gaze then met Luke’s with a silent question.

“He couldn’t fall asleep,” Luke whispered, intuiting her thoughts. “He asked for a story…”

Rhaenyra’s lips curved into a tender smile, and she leaned down to kiss Joffrey’s forehead. “He’s found his rest now, and you should too.”

With a gentle gesture, she signaled for Luke to follow her out. He quietly slid from the bed, his movements almost ghostlike as they exited into the hallway together. They proceeded to his room, where Rhaenyra assisted him with his doublet, stepping back as he changed into his nightclothes. The soft tap of his bare feet against the floor followed as he slipped under his covers. 

Rhaenyra settled beside him on the bed, mirroring the close moment they had shared just days before when the world was different. She pushed his hair back from his forehead, her smile soft but tinged with concern as she noticed his furrowed brow. “What is on your mind, sweet boy?”

“Are we going to war?” He asked in a hushed tone, his eyes searching hers for answers. “Jace says we’re going to war.”

Rhaenyra inhaled deeply, the weight of her role as both a mother and a queen pressing upon her. “If it’s within my power, I hope that we may avoid it.”

“What will happen to Daenera if we go to war?” He pressed, his voice laced with worry.

The question pierced her heart, twisting with her own fears. She found herself grappling with the right words to reassure her son while confronting the stark realities they faced. 

“I don’t know,” Rhaenyra admitted with heartfelt honesty as she reached for the blanket Daenera had crafted–the same one Luke had brought to her for comfort during her struggle with giving birth. The very same blanket she had tenderly wrapped around Visenya, cradling her in her arms. With  a gentle touch, she carefully draped it over him, placing a hand on his chest, caressing the fabric and the boy beneath. “But I assure you, I will do everything in my power to bring her home.”

Luke nodded, his voice raspy as he spoke. “I miss her.”

“I miss her too, my sweet boy,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice thick with emotion. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, as she had with her other sons. “We’ll bring her back, I promise. Now, try to rest. We have challenging days ahead.”

Luke nodded again, his young face resolute as he snuggled deeper into his bedding. 

Rhaenyra rose from the bed and made her way towards the doors, but Luke’s voice halted her. 

“You can rely on us, you know…” He said, his tone sincere. “Jace, Joff, and I. We’ll protect and fight for you…”

She paused, turning back to face him, a tender smile breaking through her worries. “I know… Sleep, sweet boy.”

Rhaenyra softly shut the door behind her, lingering in the silent corridor as a sharp pang of sorrow blossomed in her chest, her heart caught in a bittersweet tangle of grief and determination. She inhaled deeply, a breath meant to steel herself, and moved towards Jace’s room, drawn by the subdued voices dissecting the day’s events. 

As she neared the door, the familiar voices of Jace, Baela, and Rhaena filled the air, their conversation intense and animated. They were deep in a passionate exchange, evidently holding a council of their own, strategizing and reflecting in the same manner as the real council had. A hint of a smile touched her lips, amusement flickering within her. She decided to let them continue uninterrupted. 

Turning away, she made her way back to her own chambers, her steps slow and measured. Upon entering, she found the maester waiting, as anticipated, with a cup of dreamwine prepared. This small comfort was a necessary solace to ease the edges of her day’s burdens and help her find rest in a night that promised little peace.

Often as she slept, Rhaenys found herself chasing the echo of her children. She roamed the corridors of Driftmark, pursuing their elusive shadows, guided by the merry peals of their giggles that seemed to bounce off the ancient walls. The chase was a game for them, their voice whispers and echoes, warning one another of her approach. She would chase after them, seeking to grasp them, as she once did in days filled with joy, yearning to envelop them in her embrace, to incite laughter with gentle tickles that made them plead for respite. 

But in the realm of dreams, her efforts were in vain; the moment her fingers nearly brushed against them, they dissipated into mere wisps of smoke and ash. Such dreams were a cruel torment, yet Rhaenys harbored a hope that, someday, she would finally catch them, hold them close, and vow never to release them. 

Even as time blurred their features and the years stretched on, she clung to this hope, her only defense against the creeping shadow that loomed over her children, a shadow as boundless and malevolent as the darkest night, threatening to consume them and leave her with nothing. 

As frequently as her dreams offered a haunting glimpse of her children, Rhaenys found herself awakening to a world in which they remained just as elusive–mere ghosts and echoes. 

The timber of a voice shattered the remnants of her dream, causing her to startle awake. She had been so close to capturing that fleeting sense of connection with her children–so agonizingly close. Her eyes, heavy with sleep and sorrow, adjusted to focus on the figure of her husband. His dark complexion was glossed with a sheen of sweat, evidence of the fever he’d been battling for days now. The maesters had harbored doubts about his chances of survival, and now, observing him, breathing and alert, Rhaenys couldn’t help but feel a surge of relief and frustration. 

“I’ve had men whipped for falling asleep on their watch,” he had remarked, and then continued, “You are no man.”

A wry smile played on his lips, followed by a chuckle that suggested he found humor in the situation. 

The irony of his jest did little to lighten her mood, serving instead as a reminder of her sex–how could she ever forget? 

Rhaenys’s amusement was absent; instead, a deep-seated anger smoldered within her, scorching any relief she might have felt at his survival into bitter resentment. 

“You abandoned me,” she murmured, the whisper sharp and laden with the profound bitterness of desertion. Her words carried the weight of years spent watching his ship’s sails shrink on the horizon until they vanished entirely–an accusation steeped in the sense of abandonment she had harbored silently since he took to the horizon. 

Her statement was not just a declaration but an indictment, punctuated by the pain and resentment that had festered within her as the years stretched on. Even their brief encounter during Daenera’s wedding had not provided an opportunity to voice her anguish.

“You abandoned me when I most needed you,” she stated, her voice icy with accusation. “Both our children stolen from us. I needed you. Baela and Rhaena needed you, and you abandoned us for more adventures at sea…”

Her words hung heavily in the air, a cold echo of the pain and betrayal that had accumulated over the lonely years. 

Rhaenys’s anger was not the blazing sort; it had cooled over time into something more glacial and piercing. Gone were the days when her fury might erupt like a wild inferno or a raging sea. What remained now was a cold, deliberate wrath–a slow, creeping frost that threatened a quiet death. 

Corlys had left her to endure her grief alone, left her to wander the silent, echoing halls of Driftmark. He had always chased the horizon, his spirit as restless and uncontainable as the sea. She had known this about him when they wed, had even loved him for his insatiable thirst for adventure and his ambition. She had accepted his nature, even as it led him to wars and quests in distant lands. 

Yet, she had never envisioned that he would leave her so utterly abandoned.

“...As has always been your way,” she said, her voice carrying a cool edge as she leaned forward to dip a cloth into the basin next to her bed, wringing it out meticulously.

“I had no other place to turn,” Corlys replied, his voice a low, scratchy echo of its usual resonant timber. He seemed taken aback by her coldness, and his response was feeble, almost desperate. “I lost everything.”

Her eyes narrowed, a sharp intensity flashing through them as she felt a fissure in her usually composed demeanor. With a voice laced with icy reproach, she corrected him sharply, “We lost, Corlys. We.”

Her words seemed to strike him with the weight of solemn truth, settling on his shoulders like an irrefutable indictment. They had both suffered immense losses–not just him alone. The pain registered clearly on his face, a visible manifestation of his inner turmoil, and he averted his gaze as she approached in an attempt to mask the emotions brimming in his eyes. 

Rhaenys sat beside him on the bed, her movements gentle and deliberate–despite her cold fury. She took his hand in hers, soothingly running a damp cloth over his skin, washing away the grime and sweat of illness. The room was enveloped in a heavy silence, dense with the weight of unspoken words–echoes of past arguments mindled with threads of relief and memories that lingered in the air like ghosts. 

His eyes wandered around the room, a subtle shift in his demeanor, a slight easing of tension. “Dragonstone?”

“They brought you in last night,” she replied, carefully dabbing the cloth on his wrist, where his pulse beat a steady rhythm under her fingers, still noticeably warm. 

Corlys responded with a wry chuckle, a faint smile touching his lips as he spoke, “Clinging to life like a half-drowned sailor to a piece of driftwood, no doubt.”

In that moment, with his attempt at humor, there was a brief respite from the gravity of their situation, a shared understanding that, despite everything, they remained tethered to each other. 

“The maesters were doubtful of your survival,” Rhaenys murmured, gently turning his hand to cleanse the underside of his palm. As she tended to him, the profound silence continued to envelop the room, thick and heavy. She allowed it to linger.

Corlys’s gaze followed her movements, his expression reflective. Seemingly seeking to divert the topic, he ventured, “I understand we have a new king.”

Rhaenys paused, her hands methodically cleaning between his fingers, although the skin was already clean. It was a deliberate action, a distraction from the raw edges of her emotions. 

“The Stranger cast a long shadow over this family,” she responded, her voice low and steady. She moved the cloth up to his brow, gently wiping away any vestiges of discomfort. Corlys’s eyes softened, searching her face as if he were a desperate wanderer seeking a sign of live in a landscape of desolation. Yet, life was not what she could offer him now.

“Your brother is also dead,” she said quietly, locking eyes with him as she broke the heavy news.

The impact of her words were immediate. Confusion and pain knitted her husband’s brows together, his face a canvas of shock and anguish. He made an effort to sit up, a groan escaping him as pain seemed to shoot through his body. He managed only a slight elevation before the effort proved too much, and he sank back onto the pillows, a hand clutching at his chest. His breathing became labored, his eyes wide and searching hers for answers. How?

As she provided context for the staggering loss he was grappling with, Rhaenys’s voice carried a solemnity that resonated in the quiet room. “In his haste to bury you and claim your seat, he stood before the King and denounced Laenor’s sons as illegitimate.”

Corlys exhaled a weary sigh, his head skating in disbelief as the range of emotions played across his features–disbelief, anger, betrayal, sadness, and loss.

“Daemon took his head for it,” Rhaenys stated, her voice carrying a detached flatness as she relayed the grim outcome. 

Corlys’s reaction was a humorless scoff. “Heedless ambition has always been a Velaryon weakness.”

“That heedless ambition won us all that we now possess,” Rhaenys countered softly, her hand gently pressing against his chest to encourage him to lie back comfortably. She returned to dabbing at the seat on his brow, her touch tender yet fraught with apprehension.

His brows knitted together, the furrows deepening as he reflected on her words. “Heedless ambition has cost us everything that we love.”

The admission wrapped around Rhaenys’s aching heart like a cold shroud, settling heavily among the fragments of her shattered spirit. Her eyes fluttered shut momentarily as she absorbed the sign and strange solace of his words–an acknowledgement of their shared burden of loss due to their ambition.

“You were right, Rhaenys,” Corlys finally admitted, his voice tinged with a bitterness that betrayed his inner turmoil. “I reached too far. And for nothing.”

Rhaenys had waited years to hear these words, yet their arrival brought no comfort, only slicing deeper into her wounds. They had once had everything, yet it had never been enough.

“Why did you leave me?” The question escaped her lips, laden with hurt and weariness that she couldn’t disguise. 

Corlys’s gaze met hers, fraught with pain as he clasped her hand. His confession was raw, his voice barely above a whisper, revealing his wounds to her. “After Laenor was slain… I couldn’t bear to face you.” His eyes held hers, reflecting a torment born of grief and self-reproach. “I fled to the Stepstones, seeking my own death.”

The honesty in his admission laid bare the depth of his despair, offering Rhaenys a glimpse into the dark abyss he had been grappling with–a man haunted by loss, driven to the brink of self-destruction. Her fingers tightened around his, clasping them firmly.  It was something she understood well, a mirror to her own abyss, though she never afforded herself to seek it–without their children, what indeed remained for them? Yet, she had glimpses of hope, echoes of their lineage in their granddaughters–Baela, Rhaena, and even Daenera. Death might seem a merciful release for themselves, but it would abandon those who still lived and remembered them. Her grip intensified, as if to convey her resolve through their intertwined hands. 

A solitary tear rolled down her cheek, marking the first she had shed in years. 

“I am relieved that you failed,” she whispered, her voice soft and laden with deep emotions. Unspoken words hung between them, a plea for him not to leave her in solitude–she could not, would not be able to bear that.

The slight upturn of his lips, fragile yet genuine, eased the sharp edges of her bitterness. His smile, though faint, was a balm to her aching heart. He exhaled slowly, his resignation palpable in the quiet of the room. 

“Our pursuit of the Iron Throne…is at an end,” Corlys declared, squeezing her hand as if to solidify their mutual decision. The warmth of his touch seemed to seep into her skin, mingling with her own. “We shall declare for no one. We will retire to High Tide to be content… with our grandchildren and whatever else remains to us.”

Rhaenys stared at her husband, her eyes searching his for an understanding she felt slipping away. While she might have once yeared to hear him speak of withdrawing from the political fray, the words seemed to only jolt her now. Corlys, who had sailed restless and untamable as the sea, now spoke of retreating inward, and it left her unsettled. 

“It is the thought of those children that now rob me of sleep,” Rhaenys confessed, her voice tinged with fatigue. “Jace, Luke and Joff are all claimants to the throne. Those boys will not be safe so long as Aegon is king. And they hold Daenera as a hostage in King’s Landing…”

“Rhaenyra was complicit in our son’s death,” Corlys stated flatly, voice carrying a bitter edge. His expression hardened with resentment. “That girl destroys everything she touches–”

“That ‘girl,’” Rhaenys interjected sharply, “is holding the realm together at present.”

Corlys paused, seemingly taken aback by the conviction in her voice. The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of their years and losses between them, mingling with the cool draft that flickered the nearby candle. Rhaenys’s gaze did not waver, holding onto the thread of duty that had defined so much of their lives. 

Rhaenys had once harbored the same harsh feelings as Corlys, her soul steeped in bitterness from the loss of their son and the resentment that Rhaenyra would have a hand in his murder–and part of her had resented Rhaenyra that it was she, not her, that would ascend to the throne–the very throne that had been denied her all those years ago Yet, living with such bitterness proved to be a cold companion, sapping her spirit day by day. She couldn’t cling to that hatred any longer; while the resentment lingered and forgiveness was beyond her, the burden of hatred was too heavy to bear any further. Baela had wisely pointed out that if they didnøt stand by and fight for the loved ones they still had, all that remained was a hollow emptiness.  

“Every man standing around the Painted Table urges her to plunge the realm into war,” Rhaenys said, her voice steady despite the weight of the topic. “Rhaenyra is the one who’s demonstrated restraint.”

Corlys observed her intently, taking in her words. 

“We’ve lost our children,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. “Our resentment will bring us nothing but empty halls. Retreat might spare us, but it will not spare those we leave behind.”

He shifted, the rustle of his beeding a soft sound in the quiet of the chamber. His eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, now reflected a weariness that matched her own. 

“Rhaenyra shows restraint because she understands the cost of war,” Rhaenys pressed on, her hands clasped tightly around his hands. “She is willing to consider ceding the throne for the sake of the realm and her children–and for that same reason, she must fight for them. We both know what war does and what it can take from us. We’ve buried our children, Corlys. I can’t–and I won’t–stand by while our grandchildren risk their lives for their legacy.”

The Sea Snake studied his wife, his face etched with marks of a thousand sea voyages and just as many regrets. Slowly, he rested his free hand on top of hers, his touch tentative yet seeking. He gave her a small, contemplative nod. 

Rhaenyra stirred from her bed with the dawn, despite the maester’s dreamwine, which was supposed to grant her a respite from her relentless thoughts. Yet, the sleep had been anything but restorative. She rose feeling as if a shroud of weariness still clung to her, a dense fog that muddled her senses as though she hadn’t slept at all–or perhaps had slept for centuries, waking to a realm unfamiliar and altered. 

But nothing had been altered from the day before, not yet. 

As her handmaids attended her, dressing her in garments befitting a queen, each movement felt laborious, each fabric heavier than it should. Her hair was brushed until it was silky smooth, then carefully braided. The crown remained on the dressing table, its presence enough to feel its weight on her brow. 

Rhaenyra had taken a deep breath, attempting to shake off the cobwebs of sleep and the vestiges of wine that clouded her thoughts. She needed clarity, now more than ever, as she prepared to make her decision. Today, like every day, demanded her to be fully present, to wield her authority with the same efficiency as those who came before her–calm, calculated, and above all, clear-headed.

She lingered at the edge of the landing, her eyes drawn by the vigorous training session unfolding below. Daemon’s form was a blur of motion, each movement executed with the savage grace of a seasoned warrior. His expression was one of raw, unbridled intensity, a permanent sneer twisting his features as he dominated each opponent with the relentless determination of a storm sweeping across the sea. The sound of his boot connecting with Clarrik Plunder echoed sharply through the courtyard, the guard’s body hitting the ground with a heavy thud that resonated against the ancient stones of the castle walls. 

Shifting her focus away from the brutal display, Rhaenyra turned her attention to the letter in her hand. With a steady inhale, she steeled herself for the words she was about to read. The red wax, embossed with the Hand of the King’s sigil, gave away beneath her fingers, fragments falling softly to the ground, even as the seal had already been opened–presumably by Daemon at some point during her sleep.

The warmth of the nearby brazier caressed her face, its flames licking lively, casting a glow that played across her features, lighting up her determined eyes. The soft crackles and pops of the wood burning punctuated the moment, filling the space around her with the sounds of the fire’s restless dance–restless as the man growling in the courtyard for his opponent to come at him. 

As she unfolded the letter, the words began to reveal themselves, her pulse quickened with a sharp sense of trepidation. She scanned the words rapidly, each sentence amplifying the beat of her heart as a storm of emotions welled up inside her. Apprehension mingled with a steeling determination as she disgusted the contents of the message, the gravity of each word weighing heavily upon her. The missive’s implications for her rule and the realm reverberated through her, setting the course for decisions that would shape their fates. Her fingers tightened around the parchment, the crisp rustle of paper echoing softly in the mostly quiet of the morning.

Mother, It is with a heavy heart and a sense of duty that I write to you to urge you to bend the knee to Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, as the legitimate sovereign of the Seven Kingdoms.

Rhaenyra paused, granting herself a moment of respite amidst the turmoil. She closed her eyes and placed a hand over the slight curve of her abdomen, where a dull ache lingered, a cruel reminder of the life that had once thrived within her–a life cruelly snatched away. The sensation of her unborn child’s movements, once a delight filled with promise and hope, now only underscored the profound emptiness that gnawed at her core. 

The gods were truly cruel in their mockery. 

Despite her expectations, the contents of the letter sliced through her anew, stirring a fresh wave of despair. A naive part of her had still clung to the sliver of hope for a different message, a different outcome. But the harsh reality offered no such solace.

Taking a deep breath, Rhaenyra steadied herself, opening her eyes to the unyielding light of morning. She swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat, her resolve hardening. 

Upon his deathbed, Viserys amended his wishes for the succession, naming Aegon as his heir. I understand that this revelation may be difficult for you to accept, but it is the truth, and one we should accept. 

Aegon now justly assumes the crown and occupies the Iron Throne, fulfilling the last wishes of his father. The kingdom has acknowledged his rightful ascendancy, and it is incumbent upon us, following the late King’s desires, to do likewise. Hence, I implore you to consider the proposed terms of your surrender with openness. 

Rhaenyra’s heart sank as a strangled, pained noise escaped her lips, a futile effort to stifle the sop that lodged in her throat, threatening to burst forth. She cast her eyes skyward, desperately trying to hold back the tears that prickled at the back of her eyes, as the words on the parchment cut into her like a finely honed dagger. 

She stared at the letter, her gaze intense and unwavering, as if sheer willpower might somehow rewrite the devastating information it delivered. Disbelief and a profound sense of betrayal surged through her, clashing violently with everything she knew about the man who had supported her claim until the very end.

As she grappled with the contents of the letter, questions swirled through her mind, each echoing with increasing intensity. Did her father genuinely have a change of heart? Could it be that he altered the succession with his final breath, as the letter suggested? Had he revealed the prophecy to Aegon as he had done her? 

With each unanswered question, doubt seeped into her thoughts, and then, a fiery anger began to kindle within her chest. 

Her father had always been resolute that she was his heir, coming out of the seclusion of his illness specifically to reaffirm her and her children’s rights. The notion that he would change his mind and designate Aegon as his successor was unimaginable. What sense was there in affirming her as his chosen successor, defending her right to rule, only to revoke it in a cruel twist? 

She dismissed the possibility outright. She couldn’t accept that her father, if truly intent on changing the succession, would have waited until his female moments to do so. He would have taken action years earlier, she reasoned. He would have yielded to the Hightower’s efforts instead of standing firm as he always had. It was inconceivable that he would use his dying breath to sow discord and chaos within the realm. 

Rhaenyra clenched the letter tighter, her knuckles whitening as the fire of her resolve grew stronger. She would not accept these claims. 

I understand that my safety and well-being may be a source of worry for you. Please be reassured, I am well cared for. The King extends his kindness towards me, and it is with a sense of joy that I inform you of my betrothal to the King’s brother, Aemond Targaryen. I hope this news brings you some measure of solace, knowing that my decision was made freely. Our forthcoming marriage aims to strengthen the bonds within our House, ensuring the stability of the realm. 

In light of these developments, I extend an earnest invitation for you and our family to attend our wedding. My deepest desire is for your presence there, demonstrating to the realm the united front of House Targaryen. 

I fully comprehend the immense burden of the choices before you, along with the sacrifices and concessions they necessitate. Nevertheless, I implore you to consider what a war would mean for the realm and our house should you refuse to accept Aegon Targaryen as the legitimate and undisputed King of the Seven Kingdoms.

For the prosperity and stability of the realm, and for the safety of our family, I beseech you, publicly acknowledge Aegon Targaryen as your sovereign and submit to his rule. 

Sincerely, 

Your Daughter,

Daenera Velaryon.

Rhaenyra exhaled slowly, her hand instinctively soothing the persistent ache in her abdomen, the throb made worse by the emotional turmoil stirred by the letter. It offered no comfort, only another sharp tool for the Hightowers to wield, a means to stir doubt and remind her that they hold the life and well-being of her daughter within their grasp. The desire to embrace her daughter, to feel her safe and close, gnawed at her restlessly. Yet, the letter brought her no closer to her daughter; it was just a cold expanse of ink on parchment.

As the implications of her potential decisions hung heavily in the air, a dark shadow seemed to stretch across her spirit, suffusing her thoughts with uncertainty. Was her rightful claim to the throne worth risking the stability and prosperity of the realm? Could she justify the risk to her children’s lives and happiness? What would remain for her, for them, if she capitulated to the Hightowers’ demands?

Each thought circled in her mind, restless and unyielding, like a tide crashing against the castle’s foundations–each wave a reminder of the heavy weight of the responsibility of the crown. 

Below her, Daemon’s commanding voice cut through the metallic clatter of steel, his taunts sharp as the edge of his blade. He gripped a guard by the doublet and shoved him back with a forceful gesture–a clear challenge to come at him again. 

Two knights advanced on Daemon simultaneously, attempting a coordinated assault. With a masterful parry, Daemon redirected one knight’s blade, skillfully cursing him to stumble into the path of his comrade. This disruption broke their attack’s rhythm and allowed Daemon to focus on a third knight. Their swords clashed in a harsh symphony of steel, he grabbed the doublet of the knight, twisting and pushing him back into his fellow knights, causing them both to collapse in a heap of clattering steel and intertwined limbs. 

He barked out a challenge, frustration lacing his tone, “Get up! Fight me!”

Rhaenyra watched Daemon from above, his gaze catching hers with a fierce intensity that made her pulse quicken. Once again, she grasped the full depths of his desires–a deep, insatiable thirst for war and glory. It was evident in every aspect of his demeanor, from his aggressive stance to the relentless determination in his actions. For Daemon, war was not merely a possibility; it was an inevitability. He craved it, and from the fiery determination in his eyes, Rhaenyra knew he would drive them towards it by any means necessary. 

As the skirmish unfolded below, Rhaenyra’s fingers absently traced the edges of the letter she held. Each movement of Daemon, each clash of steel, stirred a tumult of thoughts within her–his words echoing in her mind, urging her to take action, to declare war, to spill blood. His fervor stirred a knot of apprehension in her chest as she contemplated the potential aftermath of the war he so fervently longed for. The possibility of devastation loomed large, casting shadows over the future of her family and the realm. 

Daemon’s desire for war was a path fraught with uncertainty, one that could lead to ruin as much as victory. It was a path as fickle as flames, threatening to devour everything in its path and leave nothing but ashes behind. 

Beside her, Jace’s voice broke through her reverie.

“Daemon wants to fight for us,” Jace observed, coming to stand next to her. Together they watched the chaotic training below, a physical manifestation of his frustration and readiness for war. 

Rhaenyra responded to her son’s observation with a cautious murmur, her voice tinged with weariness. “I will always fight for our family, but this is not as simple as one or the other.”

Jace’s posture shifted as he countered, “It could not be simpler. If you concede to Aegon’s terms, you will forfeit my life. And Luke’s and Joff’s.”

At her son’s assertion, a sense of resignation swept through Rhaenyra. She briefly closed her eyes, gathering her strength against the force of his argument. Upon opening them, she turned her eyes upon her son, watching him closely. “Are these truly your words, or are they echoed from another?”

“These are my words, Mother. And I stand by them,” Jace answered, facing her intense scrutiny with firm resolve, his expression marked by an unshakable determination. “If you relinquish your claim to the throne, we will be taken hostage, or sent to the wall, or put to the sword. I do not know which fate will await us, but I do know that they will call us ‘bastards’ first.”

Rhaenyra spoke, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edges of the letter as though the paper itself could offer comfort in the storm of her thoughts. “Alicent has promised that you would be treated kindly.”

“The word of a usurper means little and less,” Jace countered sharply, his words carrying a wisdom beyond his years. His dismissal of Alicent’s promise resonated deeply within Rhaenyra, echoing the doubts that haunted her heart. If it had been only Alicent they dealt with, then perhaps they would have found common ground, but it was not solely Alicent they were to contend with. 

“They have Daenera,” she said gravely, getting to the heart of the matter. “Should we choose the path of war, her fate becomes uncertain.”

Handing over the letter to him, Rhaenyra watched her sons’ expression transition from a worried determination to utter disbelief, his eyes flickered over the writing, widening slightly, and the frown that had settled upon his face turned into a scowl of incredulity.

“This is her hand, but these words… they’re not hers,” he asserted, his voice tinged with anger. “You mustn’t lend any weight to the lies of usurpers–they’ll say anything to justify putting Aegon on the throne.”

“It’s not the deceit and fabrications that concern me,” Rhaenyra said with a note of solemnity. The unspoken concern as to whether her father had truly changed the succession hovered in the air, unacknowledged yet palpable. “It’s the threat to Daenera–what they might do to her if I refuse to surrender the throne.”

Jace’s eyes met hers, brimming with a blend of determination and understanding. “And if you surrender, you risk losing all of us.”

Rhaenyra watched her son, her gaze studying him intently. When had the shift occurred? When had he become a man? He was no longer a boy intent on living up his title as her heir, but a man that understood what it was he was saying–understood the implications and consequences. He knew what he stood for and he was willing to fight for it. And for a moment, she saw his father in him; strong and honorable, committed to defend what he believed was right.

“I love Daenera as deeply as you,” Jace pressed on, his voice earnest, his presence commanding attention. “And I am certain she would say the same as I do. She would never want you to abandon your claim. She’d urge you to fight, to stand firm.”

As Jace clenched the parchment, the letter crumbled in his tight grasp, his voice infused with conviction. “Surrendering to their demands won’t bring Daenera back to us. She’ll remain a hostage, trapped by her marriage to Aemond. The only way to secure her freedom is by action–by asserting your right to the throne and taking her back in the process.”

He waved the crumpled letter. “Don’t let the Hightowers’ lies waver your resolve–you are the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the protector of the realm and they are usurpers. It is your responsibility to defend it against people like them. Burn the letter, summon the council and show the Hightowers that you stand firm as the rightful Queen, that you will not bend the knee.”

Rhaenyra listened, the strength and certainty in Jace’s words infusing a new resolve within her. Her son, her once little boy, now stood before her as a man, his counsel not just comforting but wise. His words were not just spoken; they were declared, a fervent call to arms. 

Below her, Daemon dominated the training grounds, his movements predatory as he paced back and forth like a shadowcat protecting its den. His commands boomed across the courtyard, challenging and taunting as he urged a knight sprawled on the ground to stand and engage him once more. His stance was that of an unyielding warrior, every movement sharp and decisive–his blood seemed to run hot this morning as he kicked at the knight struggling to get up, jeering at him. 

Engrossed in her contemplations, Rhaenyra remained silent, absorbing her son’s words. It was only after Jace’s footsteps began to echo away, leaving a resonant silence behind, that she found her voice. 

“Convene the council,” she commanded, her voice carrying a newfound determination. “And have the master prepare a raven. King’s Landing will have my decision.”

Jace did not answer, but she felt his agreement nonetheless. 

The command to gather the council quickly spread through the courtyard, delivered by a knight whose voice cut through the clanging of swords, stealing away the members of her Queensguard, leaving Daemon only with a handful of knights. 

For a brief moment, Rhaenyra’s eyes met Daemon’s. His gaze burned with a fierce longing for battle–for war. It sparked a flame of apprehension within her. Turning from the landing, she retreated into the castle.

As the council meeting descended into chaos, the lords clashed vehemently, their voices rising in dissonance. No consensus was reached, and the lack of unity among her advisors left Rhaenyra weary. She sank back into her chair, her gaze drifting over the assembled lords who continued to bicker, their arguments blending into a background hum of contention. 

Daemon’s absence was palpable; without his strategic insights, the council lacked a decisive voice on matters of war, leaving the discussions to lords who were inexperienced with anything beyond petty skirmishes. Had he been present, she knew he would have opposed her inclination towards diplomacy over direct conflict. His presence would have brought a palpable tension as he pushed for more decisive actions. 

Instead, there were only the lords and their petty arguing. 

Lord Staunton stood slightly bent at the shoulders as he argued, “We must consider the long-term stability of the realm. An outright war could devastate the lands we strive to protect.”

“Stability?” Lord Bartimos barked, his jaw bristling with contempt. “There’s no stability when usurpers sit upon the throne! We must act, and act swiftly, to show that treachery against the rightful queen will not be tolerated.”

“If we rush into battle, we are like to fill the graveyards!” Lord Staunton frowned, the lines on his face deepening.

Rhaenyra’s thoughts wandered as she considered the gravity of declaring war. The weight of such a decision hung heavily upon her, filling her with trepidation. She had only just sent a letter to King’s Landing, refusing the offer of surrender and instead bringing them the terms of theirs. The room echoed with the sounds of disagreement, but beneath that noise, the silent burden of leadership pressed down on her. With no clear path laid before her, and the council proving more divisive than supportive, the queen felt the isolation of her position acutely. Her mind churned with potential consequences, the lives that hung in the balance, and the stability of the realm that teetered on the edge of her decision. 

“The purpose of war is to fill graveyards, my dear Lord Staunton,” Lord Batimos said, his tone dripping with condescension. “The trick is to put more of their men in the ground than our own.”

Rhaenyra’s heart sank a little more with each word. She wouldn’t want to put any men in the ground if she could avoid it, she thought somberly, keeping her gaze fixed on the dust swirling in the beams of sunlight that cut through the room. 

Lord Staunton bristled at Bartimos’ remark. “Easy words for a lord who commands from the safety of his castle.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” Bartimos waved dismissively, unaffected by the jab. 

Before the argument could spiral further, Ser Erryk Cargyll’s voice cut through the discussion. “Lord of the Tides!”

All heads turned to the arrivals.

“Lord Corlys Velaryon,” Ser Erryk continued, “And his wife, the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”

Rhaenyra rose swiftly from her seat, despite the lingering weariness in her muscles and the dull ache that resonated from the recent childbirth. Her hands clasped before her, restlessly twisting one of the rings on her fingers as her gaze fixed on the approaching figures of Corlys Velaryon and Rhaenys Targaryen.

As Lord Corlys descended the steps into the council chamber, he leaned heavily on his cane. Each tap echoed crisply in the hushed room, his silver-white hair swaying around his shoulders with each deliberate step. The only other sound was the distant whir of the wind outside.

The seasoned lord moved with deliberate care towards the Painted Table, his keen eyes scanning the room before finally resting on Rhaenyra. His presence, as always, commanded attention, bringing with it a gravitas that was both reassuring and daunting. 

Rhaenyra offered a slight nod, her gaze briefly touching on Lord Corlys as she addressed him. “Lord Corlys. It brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again.”

“I am very sorry about your father, Princess. He was a good man,” Corlys said, his voice rich with sincerity. The use of her former title momentarily unsettled Rhaenyra, but she masked any emotional stir quickly, her fingers tightening briefly around the ring on her hand. Her eyes drifted to where her step-daughters, Baela and Rhaena, joined their respective betrotheds, their presence reinforcing the ties that bound the family together–and her sons, seeing their betrotheds, seemed unable to keep the smile from their lips.

Corlys gaze swept the room once more before settling back on her. “Where is Daemon?”

“There were other concerns which demanded the Prince’s attention,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice even, choosing her words carefully to avoid delving into the personal strife that lingered between them. Daemon could be anywhere–training his frustration out in the courtyard, patrolling the battlements to ensure the guards remained vigilant, or even delving into the depths of the Dragonmont in search of unclaimed dragons to bolster their ranks. Whatever task he had set himself, it was enough to keep him from her side, advising her in these uncertain times. 

Corlys responded with a reproachful hum, clearly disagreeing with Daemon’s decision to remain away. He moved closer to the Painted Table, his cane clicking against the stone floor with each step. His eyes carefully studied the map of Westeros spread out before them, taking in the wooden and brass pieces that represented their forces and alliances.

“Your declared allies?” Corlys asked, gesturing towards the pieces on the map.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra confirmed, her voice steady as she followed his gaze. 

“Too few to win a war for the throne.” Corlys’s observation was a blunt instrument, striking at the core of Rhaenyra’s political position. The ripple of his words through the chamber underscored the gravity of their situation, reflecting the doubt and concern lurking beneath the surface of their precarious alliances.

Rhaenyra, feeling a deepening pit in her stomach, continued to fidget with the ring on her finger, a nervous tick that betrayed her growing anxiety. “Well… we would also hope for the support of Houses Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark.”

“Hope,” Corlys repeated, his voice a low and resonant timber that commanded respect, “is a fool’s ally.”

This remark stung, as it was intended to. Rhaenyra straightened, her eyes locking with those of Corlys. “Both Arryn and Baratheon share blood with my house–but all of them swore oaths to me.”

“As did House Hightower… if my memory serves,” Corlys remarked, his tone laced with a deliberate provocation seemingly aimed to unsettle her. The tension in the council chamber thickened as his words lingered in the air.

Unmoved, though slightly rattled by the challenge, Rhaenyra fixed her hardened gaze upon him. “As did you, Lord Corlys.”

It was both a challenge and a reminder of the alliance he swore all those years ago, along with the other lords of the realm, and it carried a certain undercurrent of a threat that he would not take kindly to him usurping his vows.

Lord Corlys met her stare, the lines of his weathered face deepening as the silence stretched on. The room was heavy with the silence, the earlier tapping of his cane now replaced by a subtle rustle of his garments as he adjusted his posture. His dark eyes briefly shifted to his wife, Princess Rhaenys, standing just behind Rhaenyra, seemingly exchanging a silent, significant glance before turning his gaze upon his grandchildren. The silence stretched, laded with anticipation, none daring to break it. 

Rhaenyra’s eyes instinctively drifted towards her sons and their betrotheds, each embodying a distinct reaction to the unfolding scene. Baela’s expression held a resolute determination, her jaw set as if bracing for the storm of politics. Jace met his grandfather’s gaze with an equally steadfast look, his posture rigid, a silent vow to uphold his family’s honor no matter the challenger. Rhaena watched the proceedings with expectant eyes, her anticipation palpable. 

Meanwhile, Luke bore a subtle smile, his eyes sparkling with relief and a touch of joy at seeing his grandsire robust and commanding, defying the fears that had shadowed his recent thoughts–relieved that he would not be made the Lord of the Tides on this morn.

Each sibling, in their way, recognized the gravity of the discussion, understood the fragile thread that had been pulled taut. 

Corlys’s gaze eventually shifted from his grandchildren back to the council at large. He lowered his head slightly, a gesture indicating deep contemplation. When his eyes lifted to meet Rhaenyra’s once more, they were sharp and determined.

“Your father’s realm,” Corlys finally continued, his deep voice carried through the chamber, every word resonating with authority, drawing the rapt attention of all present, “was one of justice and honor…”

Hope swelled within Rhaenyra, a delicate bud unfurling in her chest with each breath. The allegiance of House Velaryon and their fleet was crucial should the winds of war stir. 

“Our houses are bound by common blood and common cause. This Hightower treason cannot stand,” Corlys declared. The underlying message was clear: their alliance was pivotal, and any betrayal against it was unacceptable. The air was charged with the weight of his words. “You have the full support of our fleet and house.”

The Sea Snake bent his head to his Queen. “Your Grace.”

“You honor me, Lord Corlys,” Rhaenyra responded, her voice carrying a tremble of emotion stirred by the gravity of his pledge–and what it meant for her cause. She then nodded towards Princess Rhaenys with a respectful acknowledgement before turning back to the Painted Table. Her gaze swept over the intricate landscape, each ally marked by wooden pawns and each pivotal place marked by brass towers. 

“But, as I said to my bannermen, I made a promise to my father to hold the realm strong and united,” Rhaenyra declared. “If war’s first stroke is to fall, it will not be by my hand.”

Corlys’s eyebrows arched, his face etched with a mix of surprise and caution. “You do not mean to act?”

The question lingered in the hushed council chamber, a reminder of the delicate balance between aggression and diplomacy. Rhaenyra stood resolute, her stance a clear reflection of her intentions. She was determined not to be the instigator of war if it could be avoided. Her resolve was not only born out of fear but of wisdom; she understood the heavy ghosts associated with such conflicts, not just in therms of lives lost, but in the lasting scars they would leave on the realm. She had promised her father to protect the realm and its unity–to be prepared for the threat from the North. 

“Taking caution does not mean standing fast,” Rhaenyra clarified, her tone firm yet contemplative. “I wish to know who my allies are before I send them to war.”

As Corlys approached the Painted Table, the measured tap of his cane resonated through the council chamber, each step a deliberate echo in the tense atmosphere. He paused, eyes narrowing over the map at the depiction of the Gullet and its strategic surroundings. Drawing a deep breath, his voice carried a trace of wryness as he shared his own news. “The consequences of my… near-demise in the Stepstones is that we now control them.

Rhaenyra’s expression flickered with surprise, her gaze darting briefly to her councilors before returning to Corlys, her interest piqued by the implications of his revelation. 

“I took care to fully garrison the territory this time,” Corlys asserted, his voice resolute, bearing the seasoned confidence of a commander who had twice claimed victory there. “A total blockade of shipping lanes will be in place in days, if not already. The Triarchy have been routed. The Narrow Sea is ours.”

Extending his hand to hover above the section of the map depicting the Gullet, Corlys proposed a strategic play. “If we further seal the Gullet, we can cut off all seaborne travel and trade to King’s Landing.”

At this juncture, Princess Rhaenys decided to finally add her voice, “I shall take Meleys and patrol the Gullet myself.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze met Rhaenys’s with a palpable connection; in her eyes, she found neither resentment nor hatred, only support. A hopeful feeling blossomed within her, vibrant and fortifying. 

Lord Bartimos Celtigar, unable to contain his fervor, leaned eagerly over the map. “When we drain the Narrow Sea, we can surround King’s Landing, lay siege to the Red Keep, and force the Greens’ surrender.”

Rhaenyra, placing her palms firmly on the table and leaning forward, scanned the map thoughtfully. She didn’t want them to get ahead of themselves. “If we are to have enough swords to surround King’s Landing, we must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm's End.”

Her eyes traced the locations of each house on the map, considering the strategic implications. By isolating King’s Landing and halting its trade, they could force a siege. The Greens, stripped of options and resources, would face a stark choice: surrender or endure starvation. They would have no choice but to negotiate if they wished to survive, Rhaenyra mused. She knew well the leverage they held with Daenera–she would be used to bargain their surrender and survival. More importantly, this tactic would seizure the safe return of her daughter. Rhaenyra was determined to use every advantage at her disposal not just to win, but to bring her daughter back unharmed, keeping the bloodshed to a minimum and maintaining the dignity of the crown.

If they were able to lay siege to King’s Landing, it might not come to war. 

Maester Gerardys, seeming to sense the gravity of the moment and need for swift communication, said, “I’ll prepare the ravens.”

“We should bear those messages,” Jace suggested, his tone low and imbued with a confident resolve. “Dragons can fly faster than ravens and they’re more convincing.”

Standing before her, Rhaenyra saw her eldest son not just as a boy, but as a man. He mirrored the suggestion she had once made to her own father. She had been just a girl then, no older than Lucerys was now, imploring her father to let her serve as a messenger. The memory of the council’s chuckle and their condescending dismissal resurfaced in her mind–how they advised her to stay silent, to not overstep her bounds as a young princess, as a girl, that those were the matters of men. 

“Send us,” Jace pressed, his words resonating deeply within Rhaenyra, intertwining with her own youthful voice from the past. Send us. See us. Trust us.

Rhaenyra’s gaze swept over her sons. She could see the understanding of the danger in Jace’s eyes, a maturity that belied his age. Luke, by his side, looked slightly unsure, his face tinged with anxiety as he tried to emulate his brother’s confidence, to stand equally resolute. On Jace’s other side, Baela’s expression was one of pride as she looked at her betrothed, her future husband and king, her smile reflecting admiration of his bravery. 

“The Prince is right, Your Grace,” Corlys voiced his support, pulling the focus back to Rhaenyra. 

Luke nodded, supporting his brother’s idea.

“Very well,” Rhaenyra consented, feeling her heart throb with a mix of anxiety and pride. “Prince Jacaerys will fly North–first to the Eyrie to see my mother’s cousin, the Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North.”

Jace nodded, embodying the stature and dignity expected of a prince and the heir apparent, his demeanor firm and purposeful. He had always embodied the quintessential heir–determined, steadfast in his duties, and relentless in his efforts to live up to the expectations set before him. And proud she was as she observed him now, ready to undertake this mission.

Rhaenyra then turned her attention to her younger son, who appeared less assured but no less determined. “Prince Lucerys will fly to Storm’s End and treat with Lord Borros Baratheon.”

As the strategy unfurled, a wave of shared anticipation and determination swept through the council chambers. Sensing the momentum, Rhaenyra allowed a slight smile to grace her features. “We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore. And… the cost of breaking them.”

I didn't enjoy the choking scene--and I don't think it made much sense for the characters, so I changed it. They're still arguing, but it's more of a lovers quarrel and seeing things differently than outright abuse. I also really liked the scene between Rhaenys and Corlys, so I wanted to provide some more emotions to it, as well as what Rhaenys could say to sway Corlys. And then I think the scene with Jace/Rhaenyra should not have been deleted, it encapsulated his character so well and offered a very good insight into the family dynamic. This is (somewhat 🤫😊) the final chapter of DS, or at least until we get S2 as I likely will add some of the scenes from the show into the story when we get them. But, yeah, on Friday we return to KL and another ✨ lovers quarrel ✨ We'll hear more about what she's been up to while we were away on DS, and she struggles with how to talk to Aemond; As a lover or as an enemy. There are pointed words, but there's also a moment of playfulness, before the world seems to crash in around them again.

[arbellaart]

Secrets of the Gate

With only the illumination of their lanterns, the cavernous halls inside the Gate towered over the exploration party. They were walking through galleries that may not have had human light in hundreds of years. Ancient statues stared down at them as if judging them for trespassing into their domain. None of that mattered to this party, for they were there as prospectors.

The Gates held ancient artifacts from the Age of Heroes that could make every man in the party a fortune. This Gate, deep in the remote Kravaush steppe, looked to be untouched. It was also, as far as they'd explored, disappointingly empty. The party was starting to think that the statues were mocking them for coming all this way for nothing.

That was until they found an imposing closed doorway. Massive as the door may have been - and no doubt sealed with magic, considering the faintly glowing runes on the frame - it was no match for a well-placed blast of dynamite. They were no mere archaeologists. Eager to stake their claims first, the party clamored over the rubble with greed in their eyes. What awaited them inside was indeed their long sought-after riches, but that was not all. Their faces were frozen in terror instead of greed when their bodies were later recovered. Sorry for the delay in updates! I've been busy and as you may tell by the drawing number, I had one fail on me.

Links to the others will be in the pinned post.

[my-cabbages-gorl]

Bewildered, Zukaang fic snippet & ch. 2 of Bewitched

Alright I decided to give in and write a continuation of my other fic that was intended to be a one-shot but I couldn’t not explore a one night and one night only dynamic between these two because it was TOO JUICY.

Here’s a lil snippet, whole thing should be up soon!Aang is 22, Zuko is 26 in this fic!

Some tags: Romance, first time, implied nudity, teen & up! ~

In the cradle of the pink cherry blossom breeze, something ancient roared to life. Where before, they had danced under the sun with dragons and ancient fire; tonight, they danced under the purple moon in the light of an entirely new flame. 

Time raced unforgivingly. The clamoring of their hands, raking and pulling at what clothing remained on their bodies, dragged them through seconds that hurtled into minutes without their permission. With every sloppy kiss, every moan, they exchanged tormented pleas, entreating time to stop. But she would not yield. 

In the friction of their bodies shifting against one another, Zuko slid a hand between them, pressing his fingers into the scoop where Aang’s muscled chest met his sternum. Pushing gently with his palm, he did what felt unbearable; he tore his mouth from Aang’s, momentarily slowing the uncoiling energy between them. 

“Aang, wait.” Zuko exhaled sharply and pressed his forehead to Aang's, catching his breath. Looking down, he was reminded that his completely naked body was flush against Aang, save for the robe draped loosely around his shoulders. 

“It’s too fast, isn’t it?” Aang’s hands on Zuko’s waist pushed to put a few inches of distance between them. “I’m sorry,” Aang fingered the ties of Zuko’s robe and started to draw them back together. “I don’t want to do anything you’re not ready for.” 

Zuko shook his head. “No, that’s not it. I’m ready,” a laugh danced across his lips, “I've been ready.” His palm slid down Aang’s stomach to pause where his hands were redressing him. “I just don’t know what it will be like to be friends... after this.” He inhaled, the laugh fading from his eyes. 

Aang furrowed his brow, his mouth curled at the corners. Freeing a hand from Zuko’s grip, he fit his palm against Zuko’s jaw, the pad of his thumb sweeping across the valley below his chin. “I can’t remember a time when we were only friends, Zuko.” Candlelight fluttered across the bright apricot-colored flush on his cheeks, “Can you?” 

Zuko shook his head again, a whisper of a smile and his amber eyes burned bright with definitiveness in the candlelit darkness. His hand closed around Aang’s wrist, guiding it up to where his robe hung from his shoulders.

“Take this off me.” The words feathered over Aang’s kiss-swollen lips. As the red silk slipped past their bodies and crumpled around their feet, they surrendered. Tonight, in the shadow of the fall moon, they’d let the ultimacy of their tangled years to take them under.  ~

Stay tuned!