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itsmionet · 4 years

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Fake dating AU

Robert Baratheon is retiring from politics and the Lannisters throw a little retirement party. Out of courtesy and politeness, Eddard Stark forces his family to go. After a while, Joffrey starts poking fun at Sansa until Margaery sweeps in to save the night by pretending to date Sansa.

“So I’m standing there barefoot, my lasagne only mid-eaten, the car has caught on fire and my boyfriend is coming out of the portable toilet with a roll of toilette paper rolled up his torso-“

Sansa walked past Arya as fast as she could. She didn’t want to listen again to that unrefined story of hers. The first time she had to sit through that story had scarred her enough for life. She did not want to hear it ever again.

Sansa made her way over to the table where the drinks were being served. She hated the party. The only reason she was there is because her father had forced all Starks to go. ‘It’s important that we all attend. To show our gratitude to Robert for his services.’ Sansa could still hear Robb’s snort and Arya mumbling disgruntledly upon their father’s words.

This year Robert Baratheon retired from politics after nearly 40 years in the office. Everyone at the Stark household except for Ned had cheered upon the news, but their bliss had quickly faded away as soon as they learnt whose name was among the candidates running for the open position. The list was pretty dreadful as it were –with names like Baelish, Stannis and Euron Greyjoy– but when you added Joffrey to the bunch, it only made it that much worse. And because Eddard Stark had a place on the council, he had been invited to Robert’s retirement party, which the Lannisters pretty much singlehandedly organised, aided with the Tyrells’ money.

Sansa poured herself a double whiskey and downed it all in one go. The drink burnt her throat but in a pleasant way. She sighed contently whilst filling her glass up again.

“Thought I’d find you by the alcohol stand.” A voice called out from behind her. Sansa pursed her lips together and clutched her glass tightly in her hand. “You picked up that trait from your father, surely.” Cersei Lannister chuckled dryly as she stood alongside Sansa. She didn’t cast her even once glance before she grabbed the closest bottle of wine and emptied it all on her glass.

“Nice party.” The redhead forced a smile on her face but she knew Cersei could see right through her. Not that she particularly cared, but she still had to put on a façade for her father’s sake.

“Oh, is it? You’ve barely been here for 10 minutes, most of which you’ve spent drinking my alcohol.” Cersei had drank half glass by the time she turned to face Sansa. Once she did, she looked at Sansa up and down, as if searching for something in particular.

“You can scarcely call it ‘your alcohol’ when it’s meant for the guests, can’t you?” Sansa flashed the blonde woman her brightest smile, albeit it was a fake one. Both women knew. Still, they both had to keep up the appearances.

“Hmm, I see that, unlike your dress, your boldness has grown larger.” The redhead was wearing a navy blue cocktail dress, with a golden strip on both shoulders. She’d found the exact dress that combined perfectly sophistication with a hint of sexiness. It was cut right above her knees, which meant it was short enough to be considered seducing, but still long enough to be an appropriate option to wear among her father’s colleagues. She completed the look with a pair of black heels.

“What can I say?” Sansa titled her head to the side casually. Her tone was polite and even borderline playful. “Time does wonders to a person, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed, it does.” Cersei tried to suppress the growl out of her voice, but she didn’t hide it quite as well as she would have wanted. “So” the woman scanned the room lazily when a thought popped into her head “is that uncivilised sister of yours around?” Cersei smirked, thinking she’d hit the nail on the head to get a rise out of the girl, but instead Sansa’s eyes lit up. She titled her head towards where Arya was standing.

“Hmm” she hummed “I believe she’s telling an uncivilised story to your kids.”

Cersei’s head couldn’t have spun faster. She looked across the room until her eyes landed on Arya. She was with Tommen and Myrcella and it seemed both kids were extremely enjoying themselves. Cersei didn’t like that one bit. Not only were her children getting along with a Stark, but by the hand gestures Arya was making Cersei knew that story was not for kids.

Before Sansa had the chance to add some witty remark, Cersei sprinted across the room to snatch Tommen and Myrcella away from Arya. The brunette blinked at the abruptness at which Cersei had taken the kids away, but she didn’t give it much thought and made her way to the alcohol stand instead.

Sansa grinned once Arya was by her side. “I take it Cersei didn’t like your story?”

Arya shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t see why not. That story had everything: action, drama, suspense...”

The redhead chuckled and shook her head “I’m sure once you think it through you’ll know why she didn’t find it so amusing.”

“What about you?” Arya redirected the conversation as she grabbed another beer. Sansa was not entirely certain, but she could’ve sworn that was Arya’s fourth. “Anything I missed?”

“Not really. I only made small chat with Cersei.”

“Nothing with Cersei is ever ‘small chat’.” Arya puffed. “How much longer must we stay here?”

“I don’t know.” Sansa scratched her chin. “I believe Father wants us to stay at least long enough to hear Robert’s speech.”

Arya growled audibly at that. “Well, that’s gonna take forever then.” Sansa agreed.

Both sisters turned their back to the stand and looked at the attendants. There was Robb chatting amicably with Theon Greyjoy, who hadn’t been previously invited but Robb had essentially begged their Father to let the boy come and so after much pleading he’d reluctantly agreed. If only for Robb’s sake. His son had said Theon would be the only thing that would keep him sane for the night. Sansa believed Greyjoy would have the contrary effect on her brother, but she didn’t say anything. At least he had a friend to keep him company.

Then there was Jon, standing awkwardly in a corner. He was talking with some other boy Sansa did not know but he seemed comfortable enough around him so she was happy for him. And because of their young age, Bran and Rickon had been left at home with Hodor, their sitter.

Lastly, the remaining Starks, Ned and Catelyn, were stood next to Robert Baratheon himself. The man laughed loudly at something her Father had said and Sansa was glad that, despite being surrounded by Lannisters, Ned had found somewhat of a friend.

There were more people than Sansa would have expected, still she only knew a handful of them, half of whom were her own family. As for the rest, Sansa either straight up didn’t like them or didn’t deem none of them interesting enough to strike a conversation with.

“I’m gonna go pee.” Arya said, ever so ladylike. “If I haven’t come back in 5 minutes, don’t come looking for me. Presume me dead.”

“Ugh, please do come back instead of sneaking off with Gendy again!” Sansa called out after Arya as the brunette walked away. She didn’t know if her sister had heard her or not. She supposed she had.

Sansa sighed and finished her drink. She turned to the table and started to pour herself another one, already planning on joining Robb and Theon when someone came up beside her. Sansa prayed to the Old Gods that it wasn’t Cersei again.

“That’s a bold choice for a dress.” It was not Cersei who spoke, but at that moment Sansa wished it had been. “That’s too slutty even for you.”

Sansa turned around slowly, whilst displaying the fakest smile she’d ever put on. “Joffrey” she said lightly. “How are you?”

“Better than you, that’s for sure.” He snickered. “What’s up with the whore attire? It’s not like you’ve got someone to impress. Unless” his eyes gleamed in a way that made Sansa shiver “you’ve dressed up like this for me”.

“I’m afraid that would not be the case.” Sansa pursed her lips together. Being around Joffrey always made her feel uneasy, even while they were dating. There just was something that was not right with the boy. After everything that happened, Sansa believed she’d grown stronger but being there, alone with him, she felt every hair at the back of her head stand up. Her whole body already tensing.

“Oh?” Joffrey furrowed his brow, his tone growing unkinder by the minute. “What then? Are you trying to rig the elections by showing off your cunt? So that dear ol’ daddy will win? I hate democracy.”

“My Father is not even running for the position.” Sansa’s hand closed around the glass tightly. She was determined not to lose her temper if only for her Father’s sake. Even so, Joffrey was making that task very challenging for her.

“You’re doing it for me then?” Joffrey took a step closer to Sansa. His breath reeked of cheap vodka and Sansa had to suppress a grimace. She noticed the glass on his left hand was full, which meant that was not his first drink of the night. “You know, tonight after this, I could come pay you a little visit-“ He grabbed her arm forcefully as he inched even closer.

“Joffrey, don’t-“

“Sans, darling!” Both heads turned around and were greeted by the sight of one Margaery Tyrell, who has approaching them with a beaming smile. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! You had me worried.” She hugged Sansa tightly and planted a soundly kiss on her right cheek as she withdrew away. Her eyes never leaving Sansa’s face. “What a beautiful dress! You look absolutely stunning.”

The fact that she’d completely ignored Joffrey made the boy furious. “Margaery” he called, malice dripping off his voice, but he tried to disguise as courtesy. Only he didn’t fool anyone. “I was not aware you were coming.”

Finally, Margaery looked at the boy. She smiled easily at him, as if she was actually pleased to be talking to him. “Oh, I would’ve arrived sooner, but Grandmother ran into an old friend of hers by the entrance and we were held back a few minutes.”

“I see.” Joffrey nodded his head. He didn’t match Margaery’s smile, opting instead for a scowl. He had planned to have his fun with Sansa for a while longer, but it didn’t look like Margaery would be leaving them alone anytime soon. Instead, the brunette slipped her arm around Sansa’s waist and pulled her flush against her.

Sansa for the life of her didn’t know what to make of it. Joffrey and Margaery were staring each other down, not saying a word, and the redhead felt as if the lion and the rose were silently trying to scare the other away.

“I’m sorry I had to make you wait for so long” Margaery told Sansa casually after some time, as if the latter had been actually waiting for her.

“Oh, it’s no problem.” Sansa smiled back at her. She realised Margaery’s smile seemed more sincere when it was directed at her, in contrast to the one’s she threw at Joffrey which –in Sansa’s opinion– appeared to be mocking the boy.

“I didn’t know you two were friends.” Joffrey spat at them. At that, Margaery actually threw her head back and so laughed loudly you’d think she’d just heard the greatest joke of all time. “Did I say something amusing?” He growled. Sansa could feel rather than see the tension between Joffrey and Margaery. She didn’t like it one bit and wanted so desperately to make it stop. But she didn’t know how to cut in. It looked like they were playing at a game Sansa did not know the rules of.

“Well, yes.” Margaery chuckled as her laughter died down. Then, she turned to Sansa right as Joffrey chose the worst possible time to try and end his drink in one go. “I thought you would’ve told him by now we’re dating.”

If Sansa hadn’t been so busy choking on air, she would’ve laughed at the way Joffrey accidentally spat out half of his drink on his clothes and his eyes bulged comically. Margaery noticed straight away Sansa’s confusion, so she took advantage of the fact that Joffrey was distracted drying the alcohol stains on his clothes and inched close to Sansa’s ear. “I can get rid of this little bastard in no time, just play along.”

Sansa nodded her approval and silently thanked her lucky stars for Margaery. She’d known the girl for a few years now, and ever since the beginning, she’d looked up at the older girl with such admiration. Everything about Margaery fascinated Sansa.

A couple of months into their friendship and Sansa was already enamoured with everything the brunette did. It wasn’t until Margaery casually told the redhead about her preference for women that Sansa’s mind began to wonder whether she had a shot with her. The thought scared her at first, back when she deemed herself to be as straight as an arrow, but as weeks and months passed, she realised she’d started to see Margaery in a different light. Or maybe it wasn’t a different light at all. Maybe her feeling had always been there but she had not realised it until then.

The thing is, ever since Sansa found out this new piece of information, she couldn’t help but notice every single little thing about Margaery. Like the way her nose would scrunch whenever she smelt something she didn’t like –like curry, smoke or gasoline– and the way she would close her eyes and breathe in contently when she smelt something she fancied –like roses, fresh pastries, the sea or Sansa’s perfume, although Sansa tried not to think too much about the last; lest she allowed herself to get her hopes up when she was certain a girl as stunning and perfect as Margaery wouldn’t notice a silly girl like herself.

Still, from time to time, she would let herself dream about what it would be like to be with Margaery, to be able to wake up next to her every day and be the reason behind her smiles and giggles, to be the first and last thing on her mind, to be the one Margaery wanted to spend her days and nights with.

It was Joffrey’s voice that brought Sansa out of her trance and back to reality. “You what?!” He was looking directly at Sansa as if she’d done him a great wrong. His face was bright red and his hand gripped too tightly on the glass. “Just when I thought you couldn’t be more disgusting, you do this.” He gestured at Sansa’s general direction, as if that would be explanation enough. “You dragged poor sweet Margaery into this fucking mess of yours. You perverted her with your deviating ways.”

Sansa had kept her cool this long and she had intended on doing so until Joffrey got bored and walked away on his own, but the very same moment he had demeaned Margaery like that was all it took for Sansa to snap at him. She took a daring step closer to him. “You talk to her again with such insolence and I promise you’ll regret it.”

“Oh, yeah? And what are you going to do?” Joffrey mocked.

“I’ll send Lady whilst you sleep to make sure you’re reminded of your place.” She gritted her teeth together.

“You, bitch.” Joffrey spat. “You can’t talk to me like that!”

“Of course I can” Sansa countered. Her blood was boiling and she felt like she was seconds away from doing something her Father would without a doubt chastise her later for. Still, she didn’t find it in herself to care. Not when Joffrey had insulted Margaery so blatantly. “If you knew what’s best for you, you’d walk the fuck away.”

Margaery widened her eyes and turned her head towards Sansa. It was the first time she’d ever heard the Northerner curse.

“Last time I saw you” the boy foolishly charged once more against the redhead, thinking he could still win the argument “you were dating that Bolton boy; so what happened that turned you into a dyke?” He snarled “Wasn’t his cock good enough?” Sansa didn’t know whether it was the remark or the laugh that came after that infuriated her most. She clenched her fists as her shoulders began to shake. It wouldn’t take long before she lost whatever remained of her composure. But Sansa had long lost interest in looking calm and collected, her sole attention being now focused on the boy.

“Pardon me” Margaery’s voice came out mellow and calm, but she was ready to throw hands. She let go of Sansa in order to stand between Joffrey and the redhead. She would’ve blocked Sansa’s view if it weren’t for Sansa’s height. Still, she intended on becoming some sort of human shield for the Northerner. “And who do you think you are to talk to my girl like that?” She took a defiantly step closer to the boy “she can dress however she pleases” another step “say whatever she pleases” another one “and date whomever she pleases.” Joffrey ended having to recoil a couple of steps back in order to maintain his balance. “Let this be the last time you disrespect Sansa, because so help me Gods, if I ever hear you say a single bad thing about her again I will hunt your ass down and beat you up so badly your own mother won’t recognise you.” Margaery was normally a very diplomatic and collected person, but Joffrey was managing to push every single one of her buttons.

“Come on, Margaery. You can’t possibly want to be around her.” He pronounced the last word as if it actually physically pained him to say it. “Let me take you out instead. I’ll show you what a real relationship looks like.”

“I’ll say this one more time and I swear it will be the last.” Margaery blinked almost flirtatiously. Her tone was soft but her eyes left no room for misinterpretation. She was furious. “Step the fuck away from my girl.”

Realising now Margaery had also turned on him, he decided to back down. “You know what? I have no use for her anyway.” Joffrey took a step closer to Margaery, which was compensated by Sansa stepping forward as well. The action resulted on Sansa being pressed firmly against Margaery’s back; the latter had to use some strength to hold the redhead back, lest she lost her nerves and pounced on the blonde. “You can keep your bitch.”

And that was that. It was then, right as the boy laughed cruelly at his own comment that she lost it. Even though Sansa’s anger was off the roof, it was Margaery’s punch that collided with his face. He threw some insults her way but Margaery couldn’t make out the words, given that his hands were cupping his bloody nose.

“You fucking dykes! You’ll regret this! You both will!” He yelled before storming off. As he ran to the bathroom, the brunette noticed the silence surrounding them and she casted her glance to the side in order to see the other attendant’s reaction.

The first person she saw was Cersei Lannister. The woman pursed her lips together but said nothing. She just stared at Margaery down for a few seconds before running after her son to aid him. Robert Baratheon cursed aloud and begrudgingly went to the bathroom as well. Margaery also noticed both Tommen and Myrcella offering her a tiny smile, displaying no kind of sympathy for their brother before Jaime Lannister was by their side. He calmly told them to go with him outside.

On the other end of the room was Theon, wearing a shit-eating grin and no doubt already planning on congratulating Margaery afterwards. Stood by his side was Robb, and although his face betrayed no emotion, he gave the brunette a subtle thumbs up.

“Wooooo!” Arya suddenly yelled, throwing both her hands up in the air, as if celebrating a touchdown. Her beer long gone. “Now this is a party!” Her smile matched Theon’s.

“I wouldn’t have done that if I were you.” Came a voice from behind Margaery. “I mean, I would’ve, I definitely would’ve because that douchebag had it coming but” Sansa grabbed Margaery’s bruised hand with much delicacy “I’m not sure that’s gonna sit well with your Grandmother, and much less the Lannisters.”

“Well” Margaery chuckled despite what happened “someone had to shut him up. Let me worry about them later.”

“Thank you” Sansa relaxed now that Joffrey was out of sight; her smile was timid but sincere “really.”

“No need to thank me, sweet girl.” Margaery smiled brightly at the redhead. “I’ve wanted to do that for ages, if I’m being honest.” That earned her a chuckle from Sansa.

“Margaery.” The brunette’s smile faltered away as soon as the voice came. She turned around slowly.

“Grandmother.” Margaery pursed her lips together. She knew her act would have consequences and even though she was well aware Grandmother Olenna didn’t like the Lannister boy one bit, she knew she’d have to deal with the result of her actions.

“May we speak alone?” It was a question, but the tone of voice with which it was accompanied left no room for objections. Margaery nodded, muttered ‘Sorry’ to Sansa and started to walk behind her Grandmother.

Not a full ten seconds had passed that Arya was by her sister’s side. “So, you two banging?” Arya bluntly asked Sansa once Margaery was out of earshot. She grabbed a beer from the table and took a large sip. “I heard Joffrey muttering something about you two dating. Although” she added “he used a much crasser terminology.”

For the second time that night, Sansa choked on her spit. “Wha- we’re not- I mean” she corrected herself, remembering Margaery had indeed referred to herself as her girlfriend. Not wanting to blow the Highgardener’s cover she quickly said: “We started out as friends!”

“Your point?” Arya tilted her head to the side and watched her sister expectantly. She didn’t particularly care about who Sansa was or wasn’t shagging, but she figured watching the redhead ramble would be a close second to the most fun she’d have that night so she was determined to stretch this conversation as much as she possibly could.

“I mean, you know…” Sansa was visibly struggling to find the right words but given that Arya was in no rush she watched amusedly as the taller girl gesticulated ambiguously with her hand in the air. “We were friends, so we decided to take it slow.”

“How come none of us knew you two were a thing?” The shorter girl asked.

“It’s still pretty new. We didn’t want to jinx it.” Arya hummed, seemingly content with the answer.

“I have to say” she paused to take another sip of her beer “your girl does clean up pretty nice. She’s caught the attention of every single man –and some women– since the moment she entered the building.”

The jealousy that coursed through Sansa’s body then was both unexpected and foreign. She had definitely noticed how extremely beautiful Margaery looked that night. The dress she wore was a shade of deep forest green and whereas Sansa’s straps had been relatively thin, Margaery’s were fairly broad, to make up for the plunging neckline she was showing off. The top half of her back was bare but her hair cascaded down flawlessly and covered some skin.

Sansa couldn’t blame the attendants for staring, because the sight was truly mesmerizing, what she did disapprove of, however, was how most of those looks seemed to only be directed at her cleavage. When the realisation crossed her mind Sansa felt a sense of possessiveness and, although she wouldn’t admit it even to herself, the thought ‘mine’ did come to mind.

As Arya cleared her throat, it occurred to Sansa that her sister was still waiting for an answer. “No surprise here.” Sansa shrugged casually as her gaze was directed at Margaery. The older girl was at the far end of the room, speaking with Lady Olenna. “She’s beautiful.”

Arya followed Sansa’s eyes until she saw Margaery. It did not go unnoticed by her sister the fact Sansa’s expression softened upon seeing the older girl. Arya smiled softly –mostly to herself. She’d known from the very first instant that Margaery had lied about dating Sansa, but she also knew about her sister’s feelings for the Tyrell girl. The redhead was pretty good at disguising her emotions, so only a very observant person would notice it. And despite her many flaws, if Arya was one thing was observant.

“You’ll still want to be careful around Cersei, though.” The shorter girl warned after a couple of minutes of comfortable silence. “She’s gonna want to strangle you as soon as the bastard is okay. The Lannisters are going to take Joffrey’s ex-girlfriend dating a lesbian as a great insult. It hurts their pride or some shit.”

“I know” Sansa sighed. She turned around and poured herself another glass of whiskey. “Let’s worry about that later, okay?” Arya nodded. She was about to add something else when she spotted out of the corner of her eye Margaery and her Grandmother approaching them. Arya excused herself in order to give her sister some privacy.

“Sansa, I would like you to meet my Grandmother.” Margaery offered her Grandmother a glass of wine and poured herself another one.

“Olenna Tyrell, dear.” Sansa was expecting her to hold out her hand but the woman never did. “I take it you’ve heard about me.” She took a sip of her own drink which prompted Margaery to do the same.

“I have, ma’am.” Sansa nodded. “I apologise for causing such a scene tonight.” She lamented.

“Nonsense.” The woman shook her head, taking the heat out of it. “The only thing I’m sorry for is that you couldn’t take a swing at him yourself as well.” Sansa smiled timidly.

“Grandmother!” Margaery snickered. “What will Sansa think of us? You raised me to be well-mannered.”

“And so I’ve done, dear.” Lady Olenna solemnly said. “You did well by your girlfriend when you knocked the troubled boy off his high horse.” Sansa blushed as she noticed Lady Olenna had referred to her as her granddaughter’s ‘girlfriend’.

“I take it you’re not angry at Margaery, then?” The Northerner sheepishly asked.

“I would have preferred my granddaughter to have had the decency to wait to pull off something like away from so many prying eyes, but” Lady Olenna sighed “I know just how loyal the girl can be to the people she loves and if your honour was on the table, well then, there was nothing nobody could’ve done to stop her.��

Sansa glanced at Margaery and was surprised when the older girl blushed and refused to meet her gaze. “That’s very kind of you to say, ma’am.” The redhead thanked the woman.

Lady Olenna hummed. “Anyway, I’m spotting the cheese plate I was promised about 10 minutes ago” She looked over her shoulder. “If you ladies will excuse me, I’m going to eat the food I paid for.” The woman bid her goodbyes, leaving the two girls alone.

“Sorry about her.” Margaery shook her head. “She can be a tad blunt sometimes.”

“It’s okay.” Sansa shrugged. “I like her.”

“I’m glad.” Margaery smiled easily at Sansa.

There was something at the back of her mind that was nagging Sansa. She didn’t know how to subtly approach the subject so she just dove right in. “Why did you say we were dating?” The question and the boldness with which Sansa said it took Margaery aback. “I mean, if you wanted to defend me” upon the lack of a direct response Sansa decided to clarify “you could’ve just done so without telling him we were a couple.” Sansa tilted her head to the side expectantly.

“And where’s the fun in that?” Margaery winked flirtatiously. The gesture made Sansa blush once again. “Besides, you look marvellous, darling. It would only be fit for you to have a date for the night.” Sansa tried not to think about the fact that her heart was beating faster with every word Margaery spoke. “Unless” she added on second thought “you wanted to be with someone else?”

“No!” It was almost embarrassing how quick Sansa declined the suggestion. She felt her face turn even redder, so she cleared her throat. “So, does this mean we have to keep up the charade all night long?” She chuckled to cover up her eagerness.

There was a gleam in Margaery’s eye that made Sansa shiver, but in a good way. “Wanna find out how many people we can scandalise by being extra affectionate in public?”

And if there was something Sansa was unable to do was deny Margaery anything. “Game on.”

Chapter 2

#sansaery #sansa stark #margaery tyrell #sapphic sansa fest #sansasource #sapphicsansafest

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stiltonbasket · 4 years

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chancellor of the morning sun: lecture (adulthood)

In which Lan Xichen throws down with Jin Zixuan; or, part 6 of the nielan au that has completely taken over my brain.

At the risk of offending her little brother, Lan Xichen often reflects on the fact that Wei Wuxian would probably love to break every last one of the Lan sect precepts, simply for the sake of doing it.

Wei Wuxian—Jiang Fengmian’s ward and adopted son, and coincidentally the same little boy who threw roses at Wangji’s head during that discussion conference in Qishan—is exactly the sort of person her uncle would run a li or two in very tight shoes to avoid, still not ready to contemplate the fact that Cangse Sanren was no longer among the living. An unfortunate incident in Caiyi (with some tea served in a cup that had previously held heavy liquor, and not been washed well enough later) had told Lan Xichen all she needed to know about that, especially when Shufu revealed that he still saw the flare of Cangse Sanren’s bright sword in his dreams when he thought of her before sleeping.

“Why did you not declare your suit then, Shufu?” Xichen asked, praying that her uncle would forget the conversation entirely when he sobered up in an hour or two. “You loved her, didn’t you?”

“I was seventeen, and she was four-and-twenty,” he replied. “I was a child to her, as Jiang Fengmian was, and I was unsuited in another way, though I did not know it then.”

But Lan Qiren had truly grieved on that dark night thirteen years ago when word came from Yunmeng Jiang announcing the deaths of Cangse Sanren and Wei Changze, and it was the only time save the morning of her mother’s passing that Xichen ever saw her uncle cry.

(He had not cried a drop when her father died; his brother’s fate had filled him with such wrath at the men who forced it on him that all Lan Qiren said after Qingheng-jun was buried was that he would not let the elders touch Lan Huan, or little A-Zhan, even if he had to tear himself apart for it.)

Lan Zhan is much like their uncle, now that Lan Xichen thinks about it. He has the same intolerance for lawlessness and disorder, the same helpless weakness for people who are bold, and brash, and free—so is it really any wonder that he seems to have fallen desperately in love with Wei Wuxian?

Xichen believes that it isn’t, especially now that her precious didi is doing the Wangji equivalent of wringing his hands—that is, white-knuckling his sword, whose hilt usually suffers most whenever her brother is out of sorts—and pleading with her to speak to their uncle and lessen Wei Wuxian’s latest punishment, which seems to have been the result of an all-out brawl with Jin Zixuan the previous evening.

“I was informed that Young Master Wei ‘left a bruise the size of his fist’ on Jin Zixuan’s face, and struck him unprovoked,” she says, lifting a curious brow at him. “Last I heard, all Shufu told him to do was kneel in the courtyard outside his receiving chamber and reflect on his ill temper. What is so harsh about that?”

“Shufu has summoned Jin Guangshan and Jiang-zongzhu here to discuss the matter with them,” Wangji insists. “And—I was not there, but Wei Ying’s third disciple brother reported that Jin Zixuan slighted Lady Jiang before his whole delegation, and that Wei Ying began fighting with him for that reason. Surely that cannot be such a grave offense that Wei Ying must be expelled from the Cloud Recesses, Jie?”

Lan Xichen feels her heart melt. “No, it is not. But since Jiang-zongzhu and Jin-zongzhu are both here, then it must be about the marriage between Jin Zixuan and Jiang-guniang, and not anything to do with Wei Wuxian. We had already invited Jiang-zongzhu, remember?”

Her brother nods. “Yes, A-Jie. This brother shall take his leave now, then, and disturb you no further.”

“Wait, Wangji. You mentioned that Wei Wuxian’s third shidi witnessed the encounter between the boys?” she asks, her mind already on other matters now that Wangji seems to have cheered up a little. “Would that be Yu Zhenhong, or Dai Lingyi?”

“Yu Zhenhong, I believe. He is in your cultivation history lecture, is he not?”

“I had rather hoped it would be him,” Xichen confesses, rising to her feet. “Wangji, I must trouble you to go and fetch the boy at once, and then bring whomever among the Jin disciples you deem most trustworthy. I would hear an account of it all from them, if it is possible.”

Wangji bows before hurrying off, as he began doing the very day she was instated as Sect Leader Lan four years ago; Xichen had tried to argue with him, insisting that he was still her precious baby brother and ought never to bow to her except when they were in public, but their uncle claimed that Wangji must not fail to show her full deference even when they were alone. The elders would leap upon even a spark of discourtesy from Wangji or even from Shufu himself and use it to undermine her, he said, or press her into yielding her seat to Wangji before she married and moved to Qinghe, or worse, before Wangji was ready, which would leave the council in power yet again.

But what none of the council knows is that Nie Mingjue has been the recipient of many midnight letters detailing Lan Xichen’s predicament, and that he even asked his father to move their wedding from Xichen’s eighteenth year to the seventh year after that. Nie Huangyin wanted to see his son with a child of his own as soon as Gusu Lan would permit it, not knowing that they would have sent Xichen away before she turned eighteen if he dared voice his wish—but Mingjue begged him to postpone the marriage on bended knee, telling him that it would break her heart to leave Wangji behind when he was only fourteen, and to never have the chance to lead her clan when she fought so valiantly to earn the standing a man would have commanded by the fact of his birth.

It was this last that softened Nie Huangyin’s resolve, since his respect for the place Xichen would someday have (as his heir’s wife, and the mother of his grandchildren, as well as the future of his line) was surpassed only by his regard for the place she already held as the first heir to Gusu Lan and its future sect leader.

And then Nie Huangyin died two years before Xichen ascended as Lan-zongzhu, and Mingjue’s first state journey as Sect Leader Nie had been to the Cloud Recesses, to demand that the betrothal contract be altered to permit him to wed Lan Huan as soon or as late as he liked.

“But your father stipulated that it should be no later than—”

“I am in mourning. It may take a very long time before I can emerge from my grief well enough to look after a wife and children,” Mingjue interrupted, stopping the first elder who dared voice an objection dead in his tracks. “Perhaps it will be ten years from now, instead of nine. Or maybe twelve. I have not yet realized the depths of my sorrow, for it grows worse every day.”

“Surely you would not leave the most precious flower of our sect unwed for so long!” another elder jumped in, looking completely outraged. “Wedding her at twenty-five was bad enough, but for you to come asking to wait longer still! What is wrong with Lan Huan, in your eyes? Would you have her watch all the maidens her age gain the titles of wife and mother, while she must remain an old maid until you see fit to marry her?”

“I think far too highly of Sect Heir Lan to bring her to a household still darkened with the pain of the previous Nie-zongzhu’s passing,” Nie Mingjue said flatly, throwing Lan Xichen a conspiratorial look that none of the council but Shufu could see. “When I bring her to the Unclean Realm as my bride, it will because I, and she, have both agreed that it is the proper time.”

What a blessing of fate it was, that I was promised to Mingjue-xiong, Xichen thinks now, pondering over the matter between Jiang Yanli and her intended, who seems to struggle with showing the poor girl even the barest courtesy. If it had been anyone else—anyone, at all—

“A-Jie?” Wangji calls from outside the door, pulling her out of her musings as she hurries to let him in. “I have brought Yu-gongzi and one of the Jin disciples, as you requested.”

But for some reason, Wangji seems to have brought three disciples along instead of two. One is Yu Zhenhong, who looks like a paler, sharper-faced version of Jiang Wanyin, and the second is the Jin clan’s head disciple, Luo Qingyang; but the third is a young girl from the Jiang clan, who seems to be the only one among the three with a weapon at her waist. Xichen quickly places her as Wei Wuxian’s first shimei, Li Shuai, and realizes with amused surprise that this is the maiden who smuggled Emperor’s Smile into the Cloud Recesses last month so that her da-shixiong and er-shixiong could have a forbidden party with it.

“Lan-zongzhu,” the disciples chorus, making her a deep, formal bow before Yu Zhenhong steps forward. “Zewu-xianzi, how may we be of assistance? Second Young Master Lan informed me that you needed us for something.”

“I do,” she says, inclining her head. “I would have your account of the disagreement between Young Master Jin and Young Master Wei, up until the point they were interrupted by Wangji and Maiden Jiang.”

The three accounts coincide exactly, though Luo Qingyang has more to tell regarding the remarks Jin Zixuan made about Jiang-guniang before Wei Wuxian arrived on the scene. Xichen listens to them all in some distress before sending the disciples back about their business, and then she fights the temptation to down a whole pot of tea before turning back to her brother. “Where is Jin Zixuan now, A-Zhan?”

“Kneeling in a courtyard across from the one where Wei Ying is,” Wangji says, confused. “What of him?”

“Go bring him to me,” she orders. “I rather fancy his betrothal will be dissolved before the day is out, but I must speak with him first.”

Wangji makes off without a word, reappearing again five minutes later with a very irate Jin Zixuan beside him. It is impossible to tell that the two of them are three years apart, by now; Wangji and Jin Zixuan are of the same height, and Wangji’s collected calm belies his age to the point where he looks closer to Lan Xichen’s two and twenty years instead of eighteen.

“You may go, A-Zhan,” Lan Xichen says gently, favoring her brother with a tender smile as he bows and slips out again: probably to comfort Wei Wuxian, if she had to guess. “And you, young master Jin—you may sit at that table there, and reflect while I brew some tea.”

Much confused, Jin Zixuan does, trying to keep his eyes fixed on the table in front of him while Lan Xichen heats a pot of water and lays out her favorite xiangqi board. Once the tea is ready, she calls Jin Zixuan up to her table and watches as he fills her cup and the one she put aside for him—and then she moves her first piece and directs him to do the same, trying not to sigh as he glances uncertainly at the board and moves his chariot.

“Um, Lan-zongzhu, what—”

“I was informed that you have some objection to your future marriage to Maiden Jiang,” she interrupts, cutting him off so smoothly that he scarcely seems to notice. “I find myself curious as to your reasons why, since I have known Jiang Yanli for many years and never run across any defect in her character at all.”

Jin Zixuan’s face goes purple. “Zewu-xianzi, that…”

“Is it that she is too kind for you?” Xichen muses aloud. She moves another piece, and looks at Jin Zixuan with lifted brows until he does the same. “Or, perhaps, that she smiles too much?”

“I—”

“I would like to hear you out fully, Jin-gongzi. What objection do you have to Jiang Yanli?”

His cheeks go even darker, and he lowers his eyes back to the xiangqi board before speaking again. Lan Xichen knows all his reasons in full, of course, and finds herself thoroughly disappointed in them; she began to have a better opinion of Jin Zixuan when he treated Meng Yao with courtesy the last time he visited Qinghe Nie, despite knowing full well that he and A-Yao are half-brothers and that A-Yao is the elder between them, but if matters proceed as Xichen fears they will, that good opinion might not even last the day. “Jin-gongzi!”

“Zewu-xianzi, I…”

“I will spare you the disgrace of having to speak such words again, then,” she says, motioning him to pour her another cup of tea. “Yu Zhenhong of Yunmeng Jiang—your intended’s cousin, and nephew to her mother—has already been to tell me about them, along with your own head disciple, who has always been devoted to you, from what I know of her.”

“Mianmian was here?” Jin Zixuan asks, finally looking up with something close to shame in his eyes. “She—told you everything?”

“That you think Jiang-guniang is too plain for your tastes, that her cultivation is too low for you, that her character is too timid and too weak, that she is too foolish over her brothers, that she is too attached to you, despite having known you since infancy, and that you would be her husband for exactly as long,” Lan Xichen counts off. “Luo-guniang told me all that, and more, but I would rather not say such things myself. Especially not about such an admirable girl as Yanli is.”

Jin Zixuan shuts his mouth again. A wonderful improvement on his usual state, Xichen thinks, even if she won’t say so.

“Jin-gongzi,” she says instead, “surely you must know that Jiang-guniang has no more choice in this marriage than you do, since it was contracted by your mothers even before they were married?”

“She likes it!” Jin Zixuan protests at last, goaded past the bounds of courtesy. “All our lives, she—even when we were children, she was always trying to make me soup, and get me to play with her brothers, no matter how much I tried to put her off! It might as well be a marriage of choice, on her part, and even though my mother will not hear of me breaking the engagement, Jiang-zongzhu would do it in a heartbeat if Jiang Yanli asked him to! She knows I want nothing of it—she has always known—but never, never has she had the courtesy to say so!”

Lan Xichen only raises her eyebrows at him. “Lan-zongzhu,” Jin Zixuan appends hastily.

“I see,” she observes. “What is it that Jiang-guniang likes about you, then?”

“...What?”

“Luo-guniang told me what you dislike about Maiden Jiang. So I must ask, Jin Zixuan—what does she like about you?”

The boy seems more confused than ever, somehow, and Xichen holds back a sigh before framing the question differently. “What advantages do you believe she would gain upon marrying you?”

“She would become Young Madam Jin, second mistress of the wealthiest sect after Qishan Wen,” Jin Zixuan replies at once, looking stunned that Lan Xichen even asked. “Once I took my father’s place, she would become the wife of a sect leader.”

“And?”

“She would...never want for anything?” he says uncertainly. “Not jewels, nor silks, nor any of the things that are dear to women. Her children would want for nothing, and she would be assured of their future.”

“How is that any different from what she is assured now?”

Jin Zixuan only looks bewildered again. “As the Young Mistress of Yunmeng Jiang, she…”

“Jiang Yanli has little fondness for material things,” Lan Xichen dismisses him. “She wears only plain jewels and a single ornament in her hair, and I have never seen her pass a beggar in the street without giving out enough coin for a day’s food. Nor has she any desire for power, since most of her work in Yunmeng concerns the education of children whose parents cannot teach them, and apprenticeships for women without family to care for them.

“And even if she did care for gold, and for power...her brothers worship the ground under her feet, as does her father, and I doubt there is anything Jiang Fengmian has ever denied her. Or that Jiang Wanyin ever will, when he becomes sect leader. With things between you two as they are, does she not have more power in Yunmeng Jiang, with her family supporting the ventures she chooses, than she could ever hope for as the mistress of Lanling?”

“Mother would give her that power, she wouldn’t have to ask me for it,” Jin Zixuan protests weakly. “Mother adores her, because she and Yu-furen have been friends since they were children.”

“But when the reins of the Jin sect lie in your hands alone, what then? Would she humble herself so, to ask anything of a husband whom she must know dislikes her?”

Jin Zixuan opens his mouth and then shuts it again. He looks very lost, somehow, as if he had wandered into a forest expecting to find rabbits before being accosted by a flesh-eating tiger instead.

Xichen drains the last of her tea and pointedly clears her throat. “So now that we have established that the greatest virtues of Lanling Jin hold no charm for Maiden Jiang, what do you have to offer her?”

“I...I…”

She finds herself losing her patience, then. “Do you remember the day we first met, Jin Zixuan? I had just recited twenty minutes’ worth of poetry at a discussion conference, as part of an elocution contest held among all the maidens past ten years of age who were present. Jiang Yanli performed first—and did very admirably, I might add—and she glanced towards you once hoping for a smile or a nod to encourage her, which she did not receive. But she held her own and finished her recitation magnificently, and I took the stage after her—and then I saw you looking at me, and I thought you were enchanted by the piece I had chosen. It was a fine one, written by my uncle when he was a youth, and I was glad that someone approved of it, even if it was only a boy of nine who would not even try to be friends with his betrothed.

“And then, after the contest was over, Qin Su invited me to come and take tea with her and her mother, so I stepped into the room next door to attend them,” Lan Xichen says icily, watching Jin Zixuan quail before her with a savage sort of pleasure. “The moment I was gone, you turned to your father, and asked if you could marry Maiden Lan, since you thought she suited you better than Maiden Jiang. Can you imagine what reason you gave him, Jin-gongzi?”

“Zewu-xianzi, please—”

“It was not the elocution I was displaying that night, or any perceived superiority in character. Rather, the only reason you gave for wanting a new maiden over the one you had known for years, and who had been nothing but kind to you, was that you thought the second one was pretty. Two girls, both feeling and thinking and breathing beings, reduced to nothing but the comeliness of their features, and the worst thing was that you said it as if it were the most natural idea in the world.

“I was called the jewel of Gusu Lan, accomplished beyond anything my sect had hoped—or even wanted—for my age, but when I heard you ask your father for me, like I was a bauble on a shelf and not a person, I nearly buried my head in my arms and cried. And then I admired Jiang Yanli even more than I already did, for having stood such treatment time and time again from the boy who was meant to be her husband and the father of her children, for all the rest of her days—without so much as a tear, or a frown.

“You forgot the thought of marrying me soon enough, thank Heaven, and you were always respectful towards me after that. But your treatment of your intended never improved, though it has been twelve years since then—and you would have me believe that Wei Wuxian was in the wrong, for challenging you?”

Jin Zixuan bows his head and says nothing. His lips are quivering, Lan Xichen notices, and his cheeks are flushed in sheer mortification; if he were five or six years younger, he might have burst into tears on the spot, and she feels her heart twinge a little at her harshness as the quaking of his mouth grows more obvious.

But then she remembers the look on Jiang Yanli’s face last night, and Wei Wuxian’s insistence that he only forgot his entrance token that first afternoon because the Jin delegation had ejected him and his martial siblings from the inn they were staying at, despite the fact that there were five or six empty rooms after the Jins were accommodated.

If Wei Wuxian spoke truly—and Lan Xichen highly doubts that he did not—Jin Zixuan turned his own betrothed out into the street when there were no inns remaining but the one he had taken rooms in, simply because he did not wish to share an entire house with her, and Jiang Yanli bore it with nothing but a reminder to her brothers to maintain their dignity before outsiders.

“Your betrothal contract will be dissolved by tonight, if my knowledge of Jiang-zongzhu holds true,” she says at last, pouring herself a fourth cup of tea. “Any change in heart will be too late for Maiden Jiang, or your engagement with her. But you will marry someone sometime, so perhaps that maiden will have better luck with you than Jiang-guniang did.”

Lan Xichen looks at the candle-clock burning on the table, and then at the sky outside her window. Jin Guangshan ought to have finished discussing the betrothal now, which means that it must be time for her to go explain the appearance of the Yin iron to Jiang Fengmian—but there is still something more she must say to Jin Zixuan, though it might just go over his head entirely.

“You are dismissed, Young Master Jin. But before you leave, consider this—when Nie Mingjue was betrothed to me, the engagement was settled by my clan and the previous Nie-zongzhu, and neither Chifeng-zun nor I had any choice in the matter. We had not met at the time, but all he wanted to know about me was whether I would be kind to Huaisang, and once his father said that I would be, Nie Mingjue was content.

“Perhaps you will have a good answer for what you seek in a wife, when the time comes for you to find one again.”

And then she gets up and sweeps off down the corridor to her uncle’s chambers, leaving Jin Zixuan frozen at the xiangqi board in her wake, and hopes that he will remember at least something of what she has told him—for his sake as well as Jiang Yanli’s.

#nielan #the untamed #mo dao zu shi #lan xichen #nie mingjue #nielan arranged marriage au #chancellor of the morning sun #my fic

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astraeagreengrass · 5 years

Text

The Queen’s Husband [2/?]

When her reign is threatened, the Queen of Ergona must find a husband to secure her throne.

Word Count: 1.791

Warnings: None! Just an anxious queen and a very good-looking Captain.

A/N: I had to split this chapter in two because it was getting too long (and now I feel like it’s too short 🤷🏻‍♀️), so this story will have more parts than I originally intended (maybe four or five instead of just three). And thank you so so so much to the lovely people who commented on the first chapter. It took a lot of courage for me to start writing again and post it online and I appreciate every one who took some time to let me know their thoughts! It means more to me than I can say. I hope you like part two ♡

Series Masterlit

My Masterlist

On a sunny summer morning, you asked Captain Steve Rogers to marry you.

He arrived three days after the council meeting. From a palace window you saw him dismount his black stallion, shield on his back, and make his way inside. He was still wearing his travel clothes when you met him in the courtyard.

"Your Grace" he curtsied when he spotted you.

With a nod you dismissed Wanda, your handmaid, and walked over to him.

"Please rise, Captain Rogers. Could I interest you in a walk in the gardens?" you asked.

He quickly offered you his arm, apologizing for the lack of garb of his outfit.

"I was told you wanted to see me as soon as I arrived."

"Indeed" you answered, right hand on the crook of his left arm. The worn-out leather of his sleeve felt nice against your hand. "It is something of urgency."

He stopped, clear blue eyes suddenly attentive.

"What happened, Your Grace? How may I be of service?"

You pointed to a stone bench next to the roses - beautiful pink blossoms that were your mother's favorite. You sent a silent prayer to her spirit, wishing more than anything that she could be here to hold your hand as you defined your future.

"My cousin Margaret has given birth to a son. The baby has a claim to the thrones of both Beathan and Ergona. As long as I am unmarried and childless my reign is threatened."

Captain Rogers stilled. He was a very handsome man, with shaggy blonde hair curling around his ears. The full beard that adorned his face made him appear older than he actually was, but it probably worked on his advantage whilst amongst more seasoned military officers - he looked fierce and powerful, yet his gaze was kind.

"You need a husband" he finally said.

"Precisely” you gulped. The skin between his eyebrows was creased and, as the rest of him, the small imperfection looked like it was carved out of marble. Would it even soften if you caressed it with your thumb?

"I sent for you today because I would like you to consider becoming my husband and the King of Ergona" you said in such a rushed whisper anyone less attentive wouldn’t have heard.

But Steve did.

He rose so fast it startled you. Tall and imposing, Steve stared down at you, beautiful face twisted in shock and… Was he offended?

"Is this some sort of joke?" he exclaimed running his hand through his face. "Did Tony put you up to this?"

“What?” If you weren’t so confused by his reaction you’d be more insulted by the way he was scowling at you as if you were his opponent rather than his queen. “How dare you speak to me like this?”

"Who told you of my affections?" Steve's voice was stern, clearly unfazed by your authority. You could suddenly picture him in the battlefield, strong and commanding. But that thought quickly vanished in the midst of your disorientation.

"Your affections? To whom?" you questioned.

"To you of course!"

You gasped, lips opening in a perfectly shocked "O" shape.

"You have… Affections… Towards me?" you stuttered, baffled.

"Of course! Of course I do, Y/N". He had lost all courtesy now, referring to you without your title. His hands gripped his hair furiously. “I honestly thought you knew!”

Oh.

"I… I had no idea" you stammered, shame flooding your veins faster than you could come up with an apology. "Captain Rogers, I'm sorry. This conversation should never have happened. Please forgive me.”

You tried to rise from the stone bench, but Steve stood still in front of it, preventing you from escaping.

"Did you truly not know?" he asked, right eyebrow slightly raised in suspicion.

“No!” you exclaimed. “And even if I did I would never poke fun of your feelings. What kind of person do you think I am?”

Steve sighed and dropped his head, ashamed. If you were an artist you’d paint him, shoulders slumped and hands on his narrow waist, Adonis himself personified in the soft summer light.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I was incredibly disrespectful.”

Something in his expression tugged at your heartstrings.

“You don’t have to apologize” you whispered. “It must’ve been shocking for you. I just hope you believe me when I say I had no idea about your… Affections.”

Heavens, why is it easier to to lead an army than have this conversation?

Steve looked up and you couldn’t tell if his eyes were green or blue. The air felt thick with embarrassment, even if there were no witnesses but the roses surrounding the courtyard.

You thought he would finally make way for you to stand and leave – free to wallow in shame and self-pity – but Steve wasn’t done surprising you.

"Was I your first choice?" he asked. "To become your husband?

"Yes. The council suggested you but I wouldn't be here if I hadn't made the choice out of my own free will."

"Considering I’ve already ignored every single courtesy and protocol, may I ask what willed you to make this choice?"

It wasn’t an easy one, but then again, which decision from the past five years had been? You may have been desperate but you couldn’t afford to be anything less than rational. Fury was right: the news of Margaret’s son spread like wildfire, snuffing out any jubilation from the defeat of Zerbolia. You had purposefully averted any talk of marriage, hoping that the time would come when only you would be enough for Ergona, but it never did. Duty came knocking at your door sooner than you expected.

Proposing to Steve Rogers was a shot in the dark. Love wasn’t a luxury you could afford and you held no expectations this marriage would be anything other than a business transaction, but you could wish for safety. Knowing Steve’s character, it seemed unlikely he would turn out to be like your father.

However, power changed people.

You couldn’t say that you chose him out of hope - hope that he would be a good husband, a good king and a good father. Hope that a crown wouldn’t corrupt him as it did to so many others rulers before you, the dead kings and queens immortalized in fancy portraits and terrible deeds.

However, you should give him something.

"You are a good man" you replied. “I’ve wondered about you and your motives constantly. You’re young yet incredibly respected and successful. Men have crowned themselves kings with less than what you have. But even so you’ve never threatened me or my reign. You’ve always been kind - the kindest, actually. Ruthless in battle but not cruel. Aware of others beneath you. Loved by all.”

“I kept waiting for the moment when you would betray me, revealing yourself to be just like every other men I’ve encountered in my life. But you never did, you were just nicer, friendlier, more trustworthy. And I don’t mean trustworthy as a Captain, but as a friend. I started seeing you as a friend and I have very few friends.”

“And I thought: ‘If I must have a husband, then at least I hope he is a good man’. And you are the best man I know.”

Steve took a step forward and kneeled. He was closer to you now than he ever had before - closer that anyone dared to be. His boldness was disconcerting and, in the back of your mind, you knew the right thing to do was to chastise him for being so forward. Instead, you let him take your left hand in his.

Steve kissed your ring finger, before cradling your palm to his face. His beard was surprisingly soft but his pillowy lips were softer as he lightly pressed them to your skin. Eyes closed and frown softened, he looked as if he had found peace with your touch.

"I have loved you since you were eighteen” he said. “On your coronation day. You were so young but showed no fear as you walked by those old lords and ladies who all secretly wished you failed. Your head was held high and as you looked at nowhere but the throne sitting on the dais. I had never seen anyone more beautiful or more brave."

"I don't need to tell you that my father disapproves of my military career, this gossip has been well spread at Court. He is a proud Western man and it churns his stomach to see his son serve an Eastern queen. But if I am a good man it is because I serve a good queen and a good woman. Five years in your presence have assured me that there is no greater right in my life than the love and admiration I feel for you."

Sometime during his speech, Steve’s voice turned husky and you blushed profusely. Not from the heat or from shame, but something different you'd never felt before. There was a fluttering in your stomach you couldn't place, but maybe, just maybe, you liked it.

Looking up, he smiled, the stretch of his pink lips resembling a boy, not a warrior.

"I would be honored to become your husband, Your Grace. Nothing would make me happier."

"Thank you" you whispered in relief. Anyone would tell you that it was unnecessary for a queen to thank a suitor - to thank anyone. But did this rule apply if the suitor was you?

Steve’s smile widened as his eyes sparkled with mirth. You amused him, and instead of annoying you, the realization just made the butterflies in your stomach flutter harder.

He lowered your hand on his face, but didn’t drop it, as he stood. His own palms were calloused where he gripped usually his sword but it didn’t bother you - they felt grounding, and reassuring: This is real. You’re not dreaming.

You didn’t have to look to know you were being watched from nearly every palace window overlooking the courtyard. The queen wasn’t granted much privacy. Rising from the stone bench, hand still on Steve’s, you discreetly nodded towards the windows. He smirked and squeezed your hand.

One.

Two.

Three times.

“I’m ready when you are” he said.

Unsaid words left a bitter taste as they died on your tongue. You weren’t ready - would you ever be? You thought you were ready to be queen, but time showed you there was no preparing for all the frustrations you’ve encountered. On the secret corners of your mind you still felt like a child, anxiously looking at the adults surrounding you wondering what their next steps might be.

Marrying Steve was your own step. And for the first time in a long while, it felt like a hopeful one.

#steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #steve x reader #steve x you #steve x y/n #king!au #king!steve #medieval!au #marvel au #steve rogers au #steve rogers

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ccmagma · 3 years

Text

I think about my story and think about one word: Disbelief. Not because what has happened to me is something shocking, or worrying, no, nothing like that at all. But upon learning my heritage, what has happened over years… It sounds like something from a tale. I’ve heard the story enough times from my parents, more so my father who came from someplace far away much like other refugees. Perhaps, that’s where this story should start… I can’t say for certain how they felt exactly, experiences are, after all, unique to us. However, putting myself in their shoes… I can’t even begin to imagine what it had been like. To have no information, not knowing what was coming and the inability to prepare for it.

My father came from a planet called Earth, a funny name I thought considering the translation of it had meant literal dirt. It wasn’t the most unique of names when I realized the other planets surrounding Earth and its history with Gods and Goddesses.

Earth. It was a planet already doomed thanks to its human inhabitants. The world was crumbling around them, war was a regular term in their households, little did they know something greater was coming. It’s safe to say things did not end well for them, the residents of my home did what they could and saved what humans they could. There were a lot of casualties… Many families were separated and I am certain not many took a liking to their new life.

Emptying Earth and leaving it to ash happened over the course of years. It wasn’t until recently where portals to that planet were closed off as far as two-way travel went. It would be another dumping ground for the creatures that plagued our lands of Izavyn. That was the root of all problems and the cause for most quarrels throughout our countries and city-states. A plague, a virus, an abomination, there were many words to describe what caused the woe of so many but the term we used for those creatures was a simple one, Demons. Their creation was one out of malice but perhaps when an organization sees too much peace, it craves to shift the balance. War might not have been as common here but it wasn’t unknown.

Demons were once people, our people. Changing them back was impossible, at least it seemed that way. When one combines the magic of the land with dark practices given to them by one of The Arms, the one no one mentions for there is power in a name or prayer.

The Arms were created by The Eternal. Those lucky enough to hear her voice or perhaps catch a glimpse learned she had a name, Divi. The Eternal Divi created what we know, her power flows through all of us, and upon passing we re-join her. All life is connected to her and therefore we are all connected, to every fabric of being. The Eternal also created four to help her, to watch and guide us, The Arms. Any paintings or statues of Divi and constructed so that she appears to have four arms, though now at days older art either scratched out or have removed the fourth arm. The fourth betrayed The Eternal and have been gathering followers and temples of his own, promising a new age and have become a powerful deity in his own right. Whispers of The Ascent Mol is rare, but not unheard of.

The Arms were prayed to just as The Eternal was. Though references to them have changed over time. Sometimes I hear elders sigh out, “By the five!” and anyone within earshot is horrified. We no longer reference them as five but as four. After all, if one divine figure goes rogue and attempts to take all, for the most part, you should be against it. Naturally, that isn’t always the cause.

Izavyn had felt responsible for the havoc that came over the years. There are parts of our world that had been destroyed and rebuilt, taken over, some still fight a resistance or civil war. When those who decided to follow Mol and his trek for power over all, things changed. They gave their lives, prayers, their devotion, and in turn, it made him strong. Everything is connected, choosing to give yourself to something so powerful isn’t wise but not all men are wise. Creatures were created, the dangerous sort that can infect you with a wound and have you turned. Death by a Demon though frightening was merciful compared to the other option. They spread throughout the land, diminished populations, and where they roamed, darkness followed. The neverending night was their home, it’s where they flourished and thrived. No one dared made their way to a patch of dark land when the sun was out, the cold and dead land meant creatures that would kill. At night, everyone would stay in their homes, traveling would be banned for cargo ships and merchants. Those who wished to risk it on their own was another story… Not even our armies would venture to the darkened lands. The dark clouds in the distance were an omen, a promise of destruction to those who sought safety. The only way to destroy the patches of darkness would be to kill the hoard that inhabited it, that was not an easy feat. Upon nightfall, they roamed free, and hope at that point was lost.

There was a point the people of Izavyn thought things could turn around. The numbers of Demons were dwindling, causalities were becoming less and less. However, just as we had access to magic, as did they. There was a practice that had been used for the most heinous of prisoners. Those who did wrong beyond fixing and required justice were banished from the world. A portal would open and they would be sent somewhere desolate and free of intelligent life. What happened after would be up to them and no longer the business of our world. However, it turns out that a portal can work two ways with the right studies behind it. That’s how the numbers jumped up again and other worlds began to get involved in the strife that should have belonged to Izavyn alone.

Since then, most Kingdoms and City-States have decided to get involved, working to have the same ability the opposing side did. Wars were fought on all fronts and refugees were taken in of all races, most sent to camps to fight. We needed armies and they needed an escape… it was a dreadful exchange but I could understand the military aspect of it, it didn’t mean I agreed to it. Those who sought asylum were brought over, checked over by doctors and ailments would be removed. The world here was free of sickness that could kill, our healers and their abilities were both inspiring and wanted. Everyone who came through would be treated, and while the masses were grateful… I knew it was because our world could do more with healthy people than sickly ones. It was a double-edged sword of sorts but perhaps everything that had beauty also had an ugliness to it.

To make joining the military enticing, promises were made and kept. Majikas were crafty and their practices were difficult, so much so that only one of the many elements would be taught to them. They could summon fire at will, hold lightning in their hands, or even practice in potions and the arcana which would allow for many things, endurance, a day without needed sleep, even a change of appearance of them or others. Hallows were the most pampered of the bunch, clothes in white and ethereal looking, elegance was their calling and people were in awe of them and their ability to heal the sick or create barriers of protection without needed enchantments. We then had those in the front lines, impressive warriors who gained respect just by their sheer look alone, there were many kinds. Some with bulky armor and a grand sword, an enchanted shield that could but up a barrier. They were front-line men, giving commands to their squadron and leading the way. Others were dressed more lightly, more agile. Some with slimmer long swords, long twin daggers, bows with arrows that would appear on a whim, all enchanted weapons with their own special ability. It all looked glamourous really and those who were not from this world were given promises of a better life if they joined one of the ranks. A promise of enhanced beauty, so you would look like the most prominent version of you courtesy of a Majika, and those who joined the front-line men were given the option of a complete change and land, an enticing idea for those who liked the material things. The person would no longer have to live in the safe house and would instead be given a cozy room to call their own, a private bath included, and the promise to be able to own land or home depending on their choice of rank to follow as well as being given the status of a citizen instead of being labeled a refugee.

The refugees were put to work but they worked alongside everyone else, everyone had to pitch in one form or another. Those with a specialized trade were willing to take on apprentices and that option was one people sought after because it promised a place of their own in the home of the master tradesman. There was also an option to help in re-building, supplies run, guard duty, and many other things. That didn’t mean that there was no downtime, not at all. People were still able to enjoy time with their families or seek out help and therapy due to the drastic changes. Not all took it well and when death rates began rising within the safety of the barriers, those in higher power took action. It was a hard change, but those who remained were able to make it through and over the years the world has prospered the best it can given the circumstances. However, it seems the Demons have run out of souls to take on for their army and the focus now remains on us, the last standing in their path and our unwillingness to bow makes us targets.

Some know that time might not be kind with what looms. Some choose to just make it by, others wise to live as if tomorrow might be the end and that’s what my parents did. My mother is was born in this world, she comes from across the sea and studied as a tailor. Her studies eventually brought her to the City-State of Verrin where she ended up being the private seamstress to the council. She never did talk much of home but I understood. It was painful… Back in her home of Qisyo things were difficult. It was one of the countries where the royal family had been forced out and armies with the banners for Mol were raised. Some refugees from her country could be seen throughout Verrin but I knew of a settlement by the ocean on a cliff where her people were trying to wait out the war across the sea so they can return home. Qisyo’ko was the name of the settlement and I had only been there once…

My father had arrived when my mother was working in a dress shop, he did not join the ranks and instead chose to live his life in the business of delivery within the city. My mother was someone he came across quite often since he would deliver goods to the shop she worked in and their relationship eventually grew and then they were married. My mother was aware of his status as a refugee and knew marriage wouldn’t secure a future for him but her eventual career opened doors and my father was able to eventually work in the library, much like he had back on Earth. It was a quiet enough life for them, and my appearance made things better for them, something they always reminded me of. I remember spending a lot of time with my father in the library, reading never-ending books, and in the evening bothering my mother beyond words since I had not seen her all day whenever work called for her.

Eventually, I did make friends of my own but there was one I ended up being the closest to. It was around the time the last of the humans from Earth made their way over. There had been a group of orphans but there was one who did not seem as sad as the others. It turned out she had already been an orphan and had been placed in home after home. The events of her world and the drastic change stressed her eyes, but she did not cry over the loss of family like the others and seemed more optimistic, hopeful almost. Her name was Morgan and she and I had a bond that could rival the closest of sisters.

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fandomflail · 4 years

Text

title: Recognition (8/9)

rating: M

summary: Soulmate trope AU. Set in a world where humans and elves coexist.

a/n: i should be wary of promising exact dates as I have a habit of running the edit brush over and over again until i finally reach a point where i can edit no more. and still, the length of this chapter is monstrous. there will be another chapter, as giving myself an additional chapter before the end has allowed me to share more of the world with you. i hope you dont hate me for it.

also on AO3

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CHAPTER 8: Reveal

Killian kissed Emma fiercely, before he, Liam and Elsa sped off. Killian had left Emma with the keys to his home, and it had been hours now since they’d left. She had little word from him and was doing her best to not worry.

Jefferson had regressed, and was now quietly speaking on the communicator to someone she couldn’t see. Belle had taken the opportunity to tutor the kids in History, walking them through the royal lineage.

Emma joined them after she had cleaned the penthouse, thankful for the sore in her muscles as a lot of the anxious energy had been burned off. Despite the fact that Henry kept interrupting Belle with questions, the Head of the B.E.A.S.T was patient and kind in answering them.

She faltered however, when Gracie suddenly asked, “All the kings and queens mentioned have had long lives. And the ones who have died early, like King Brennan, has been a result of foul play. Was he assassinated?”

Belle looked uncomfortable, tossing a glance at Jefferson who paid them no mind. “Well, it’s too early to say, isn’t it? And that’s a rather… well, it could have been mind maladies, an accident, anything. We can’t know for sure. Why jump to that as the first explanation?”

The girl pursed her lips. Emma watched her, the look on her face was so like her father’s it was uncanny. “Papa may have…” her eyes darted to her father who was still in conversation, “he may have alluded that the Queen…” she trailed off, losing her nerve.

“But why?” Emma asked, jumping into the conversation. Her one and only interaction with the Queen Consort had been highly unpleasant, to say the least, but she stood to gain nothing from a dead king, “Liam’s next in line.”

Gracie, Henry and Belle shook their heads in tandem. “That’s not how it works.”

“But he’s the first born son!” She defended.

Her outburst must have caught Jefferson’s attention, because he interjected, “The way the rule works is that, the next ruler must be chosen by the previous.” He clicked off the communicator, joining their side of the room, “Now of course, Kings have long since just ‘chosen’ their children, thus making it a blood lineage, but it doesn’t have to be.”

“That’s right, and precedence was set thousand of years before the Landing of the First Men, during the rule of King Sanfant, who died young and childless. Queen Elligent became the automatic ruler, and re-married. Her daughter would inherit the throne.” Belle recited, as if she could see the book in front of her. “I think there was opposition to automatic inheritance, which led to the formation of the 13,” Belle finished, her tone unsure as she looked to Jefferson, who nodded to confirm her statement.

“But if the ruler was assassinated or died without naming a successor…” Jefferson said, his tone flat, “then the Council would be forced to ascend from their lofty abodes in Irska and decide. Of the 13, most favor Prince William as he spent a long time in Irska. He would most likely take the throne given that he is well liked and has been cultivated as a ruler since he was knee high. However, that appointment won’t come without politics.”

“You seemed to know this with a certainty…” Emma remarked, watching Jefferson closely. It was imperceptible, but she saw that slight change of expression that told her he hadn’t meant to reveal his depth of knowledge on the matter. Emma realized then that she didn’t actually know what Jefferson did. He kept a remarkably low profile, had little relationships with other elves that she knew of (courtesy of Henry through Gracie) and was really more secretive than was warranted.

Jefferson seemed rigid as he shrugged his shoulder in nonchalance. Emma caught Gracie watching her father critically, validating Emma’s thoughts. “It’s common knowledge,” he said, “just like how one of the barriers for Prince William’s appointment will be whether or not he intends to pass the line to Prince Killian or his own children.”

It may have been an attempt to distract her, but Emma couldn’t help the question, “Why wouldn’t they want Killian to take the throne?”

“I don’t think they like him, mum,” Henry said with an expression that said he severely disagreed with that.

“But why?”

Jefferson sighed, rubbing his neck. “You do remember what I told you all those months ago at the Open Court? That he had eschewed his elven responsibilities and all but left to be human?”

She nodded. Killian had shared with her why he had left, and what he had done in that time.

“It’s a great insult,” Gracie said, nodding sagely.

“There’s 3 books about the incident,” Belle said, squinting her eyes like she was looking through book catalogues in her memory.

“It was big, when it happened. Mostly because of how he did it.The insult to pride has not abated, no matter how nice they play now. I can almost guarantee that one of the conditions of Prince William’s ascension will be that the line will never pass through Prince Killian or any of his progeny.”

Emma felt a wave of rage at the injustice of that, despite the fact that they had not discussed children. Heck, they hadn’t even really discussed their own future! She was also pretty sure Killian had no desire to rule. It was just… the principle of it.

“And Liam will agree to that condition?”

Jefferson scoffed. “Easily. He would not take likely to anyone insulting his family’s honor, but even he would easily agree to such a term. That’s not what will tip the scales.”

“What, then?” Belle asked.

Jefferson sighed, his eyes glancing at them and around the room, as if deciding how much to tell them, and what. His eyes landed on the closed doors, on the eagerly awaiting faces, and when his eyes caught Emma’s, he sighed.

“Understand,” he said in a voice lower than usual, “that what you’re about to hear would be… problematic, to say the least, if repeated elsewhere. Consider perhaps, that some may be hearsay, or completely invalidated.”

“We understand the disclaimer, Papa” Gracie said, sounding impatient.

He sighed again. Emma too, was feeling impatient.

And then, it was like a damn burst.

“The Queen has a rather interesting history, one surprisingly that even escaped the Sukrasa. She’s reinvented herself of sorts. It’s a long story, but she’s from a kingdom far, far, far away. There’s rumored to be a band of elves in the vast desert systems of the Orken, and as no one really knows how to find them or has had much contact with them over literal millennia; most people consider them mythical.”

“They are real?” Belle asks, sounding like someone just told her she’d won a million Glyd. Emma’s sort of glad to see that Henry and Gracie both look as confused as she personally feels.

“It appears so. Her Highness Coraline, though she was nothing but a maiden named Kara then, was… exiled. She was no older than 14 I hear, though I cannot be certain of her age when it happened. It seems she murdered someone, again unverified, or at the least, benefited from the death of some high ranking person in their society. In any case, they sent her to live in a cavern below their systems. Intel implies a deeper level of cave system. In any case, she must have escaped sometime later, though she did so with a baby in her belly.”

“Wait, what? What does this have to do with Liam? How do you know this?” Emma interrupted, incredulous.

Jefferson held up a hand, as if to say, be patient. He eyed Henry and Gracie, as if regretting that they were hearing this, but must have surmised it was too late now, as he continued, “She made her way to a settlement somewhere on the borders of Snoland and Nysno, where it was said the child passed during birth - that a decision had to be made so she chose to live. Fashioned a completely new identity there, became a key strategist in Snoland, was recommended to serve in Irska, where she met the widowed King Brennan, and is now as we know, Queen Coraline.”

Emma had more questions than ever.

“The child, didn’t in fact pass. In fact, the child has grown up to be a very powerful alchemist. Unfortunately, she has taken after her mother in both ambition and ruthlessness. You see, two months ago, my network, don’t ask who or how, received intel about this elf, about 350 years in age, who had set sights on Irska. Not uncommon, to be fair, except that her brand of alchemy dealt strongly in dangerous arts, poisons and services of revenge, both petty and malicious. This was all hush hush. On the surface, she did plenty of healing art too. But then one of the agents had a hunch, and a good thing too, for he tracked her, got close to her, and found out all that I’ve relayed to you now. Her name is Zelena, beautiful, red haired, and fair skin. She’s already in Irska, and she knows whose daughter she is. What we don’t know is if she’s confronted her mother, or worst, is scheming with Coraline to ingratiate herself for the crown. She’s first born. Then of course, you have Coraline’s own child, Princess Regina, who the crown would most certainly pass to if The 13 instate the Queen as Regent.”

“Oh shit,” said Henry.

“Henry, language!”

“So if I understand,” Belle said haltingly, “if King Brennan didn’t bequeath the crown to Prince Liam, then The Council of Elders will be called to decide if the crown goes to him or Queen Coraline. If the crown goes to Queen Coraline, then she will later give it to Princess Regina, provided her alleged first born Zelena, doesn’t come in to demand her rights. Did I get it right?”

“Does Regina know about her sister? Or Coraline know about her daughter?”

“Yes,” said Jefferson pointing to Belle, and “No, I don’t think so, and not sure, we don’t know if she’s confronted her,” he said, answering Emma’s questions.

“This is ludicrous, Papa. Is this true?”

“If Zelena is to be believed. But regardless of whether or not Coraline’s past is true - perhaps she herself made up the rumor about Orken for intrigue - the present remains that the King was, most likely, intentionally disposed. And if so, then it must be because the stars have aligned themselves for some nefarious plan that one, or both of them, are cooking up.”

“Then Killian is in danger. And Liam, and Elsa.” Emma breathed out. “Wait, why the hell haven’t you told anyone this?!?” She demanded, rounding on Jefferson.

He gave her a long hard look. “The ones who have needed to be informed have been. But clearly, they have failed. I don’t know who has been compromised.”

“The Sukrasa?” Belle asked.

“Were aware. It remains to be seen if they failed or were… compromised.”

“But they have a code,” Emma said unthinkingly, remembering that night at the ball.

“Yes, a code,” Jefferson said impatiently, “but morality is separate. It would not be disloyal to follow Queen Coraline’s orders, especially if they didn’t—-“

He stopped, looking like he had just figured something out.

“What?” Emma asked.

“Papa, you’ve lost colour.”

“Belle, I need you to stay here, lock the doors, and keep the children safe. Can I count on you?”

“What is it?” Emma pressed, but he wasn’t looking at her at all.

Henry and Gracie protested immediately, but Belle’s voice was the firmest Emma had ever heard it. “Yes, we won’t move. They will be safe.”

Jefferson turned to her, something blazing in his eyes. “We need to go, now.”

Emma had a million questions, but there was something there that told her she could ask it on the way. She trusted Jefferson, despite the evidence suggesting she shouldn’t. She nodded, and went to Henry, hugging him tightly.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into this drama, kid,” she whispered into his hair.

He laughed, despite the worry she felt radiating from him. “Are you kidding, I’m living in a movie. Just,” he inhaled sharply, “just be safe, mum, please.”

“Of course. I love you,” she said, feeling warm when he responded in kind.

She kissed him on the forehead, touched Gracie’s forearm gently, thanked Belle who waved her off, and went with Jefferson.

The dizzying emotions kept her quiet as she warred with the side of her that screamed I told you so!, I told you he’d be nothing but bad news, which she knew objectively was untrue, but also sort of true - getting mixed up in whatever political intrigue was happening was way above Emma’s comprehension and interest. But she also knew that she’d go to the fiery pits of Anbar for him; she loved him, whether or not she was ready to say it.

She had so many questions that figuring what to ask first kept her quiet, and the urge to just show up to the palace and … punch, or kick or just slap the Queen was making her skin itch. This inaction was making her antsy.

Jefferson too, seemed preoccupied. He was fiddling with his communicator, clearly processing a million different things at once. It wasn’t until they were safely tucked in his pod and their harnesses buckled did Emma speak. So did Jefferson.

“I know you must be wondering—“

“What the hell is going on—“

The pod was moving at full speed; Jefferson was masterfully guiding the craft towards the borders of Alamané on the other side of the river.

“There’s too much to tell you, so here’s what you must know. If, if the Sukrasa are executing orders from the Queen, it means that her actions or promised outcomes are likely to be for the better of the realm.”

“That’s bullshit!”

“Maybe so… but she’s smart, and plays the game of politics for more masterfully than the King, or the two princes. One King dying of young age is suspect enough, but two princes? No, they are not in immediate danger - unless they threaten to expose her. How likely is that?”

“If Killian or Liam thinks their father has been murdered—“

“Exactly. Until this moment, the Zelena connection has been tenuous at best. Despite the intel, there was no actual proof, no evidence to suggest the entire story was true. I’ve met both Zelena and Regina; very similar in temperament, both… unpleasant, but smart. Also quick to anger, and impatient. Where Coraline would play games for centuries, Zelena finds waiting to be strenuous. About 7 minutes ago, confirmation has come through that the King was indeed poisoned.”

“Fuck them,” Emma said, hating the she-elves the more she learned about them. “Of the three, who do we need to worry more about now?”

“Coraline, Zelena, Regina, in that order,” he said, without a moment of hesitation.

“Oh shit,” Jefferson exclaimed suddenly.

“What? What?”

“We’re almost at the border into the Ekilon Forest, where the first checkpoint is.”

Emma had never been there, but she understood.

“Oh,” she said, heat rising to her cheeks unbidden, “I actually… I have right of way.”

“What? How?”

Emma pulled out the chain she never took off, the one that kept Killian’s ring by her skin at all times. She dangled the ring, and the pod swerved slightly to the right as Jefferson reacted to the sight.

The ring Killian had given her was no mere ring. It was delicately crafted, and the official signet ring of Killian Aearinön. At the time, she hadn’t understood the full significance of the gesture, as he’d merely told her that it would allow her to find him, always. Only later had he explained that someone who carried that ring could march right up to the throne room in Irska itself and not be stopped, for it was their right and honor. Each royal had only one to give away, and she had his.

She had wondered if anyone would actually believe that it was a real signet ring. He had licked her cheek, making her laugh and smack him in protest. Then he told her lovingly, that it was made from pure Innenfra which had made her gasp into silence. It was a type of metal that when worn for long periods of time, made elf blood sing, providing harmony to the body. Most elves wore some type of Innenfra, mostly just as a small earring like Jefferson did, as it was rare and terribly expensive. A whole ring was royal indeed.

“Wow,” Jefferson said, “well, that solves one problem at least. Though perhaps not as inconspicuous as I hoped.”

They arrived at the checkpoint, and Emma gave her name, doing her best to remain plain even as she showed them the signet ring. She could see the arch of brow at that, but they did not question her further, allowing their pod to pass through unencumbered. Their mood was not sombre as she thought it would be, they seemed to be mostly unaffected, as if they hadn’t heard about the death of their king.

“Are these elves loyal to Killian’s family? They don’t seem like they’re mourning.”

“Mourning is what we reserve for the tragic loss, like that of a child. A mother’s death is a warrior’s mourn, for she died in the most noble of battles. And as for King Brennan… no one knows about the murder yet. For that, there shall be anger, and a swift retribution. But common deaths? Oh, we celebrate.”

“Celebrate?”

“We live longer lives than you, ah I mean to say, humans, and so we do not fear death as much as humans, only a life left unfulfilled.”

“So, Cora?”

“There’s more questions than answers. But I have a theory if you will, and it goes as follows. Once the King is disposed, the sons must be discredited. Of the two, Prince Killian would be the easiest to lay blame on. If he is found somehow responsible for the death of his father, that casts aspersions to the whole lot of them. Prince William will be expected to sentence Prince Killian to death, which he would not do, mostly because he will not believe his brother to be conspirator, no matter who accuses Killian as the mastermind. Queen Coraline however, as broken hearted as she will appear to be, will of course avenge her husband. Once her mother is in position, Zelena will appear suddenly, taking credit for setting the whole thing up, if she hasn’t already.”

A sudden, sinking feeling settled in Emma stomach. One that had been building since earlier that day, one that had been growing in the pit of her stomach but she had ignored in favor of other pressing matters.

“This is your best theory?”

They were speeding through Ekilon; she could see the next checkpoint into Irska itself, with its glittering castle not too far in the distance. She needed to play this right.

“I told you, I’ve met Zelena. And Regina.”

“Very well met then, to make such accurate predictions?” She asked more sharply than intended. Cool down, Emma, almost there.

She was looking straight ahead, but she could feel the weight of his stare on her as he glanced her way.

“Enough to know that this is the play she’d make, rather than attack directly.”

“How do you suppose she’s getting information?”

She was watching him out of the corner of her eye, his face remained impassive, though his left hand twitched imperceptibly on the control - she would have missed it if she had blinked.

“Her mother, most likely. Otherwise, I don’t know.”

“Right.”

Clearly, she was terrible at subtlety, because Jefferson, for the first time since she’d known him, growled irritated.

“What are you insinuating?”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You’re not being subtle, Emma!”

“Fine! Are you working for the Queen? Zelena? Or Regina?”

“You have a lot of nerve asking that,” Jefferson said, voice turning dangerous. Emma balled her fists, ready to swing if it came to that.

“Answer the question.”

He huffed, and the pod jerked, accelerating forward faster. He swerved off the main path into a smaller one off to the right, and stopped suddenly at an alcove.

“Jefferson!” Her hand jumped to the handle.

“For fuck’s sake,” he said angrily, “I’m not working for them… anymore.”

“WHAT?”

He had his hands in his hair, gripping it tightly. He looked absolutely mad. Emma had no idea how everything had unravelled so quickly, but she had her balisong in her left hand, ready to be flipped out to become a dangerous blade if needed.

“Look, we really don’t have time for this. But here’s the short of it. I worked for Zelena, before I knew all of her connections. I’m the one who basically… connected the dots of her family line, led her to her mother, so to speak.”

“You said you only found out about her a month ago!”

“I didn’t lie, though there might have been omission,” he admitted.

Emma cursed at him, but he ignored her and went on, “I worked with her on something, unrelated, and we found out her heritage almost by chance. In any case, she wanted me to do…more, threatening Gracie, who was a mere babe at the time; I refused. Needless to say, I disappeared, moved to Alamané. When we found out about an unknown alchemist, and Gr—my partner did digging into it. It’s when pieces started to fall into place. My partner has been very close to Zelena, and we’ve had nothing further to act on since then.”

“Jævla deg,” she cursed at him.

Despite looking frazzled, he laughed. “Prince Killian is teaching you the good stuff, I see.”

“Jefferson, I thought we were…” she faltered, the word friend dying on her lips because they weren’t quite that.

“I mean you no harm, Emma. Truly. But we need to get to the place now. One, to make sure in anger that neither prince jeopardizes their claim to the throne by unwise actions, and two, Zelena is on her way to the castle. She knows something, she had some kind of leverage, and my partner believes he knows what it is.”

“Which is?”

With a deep breath, as if he too were wishing this was true, “The last letter of King Brennan Blåoyne, which states indubitably that he intends for the crown to pass to Prince William. It’s not quite the official bequeathing ceremony per say, but it should be enough to convince The 13 of the will of the king. They would lose face and cast aspersions to their character if they went with Queen Coraline after that, unless of course her reward was more enticing than we could imagine.” He begin moving the pod back in the proper direction of Irska.

“I can imagine an awful lot,” Emma said, annoyed.

“Yes,” Jefferson agreed, saying nothing more.

The rest of the ride was in silence, as Emma, despite her anxiety, irritation and feelings of betrayal, could not help but be awed as the pod moved into Irska. The forest gave way to a valley, with a clear river flowing off to their right. It was the same side where a tall mountain cliff stood strong, and a thick jet of water sprung from its top, rushing down to the river below.

The architecture was so very different from the clean industrial designs of Alamané. Irska was a city built into nature, with buildings carved into the mountain side, wood, stone and marble; and roads paved to curve around the trees. The energy was ancient, and it showed in the intricacies of design; elves of old had plenty of time to dedicate their lives to a small area of mastery, and so the attention to detail was magnificent, even from the little that she could see.

Damn, Emma thought, no wonder elves are so uptight about preserving this.

Ruby would have been pissed to hear her thoughts, but Emma wasn’t thinking of that.

* * *

The security around the castle was heightened, but The Sukrasa gave her no resistance as she showed Killian’s ring. It wasn’t until she was at the front doors itself was her movement given pause.

The tall elf standing straight near the doors wore a bright white uniform, his skin sun-kissed and his arms muscled. He was a person of authority, and wasn’t used to having it questioned.

“You’re the Lady Emma?” The elf asked. He wasn’t eyeing her with distaste, exactly, but it wasn’t friendly either.

“I don’t know about Lady…but I’m Emma, yes.”

“Vi må se prinsen, voktere,” Jefferson said, giving the elf a short bow.

The elf answered in their language, clearly giving Jefferson a set of strict directions. Emma opened her mouth to ask, but the elf turned to her. “My name is Robin, Kjærlighet.”

“Char-lie-et?”

“It’s the title of royal paramours.”

Emma felt her face heating - being labelled a paramour seemed so clandestine.

“His Highness, Prince Killian has been alerted of your presence. He awaits you. Adel Jefferson, you may —“

“I will accompany Kjærlighet Emma.”

Robin’s face soured. He gave Jefferson a severe look before he said, “If she would allow it.”

“Uh,” Emma said, taken off guard. She wasn’t sure how she felt about him exactly. He couldn’t be trusted for one, especially since he seemed to be keeping everyone on an information diet. But she could often tell when someone was lying, and he wasn’t… she didn’t think he was being malicious. But she wasn’t sure, either.

“Okay, yeah, he can come.”

“As you wish,” Robin said, turning heel with the air of someone who expected they would follow.

So they did.

* * *

When she saw him, she rushed into his arms without even thinking about it.

“Killian!”

“Emma,” Killian laughed in surprise, “it’s only been a couple of hours.”

“A hell couple of hours,” she muttered, to which he agreed by kissing her on the side of her head.

“Highness,” Jefferson said, his tone indicating whatever he had to say was going to be about the matter at hand, “I have some news. Is this a safe place to talk?”

“Is anywhere in this place safe from prying ears? But I reckon Liam is going to want to hear whatever you have to say,” Killian said, his body straightening against hers as if preparing to fight.

They gathered in a small room, with Liam looking troubled and Elsa with a frown marring her features.

“You seem to be a little too informed, lytting” Liam said, watching Jefferson suspiciously after the elf had told them what he had told Emma in the pod. Killian had only just avoided decking him in the face.

Jefferson shrugged, “In any case, that’s the start of it. There were traces of Marjaga in his late highness’ blood.”

A sharp intake was heard, and Liam slammed his hand on the table. The name Jefferson mentioned niggled at a memory, but she couldn’t place it. More importantly, it seemed that they hadn’t known about the king’s cause of death.

“I knew it,” Killian hissed. “Damn snake.” He increased his pacing, looking like a scorpion ready to sting. Emma remained perched where she was, looking away from him as his pacing made her queasy.

Elsa stood up suddenly. “I’ve seen her. I’ve seen her.”

“Who? Zelena?”

“Yes! She’s the healer they sent for Voktere Walsh when he was injured from his fall a few weeks ago. Beautiful redhead, he seemed to forget his pain when she was tending to him.”

“Whose security detail is Voktere Walsh on?” Jefferson asked.

Elsa shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. I only saw everything from a distance.” She turned to her husband, asking without words if he did. Liam shook his head.

“Okay, so she’s in the palace. A Sukrara may have a a soft spot for her, making him easily manipulatable. By the time the royal coroner gets the full test, the Marjaga might be undetectable. The 13 should be arriving within the hour to convene.”

“Why should we trust you?” Liam interrupted, his body language reminding Emma of a wild animal about to spring.

“Because I have information, and you have whatever they tell you. And because, it is in my best interests that the throne does not pass to the Queen or her brats.”

Killian and Liam had been looking at each other every time Jefferson let loose another nugget of information, glancing at one another as if able to communicate by eyes alone. Maybe it was a sibling thing.

“I would like to skin her alive. And I’m surprised Killian has shown restraint thus far in not rushing out. But we must not loose our heads or our upper hand. Your partner,” Liam said, getting up and walking to Jefferson, “is he still in position?”

“Yes,” Jefferson confirmed, “though if we want him to… incapacitate Zelena, we would have one shot of it.”

“And what about dear stepmum?” Killian asked, every syllable dripping with venom.

For the first time since Liam had hugged her hello, he smiled. “I took care of that actually. We didn’t want her to be… distraught, see, so I gently suggested to her maiden that she be given strong dose of a magnolia bark, valerian and blue skullcap mixture.”

“What do those do?” Emma asked.

It was Elsa who answered. “Put one in a deep, deep, deep sleep. Oh, and I might have suggested a bit of chloroformius orchids, just to make sure she stays really relaxed.”

Emma stared in Elsa in surprise while Killian let out a whoop and clap. “Well done!”

“So that leaves Zelena and Regina.”

“Regina just left the palace in Snoland about an hour ago, it will take her at least two days to get here.”

“How do you know these things?!” Killian asked Jefferson.

“Can’t you trust that I do?”

“No,” Emma snapped.

“Fine. Your accusation was right, Highness,” he said looking at Liam, “I’m a lytting, though I’m sure when you called me that it was an insult. I served as the second in command to the Master of Whispers in Snoland, before the Snowdrop Wars, under the command of Queen Eva. The networks I built there reached Irska, and many of those relationships are active, even though I no longer serve the house that sits there. As you know, Princess Regina married King Leopold and she’s not who I wished to serve. If she succeeds in bearing him a blood heir since his first daughter’s family was killed in the Snowdrop Wars, and her mother bequeaths her Irska, then they become a powerful line indeed. And I’m not ready for the abuse of power that would follow. There, you now know my motivations, is this enough?”

* * *

As Emma walked to the dais where the dead king lay, she took a moment to reflect the insanity her life had become. She was now dressed in a dark blue dress of Elsa’s that was suitable for the occasion; it was a party after all. Elves left and right were high in spirits, regaling tales of the late king, surely embellishing details about how big the monster was, or how clever the foe.

It seemed Liam and Killian were showing the kind of restraint and strategy she thought went against their very nature, two whirlwinds of emotions now having to temper their anger for the bigger picture. There was a greater plot at play, and Emma wasn’t sure if she wanted to know it all. The Sukrasa Jefferson had warned, the informant in the palace, was no where to be found, suggesting another brand of foul play that may have resulted in the death of the king.

They had sent a trusted maiden to collect all of the Queen’s notes from her study, anything to link her to a plot. Jefferson’s partner was busy collecting and recording indisputable evidence that Zelena was part of it too. Liam had been summoned to The 13’s chambers. It seemed like a great wheel was spinning and the pieces would soon fall, once the blue smoke rose from The 13’s fire which would indicate a chosen ruler.

Emma reached the top of the dais, Killian holding her waist gently.

She stared down at the face of King Brennan, whose face had sunken in from the water loss. He didn’t look like he was sleeping. He looked like he was dead.

“I’m sorry you’ve lost your father,” she said finally.

“I’m more sorry that Liam has to take his throne this way.”

“Killian…”

“He wasn’t much of a father, to be honest. Vengeance will be mine, on his behalf, but I’m more sorry for all the trouble this is causing than anything else. I’m tired, Emma. It’s why I left. The title of a prince means little. We honor it and traditions because without it, elves are little else. Stuck in the past, averse to change. For what? So we can delude ourselves with grandeur and importance? I’ve paid my respects, let’s just go.”

He turned, but Emma stopped. She had just realized something.

“Killian, there’s ink on his hands.”

“What?” He turned back. “That’s not possible, they clean and dress bodies to ensure they keep for the Death Day Celebration.”

“Well, yes, but look at his fingernails. Look at the pad of that finger there.”

King Brennan’s nail bed had ink on them. Dark blue ink that could easily be mistaken as discoloration. There was a tinge of Aurum ink on his right index finger, and on his signet ring. Barely there, but now that she was looking, she could see it.

“You think he was writing the document Jefferson mentioned? The bequeathing letter? A bit much as coincidences go, don’t you think?”

There were whispering to each other, but Emma felt the hair of her neck stand at the implications of this discovery. “But what if it wasn’t? What if that’s the reason he was poisoned?”

“We’ve got to go find Liam and search father’s study, let’s go.”

* * *

Their search turned up nothing, but the whole thing was for naught. Because, too quickly, though a day had since passed, a blue fire rose into the night sky.

It happened just as Emma shut off the communicator, having been assured that Henry and Gracie were fine.

Jefferson moved to stand next to her, as Killian gripped her waist. The late king was to be interred in a few hours. Hhe had professed to her that he wished to just go home after that and lay in bed with her and forget the world for a while. Perhaps his father’s death and the plots surrounding it had affected him more than he care to let on, but he wasn’t talking to Emma about it, and as much as she wanted him to, she knew she had to give him space.

After all, she was aware enough to know that she’d have demanded the same.

The elves of court moved into the hall, with Liam and Elsa leading the front. The air was markedly more solemn than it had been earlier where King Brennan lay, but Emma had since given up understanding elven culture. She’d leave that to Henry.

An ancient elf stood; he looked like he had been left in the sun too long. His skin was weathered, voice deep and coarse. He might have been the oldest elf she’d ever seen.

“Sem Artur Pendrégon in sluzim Svetu starejsih. Var første og helligste plikt er abeskytte alvene, alvenes frihet og var guddommelighet. Felly mae wedi bod. Ac felly y bydd.”

“Felly mae wedi bod. Ac felly y bydd,” the elves repeated.

She looked up at Killian inquiringly. He was holding her so close to his body that every exhalation blew her hair to her cheek.

When he whispered the translation, her body reacted, suddenly very aware of the close proximity of her… of him.

“I am Arthurus Pendrégon, and I serve the Council of Elders. Our first and most sacred duty is to protect the way of life of elves, the liberty of elves, and our divinity. So it has been. And so it will be.”

But Arthurus was already speaking.

“Danes ne bomo stali na hitro ali slovesno. Razmislili smo, kaj je najboljše za irsko kraljestvo in kraljestvo vilinov, kot ga imamo vedno. Krona ni narejena samo iz dragocenih draguljev in kamnov, niti iz auruma in srebra. Krona je narejena iz discipline, pravičnosti, poguma in hrabrosti. Kraljeve linije so izbrane tako, da služijo ljudem, in tega ne smejo pozabiti nikoli tisti, ki služijo, in tisti, ki jim je služeno. Svet starejših se spominja in ohranja tradicije vilinov že od nekdaj, in to bomo storili, dokler ne bo stal zadnji vilin. In zato smo danes sklicali sem, da bi izbrali naslednjo Irska krono.”

“We will not stand on prompt nor ceremony for today. We have considered what is best for the kingdom of Irska, and the realm of elves, as we always have. A crown is not made of just precious gems and stones, nor of aurum and silver. A crown is made of discipline, justice, courage and valor. The royal lines are chosen to serve the people, and this should never be forgotten by those who serve and those who are served. The Council of Elders remembers and conserves the elven traditions from time immemorial, and we shall do so until the last elf stands. And for this, today, we have convened here to choose the next crown of Irska,” Killian said, translating to his best ability as Arthurus spoke. The words spoken were solemn, and they made Emma feel like she was now apart of something bigger. It was silly, but the atmosphere in the room of the noble elves, the grandeur of the hall and the way Arthurus voice reverberated made her forget she ever lived on the streets as an unwensket.

“Vi har ogsa mottatt det siste skrevne ordet om Hans Oppstegne Højhet, King Brennan, som overlot sin krone til et valgt individ.”

Killian stiffened, as did Jefferson beside her.

“What?” She asked.

“My father must have… I don’t know how, but they got it. The letter.”

“She’s here,” Jefferson hissed.

“What? Who?”

“Zelena is here, corner of the room to your left, in the dark green hood.”

Arthurus’s voice increased in volume. “Vi fant ingen alver mer egnet for dette. Vi fant ingen alver som ville hedre kronen like mye som Prins William Beriothien. Mine edle alver, jeg presenterer deg, din neste kral, Kral William Beriothien.”

Emma didn’t need a translation for that last bit.

“They chose him! Their plots were in vain!” Jefferson uttered, looking as though someone had slapped him.

Killian let out a giant breath of relief, as Liam, walked up to Arthurus, looking perfectly poised. Emma could see it, the way his eyes scanned the elves in attendance, the fire in his eyes that many would mistake for relief or joy. There would be retribution, but it would come so fast and swift his enemies would have no way to escape it. He was reciting some words of acceptance, looking very kingly indeed, but Emma’s attention was focused on Zelena.

Underneath the green hood there was a shock of red hair, and beside her, a tall elf which chiseled features spoke quietly into her ear. Emma guessed that to be Jefferson’s partner. Before Killian, he’d be exactly her type. His hair was reddish brown and curly. He had broad shoulders and wore a light brown tunic that highlighted it well. He must have felt her gaze, for as he turned to look at her questioningly, his curiosity blossomed into a smirk. Emma looked away quickly, embarrassed at being distracted, and fervently hoping Killian hadn’t noticed.

“That’s Graham,” Jefferson said suddenly, giving her a fright. He was speaking very softly, and while Killian’s attention was devoted to his brother, she knew he was listening.

“The partner?”

“The partner. I’m not sure what happened today. Truly. But perhaps, the His Ascended Highness was more crafty than we thought, more prepared than we anticipated. Perhaps we should never discount basic preparation compared to complicated plots.”

“That’s it?”

“Oh no. Definitely not. But with King William at the helm now, the Queen now Dowager, with significantly less hold, it will be easy to usher her away to Snoland, where she can be their problem. And Zelena will likely follow. And in the mean time, a way for justice to be served can be found.”

“And it will be,” Killian said, though his eyes were still on his brother. His hands however, were secure around her, and his heart in tandem with hers. It was time to go home.

#cs ff #cs au #cs recognition #recognition #rouhn #kmomof4 #teamhook

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yumkiwidelicious · 5 years

Text

every step that i ran to you

Beom-pal wasn’t quite sure what to make of his old friends once they returned to Hanyang. They were taking a much needed break from what the Second State Councilor fondly referred to as ‘Monster Hunting’ in order to visit the capitol and check on the young king. That they deigned to stop in and see him as well warmed Beom-pal’s heart more than he could describe without quite a few servings of drink.

Beom-pal counted himself lucky that enough time had passed that the three could enter the city virtually unrecognized. Many who had fought beside them were dead or moved on now. Seven years had obviously seen some differences among them; His Highness and Yeong-Shin Jein had facial hair now. However, some things remained devastatingly unchanged; Seo-bi was still beautiful as ever and still completely uninterested in Beom-pal as anything other than a beloved friend. Still, he was happy just to see her.

The four of them talked casually of all they had seen in their travels. Seo-bi was becoming a better and better physician the more exposure to new herbs and remedies she came across. Yeong-shin was their primary breadwinner, using his skill with a gun to hunt as well as impress noblemen out of their wealth all over the nation. The Crown Prince was as stoic and serious as ever, but he praised the others fondly and asked after his late best friend’s son with doting interest.

The absence of Mu-yeong around the table was a somber reminder of all they had lost in the plague. More than what could ever be returned, but not than what could be rebuilt. Beom-pal made a concentrated effort to speak of all the good that was happening in the palace these days. Mu-yeong’s wife was well looked after and had recovered from her harrowing experience while in labor. The council members still living from the plague spread the story Lee Chang had dictated so that all believed the former King and Queen had died honorably. The young king was healthy and well liked and curious and kind.

“He takes after you in that way, Your Highness,” Beom-pal chortled, stumbling to his feet on his way to grab another tankard of liquor. Behind him Seo-bi and Yeong-shin chuckled and teased the former king, but Lee Chang only waved them away, in better spirits now that he knew his kingdom was in good hands.

As Beom-pal prepared another tray of drinks and food, he wondered how long his friends would be able to stay. His Highness and Seo-bi had spoken rather seriously of a desolate village, ravaged by the plague, that they had found when Yeong-shin had been in Hanyang last. Someone was intentionally harvesting and selling the resurrection plant along the countryside to the devastation of its inhabitants. The person or people’s end was unclear, and the former magistrate knew that soon his companions would need to wander back out into the world to find answers and save all of Joseon.

He wished he could accompany them, if only to remain in their presence. It was not as if he’d be of any great help on the mission; even after seven years, Beom-pal knew he was no brave hero. If not for all three of the people sitting in the next room, he would have been dead several times over during the outbreak. Still, he wanted to go with them, even if the journey would be perilous, but he knew he could never abandon the young king. His Majesty was a lonely child and the relationship Beom-pal fostered with him was what he had to imagine the relationship between Lee Chang and Lord Ahn had been. No, he could not abandon his king.

Beom-pal nodded his head resolutely with this thought -he would not beg to tag along on their next big adventure- and moved to reenter the sitting room where he promptly dropped the entire tray of food and beverages he’d been carrying.

He had seen so many things at once.

Seo-bi had had food on her face. Just a smear of some sauce or another right in the corner of her mouth. Common courtesy would dictate one of the men she was with would inform her of this mess so she could excuse herself to tidy and then return perfect. Instead Beom-pal had watched as Yeong-shin reached over in blatant view of the Crown Prince and the gods and brushed the imperfection away with his thumb. He had been smiling and so had Seo-bi though the quirk of her lips and eyes spoke of fond irritation. The tiger hunter had only smiled more roguishly before sticking his thumb in his mouth to taste the food off her face.

Beo-pal had frozen in the doorway, none of them noticing his return.

The physician had promptly turned to her Crown Prince, playful pout marring her pretty face as she’d tugged on his sleeve. A punishable show of disrespect that Lee Chang had responded to with nothing more than a raised brow. In a voice lower and lazier than Beo-pal had ever heard him use, the young man asked his companion, “What, my flower?”

The tray had slipped from Beom-pal’s sweaty fingers-

“He’s teasing me,” Seo-bi had whined.

-and shattered onto the floor.

They all jumped as food and wine and dish shards flew in all directions. There was a rush of bodies to clean up the mess before anything was permanently ruined, but the Second State Councilor had merely stood there in shock as his friends moved all around him. He was trying and failing to categorize what he had just witnessed with his own two eyes. The scene was broken now, shattered along with the dishes, but he had seen it.

He had seen Yeong-shin and Seo-bi flirting.

That was all it could be, but then…

He had heard the Crown Prince call Seo-bi ‘flower’. An obvious term of endearment and an intimate one at that given their behavior once alone, but that just couldn’t be.

It was forbidden and what was more it just didn’t make sense.

The fact that Seo-bi traveling alone in the company of two unmarried men was scandalous was a given, Beom-pal knew that and staunchly ignored such givens all the time. It mattered little. One of the men she was with was the Crown Prince and rightful heir to the throne of Joseon and as such was bound by his title and duty to uphold a strict moral code. Yeong-shin was free of such burdens and Beom-pal had playfully called him a man of ill-repute several times, but this was just unprecedented.

If Seo-bi and Yeong-shin had begun a romantic relationship while in their travels that was their business. It was shameful and unheard of, but their business none the less and Beom-pal couldn’t judge because Seo-bi had been correct all those years ago when she’d assumed he had gonorrhea and he hadn’t come by it innocently. He would never think less of his friends for being tempted, but what about the Crown Prince?

Lee Chang clearly had feelings for Seo-bi as well and Beom-pal hated to think that Yeong-shin was flaunting their situation. Or maybe it was the other way around? Maybe Seo-bi was secretly involved with the prince and Yeong-shin was the one left pining and unfulfilled. Either way, someone had to be hurting here besides Beom-pal.

“Beom-pal, what is it?” Seo-bi was examining his eyes closely, thin fingers already grasping down around his wrist to check his pulse. He had frozen out of nowhere and dropped a whole platter after all. “Are you alright?”

“Ah!”

“My prince!” The physician and the councilor both looked over. Lee Chang had cut his hand on a bit of glass from the liquor and Yeong-shin was there. Blood dripped to the floor in steady drops and the tiger hunter was crouched on his knees besides the other man, cradling his arm gently. “Is it serious?”

“No,” the former king assured, placing his good hand on the juncture between Yeong-shin’s neck and shoulder. He caressed the skin there subtly. “Just a scratch.”

Or maybe…

“Ah, ah, a-ha!” Beom-pal pointed and shouted and backed away from Seo-bi as a wave of clarity washed over him like a bucket of cold river water. The other three looked at him concernedly. “It’s all of you! You’re all together!”

“What are you talking about?” Yeong-shin grouched, rising to his feet but not releasing his grip on Lee Chang as Seo-bi came over to assess the wound. “You’re drunk.”

“No, no, no, don’t try to hide it!” the councilor insisted, voice raised in his panic. He continued to point accusingly. “You’re all together! Romantically!”

A hush fell over the room so smothering that Beom-pal was sure he would start to choke. There was still clutter all over the floor from his shocking accident, but it went ignored as the three people across the room just stared at him as if not sure what to do next. Seo-bi looked frightened, Yeong-shin looked angry, and the Crown Prince just looked tired. The silence between them was deafening until Seo-bi finally seemed to come alive again and stepped forward into no-man’s land. She gave Beom-pal her back as she quickly bowed to the other two men.

“I will speak with him,” she informed before turning and grabbing Beom-pal around his wrist once more.

He was powerless to resist as she pulled him from the room and from the vacant home they had agreed to meet in. So many homes were still vacant after the plague. She hurried them out into the street, empty now as night had fallen, not even letting them slip their sandals back on. She didn’t release him until they were in the middle of the dirt road, practically flinging his arm away as she rounded on him, eyes bright.

Even after seven years, Beom-pal knew he was no brave hero. He was a tremendous coward, keenly aware of his own cowardice, and as such held a deep respect and admiration for people who were brave. Seo-bi was without a doubt the bravest person he knew and so it pained him, in a completely different way than her continued rejection, to see her look so terrified.

“Seo-bi-”

“Will you report us?” she bit out, not crying, but eyes suspiciously wet. Beom-pal put a hand to his chest, honestly hurt by the question.

“I would never-”

“You’ve done it before.”

The words cut like a knife between his ribs and he staggered back. They didn’t talk, ever, about some of the horrible things they each had to do to survive all those years ago. That Yeon-shin had brought the plague in by forcing cannibalism. That Lee Chang had very nearly killed an innocent infant. That Seo-bi had defected, albeit unknowingly, with Mu-yeong. That Beom-pal had, several times, switched his loyalties and betrayed his friends to stay alive. Such things were too painful and could tear their foundation apart at a time when they needed to be strong. That Seo-bi would throw Beom-pal’s cowardice in his face now only proved how dire their situation truly was.

He fell to his knees before her.

“Seo-bi…” He bowed his head over the dirt. “I have always cared for you and always will. You saved my life seven years ago and I swore I would repay you for what you did. Until all the hair on my head turns white, I will keep your secret!”

The night air grew quiet then and Beom-pal remained kowtowing in the dirt until a pair of slim fingers slipped down to touch the bottom of his chin. Seo-bi pushed his head up until they could look into each other’s eyes clearly. She had lowered herself to her knees as well. Her eyes were dry now.

“Thank you, my friend.”

When they returned inside the room was cleaned and Yeong-shin was pulling his fingers through Lee Chang’s hair. Beom-pal blushed, feeling like he shouldn’t be witnessing such an intimate display as Seo-bi called their attention away from each other. The two men looked sceptical when the physician assured them they could trust the former magistrate, but she made it clear the matter was closed for discussion. She took the tiger hunter’s place and began fixing the Crown Prince’s bun herself, complaining openly and good naturedly about how she was the only one amongst them that could keep them looking decent.

Beom-pal did not approach the situation, still standing in the doorway when Yeong-shin came to his side. The two assessed each other with guarded eyes before merely standing side by side and watching the other two. Of the three, Beom-pal had probably grown closest to Yeong-shin throughout the years and he couldn’t deny that the young man had never mentioned their arrangement in his visits hurt.

“Are you angry?” The question was asked in a way that let Beom-pal know the other man would understand this emotion if it were present, but would do nothing to quell it.

“No,” he insisted, shaking his head lightly as he looked across the room at Seo-bi. She was beautiful there, wrapping a tight tie around the Crown Prince’s hair after she smoothed all the stray strands off his neck. He was jealous; he wanted her to touch him like that, but she never would. “No, just…”

Take care of her.

He couldn’t say it.

He cared deeply for Seo-bi. He loved her. And Yeong-shin was his best friend and Lee Chang was his true king. He cared for all of them, but he couldn’t speak desires into their situation. It was not his dictate and make demands of. However, when he turned to look at the tiger hunter, he knew his wishes were understood and the young man merely nodded, clapping a hand firmly on Beom-pal’s slumped shoulders.

“We will.”

When they left the next day, they stood far enough apart to be decent and each smiled genuinely at Beom-pal. Seo-bi even deigned to kiss his cheek ever so lightly after they said their goodbyes. Yeong-shin and Lee Chang were waiting for her a little ways up the road, all their worldly possessions carried on their backs. The physician lingered a moment longer, not knowing when they may lay eyes on each other again. Beom-pal was making a rather manly effort not to cry.

“Be careful,” he murmured, not wanting to say too much more lest he lose all dignity. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thank you,” the woman intoned, eyes bright as she bowed to him once more. He was a very important official after all. “You’re very brave.”

She departed, safe between the shoulders of two great men, and Beom-pal was left behind. He had no idea when he would see his friends again; what the world would be like when they could finally return. He hoped it could be a place where they could live however they pleased so that the magic that had sparked between them on their journey would not need to be snuffed out. Beom-pal returned to the palace and to his king, a secret heavy on his shoulders, but eased with the fact that the woman he loved believed him to be brave.

#kingdom 2019 #seo-bi #yeong-shin #beom pal #prince lee chang #throuple #ot3

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keyofjetwolf · 6 years

Text

The Chosen: All the notes and answers to shit you wondered about for years

Hey. Hi there. How are you? I’m good, thanks for asking.

So, you remember when, at the beginning of the year, I said I was officially retiring my Buffy the Vampire Slayer continuation, The Chosen? If this is the first you’re hearing of it, a) SORRY TO DROP THAT ON YOU, and b) you may want to read this post first.

All caught up? Awesome.

I told you guys I’d share my stuff. This right here is that. I’ve searched through countless backups, terabytes of data, the remnants of three computers, AND MY SOUL (not really my soul; it doesn’t have a convenient find option), and I think this is everything. If there’s anything left of The Chosen that isn’t contained here, then it’s almost certainly lost to time and I wave it a fond farewell.

But don’t worry. There’s a lot here.

What I have for you are all the notes, plans, and ideas that I had written during the time when The Chosen was pretty much my entire world. From late 2003 to mid 2005, I was on my Buffy creative shit, and OH THE PLACES I WANTED TO GO. I’m not sure I’ll ever not be sad that, in the end, I couldn’t do it the way I wanted. Still, I’m glad to finally be showing you where we were heading.

I’ll try to give this as much order as I can, but my notes were strewn across a mass of files, and in some cases, I straight up can’t remember what the fuck I even meant any more. Feel free to ask if you have questions! Just be prepared that the answer may have to be an apologetic shrug.

I’m not sure what to wish for you all in the reading here. Closure, of some kind, I suppose is what we’re really all after. So closure it is! Happy closing, friends.

Thank you so much for allowing me to have captured your interest and attention, and for accompanying me and these characters I loved on the journey toward the ending I hoped for them.

** Any comments from present-me will be marked in this format. Otherwise, everything is untouched from how I wrote it whenever-the-fuck ago. Section headers are either as I named them at the time, or taken from the file name.

S8 Ideas

General Ideas

Rogue Slayer girl ' 'Full Circle'; Faith-centric.

Possessing demons ' personification of control ' W&K breakup episode.

Xander gets powers, but in exchange for his humanity. Comes to realize that his humanity is what his friends need, and he gives up the power.

Dawn's key powers are reawakened ' ability to unlock and enter doorways to parallel dimensions/realities and back again. Episode where this happens and she visits a parallel world (where she is the Slayer?). Possibly triggered by Doc, seeking to reawaken Glory?

Monster that eats body parts to rejuvenate them.

Emotion sucker.

Incubus that tries to seduce Buffy in her dreams.

Siren/rock group ' playing in club.

Faith/Buffy/other Slayers hunted for sport.

Super Slayer, enhanced by the DC. Big Bad? Guinea pig.

Legion of Super Slayers, created from life force of girls who reject the offer to join the DC.

Things to Name and Figure Out

The name of the new town.

New town is in center of three-Hellmouth triangle, consisting of Cleveland, Ohio, Syracuse, NY, and Washington DC. The gang is settled in a fictitious town in Pennsylvania, not far from Williamsport.

Name derived from three? Trinity, Trillium, etc.

The name of the Bronze replacement. (The Vortex?)

The name (and personality) of Kennedy's new Watcher.

The name (and personality) of the turncoat (the girl Giles talks to in Ep #1)

The name (and personality) of the girl Faith recruits (future cannon fodder)

Better name for the Dark Council.

Better name for the Dark Coven.

Assorted Ideas and Quotes

Scene: Someone shopping at a local bulk warehouse place. How much to Slayers eat? A LOT.

Possible use for the drug from "Helpless" that neutralizes Slayer powers?

Scene: Junior Slayers fighting monster. One says "You ARE the weakest link... Goodbye!" The others make fun of her for using such an outdated pop culture reference. She pouts that they should add a class about banter to the Slayer curriculum.

QUOTE: "D'you ever think sometime we should, you know, run AWAY from the blood curdling screams?"

QUOTE: Buffy doubts Tara's return. Willow: "What, you hold exclusive resurrection rights?"

QUOTE: Tara and Dark Coven guy. Tara: "She'll kill me. After I do this...Buffy will kill me." DC: "After you do this, will you care?"

QUOTE: "Excessive? I think you and excessive have already met in a head-on collision and exchanged insurance information."

QUOTE: Tara talking about doing stuff with Dawn: "You know, shopping, getting our hair done ... girl things." Willow: "I like your girl things."

QUOTE: Someone's sick, but denying it. They cough, get an accusing glance. "I just have something stuck in my throat." "Yeah, it's called ILLNESS."

QUOTE: Faith to somebody, possibly a young Slayer, who goes on at length about what they're going to do to a bad guy or deal with some serious challenge or something similar. "You're full of crap, you've got no idea what you're talking about. (beat) But you mean what you say, so that's gotta count for something."

Notes

1st ep

fate of SS's

Dawn's powers

X taking Watcher's courses

G distancing

W going to grad school

B/T going back to school

prophecy bits

G gets ring

Buffy bit - blood

Ante released

Season 9 Ideas

based on 7 samurai - group of people want to come in and hire the seven to clean something out

something happens where buffy or dawn disappears and the other goes to find them

core four have notoriety as evil forces (four horsemen) with some other community

sdhs reunion episode

"Demon that draws strength from guilt, hate, love, etc. Especially bad if it gets hold of Faith..."

---

I had a really cool thought about Buffy and relationships while I was in there though, which I think I'll have to work into The Chosen.

A common thread in each of her big relationships (Angel, Riley, Spike) is that when she tells them she loves them, they don't believe her.

Well Angel does, but he doesn't think she loves him enough. When he leaves, it's despite her telling him over and over that she loves him enough that him being a vampire and them not being able to do "normal" things doesn't matter. He doesn't believe her, and so leaves.

Riley tells Buffy during their big pre-him-leaving fight, that when she says she loves him, he "doesn't feel it". His disbelief in her and her words causes him to leave.

Then there's Spike. Final episode, Buffy finally tells him that she loves him. "No you don't. But thanks for saying it." And then he dies.

At this point in Buffy's life, there are a lot of reasons why Buffy wouldn't want a relationship in my opinion. But not the least of which is the fact that she MUST be able to answer the question of why none of these guys she loves ever believe her? (Even if you don't think she did love Spike, to Buffy I doubt that would matter -- HE didn't believe her EITHER [and how dare he not believe me, by the way!]).

It's a concept I just managed to sort out (in the shower, of course), and I don't think it's an "obvious" connection, but I do think it's an extremely valid one. I think before I'm done, I'll have to work this into the story somehow. And not resolve it, because I don't think it's easily resolved, and I think it's an issue outside the scope of what I'm trying to do, but I think the issue should be raised.

Season 9 Episode Ideas

Episode where everybody speaks in rhymes. Possible reintroduction for Faerie character?

De-aging episode, Giles' 50th birthday. Courtesy of Ethan Rayne. ("Many Happy Returns"?) Zaps Giles, Willow, Buffy and Xander back to four or five or so, leaving Tara, Faith and Dawn to look after them.

Episode dealing with the murderers in the group: Faith, Willow and Giles. Finch's son/daughter hunts down Faith to (confront? get revenge?) for his death. Sub-plots for Willow/Warren and Giles/Ben. Interesting to note that Faith is the only one who has ever shown any regret for her murder.

Herculean labors parallel. Xander? ("Labor Day"?)

Seven deadly sins with each main character embodying one of the sins? The one least like themselves?

Buffy: Greed

Willow: Sloth

Xander: Pride

Giles: Envy

Tara: Wrath

Dawn: Lust

Faith: Gluttony

Some other Slayer in the past, fighting an enemy that arises today. The gang have to read through the old Watcher's diaries to learn about him and how she defeated it. Shows this old Slayer and her Watcher via flashback. Maybe our Big Bads?

The characters get sent into Faerie Tales where they're forced to sort of act out the tales they're in.

Inanimate creation of some sort (puppet like) who makes other inanimate objects come to life. Specifically mannequins, by switching them out for real people. Some Scoobies, of course, fall victim to this.

Xander getting set up on blind dates. Amusing segment where Xander explains to date after date about what happened to his eye, each reason becoming more and more outlandish. Finally he just gives up and tells the truth - "It was gouged out by a crazy preacher man." The date laughs: "You're so funny!" Could end with Xander getting fixed up with the girl we introduced in S8 and possibly have seen a few times since then - Xander's love interest.

Revisit ideas: nameless, faceless army for the good guys, what are we doing with our army?

Tara dealing with family issues. Why am I back? Madrigan as new father.

Banan the collector

Alt world where Core4 seen like 4 horsemen (Title: "The Four"?)

Conversation where some characters are guessing who would've been the next successor to the Slayer line.

"Other side" episode with dead characters

Buffy/Dawn ep about Buffy's role in Dawn's life. Seeing the others intreract with her, wondering what her place is in Dawn's life. Parallel with flashbacks about VS and her sister. Starts with Buffy finding Grip and Dawn making out, leads to Buffy giving Dawn "the talk" and failing miserably. ("Sometimes, after you and a guy ...... they CHANGE.") Dawn learns nothing, goes to Tara from there, who knows nothing about having sex with a guy, but is supportive and encouraging. Buffy overhears and then begins to try to find how she fits into Dawn's life. We learn at the end that although B/D are vastly different from the VS and her sis, the bond is still just as strong.

Willow (and Tara) meeting up with Willow's parents again.

Big Bads

Vampires, return to the simpler times a bit. Not apocalyptic, but personal. Female vamp with a real mad-on for Buffy. Pissed because Buffy failed to save her? Also possibly some sort of vampire army. Fem is a modern-day Sun Tzu, right hand to this guy in charge of everything.

Addition (3Jul04): After some discussion, we're leaning toward making the femvamp a Slayer who was turned waaaay the heck back when. Possibly held or captured by some other vampire later on in life, and she was released by the head of the army, thus earning her allegiance. Maybe she's Japanese and thus very honourable? If we take her from 1600 or 1700's Japan, that might work out well. Might also give added weight to why her soul has no bearing on halting her quest for vengeance - honor demands that her sister's death be avenged. Possible imagery: maybe she was tortured by whoever held her? The mental image of big ol' cross scar over her eye is intriguing.

Season 9 Episode Chart

Notes

Need to work out (soon!) everybody's hell stuff so it can be incorporated into earlier episodes.

Willow versus hacker vamp idea. Why? What's at stake? Possible fill for humour ep at 9x16?

Corollary: Replot Willow's arc through S9 and possibly into S10.

Get new prophecy for Giles.

Work in at least one other prophecy stanza this season. Important to figure out soon. Who, when, how?

** This was a chart which doesn’t translate well to Tumblr, so I’ll break the cells apart and show column separation with ||

Updated - 22 June 2005

Ep # || Monster/Conflict || Plot Developments || Focus

9x01 || Vamps || Buffy kills Hitakno || Group

9x02 || Dante || Faith comes home || Faith

9x03 || Slone || Sunnydale HS reunion in LA || Group

9x04 || Vamps/Demons || Yuugana arrives in Trillium, Xander quits the Council || Xander

9x05 || Belastung || Tara goes home. || Tara

9x06 || Ethan || Giles birthday, Scoobies regressed || Giles

----------------- NOT YET AIRED -----------------

9x07 || Slayer || Demon girl on run from Slayer. Buffy and Slayer at moral odds. Dawn key powers awaken fully. || Buffy/Dawn

9x08 || Amy || Amy cashes in on Willow's debt. (Fake) Buffy accompanies. || Willow

9x09 || D'Hoffryn || Xander makes a wish that Anya hadn't died. || Xander

9x10 || The Furies || The Furies drive Finch's child to revenge. While they're here, they decide to spread the love. || Faith/Giles

9x11 || ??? || Funny episode - Camping trip? || Group(??)

9x12 || Yuugana || Faith visits Hazel's parents (Xander accompanies). Upon return to Trillium, is attacked and nearly killed by Yuugana. || Faith/Xander

9x13 || Yuugana/General || Sister's parallel. Buffy and Dawn, Yuugana and Hitanko. Yuu's backstory. General arrives, drains Willow and Dawn. || Yuugana/Buffy

9x14 || Yuugana/General || Buffy insists that the gang re-ensoul Yuugana. They do so; it makes no difference. Buffy attacked, put in coma. || Buffy/Group

9x15 || Antediluvian || In an effort to save Buffy, Tara, Xander, Dawn and Kennedy go in search of Ruth, and the Antediluvian. || Tara/Group

9x16 || ??? || Funny episode - ??? || Willow(??)

9x17 || The General || The General's plans come to fruition. || Group

9x18 || Giles' Demon || A demon Giles thought defeated years ago comes back to continue their arrangement. || Giles

9x19 || 7 Sins || The Seven Sins are unleashed on the Scoobies. || Group

9x20 || The General/Yuugana || The General releases Yuugana and they formulate a new plan involving Dawn. Yuugana kills the General and takes Dawn as bait. || Group(?)

9x21 || Yuugana || Part 1. Yuugana takes Dawn into the Private Hell place where she was recently kept. The Scoobies must follow. || Group

9x22 || Yuugana || Part 2. The Scoobies fight their way through their personal hell. Buffy vs Yuugana. || Group

Original Chart

** “VS” stands for “vampiric slayer”, so Yuugana before she had a name.

Ep # || Monster/Conflict || Plot Developments || Focus

9x01 || Vamps || Buffy kills the VS's sister || Group

9x02 || Serial killer || Faith comes home??

9x03 || ?? || Sunnydale HS reunion in LA || ??/Group(?)

9x04 || ?? (vamps?) || VS arrives in Trillium || ??/Group(?)

9x05 || ?? || Tara goes home. VS denied immediate revenge. || Tara

9x06 || Amy || Amy collects on debt. Wants Will to help her get a book. || Willow/Buffy

9x07 || Ethan Rayne || Giles birthday/regression || Giles

9x08 || Doc || Dawn & Doc - Key powers fully awoken || Dawn

9x09 || Finch's child (furies?) || Murderers haunted by past || Faith (lesser: W, G)

9x10 || D'Hoffryn || Xander's wish (Anya) || Xander

9x11 || VS/?? || Sister's parallel episode || Buffy/Dawn

9x12 || Monster in woods || Camping trip (Tara and blade of grass) || Group

9x13 || VS || Buffy vs. VS -- VS ensouled, Buffy drained || Buffy

9x14 || VS minions(?) || Buffy injured. Group goes after Antediluvian || Tara/Group

9x15 || ?? || "Labor Day" (Kenn still around) || Xander

9x16 || artifact || 7 Deadly Sins || Group

9x17 || Computer Program || Willow and the computer program || Willow

9x18 || ?? || Faith visits Hazel's parents || Faith/Xander

9x19 || Demon || Demon that's possessed Giles. Comes every 10(?) years. || Giles

9x20 || General || Fight with General - General loses || Group

9x21 || Demon Dimension || Four Horsemen ("Four"?) [Abortive attempt by VS to separate Buffy from her strongest allies?] || B/W/X/G

9x22 || VS || Big battle -- Buffy vs. VS || Buffy/Group

Yuugana

need: how does Buffy come to believe what she does about Yuu? Conversation beforehand? Difficult. Why doesn't Yuu just kill her? Could make threat, but then Buffy is gambling with everyone, and makes no sense why Yuu nearly kills Buffy later. (Especially as threat will come when Buffy falls unconscious.)

Buffy must be able to draw conclusions ahead of time. Paint picture of Yuu that Buffy will be privvy to. Draw parallels b/w Buffy's life and Yuugana's life. Buffy will internalize.

NEED: When/How will gang find out that she is Yuugana? When will this name be dropped? How? May be good if we can draw General as being very, very powerful. They're afraid of him. Getting Yuu on their side would be huge in fighting him.

Idea: General nearly kills Dawn, draining key powers. Yuu saves her. Buffy thinks it is because Yuu knows what it's like to lose a sister. In truth, Yuu isn't ready for Dawn to die yet - that will be the most painful blow of all.

buffy believes -- utterly believes -- that Yuugana will be good if given her soul. Spike was good, Angel was good ... maybe all vampires can do good if given the chance? Who is she to be judge, jury and executioner?

Internalized: this could be me. What would I do if someone killed Dawn?

** I found two sets of Season 9 character arc notes. The first set are what I think what I was mainly working from, but I’m not 100%.

Character Emotional/Plot Arcs – Season 9

Season Theme: Consequences

Buffy

Will be target of the Big Bad’s wrath as a consequence of killing the BB’s sister early in the season. Buffy’s primary emotional arc will be in the realization that every action, even the most seemingly natural or inconsequential, has far-reaching repercussions, that affect not just Buffy but those she loves.

Willow

Willow’s emotional arc returns to one that was never resolved or given enough attention (or mangled thanks to magic=crack) – control issues. Throughout Willow’s history on BtVS, she’s exhibited time and again a deep NEED to control the things around her. Her need for this never changed, save for her becoming so paranoid she was afraid to breath for fear of killing everyone in S7. Her catalyst for these deep-seeded emotional problems re-emerging stem from a few basic changes. 1) Tara’s back, and Willow doesn’t think she can take losing her again. 2) The Big Bad has made things very, very personal. And Willow remembers only too well what happened last time a Big Bad vampire took things personal. 3) This Big Bad is smart. Really smart. In some ways, even smarter than Willow. And for all the enemies they’ve faced, Will’s never had to go against someone who’s been able to out think her before. And she freaks.

We’re going to have to be careful with this one, though, because we don’t want a return to “Willow Uses Way Too Much Magick” again. We’re therefore going to have to find others ways in which Willow exercises that control trigger finger. Her computer skills could certainly help out to a degree, as well as her smarts, but we’re going to have to be careful. We definitely don’t want a rehash of S6’s problems. Willow is – or very much should be – wiser than that now. And while Will has sort of always had a bad case of “the ends justify the means”, we don’t want a rehash. So care is needed.

We could help to show this by maybe having Willow do something like casting a really powerful protection spell that somehow backfires. What will be vitally important here is taking care to make it very clear that Willow isn’t relying on magick for every little thing (no spells for decoration or closing curtains) … the magick is simply her most powerful tool for keeping everyone safe. This should NOT be about black magick, but about a need for control.

NOTE (4Jul04): After discussions, will probably meld Will's character arc with the fact that Buffy and others (Tara and Giles probably excepted) don't fully appreciate or realize the pressures they put on Willow to come up with the answers and be the big gun, while simultaneously not wanting her to go too far. Magick is bad, except when they need it. They don't accept their own consequences for the actions they push her toward. This still feeds into Willow's character flaws above - her need to protect everyone, to be the best, to keep the nasty stuff at bay.

Xander

Xander, being the human element, will have the root of his emotional arc derive from one of the most basic of human desires: to live forever. Not in the biologically immortal sense, but by wanting to live on long after he’s died. Xander realizes that of all his friends, he is the one that history is least likely to remember. The odds on him being studied in school centuries from now are next to nothing. Buffy will be recalled as the world’s most successful Slayer. Willow as the witch whose spell changed the world. Giles as the founder of the new Watcher’s Council (and new world order?) Any history mentioning Willow is almost guaranteed to include Tara as well. Dawn and her Key potential is fascinating and going to be mentioned … but Xander? There’s nothing so remarkable about Xander, he feels, and thus begins his quest to somehow ensure his own immortality to history.

This might somehow be triggered by the emergence of a new sort of threat. With Slayers all over the world, there’s absolutely no way that NOBODY is going to notice them. Even if people in the Buffyverse have shown time and again that they’ll simply ignore what they either can’t or are unwilling to understand (gang related, PCP), not everybody is so willing to pull down the veil. Thus begins the emergence of a conspiracy theorist, someone who somehow has managed to trace his story to Slayer Central. In doing so, he somehow manages to put a level of importance on each of the Scoobies … except Xander. Which stings.

Xander would eventually come to realize that while history may not remember him, those he loves certainly will, and when all’s said and done, that’s enough for him.

Giles

Giles’ arc will come out of an inevitability – his age. One of the earliest episodes will be reflecting on the fact that Giles is now 50. He’s done such a good job with the Council that much of the bureaucracy continues without his direct involvement. He’s not really keen on that side of things anyway, so he’s not sorry to see it go. But what he does want to do instead is get into the thick of things physically. But, unfortunately, he simply can’t anymore, and it’s a lesson he very much doesn’t want to learn. Giles will ultimately come to realize, however, that while he can’t swing a sword to match the Slayer, what he DOES have is his incredible mind, which will certainly be put to great use in the confrontations with the Sun Tzu-like Big Bad. The fight could not be won without Giles’ intellectual input.

Tara

Tara will spend much of her arc wondering about her place. When she was alive, she had some difficulty in fitting in. And it wasn’t until just before her death that she really started to come into her own. A year and a half has passed now, however, and things and people have changed. Tara aspires to be more than just an extension of Willow, and as voiced in “Family”, she wants very much to feel useful to the Scoobies.

But Tara’s need to find where she fits extends beyond simply within the Scoobs. Tara has a very definite sense of nature and balance, and her being brought back from the dead is something of an abhorrence to her. She can’t quite shake the feeling that in order for her to have been brought back, something had to go out in her place to keep the balance. What that may have been disturbs her beyond words.

How exactly these issues become resolved is currently unclear. Tara should certainly remain the moral and emotional center of the Scoobies. She has more power now, but power was always Willow’s contribution, not Tara’s. On the death thing, perhaps something mystical helps her? Maybe the big Wicca chick we bring in at the end of S8 can help somehow? Show that Tara’s coming back was, in its own way, as natural as her passing was UNnatural. Her return is, in and of itself, a righting of the scales.

Dawn

This is a big year for Dawn. She’s a senior in high school. She’s turning 18. She’s becoming an adult. Oh, yeah, and she’ll finally figure out that she’s got all those Key powers still. Dawn’s story will be about transitions. From childhood to adulthood, from being just a normal (as normal as she could be) girl to having all those powers as the Key and whatever that implies for her. We will also need to decide this year where Dawn’s going to college (her awakening Key powers could be a good excuse to keep her local).

Faith

Faith’s story is going to be about guilt. Hazel’s death at the end of the previous season happened right before we ended the whole thing, so at that point we will have gotten to see precious little carryover. This is the time to dwell on that. Faith would feel tremendous guilt over Hazel’s death – Faith is the one who recruited Hazel, who brought her there. She was Hazel’s mentor, and Hazel sacrificed herself for Faith. We don’t want to retread over the “do I belong here?” line, since we’re dealing with that in S8, but Faith should certainly be questioning whether or not she should be leading little girls into dangerous battles. It’s one thing for Faith to risk her life night after night, but another entirely to be responsible for the lives and deaths of others. Unsure how this will resolve, but it seems the logical arc for Faith given the closing of the previous season.

Big Bad

NOTE: We’re going to have to come up with a really good reason why Willow just doesn’t ensoul the vamp chick … or she does and it makes no difference at all. Could be an interesting commentary about vampires and souls. Hm.

The more we’re discussing this, the more we’re liking this idea. The notion of souls in the Buffyverse has always been sort of hazy at best. Loosely, they seemed to be of the opinion that getting a soul somehow made you good … but there are countless number of humans in the world (and the Buffyverse – look at Warren) who are human and, one therefore assumes, have a soul. Yet they are still capable of great evil. Even more so than some demons that they encounter. So despite however neat and pat Buffy likes to make it sometimes, a soul does NOT automatically mean that someone is going to be good. And maybe that throws her for a hell of a loop. Willow ensouls the BB, but it doesn’t make one bit of difference. Vengeance is, after all, as much a human emotion as anything else, and the BB still wants Buffy to suffer horribly for what she’s done. At most, the BB may feel some measure of guilt for the people that she’s had to kill over the past 300 or 400 years (however long she’s been vamped), but as it turns out, she doesn’t. She looks at it with the detached, cold impracticality possessed by Slayers – she did what she had to in order to survive. Maybe she wasn’t a fan of torture (we’re painting her very logical and such, so this should work okay), and simply did what she needed to. The Slayer in and of itself is very predatorial and most definitely a survivor – there’s not necessarily much difference between them, and this will further demonstrate that fact.

This could also further add to Willow’s continued feeling of being out of control. This SHOULD have worked and didn’t.

Season 9 Character Arcs

Buffy:

Buffy's arc will deal with a continuing gray area between what is good and what is evil. What is a soul really? Does having a soul make you good by default? The vampiric Slayer will prove that's not necessarily the case. Additionally, Buffy will be trying to sort out a few things about her life. What does she ultimately want to do? She could very well be the first Slayer in history to die of old age. Does she want to be involved with that all her life, or does she want more? Would Buffy maybe like to return to school? (Might be fun to have her and Tara going back to school together.) Around midway point, Buffy is nearly drained to death by vamp Slayer, she must rely on others to take care of her - doesn't always have to be the strong one.

Willow:

Willow will come to the realization that her magick is of no use against the Big Bad this year. What is Willow without her magick? What else can she contribute? Progressively, other things may fail as well, so that Willow is systematically deconstructed and having to find her true purpose and how she can contribute outside of her raw power.

Xander:

Xander will explore his roles this season. He's said that he won't be forgotten or shoved aside, so then the question becomes, how will he contribute? It's up to Xander to answer this question. He tries his hand at a variety of roles - maybe a Watcher, maybe a husband (though he's already "failed" at that one). Come the end, he realizes that his role is support, and it's the role he's always fallen into naturally.

Giles:

Giles is pulling away from the others. He's beginning to see the Slayers as nameless, faceless people. He realizes that he'll have to sacrifice them - and some part of himself - again at some point in the future, so he's subconsciously distancing himself from the pain. He's slowly becoming the Old Council. Comes to realize that while he may have to distance himself from the body as a whole, it doesn't mean he shouldn't have any attachments at all. And that he can be those two people - the one that can love them, but still sacrifice them for the greater good if necessary (which will work, as Giles will ultimately sacrifice himself, NOT for the greater good but because he doesn't want them to die). ** Which may be a good time to point out that I was going to kill Giles next season, kisses.

Tara:

Tara's quest this year will be for her place. She's died and come back, but this isn't "right". There is a balance in things, and she feels she's upset that balance. She'll explore her past and her family to find out why, in a grander sense, she's back and how she fits in now.

Tara and Willow:

Tara discovers that Willow has somewhat enshrined her as a result of her death and return. Willow caves to Tara almost constantly, and it's beginning to affect them both, but Willow can't bring herself to fight with Tara as a result of what happens every time they fight. She doesn't want Tara to go away again. They must fight, they have to learn that it's okay. Tara pushes it with Willow and makes it happen. Maybe when Tara goes to visit her family, that's the catalyst.

Dawn:

Dawn becomes victim of the time-old adage, "be careful what you wish for". She's always wanted to be a Scooby, but now that's beginning to conflict with her other desire to be a regular teenaged girl and her other big desire: to be an adult. All these worlds are colliding and Dawn's not sure which is more important. Blows off Scooby things for friend-things sometimes. Blows off friend-things for Scooby-things.

Re Grip: They're getting closer, but she keeps having to put off things with him due to Scooby situations. Grip notices and (kindly) confronts her, wondering if she really just doesn't want to see him anymore but doesn't know how to tell him. When he finds out about the baddies, he'll back away, needing time to process. Poor Dawnie.

Faith:

Faith will spend the season getting back onto the redemptive path she's been on for years. She doesn't feel bad that she killed Judith and is wondering what the means (somewhat like when her mother died). She'll learn that just because she's stumbled doesn't mean she's fallen. She begins in England, hiding out from Trillium. Thinking she should go solo, it was easier when she didn't have anyone else to worry about. Doesn't want to go back, but Kennedy pushes her. Once back, Faith avoids everyone. Should Giles maybe get Faith into therapy?

Buffy agitated that Faith isn't really being punished. Faith points out that a lot of people around Buffy are killers and they've never been punished either. Buffy needs things black and white, Faith is another shade of grey and it's getting harder and harder for her to do her job.

Xander gets to the heart of things too much, and Faith doesn't want to deal with that. Finally it's Willow who lets Faith know that there's someone who DOES understand. It's the first step in getting Faith back into things, but she still doesn't want to teach.

Maybe at some point in the season, Faith takes off? If so, Xander should probably pursue. (Might tie in nicely to Xander's "what's my role?" arc. Perhaps he has a job interview or something that he can't miss out on that will further define him, but he misses it because he has to help Faith, and that's the choice he makes) Could be where Hazel's death gets resolved. Goes to Hazel's house and parents for that?

Faith's murder issue will probably come to a head when she's face-to-face with Finch's child. Kid wants revenge, and Faith understands that. States how it won't make anything better, but gives up and says that if s/he wants it so bad, just take it. S/he doesn't, of course, which would probably disappoint Faith to a degree.

Maybe show Faith just starting to teach again at the end of the season, rather than some big culmination. Maybe she's forced into it when the VS keeps the other Slayers occupied? Buffy would be elsewhere at the time.

The Big Bad

** These are some of my earliest notes, as reflected in how I’m using my placeholder names like “Dark Coven”. A lot of it deals with what happened in S8, but it outlines the larger arc, which would have come to a head in S10.

What the Bad Guys Want

The Dark Coven is seeking to reawaken The Old Ones. As per Giles in “Welcome to the Hellmouth", the Old Ones were driven out when the lost their "purchase" on this reality. The last vestiges of the Old Ones fed on a human, mixed their blood, and created the first vampire. This proves that humans were around during the time of the Old Ones. He also states that vamps, demons and some magicks are leftovers from the time of the Old Ones.

The Dark Coven is a group that has been around since the time of the Old Ones. They are in allegiance with them, and are currently seeking to free them. In their current incarnation, they are very, very close (comparatively speaking). The Old Ones are sealed away somewhere by a series of extremely intricate locks, well nigh impenetrable. But they actually are already well on their way to opening them.

More than anything else, the DC is a master of manipulation with OODLES of patience. They've been working on freeing the Old Ones since their imprisonment. As is eventually revealed, they have been twisting events with the Scoobies for years, bringing them to the point where the Old Ones are ready to be freed.

When the Old Ones Roamed

They were, quite simply, lords of their domain. They are few in number, but unfathomably powerful. As with many nigh-omnipotent beings, however, they became bored and complacent. They began to tinker with things and began creating demons, unleashing them on the world. The demons, however, were little more than slaves, and no matter how evil, nothing much likes being enslaved. The demons, together with humans (quite possibly including the Shadow Men from "Get it Done") were able to ensnare the Old Ones -- you can't kill them, but they were imprisoned. Once the Old Ones were gone, their power slowly vanished, diminishing their partners/lackies/etc. (like the DC), and leaving the created demons and humans to fight over the rest of the land.

Season 6 Manipulation

The DC, although powerful, are themselves, collectively, unable to open the remaining locks (if they could ever open any at all). However they soon discovered one girl, Willow Rosenberg, who had the innate ability to channel the energies necessary to set things into motion. She just needed the right motivation to get the power.

Exactly how far their manipulation into these events goes, we don't know. What is for certain is that they fixed it so that Tara would be shot and killed by Warren's stray bullet. (The reasoning for this idea: there's absolutely no way the bullet could have possibly killed Tara in the way it did. Warren was in the backyard, running away and shooting upwards. Tara was standing by the bedroom window on the second story. The bullet shot through the glass, and through her, at no angle at all. Obviously in-show this was done for dramatic purposes, but they left a door open for outside creative interpretation and I’m going through it.)

As they knew it would, this prompts Willow to become hell-bent on revenge and absorb enough power to destroy the world. She goes to Kingman's Bluff, raises the effigy of Proserpexa, and begins to funnel her energies into it. Had she done this enough, she would have raised one of the Old Ones herself (or Proserpexa could have take the next step in unlocking one of the doors), however Xander interceded and saved Willow before this could happen.

NOTE: Perhaps Xander's interception is what was actually needed here? I always found it interesting that he completely blocked and seemingly absorbed all that power Willow was throwing at the effigy without even blinking. Was this maybe super-charging him for something? Could this maybe be key to what they will need to save him from later on? (S10 stuff.)

The Proserpexa angle maybe have been removed, but the DC didn't mind -- Willow had now unlocked enough of the power within herself to open another lock.

Season 7 Manipulation

This stems from a whole lot of S7 never really standing up to much scrutiny. Take, for example, the scythe. Caleb and the First spend SO much time and energy in uncovering the scythe, claiming to know how very important it was to NOT allow Buffy & Co. to get it -- when if they hadn't even been trying to get it, Buffy wouldn't have ever known it was there. This in and of itself seems to make ZERO sense, particularly since it never seemed to be that the First could use the scythe himself -- it was all about keeping it from the Slayer. So, very stupid to not only sit on the darned thing, but to ACTIVELY BRING YOUR ENEMIES TO IT (the "trap" in "Dirty Girls" leads Buffy and the Slayers to the vineyard, They never would have bothered going there otherwise).

My reasoning: The First is also an Old One. And he set his plan up specifically to fail. He himself is immortal, he cannot die. And he doesn't really give a crap about ubervamps and Bringers. Their plan all along was to make the Scoobies unleash the scythe to awaken all the Slayers.

Why? As mentioned in "Get it Done", there is a well of Slayer power. That well is usually filled nearly to capacity. It was, after all, only being used by Buffy, and then Faith. The fact that the emergence of a second Slayer did nothing to diminish either's power indicates that it's not shared on that kind of level. In addition, the awakening of all the Slayers at the end of "Chosen" didn't seem to cause any sort of power drain. Instead, we theorize that the well is deep, but has a finite capacity. When Willow did the spell, she in essence pulled the stopper on the well and drained it dry. This well, however, happens to be one of the keys to freeing the Old Ones, and once it drops to a certain level, the "door" that it locks is open.

Moving on -- The Chosen

When Slayers die now, one is not called in their place. There is a finite number of Slayers in the world now. When they die, their Slayerness returns to the well. Only once it reaches a certain level (presumably it's "default" state, pre-spell) will the "natural" process resume. The DC obviously don't want this to happen, as once it "refills" to a certain point, the door will close again. Hence their working with the Assemblage of Merodoch (previously, "Dark Council"); by harnessing and funneling the Slayerness into an already existing Slayer, it does not return to the well, hence no refill.

But that isn't the only reason the DC are working with the Assemblage. The AoM also has another key: an angel that they're keeping chained up in the deepest sublevel of their headquarters. This angel has, perhaps, been around as long as the Old Ones themselves. Perhaps he even aided in imprisoning them. He was captured shortly thereafter, however, and has remained that way ever since (we're talking pretty close to pre-recorded history here, as long as the Slayer line has been in existence, possibly longer).

Idea: The angel can only be freed by a descendant of one who imprisoned him in the first place. Maybe a Giles?

He is a key -- maybe something he says? His true name, perhaps? The DC want him, but the AoM have him and won't give him up. They have said, however, that once Order is restored to the world, they will provide the DC with the means to do whatever they need to do with him. The DC is okay with this -- they're currently getting something from the Council (someone to alert them to the need to funnel Slayer energy and someone to keep all that tiresome business together while they focus on the really important stuff).

Like good ol' Willow Rosenberg.

They call Willow "The Sangerand" ("the bloody"), and they should absolutely not be done with her yet. Willow's independent further role, we don't yet know, but she commands their greatest amount of attention. Her, and Tara. ("The Curat", or "the pure"?)

When they resurrect Tara, it is ostensibly under the guise of killing Willow. However the true reason is to fulfill Tara's part of this prophecy (which includes her death, resurrection and making the choice to not kill Willow), possibly including the sharing of power that Willow will need to do to save them.

Thinking on it, it would be cool to have each Scooby play an important role somehow in all of this. Sort of like their being together in this way was a fated thing. "The Chosen" indeed.

**ADDENDUM** I really like this idea of each Scooby playing a particular role. This could still lead up to the eventual death of Giles, which in and of itself will provide the beginnings of the Coven's downfall. They do whatever they're doing to Xander, which will kill him - but that won't matter because his role in unlocking the door will be done. Will is going to be doing the spell to save him, which will kill her in turn, but that's okay too because her part is also played in releasing the Old Ones. Giles, however, has NOT yet done his part, and he completely surprises everyone when he takes Willow's place, thereby saving both Will and Xander. This totally throws the Coven for a loop, though obviously they must still be able to do what they need to without Giles, else their plans are over with right then and there. It's crucial that his sacrifice NOT be part of the DC's plans, else it takes away from its poignancy.

Will need some sort of prophecy-type thing detailing what is needed to be done to release the Old Ones. Should be nice and vague, but with meaning once you figure it out.

Scooby Designations

Willow: The Sangerand ("the bloody")

Tara: The Curat ("the pure")

Xander: The Vedere ("the sight"), The Asar ("all-seeing eye") -- "The Baani" ("The Architect" - Urdu)

Buffy: The Kusari ("the chain"), The Revenire ("the returned"), The Gula or The Bau ("Lady Who the Dead Bring Back to Life")

Giles: The Verhaal ("the history"), The Shoukin/The Infria, ("redemption"), The Shin'ar ("Land of the Watchers")

Faith: ("the dark"), ("the restrained"), ("the wild")

Dawn: ("the cherished"), ("the gateway"), ("the portal"), ("the key")

The Prophecy

Opening Quatrain

Buffy :: The Trimarga :: Three Path A heartbeat thrice begun A death mark thrice given All roads lead to the town of three When her spilled blood shall spill again

Willow :: The Sangerand :: The Bloody Blood flowing, blood taken Forces awoken, decline and ascent Blood given, life exchanged Freely, she will fall

Xander :: The Baani :: The Builder Grief and rage, life's destruction Mind and body, life's cohesion Heart and spirit, life's devotion Melding, merging; essence anew

Giles :: The Tezan :: The Way Forger of paths, the first and his kin The demon wields the plague of black Summoner, banisher Pierce the barrier, paths renewed

Tara :: The Curat :: The Pure Birth and rebirth, the cycle complete Connected to evil, untainted Power innate and power borrowed Through the light she will free the ancient one

Dawn :: The Amelatu :: The Gatekeeper Living energy made flesh and form Younger in life, older than death Truth altered, life shed And the walls will fall

The Slayer Well Solitary hunter, night's enemy She alone will stand When the well is drained and strength is shared One becomes Many

Closing Quatrain And so it is written Seven locks hold fast The masters expelled, the world cleansed Until the Chosen play their part

Seven keys for seven locks From the first to fall, five score and one If all locks turn, the door lay open And the Old Ones shall reclaim the Earth

Buffy: The Trimarga ("three path" :: the triple path of Knowledge [jnanayoga], Devotion [bhaktiyoga] and Action [karmayoga]). Three times her heart has started beating, three times she's been marked by a vampire (Angel, Dracula and the Vamp Slayer [yet to happen) and in town of threes(??). Something to do with blood - some of it needed to open the lock. Blood of a Slayer is already potent, and Buffy's was obviously enough to close the portal in place of Dawn.

Willow: The Sangerand ("the bloody"). Willow will cast a blood-sacrifice spell, that will enable her to willingly exchange her life for another. It has to be this spell based upon how Mads and the others are killing Xander. Very, very powerful, only she can do it. The flow of the energies will open the lock.

Xander: The Baani ('the builder"). Xander is the "incuabator" for two very powerful magicks. They don't impact him directly, but it is his nature - his very self - that will enable them to merge within him to create something new. The first blast came from Willow on Kingman's Bluff. The second, from the orb destroyed in "Win, Lose or Draw". Madrigan will take Xander around the mid-point of S10 to extract the magicks from him. It will kill him in the process, but that's of little concern.

Giles: The Tezan ("the way"). Giles' role is to obtain a ring that has been in his family for generations upon generations. Unknown to those recently, the jewel of the ring actually contains a demon - a demon that was the original cause of the Black Plague in the 1330's. Giles' ancestor, a powerful warlock for the Council, was the first human to pierce the barrier between this dimension and a demon dimension where he summoned a demon and bound it to his service. The demon was sent to China, where it was supposed to take out a group of other demonic creatures trying to open a Hellmouth there. It did indeed do that, but not before starting the plague. The Council, rather than destroy the ring and banish the creature, said "We'll control it better next time." The ring's purpose was eventually lost,. Giles is supposed to release and then banish the demon, again piercing the dimensional barrier and opening that lock. ** He dies instead, sacrificing himself to save both Willow and Xander. Oops.

Tara: The Curat ("the pure"). Tara's lock will open upon her freeing the Antediluvian. The Antediluvian is an angelic creature that was captured by Robespierre's ancestors. Its imprisonment means the lock is sealed - its freedom opens it. Tara is able to free it due to her lineage as a witch, her purity of spirit, her completed cycle of birth and rebirth, and (by binding with Willow) her immense white magick power creating the necessary conditions. Ruth, Tara's grandmother or great-grandmother, was also thought at one time to have been the Curat, but was not. However she does recognize the qualities within Tara. (Perhaps the Antediluvian, despite its imprisonment being a good thing, can do great good if it's released?) ** Later in S9, Tara and Co. would have freed the Antediluvian to save Buffy after Yuugana’s attack.

Dawn: The Amelatu ("the gatekeeper"). Dawn herself is able to open the lock. Not a lot of detail here. We'll need to sort out somehow or another that Dawn will do this ... or perhaps she already has? There seems to be little better time for Dawn to have opened the necessary lock than when all the dimensional walls were coming down.

Additional Lock: The well of Slayer power being drained. This was done by Willow in S7, but is not Willow's specific key.

Additional Info: Once any lock falls, there is a "timer" of 100 years for the rest to fall, or they all lock again.

** It may not escape notice that Faith is not part of this prophecy. That became by design, not oversight. I loved how this idea of “The Chosen” worked into the larger series theme, but I also hate the ideas of fate and destiny being controlling factors. Faith was going to be my argument against all that. When all the prophecy pieces were revealed, Faith would (rather defeatedly in her Faith way) note that she had no part to play. But she is the embodiment of being Chosen, as the characters choose to have Faith by their side and fuck prophecy anyway. Their unreserved acceptance of Faith, and Faith’s acceptance of THAT, would have been the culmination of her character arc in S10 (and my series).

S10 Ideas

Something to do with tarot cards, with each member maybe being a particular card?

Several characters get thrown back in time to an earlier season. Dawn especially should go, as she wasn't around then.

stained glass idea. couples. Buffy left free. Valentine's day ep.

"The Impossible Dream" - Man of La Mancha lyrics

Faith having conversation with Kendra -- result of illness, injury, or prophetic dream

** An episode I was definitely going to do, but frustratingly can’t find any notes for (making me feel there must be SOMETHING else out there somewhere but fuck me if I know where) had Willow and Tara going to Los Angels and visiting Lorne’s bar, Caritas.

S10 Ending

Everyone ends on a thematic note, their actions in the final battle bringing together 10 years of development:

Giles's sacrifice makes victory possible - by finally following his heart rather than his duty he saves the world.

Xander, by virtue (and surprise) of simply being Xander, strikes the final blow.

Willow succeeds only by keeping herself in check, refusing to break and believing that she can win.

Buffy's victories come from not only sharing herself (mentally to Willow and physically to Faith and Kennedy) but truly, finally, accepting that she's not in this alone.

Dawn makes the sacrifice she was destined to make from the moment she was created.

Tara is the touchstone, giving the strength and support to everyone else and the lifeline that ultimately saves Dawn.

Faith has no greater role handed to her by fate -- but she's here and kicking ass so screw you, fate.

(work on Kennedy, she ends up fighting w/ Buff and Faith, but does she start there? maybe she and Faith start with Tara and Dawn?)

IDEAS

Seneca final battle. He's winning. Standing over Buffy, gloating smile. Then he finally speaks. Something like, "I've waited a long time to--" Then he gets skewered (Faith or Kennedy, maybe both.) He can't say anything else, just gurgle. He dies, and the Slayers stand over him.

Buffy: "Blah blah blah. You know, just once I'd like to meet a bad guy who knows how to keep his mouth shut."

Kennedy: "No lie. Still, I wonder what he was going to say?"

Faith: "Who the hell cares?"

Buffy HAS to be part of final Madrigan fight. She goes initially with Xander and Willow. Xander gets struck down by Mads, seemingly dead. Buffy gets nailed too. Willow needs Buffy to get through this though, and Buff gives Will her strength (flashback to "Same Time Same Place" as well as early Chosen w/ Willow and Buffy being so attuned -- see, not a throw-away plot point! Planned all along!) Leads to good "final" conversation/bonding with them as they search for Madrigan in the mental plane.

Earlier in the season, Madrigan extracting the magick from Xander. Very painful for Xander. Madrigan talking to him though, very chatty, very casual. Xander trying to dig for info, Madrigan clearly seeing through it. He likes the cliche though (exposition while acknowledging how clunky and stupid it is to have exposition here). Mads being real bastard (passively though) to Xander this whole time, noting how Xander isn't even really important in and of himself, it's only what others do with him that counts (maybe include little side wink-nudge point, it's what's inside Xander that matters). Mads ends the conversation by apologizing. "Sorry dude, this has gotta suck for you. Hey, you know what I like to do when I'm down? TV! You like 'Murphy Brown'? I've been Netflixing it." He and Seneca proceed to sit down and watch while Xander is essentially tortured behind them. Mads just turns up the volume.

Season 10 Final Fight

Buffy, Kennedy and Faith will go after Seneca.

Willow and Tara will be walking along in the facility when they're attacked. Tara is thrown away from Willow, who is then going to be caught behind an impenetrable shield with Madrigan. He wants to face her alone on an astral plane of sorts. Tara can't join her. Willow is depowered somewhat as a result of the spell she was casting to save Xander. Madrigan wants to fight her, however. Will surprises him - she thought like him and figured he would do this. As a result, Xander is piggy-backing with her, and she's not alone. Madrigan says that he knows Xander, and Xander won't kill him. He's wrong. X: "He don't know me very well, do he?"

Meanwhile, the door to release the Old Ones is opening and they can't stop it. Or they think they can't. Dawn realizes that she, being the Key, can. She begins to do so, but it's taking so much power, it's essentially killing her. Dawn is reverting to pure energy form. Buffy screams at her, tells her not to, but Dawn says she's spent the past five years wondering - feeling, even - that she should've died on that tower. Now she knows that she wasn't supposed to die, she was supposed to live to do this. "This is the job that I have to do." Buffy can't stop her. Tara fights though, won't let Dawn go. Tara eventually passes out and Dawn disappears. The energy is gone and so is Dawn, but the door is closed and locked again.

Not long after, Buffy goes home. Willow and Xander are with Tara at the hospital (she’s drained but okay). Buffy seems to be alone. She's completely dispirited - Dawn is dead. She enters her room, only to find Dawn there. B: "What are you doing here?" Shades of Dawn's first appearance. Turns out (as we'll learn in the final episode) that Dawn has given up all of her Key powers - for real this time. She is now, completely and utterly, a very real, very normal girl.

** And finally, I give you all with this. It’s a rough sketch of the scene after Giles has died, so would have come about 2/3rd of the way through Season 10. I wrote this in 2004, about a week after the death of my grandfather. I like to think that, if I’d gotten that far, this would have been one of those moments that would have stuck with you. I certainly would’ve tried.

Giles Death Reactions

These are a sequence of silent scenes.

We first see Faith in a darkened training room. She's punching a punching bag.

We're in Giles loft, the lights all dark. The door opens, and Hannah's standing there, on the threshold. She doesn’t enter.

We're in a hospital, private room. There are two beds. The one on the far left contains Xander. He looks gaunt, pale, near death. But breathing. His heart monitor gives a steady readout. Dawn sits next to him, inbetween the two beds. Tears are streaming down her cheeks – simply falling, she's not sobbing. She watches Xander with a fearful, worried expression, then turns to the next bed. There's Willow, also pale and drawn. She doesn't look well either, though not quite as bad as Xander. Tara sits on the other side of the bed, as close to it as she can possibly get. One of Willow's hands is held up in both of hers, Willow's fingers resting on Tara's lips. Tara's eyes are red – she's obviously been crying too. She meets Dawn's gaze. Neither smile.

We're in Giles' office. Buffy is standing in the doorway. Her face is blank.

We're back in the loft, Hannah's position mirroring Buffy's. She walks inside and finds herself drawn toward Giles' stereo system. She runs her hands over the CD collection, full of albums and songs from their past.

Faith's punching of the bag increases. She's venting, her jabs more vicious, more focused. Over her shoulder, we see Kennedy watching.

The hospital. Dawn runs a hand through her hair and wipes her eyes after watching Xander intently. She turns to Willow and watches as Willow opens her eyes and blinks. Dawn watches in surprise, and Willow seems to sense the scrutiny. She turns to Dawn and smiles – just a small smile, a pained one, but it's something. Dawn's face breaks into an expression of pure joy and relief, and she says something. Tara has either been locked in thought or asleep, Willow's hand clutched to her forehead, but her head jerks up at Dawn's words. She focuses on Dawn for the briefest of moments before her eyes go back to Willow. Willow is already looking at her, and she smiles again, a bit stronger this time. Willow says something too, and it causes Tara to laugh. The laugh turns into a sob of relief though, and Tara kisses Willow's hand several times then leans over and kisses her forehead. Will is weak, but is able to give Tara a one-armed hug, kissing her on the cheek, then turning to Dawn and extending her other arm. Dawn is there in a heartbeat, also crying in relief.

Giles' office. Almost trancelike, Buffy moves further into the darkened office, which is lit only by the lamp on the desk. As she walks, her eyes are drawn to things. The rows and rows of books that Giles surrounded himself with. The bookcases that Xander built, not only filled with books but also decorated with knickknacks – various small statues and effigies and an Owl plushie. She looks to the opposite wall, where hangs a variety of pictures, but dominating them all, easily the biggest and with the proudest placement, is a picture of Giles, snapped at a moment none of them were expecting. He was obviously the victim of a random group hug attack – Buffy, Willow, Xander, Tara and Dawn, all hugging him fiercely. Giles has that look on his face where he's trying hard to be annoyed with them, but is secretly loving every moment. Buffy's movement into the office hasn't halted, hasn't slowed from its already snail's pace. She's at the desk now. Bathed in the warm glow of the lamp, she sees a cup of tea, only half-drunk, as though Giles will be returning any moment to finish it. Most prominent, however, are the sealed envelopes on the desk, several of them, each bearing a name. We see Buffy's name on the top one, and can see hints of other's beneath: Willow, Xander, etc. Giles' glasses rest nearby.

Faith is almost in a frenzy of kicks and punches now. Her teeth are clenched and she looks like she wants nothing more than to have the bag turn into the Grim Reaper himself so she can pound the crap out of him. A hand rests on her shoulder, and Faith whirls around to see Kennedy there. Faith looks like she might just start beating the shit out of Kennedy as well, but then Kennedy takes Faith's hand and puts a stake in it. Faith looks down at it questioningly, then looks to Kennedy. Kennedy holds up her own stake. Faith's eyes narrow and she nods, just slightly.

Hannah's by the window in Giles' loft, simply looking out, looking at nothing in particular. She hugs herself and her head drops as she starts to softly cry.

In the hospital room, Willow casts an anxious look at Xander still motionless in his bed. She looks first to Dawn, then Tara, who says something that causes Willow to relax considerably. She smiles, but soon realizes her smiles aren't being returned. She again looks questioningly from one to the other, but neither speak. She's getting really worked up now, scared, and Dawn starts to say something. She doesn't get far, though, before she can't speak any more. Willow turns immediately to Tara, who picks up where Dawn left off. Willow watches, still afraid. Then the fear turns to disbelief. She's starting to cry now and she shakes her head in denial. She looks to Dawn, looking for someone to tell her that what she's heard isn't true, but Dawn can only cry. Willow looks back to Tara again and says something, begging for it not to be true. Tara can only look at her with sympathy and matching pain as Willow dissolves into tears.

Giles office. Buffy is sitting in the corner, her back against the wall, curled in on herself. We can't see her face, but her shaking shoulders tell us all we need to know. She's hugging the Owl plushie for dear life.

CUT TO BLACK

** And that, my friends, is that.

#jw writes stuff #btvs: the chosen #IT TOOK ME LONGER THAN I THOUGHT #and now i'm officially drained and exhausted goodnight

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minas-writing · 5 years

Text

Character Tuesday - Lineage - Ward

World: Unhallowed

Length: 2k words

Summary: The Terrible King has come ahead of the bulk of the army to “negotiate.” Ward tries to convince him to abandon the invasion, but things quickly snowball downhill into a ditch full of spikes on fire. (Metaphorically.)

@homesteadchronicles :)

—————

Ward left the command pavilion unaccompanied. He walked past people carrying weapons, sewing leather, moving piles of hay, boiling water. It wasn’t quite sunset yet, so no Saihrwn were making music to lighten the mood. His hands clenched as he tried to keep his walk easy and his back straight. His thumb rubbed his middle finger, looking to twist his ring, but of course it was gone. It had been missing for years, yet Ward had never gotten used to its absence. Tips from the human council flew through his head, clashing with what Ward remembered from his father’s lessons.

Make eye contact, don’t cast your gaze around, keep your face still and your stance firm. Your first offer should be larger than what you’re really looking for, as it will get bartered down. Don’t let them see how scared you are. Don’t be scared in the first place, you’re more powerful than anyone else.

Ward shook his head, trying to clear it. He stepped over the border of the park and the sounds of the war camp behind him quieted, courtesy of the invisible barriers that the few mages had erected. Evening traffic bustled on the town's streets beyond the barrier. Ward got a few strange looks, but Unhallowed coming and going from the park were no longer a strange sight. After a short walk, Ward reached the easternmost border of the city.

Guards, both Unhallowed and not, stood posted every few feet on the border. They watched the small contingent of soldiers that had set up camp a few hundred yards away. Ward crossed the line that they held, noticing the looks that a few of them exchanged. His visit to the Terrible King’s small camp was planned, but his being alone likely surprised them. Leaving the entourage had a purpose, though Ward wished they could have told the guards about it. As it was, they’d probably get ideas about his spying on them for the King.

Well, there wasn’t anything he could do about it now. Ward crossed the wild grass to the temporary wood-and-canvas building and climbed the creaking stairs. A pair of burgundy-clad guards at the front entrance scowled at him and shifted their weight to look more threatening. Oh, right.

Ward let a small part of his human disguise bleed away. His skin grayed, his ears pointed, his teeth lengthened, his eyes smoked. The guards stammered hasty apologies as they bowed and allowed him to pass. They most likely assumed he was a spy, too, though as far as Ward knew, all the Unhalloweds believed that Ward was dead at human hands. Ward felt the gazes of the city’s soldiers on his back.

The door to the building opened into darkness. Ward took a hesitant step in, closing the door behind him. The sun shone as only light source, peeking through gaps in the construction and the weaving of the canvas walls, though Ward saw the scene before him as if it were lit by several electric lamps. A single, huge desk stood in the middle of the room, paper and parchment strewn across its surface. A silvery horn hung from the ceiling a few feet away in a leather harness - the Horn, Ward thought. One man sat behind the desk, his focus wholly on whatever work he was doing on the desk.

“Heir. I wondered when they would send you.” The Terrible King didn’t look up as he addressed Ward.

“My name is Ward, Father.”

“Adopting a human name, as well, hm?” The King inked his pen and went back to writing. “You already have the appearance. One might think you’d like to be a human.”

Ward’s face heated, but he let the rest of his disguise drop. He needed the power, anyway.

“Unfortunately, you cannot fix your clothing that way. It’s a shame. Your grandfather is rolling over in his grave, I’m sure.”

“Father.” Ward resisted the urge to stomp his foot, and instead settled for an incensed tone. “I’m not here to discuss my uniform.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“I’m here to negotiate.”

he King stopped and looked up. He studied Ward’s face for an instant with his smoky yellow eyes, then sighed and put his pen down. It rolled until it was stopped by - Ward’s ring. It lay on the desk, inconspicuous among the maps and bottles of ink.

“What are you hoping to gain from a negotiation?” the King asked, bringing his hands together. “What are you thinking to sacrifice?”

Ward took a deep breath, ignoring his father as best he could, and launched into the spiel that the human council members had written for him. “For years, the Unhallowed Kingdom and Lovely Countries have been at peace, but - ”

“No!” the King shouted, banging the table and standing up. Ward stopped, shocked but not surprised. “No, no, no! You are becoming one of them. They taint your mind! You do not see the situation as it is.”

“I’m learning - ” Ward began.

“To complicate everything!” the King finished. “See the truth, my son. My Heir. When I invade, not if, the pitiful armies of the Lovely Countries will collapse like paper flowers in a fire. Even if our own rebellious people supplement them, those armies will - not - stand.”

With a shake of his head, Ward opened his mouth to retort, but the King continued without giving him a chance. He was a steam train headed for the horizon, no sign of stopping, one clear destination.

“You know this! It is why you are trying so hard to negotiate. Your armies will fall before mine, and when they do, I will gain anything you could ever offer me. Money, land, resources, everything you have now will be mine. I ask again, what do you think you can give me that I cannot gain with the easiest invasion in history?”

The King wasn’t wrong. The Lovely Countries couldn’t stand up to the Unhallowed armies, not without some ace in the hole. And they didn’t have one. What could they give the King, really? All the earlier tips and advice had abandoned Ward’s head.

“You can’t gain the people’s love and will with an invasion,” Ward spat out after several precious seconds. He didn’t think it would convince his father - the King had never particularly cared about his public image. He was the King and always would be.

Sure enough, the King laughed without humor. “I don’t need their love. Your beloved human leaders didn’t think so, either, earlier this week. They offered me a number of slaves to desist. I was nearly tempted, too.”

“What?” Ward didn’t believe what he was hearing. “No, they wouldn’t.”

“They did.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re trying to put doubts in my mind.” Ward folded his arms and widened his stance, refusing to budge. Doubts rooted in his mind anyway.

The King smiled, showing sharp fangs and too many teeth. “Of course I’m telling you to rile you up. Yet it’s also the truth - that I swear, on my power and on my name.”

Thunder sounded in Ward’s mind as he tried to reconcile the thought. No. The council members were moral. They wouldn’t do that. But the King had sworn on his name. Ward turned his head away and closed his eyes.

“They are fickle, Heir!” the King boomed, leaning forward over his desk. “One moment they dance for you, and the next, they grovel for me. You will be King someday, boy, and you must learn the nature of all humans, especially those untouched by magic. You must be powerful.”

“Even if they said that,” Ward finally got out as he looked back at his father, “I wouldn’t have let them go through with it.”

“Planning a coup, are you?” The King smiled again. Ward scowled. “You’ll need this for that.” He tossed something small at Ward, who caught it out of reflex.

His ring. Ward wasn’t about to complain, though he felt more than a little confused. He slipped his ring on, feeling its power sing through him once again.

The King’s eyes smoked. “Always be on alert, Heir.”

Ward’s fist began to glow, his powers reacting to the increased amount of energy and Ward’s own panic.

“Humans are so unpredictable.” The King stepped out from behind his desk and began to prowl across the back of the room. “You never know when one will stab you in the back.”

Though he knew there wasn’t anything there, the hairs on the back of Ward’s neck stood up. He glanced behind him, just in case. The King laughed. From the corner of his eye, Ward saw a flash of orange, and he jumped to the side just in time for a small ball of fire to miss him. The King shot at him again, and Ward dodged to the right. The canvas walls of the tent smoldered but didn’t catch.

“Attack, boy! I trained you better than this! Or did those years in the Lovely Countries turn you soft?”

“Leave the Lovely Countries alone, Father!” He twisted out of the way of another fireball. The King took another step forward, and Ward followed suit.

“The only way to quell their traitorous tendencies is to oppress them. You cannot - ”

Ward shot a burst of flame of his own at the desk, and the papers there erupted in flames. The King’s grin grew. The sharp shadows on his face danced in the firelight.

“You are learning. Good.”

This isn’t a show! Ward thought, angry. He had to end it, and soon. There was only one thing he could think of that his father might not be expecting. Ward prepared a fireball, his hand beginning to glow again. The King watched him, waiting for another opportunity to provoke or taunt.

Ward exploded. Well, he made his firelight explode outward, making it seem like he was at the center of a bright detonation... which he kind of was. Sure enough, the King’s expression changed, and he threw up an arm to protect his face. In the blinding light, Ward lunged forward a few feet, snatched the silver Horn, and dashed out the door. He didn't bother to open it. The wood did not resist Ward's passage. Outside, the Unhallowed guards jumped.

The afterimage of the fire still burned into Ward’s eyes, and so he knew that the King was going to blind for a moment more. Maybe he’d think that Ward teleported? Ward didn’t want to wait to find out. He rushed down the stairs, getting back on solid ground, and rushed toward the line of familiar soldiers. The King's laugh behind him carried, and Ward wondered how much of their conversation had been overheard.

When he tried to pass into the city, the two guards there crossed their spears in his path. Their eyes searched him with caution, and their boots pressed footprints into the trodden grass. Ward halted. He chanced a glance behind him, but the King hadn’t followed. He hadn’t even left the canvas building. Ward felt safe stopping to breathe. He tightened his grip on the Horn and pulled at the remaining pool of his power. That blast of light had used most of Ward's energy, so establishing his disguise again would be more difficult than it should have been, even with the ring's boost.

Ward shut his eyes and tried to reassert the deep human skin tone and blunted teeth. “I apologize,” Ward said out loud to the guards. His shoulders sagged. “The King isn’t good for my stress levels.”

“Oh, it’s you,” one of the guards said. He finished lifting his spear, and his partner did the same, but with less certainty. A voice in the back of Ward's head - his father's - told him to punish them for their insolence and supplied a handy image of their smoking corpses on the grass. Ward ignored it. He gave a weary smile and passed the border without fanfare.

Despite the dream goblins dragging his mind down a dark hole, Ward passed his tent. First he would pass the silver Horn to Laurel, who would understand what to do with it. Then Ward would confront the human council about their outdated views on slavery. It was primitive, even by their own standards. Ward would know, he'd read their books.

When all that settled, Ward could sleep.

#writeblr #creative writing #writers on tumblr #fantasy #wips #unhallowed #ward #character tuesday #long post #sorry on mobile #story snippet

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regancrested · 5 years

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Words could not express the heavy remorse straddling his chest, the shame that filled his expression. To have departed without warning, to rather allow his allies and comrades to believe he’s dead than alive. Cruelty does not even begin to describe his decision but at the time .. it felt that it was done right, the only way to right his wrongs – to disappear (forever). But here he is – standing before Claude again and going against all promises he secretly made to everyone, to his wonderful and beautiful man. Shuffling on his feet, Dimitri struggles to meet Claude’s gaze, fearful of what he would find. He rubs his arm uncomfortably while his own cheeks are becoming warmer by his own shame. Finally, he lets out a well-deserved, “I’m sorry, Claude…” and mournfully laid his gaze on the ground. - – @blufayth , always accepting.

once again time proves how they find themselves drawn to one another. at times dimitri had crossed his mind, but it had only been briefly. no point in pondering over the dead. or so he thought. the king’s gaze shifts to a letter barely sticking out underneath the pile of books. about a week ago he received a letter that he only scanned over before putting it away after seeing the name at the bottom of the paper. perhaps it is a good thing he only read it yesterday or else the content of the letter would have plagued him throughout the week.

at first he believed the letter to be a cruel jest that by some unlucky twist of fate someone had found the letter he never send and was now using it against him. as cruel as that action would have been he preferred it over the thought of dimitri being actually alive. not that he wanted the man dead, far from it, but dimitri being alive would mean he has been deceived for over two years. he made his peace with the fact that he never got around to say what he truly felt until it was too late. him being alive would only stir more unwanted feelings.

and thus it was only inevitable that his eyes would widen like they did when dimitri walked into the room with one of claude’s servants scrambling behind him. silence settles when their gazes meet. no doubt the servant had noticed claude’s expression before he somewhat meekly begins (no doubt intimated by dimitri’s presence) to announce dimitri’s presence but claude stops him halfway by raising his hand midway. ‘ i know who he is. ’ he responds turning his gaze to the servant and the guard before switching to almyrian. leave.

the difference in his tone is noted by the almyrians but they do not question it and left the room, allowing the door to fall shut behind dimitri. for once claude is grateful for the gentle breeze that enters the room along with the sound of servants and nobles walking around the palace or else the sound of his beating heart would have been deafening. his lips part, ‘ so you are alive all along ’ is what he settles for as he observes the blond’s movement. the way dimitri shifts where he stands and avoids his gaze speaks for its own. yet he cannot help but to look at him if only to distract himself from the awful feeling inside his chest.

there is so much that he wishes to say, but too many thoughts are racing through his head. the question of why dimitri did it, why he lied to him and why he is showing up at his doorstep after all those years. ‘ you know, ’ he starts, ‘ at times i imagined what it would have been like if things had been different, if you hadn’t died that day. i imagined --- hoped, that we would be sitting there celebrating our victories as tiny as they may be. ’ the man he saw at gronder that day was someone he did not recognize. it wasn’t the dimitri he knew. at that time he couldn’t help but wonder if that has always been part of dimitri but he simply didn’t see it. there was still a lot he did not know about him. what he did know however was that he hated seeing him like that.

his feelings for dimitri had changed quite a bit overtime. as silly as it is, claude is very well aware of the fact how deeply he had fallen for dimitri during their academy days. perhaps it was simply what one would call teenage love, but claude knew it to be true.

claude scoffs, ‘ it’s stupid really, after all what is the point? dimitri is dead, what is the point of imagining all of that --- is what i thought. ’ a pause, ‘ until that very dead man shows up at my doorstep. ’ he wants an explanation but so far all he has been getting is an apology. ‘ you're sorry. ’ claude calmly repeats after him but that calm facade is quick to disappear. ‘ sorry isn’t going to cut it dimitri ! ’ his palm meets the wood of his desk as the echo of it as well as the increased volume of his voice startles one of the guards stationed outside of the room.

the earlier feeling residing inside his chest is replaced by anger and sadness (but mostly anger). ‘ everyone thought you were dead! ’ a pause, ‘ i thought you were dead --- i mourned you. ’ twice even. though he could never blame dimitri for the first time: after all he was the one to be executed. claude remembers well when he received the news that dimitri would be executed. it was a moment in his life where he was ready to abandon all logic and go out there to help him, to save him. what stopped him that night was the knowledge that people were depending on him and looking at him for guidance. people that couldn’t fend for themselves, there was no way he could abandon them now. so instead he would conjure up a plan to convince the other nobles of the alliance, but it was already too late and message of ‘dimitri alexandre blaidydd has been executed‘ rang through the council. everything that was said beyond that had fallen to deaf ears.

the fact that he hadn’t gone out there was something he was prepared for to regret for his whole life until he saw him again at gronder field. but right now he just feels stupid for blaming himself knowing that dimitri (most likely) wouldn’t have showed him the same courtesy. after all has the man not been lying to him for over two years? ‘ i trusted you. ’ is what comes out next, but a bit more vulnerable than he would have originally liked it to be. ‘ i cared for you ‘ is what he doesn’t say.

a sigh passes his lips, ‘ why ? ’ perhaps a bit too vague. ‘ why even show up here at all ? ’ he clarifies. though he doubts he wants to know the answer to his question.

claude runs a hand through his hair before he crosses his arms over his chest. ‘ i always did pride myself in having a response for everything at any given time. ’ but quite frankly at this point he isn’t quite certain what to say nor do. ‘ i don’t know what you want from me and honestly at this point i’m just debating if i should hear you out or toss you out of the palace. ’ and right now the latter seems like the most reasonable option. yet part of him wants to know and it is screaming so loud. it is that very part of him that begins to panic slightly when he hears dimitri offer that he could leave permanently so he would never have to hear from him again. ‘ no. ’ comes out, ‘ stay. ’ follows before he can stop himself from saying so.

it sure is a complicated situation they have found themselves in. if only times were as simple like during their academy days where they would be embracing one another on a rainy day.

his gaze finds the blond again, ‘ this isn’t something that can be solved with just one conversation. so stay as my guest. ’ there is still much to be talked about. ‘ if you truly mean it you stay for a couple of days and we talk this out. if not, then don’t ever show your face here again. ’ a pause, ‘ so what will it be ? ’ with dimitri’s decision the doors open again and a few servants enter the room per claude’s request. they would be guiding dimitri to his room.

however before they leave the room claude calls his name once more, his back facing the blond and the servants as his gaze is fixed on the window. despite his anger and despite how his actions hurt him, he isn’t so blind not to notice the difference between the dimitri he saw back then and the dimitri he is seeing now. ‘ i am still angry with you but ... you look well, better. ’ even now claude doesn’t know what happened to him back then, but what he does know is that he hit rock bottom.

‘ knowing that makes me happy at least. ’ there is no mistaking that dimitri has hurt claude deeply for lying to him like he did. the one person that made him feel appreciated, loved and safe. the one that didn’t look at him like he is an oddity and treated him with kindness. he betrayed his trust and it hurt him. and while he knows he deserves a better treatment than the other has given to him, he still wouldn’t wish harm to befall onto the former prince. with this offer claude has done all he can and perhaps more than he should have now it is up to dimitri if he takes the opportunity or not.

as the door falls shut he lets out a deep breath (only now realizing that he has been holding his breath in). claude begins to laugh weakly at himself perhaps scolding himself for finding himself into a situation like this. he never really was one for the easy route now was he? he recalls the conversation he had with hilda well about how there are still plenty of fish in the sea but no claude wanted that particular fish. it was the first time he actually spoke of wanting something in the first place.

and even now despite all that has happened he couldn’t even deny that he still cared about for that troubled man.

#blufayth #✧ — ❛ blufayth: eyes so blue i might drown / but if it is you i don't think i mind at all.#✧ — ❛ answered.#you really had to come for me like that didn't you #:)

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cursedmenagerie · 5 years

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ℒ𝒶𝓈𝓉 ℛ𝒾𝓉ℯ𝓈

　　　A harsh gasp leaves the Penitus Oculatus soldier, garbled and spraying bloody spittle as they wheeze their final breaths. Their attacker draws back the spectral blade embedded in their neck and steps casually around them when they slump, lifeless to the deck of the ship.

　　　“On me! Don’t let them breach the Emperor’s ca- Hrk!”

　　　The tip of a wicked, obsidian sword pierces through the lieutenant’s chest before he can finish the order. Behind him a Dremora snarls. It wrenches back to cast off the deadweight from its blade and wastes no time gleefully rushing the nearest soldier. Another Dremora, slimmer but more agile, beats back a line of men attempting to block off the stern with ease, laughing at their futility.

　　　Draped in black and red leathers the lone noncombatant marching the length of the deck could almost be mistaken for another of the daedra in the rush of battle. But they pay little mind to the fray unlike their bloodthirsty allies, focus narrowed to the far door leading deeper into the vessel. One brave fool breaks through the Dremoras’ ranks to charge the figure. A flash of sickly green blinds the woman. Her body seizes in place, dropping like a stone.

　　　“There’s no need to be hasty,” The figure chides her. Flames replace the green wisps around their outstretched hand. In her paralyzed state the soldier can’t even scream as fire sears her flesh.

　　　Nearer to the galley door the corpse of the ship’s captain lays against the wall, and they pause long enough to rifle through the dead man’s robes to fetch a ring of keys. “Vas! Motal! Leave no survivors! It won’t do to have my appointment interrupted.”

　　　The only acknowledgement they receive from the Dremora are war cries.

　　　Inside the belly of The Katariah the sounds of fighting are deafened to a dull roar. Not a soul stirs in the immediate area, and every door stands flung wide as a testament to the frantic dash made to defend the ship; all save for one. This and its sturdy lock tell them all they need to know of what lies beyond. With keys in hand and the crew thoroughly distracted by their allies, breaking into the Emperor’s quarters is child’s play.

　　　Once inside, however, their tidy plans to murder him without mercy or misgivings fall to the wayside.

　��　Despite the years spent living in the Imperial City they had only seen the Emperor’s face a handful of times, and seldom within such proximity. After thirty-five years of ruling the Empire he was starting to show his age. Thinning hair gone gray, faint wrinkles that contrasted sharply to the last time they’d seen him. Youthful, for a grown human at least. But he still carries the same weight of responsibility that they recognized in his father before him, in the high-ranking soldiers tired of war, and that they now recognize in themselves. He stands at a wide desk, unassuming as he watches the figure enter.

　　　“And, once more, I prove Commander Maro the fool. I told him you can't stop the Dark Brotherhood. Never could.” Titus nods as if to himself, stepping around the desk. “Come now, don't be shy. You haven't come this far just to stand there gawking.”

　　　Every modicum of sense inside them screams that this must be a trap, and yet they step forward. Swayed by curiosity as to how he can face his would-be assassin with such calm. A question sits on the tip of their tongue, but the words fail to coalesce into a coherent sentence. The Emperor, oblivious to their attempts at speech thanks to the mask obscuring their lips, continues on. “You and I have a date with destiny, it would seem. But so it is with assassins and emperors, hm? Yes, I must die. And you must deliver the blow. It is simply the way it is. But I wonder... would you suffer an old man a few more words before the deed is done?”

　　　Disbelief floods through them. For all the killing they had done for the Brotherhood a scarce few targets had ever resigned themselves to their deaths. Certainly none had ever asked to chat before being killed. Bold to the end. They could respect that, and so gave a nod.

　　　“I thank you for your courtesy.” He then begins pacing the length of the room. “You will kill me, and I have accepted that fate. But regardless of your path through life, I sense in you a certain... ambition. So I ask of you a favor. An old man's dying wish.” A pause to look back to the assassin. They move to lean against the desk and motion with a hand for him to continue. “While there are many who would see me dead, there is one who set the machine in motion. This person, whomever he or she may be, must be punished for their treachery. Once you have been rewarded for my assassination, I want you to kill the very person who ordered it. Would you do me this kindness?”

　　　Kill Motierre? The task would be simple. Simpler than killing Mede, certainly. But betraying their employer wouldn’t go over well with the rest of the Brotherhood. The organization’s reputation was already in tatters, and if it became known that they’d killed the man who had put a price on the Emperor’s head the Brotherhood would have a harder time convincing the public of their trustworthiness.

　　　Still, there’s something to be said for putting a corrupt and uppity member of the Elder Council in his place. Were it not for Motierre’s greed the Brotherhood might still thrive, even if it would be under Astrid’s leadership.

　　　“Very well. They indirectly led to the weakening of the Brotherhood, and so we have as much motive for retribution.”

　　　Titus slows in his pacing until he stands before them. The two meet gazes, and though they know he only perceives the illusionary disguise they had conjured up before infiltrating The Katariah they struggle not to squirm under his scrutiny. “Thank you. I can pass on to the afterlife with nothing left to regret. Now, onto the business at hand, I suppose.”

　　　“Do you have no desire to know who was the cause of all this?”

　　　A resigned sigh leaves him, and he inclines his head. “I must admit, when Maro revealed that he had a tip about the Dark Brotherhood being contracted to assassinate me I was curious to know who had ordered it. The idea of the Aldmeri Dominion being responsible was unlikely. They would want to take full responsibility of the feat. The Commander had even considered that the contract was made by a member of the Stormcloak Rebellion, and there were inquiries made, agents sent east to seek out who had hired you. But in the end I knew we would not find the person responsible.” He offers a genial smile. “Anyone intrepid enough to have the Emperor assassinated would thoroughly cover their tracks. If you feel willing to divulge, however, I would appreciate the gesture. For as little time as I have left, that is.”

　　　They fold their arms over their chest, letting their gaze wander around the ornate cabin. The sound of fighting that was faint in the main hall has since died away. Whether it is because their daedric companions have prevailed or because the thick walls mask the noise is uncertain, but they nevertheless feel at ease continuing to indulge the Emperor’s desire for conversation a bit longer. “You were right that the Thalmor are not involved. And Maro’s assumption was incorrect. He did not share much information about himself, but we know that he is an influential man from the Empire, wealthy and powerful. His name is Amaund Motierre.”

　　　For the first time since the assassin’s arrival Titus’ neutral demeanor wilts. The wrinkled lines of his face harden, though there is an absence of anything near to anger in his expression. Only disappointment. “Amaund… I can't say that I am surprised to hear it. He always had high aspirations, though he hides his unrelenting avarice well. And with Cassius so young… I imagine he believed the Elder Council would be free to take control of the Empire as they had in the past. Or perhaps he planned to vie for the position of Potentate. I can think of only a few Council members I would trust less with the fate of the Empire. Thankfully those few have never had the same sway as Motierre. Still, there will be squabbling all the same while they settle the chaos following my death; for years to come I would wager.”

　　　A wry smile tilts their lips behind the mask. “Nothing ever seemed simple when it came to the Council.”

　　　“Never indeed.” He raises a brow. “Have you had experience with the Elder Council? Ah, pardon me. I failed to consider you might not be at liberty to share. Though I suppose your secret would be going to the grave.”

　　　“That it would be,” They muse. They reach up for the mask, tired of the impediment in their conversation, but hesitate. Would this be a step too far? There still remains a chance that the Emperor has only been stalling for time, waiting for an opportunity to gut them when they have their back turned. They wouldn’t dare show their face on any other job, but so long as Vas and Motal do their jobs well, no one on The Katariah will live to tell the tale. And Titus has a point: anything they wish to share would die with him.

　　　The mask and hood fall away with some difficulty, both made to hold their positions in any situation, but the illusion is easy enough to dispel. No longer does the mysterious leader of the Dark Brotherhood stand before the Emperor but an altmeri woman, crimson hair falling down her back to bleed into the red of her armor. “My experience was brief. My father became a member just before the Great War, that would have been the year 164. Perhaps you remember him. His name was Colnuril Nivuran.”

　　　“I believe I do. He was one of the more welcoming members of the Council when I ascended to the throne. I was disappointed to hear of his retirement so soon after the war, but I understood his decision. More than twenty-five years since and still there is distrust aimed at those who had nothing to do with the atrocities wrought by the Dominion.”

　　　“In the end it killed him.” She studies his expression, watching his eyes darken at the news. “He and my mother found a home in Riften; it’s hardly more than a shanty town, in truth. He contracted Blood Rot, Divines only know when. My mother encouraged him to visit the temple daily but there was little they could do by the time he admitted he was sick. He passed away three years ago.”

　　　“Ah… Such a pity. I hope his passing was peaceful, and that your mother is still well.”

　　　Sweet, ever obstinate Pyria, who had always been the most well-informed of their family, masking her interrogations with kindness and gifts. The assassin doesn’t realize she’s smiling until she sees it mirrored on Titus’ face. “Better than would be expected of a widow. Father was still fresh in the ground when she took up work in a friend’s shop, and after the rebellion began she was contacted by the Imperial Army to become an informant. Despite my advisement, she accepted. Mother has always had too big of a heart, and a great deal of loyalty to the Empire.”

　　　“But you do not?” He asks. His voice lacks any judgement.

　　　“I thought I did…” She turns away, memories of a chilly morning and rope around her wrists in her mind. The jeering, the glint of a steel axe, a sound like distant thunder. And then an inferno. “Maybe I still do, but I felt… Jaded. We spent weeks helping families flee across the border to Morrowind when the Dominion took the Imperial City. And I returned to it when the war had ended, wanting to help where I could. It didn’t feel like home anymore. Entire districts were burned or crumbling to pieces. So few would look me in the eye. And there were always more families looking for lost loved ones, begging for food that the shelters could barely provide. I couldn’t stay. And I hoped that by moving to Skyrim I could get away from the war, but a year later they were crying in the streets that Ulfric Stormcloak had killed High King Torygg. If you weren’t throwing your lot in with the Stormcloaks you were as good as an Imperial.

　　　“And then I made the mistake of saving a couple of soldiers’ lives. A pair of fools who had joined the Stormcloaks looking for glory in the wrong place. But I couldn’t leave them to be eaten by a sabre cat, so I intervened. They brought me back to their camp hoping to reward me, only to be ambushed by Imperials when they arrived. Everyone they didn’t kill was taken captive, including myself and Ulfric of all people. General Tullius did his job well. Maybe too well. If not for Alduin…”

　　　Her voice trails off, unwilling to relive that day in full.

　　　“I recall the reports.” Titus nods. “An upsetting setback to find that Ulfric had escaped in the chaos. Tullius was furious, even if he did not say as much in his writings. But as far-fetched as the tale is these things happen, and in the end it revealed a rather important figure I believe the people of Skyrim owe a great deal to.” He levels an expectant look at the assassin. “Do they not, Aesatel?”

　　　She winces, though she should have known he would be able to identify her. “They do. But I don’t feel much like a hero these days.”

　　　“Why, because you work for the Dark Brotherhood? Because you are here to kill the Emperor? I will admit it is hard to reconcile the different versions of you in my head. The daughter of an Elder Council member, then come to find that she is a Dragonborn like the emperors of old, and now revealed to be part of a murder cult.” Despite his grim words he surprises her with hoarse laughter. “But they are all part of who you are. Tell me, did being part of the Brotherhood inhibit your slaying of Alduin?”

　　　“No.”

　　　“And when you resolved to kill him what motivated you to do so?”

　　　Aesatel blows out a huff of air through her nostrils. “Because no one else was willing to. Not the Empire, not the Stormcloaks. And even when I found allies willing to help, I discovered that no one else could hope to defeat him but me. If I didn’t stop Alduin from destroying the world as we know it no one could have. By then… It wasn’t even a question of ‘why’.”

　　　Nodding slowly, he rests a wrinkled hand on her shoulder. “We all possess flaws, and we all find ourselves at times misguided or on paths that may not align with what we perceive as moral. But at the end of the day we are defined by much more than our weaknesses. You, my dear, are blessed with a great many years left to define yourself. Do good where you can, and hold fast to your convictions.”

　　　For a moment it’s like the weight of two years has lifted from her weary shoulders. But the moment is cut short by the door being forced open and Motal’s guttural voice breaking the silence. “My Lady, soldiers approach from the harbor.”

　　　It was only a matter of time before the bloodbath would be noticed by the locals. Standing straight, Aesatel motions for the Dremora to leave. “Delay their boarding but stay out of sight. Once I’m finished here I will return you to your realm. Neither of you are to harm them, is that understood? I will not have the blood of Solitude citizens on my hands.”

　　　They make no show of hiding their disappointment at having to refrain from slaying the guards but do as commanded. When Aesatel returns her attention to the Emperor she finds he wears a look of fright mixed with awe. “There is so much more to you than meets the eye. I thought I had no more regrets when I accepted my imminent death, but I do. I regret that I will not be able to discover more.”

　　　Her breath catches in her throat. “Perhaps if we meet again in Aetherius.”

　　　“I should like that very much.”

　　　She moves behind him and conjures up a spectral dagger. Already a fog has begun to settle in her mind. The haze of focus that has helped steer her towards what needs to be done for the Brotherhood, like an automaton guided by its programmed directives. But before it completely overwhelms her Aesatel speaks up one last time.

　　　“Titus Mede II, may the Divines bless your soul and guide it true to the realm of Aetherius. By this blade your spirit be released, wielded by Aesatel Nivuran, the Sonorous Dovahkiin, servant of the Dread Father Sithis.” The dagger is raised, its phantom flames flickering in the dim light of the cabin. She wraps her free arm around his shoulders, partly to brace his body when the deed is done and partly to ground herself. Her voice drops to a shaky whisper. “I will kill Motierre. A life for many lives. I will do what I can to steady the Empire in your absence, though I fear it will not be enough. And I will end this war. Even if I have to kill Ulfric myself. On these oaths I swear my soul.”

　　　The Emperor breathes his final words of gratitude and surrenders to the dagger that pierces his heart.

　　　What follows Aesatel remembers only in a blur. Steadying Titus’ corpse and placing it carefully in his regal bed. Fleeing to the aft balcony and being hit by the sound of shouting in the distance before turning herself invisible and plunging into the icy bay. But for as much as she would later try to forget the day of the Emperor’s death their final words and her promise to him would never fade from her memory.

#gather around and listen // drabble #posting this at midnight on halloween bc what's spookier than MURDER???#i've wanted to write this scene for months #maybe even since I first went through the DB questline because gosh #up until the first meeting w motierre she really doesn't think too much about the people she's been killing #they're either folks that won't be missed or people that she thinks probably deserve to die anyway & like #at least the first time i went through it was only after that meeting that the optional contracts started getting harder to want to do #it went from like vampires and a bumbling bard to the hunter in whiterun that's just trying to get by in life #she still 100% will lead the DB following the big contract but she's a lot less comfortable w/ the consequences involved #what's worse is she doesn't really see a way out either

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gabriel4sam · 6 years

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The eroding pearl, a little Obi-Wan story

Qui-Gon survived Naboo and Obi-Wan doesn't know what to do with himself, now that his Master has a new Padawan. Hopefully, other people recognize Obi-Wan's talent better than Master Jinn.

After the ceremony celebrating Naboo’s victory against the invaders, Obi-Wan followed Master Gallia into the palace’s garden. His steps were heavy, not only because he thought she would notify him with his dismissal from the Order, but also because of his exhaustion. He had spend the last five days helping as much as he could. He had sent into the Force people’s pain, when the doctors didn’t have enough pain killers, he had lifted thousand tons of rubbish to clear streets and landing pads, he had searched survivors in fallen buildings, using the Force to locate and extract them with more precision than a machine never could have.

It was, perhaps, a mercy from the Force: he was too exhausted to really feel the dread of what was to come.

They found a small green alcove, in a part of the gardens preserved during the battle. Master Gallia seemed tired too, but it was probably more the constant state of a Master of the Council. Four of them, Master Yaddle, Master Gallia, Master Mundi and Master Billaba, had arrived thirty hours before and spend all the night healing people in the hospitals, but a sleepless night was not exactly enough to bring down Jedi of such caliber.

Perhaps her tiredness was more about the state of the galaxy. Perhaps it was about the dead Sith, whose body the Masters had examined upon their arrival.

All of that didn’t really concern Obi-Wan.

He was only a Padawan, and soon he would be no more.

He hadn’t seen Qui-Gon in the last days. Officially, they were living in the same appartement of the palace but Obi-Wan most of the time caught a little sleep, or more often simply meditated, where he could in the hospitals, when he really couldn’t handle another victim without recharging his batteries a little. Qui-Gon hadn’t contacted him, or send for him. He was probably too busy with his new Padawan and no hurried to confront Obi-Wan. The Jedi Master had already moved one.

Master Gallia smiled when they sat down on the bench of the alcove. It was small, tired, but still a smile. He remembered why he liked her.

She was harsh, but never cruel.

She wouldn’t bring him down more than necessary.

“I have something for you,” she started, surprising him. He thought about some stipend to help him start a new life, perhaps enough for some civilian clothes and a few days of housing, but it wasn’t credits in her hand. In her palm, a little pearl was shining; it was small, with metal undertone in her color, and it made Obi-Wan take a very careful breath.

“You know what it is,” Master Gallia said, reading his surprise.

“It’s an eroding pearl. No Padawans had worn one in centuries.”

“Yes, I was sure you knew. You were always more interested in history than Siri. Can you detail to me what you remember about it?”

“They gave it to Senior Padawans who were experiencing a vocation crisis. The pearl is made in a friable stone. They put it at the end of their braid and they went away in the galaxy. It’s difficult to predict when the stone would break, so the time offered to the Padwans for their reflexions was in the hand of the Force. The Padawans lived outside of the Order, searching for answers, and when the pearl broke, they went back to the Temple to announce their decision. To finish their apprenticeship, or to definitely leave the Order.”

“Very good,” Master Gallia praised.

“Master, I don’t understand. Even if I go away and come back later, Master Qui-Gon won’t take me back more than now.”

“Qui-Gon has ...Let’s not talk about Qui-Gon right now. He’s the headache of the Council from now on, not yours. And I have no intention, when you come back to us, the day the pearl finally crumbles, to throw you away to Qui-Gon. Siri is months away from her trials, no more. When you came back, Obi-Wan, I will be the one offering to bread your hair for the very short time you’ll need to be ready. It is my opinion that you’re so close. You can’t see it right now, with the exhaustion and the last days’ events, but as a member of the Council, I have seen Senior Padawans taking that last step a lot of time. If you can’t believe in yourself right now, believe in my professional opinion.”

Obi-Wan didn’t know what to think. He had been so sure, and now, now...

“Yes, yes, please,” he said, his voice small. He didn’t care in that second. He wasn’t thrown out.

Methodically, she unravelled his braid and remade it; placing her pearl at the end, after the marks Qui-Gon had put himself.

“Do I give you my lightsaber?” He asked.

“No, Padawan. You’re a Jedi. One in need of a lot of sleep and even more meditation, but a Jedi,” she affirmed, her voice so sure that something unknotted in his belly.

“What do I do, now?”

“You go where the Force pushes you. You follow Its voice, and when the time come, you come back to your family.”

This time, it was credits in her hands, and he took them without protesting. He would prefer to not have to sleep in the street.

“Enough for a start, but I fear you’ll have to work. You’re supposed to live in the galaxy, closer than any of us,” she said, then to his surprise, she hugged him.

“Thank you, Master Gallia.”

“There is no need to thank me, Obi-Wan. Now go, and may the Force be with you.”

He offered the same ritual salutation and he left the garden. It seemed like his exhaustion had lifted its veil, and it would probably come back quickly, and with a vengeance, but he wanted to use that small burst of energy before it extinguished itself. He didn’t want to go back to the rooms he was supposed to share with Master Qui-Gon, so he went to the man who, those last days, had sent him where he was the most needed.

He went to Captain Panaka, the security forces captain who had followed his Queen from Naboo to Tatooine to Coruscant, and who, after fighting in the battle for Naboo, was now coordinating the efforts of reconstruction.

“Put me to work, Captain,” Obi-Wan said simply.

“Aren’t you leaving with the Jedi?” The other man asked, without even looking at him, busy jongling four datapads full of datas and aids coming in and out of the room in an infernal ballet.

“No, I am not.”

This time, Panaka looked at him. He had a piercing gaze, but Obi-Wan had grown up in the Jedi Temple, where people picked thoughts when they didn’t concentrate hard enough to stop it, he wasn’t impressed by a gaze, no matters how piercing.

“I think I will rather put you to bed,” the Captain said, and as Obi-Wan was blushing, he added: “Not like that, young man. You’re a little too young for me.”

And he put him into bed, or more precisely in the cot he had himself used those last days, in the second room of his office, doing Obi-Wan the courtesy of not asking why the young man wasn’t going back with the Jedi.

The Padawan slept twelve hours, then shared Panaka’s meal. The man was a better interrogator than Obi-Wan would have thought: he extracted the whole story from him over their noodles, and the Jedi didn’t realized until hours after, when, after a shift of Force Healing in the hospital, he found in Panaka’s office an uniforme to his size.

“Captain?”

“Eat. Shower. Then put it on and come with me.”

Obi-Wan obeyed, more habits than anything. He had followed orders from Qui-Gon too long, he was sure that would need working on.

To his surprise, Panaka took him to the throne room. The advisors weren’t there. Just Padmé, in her usual regalia, and a few handmaiden. Obi-Wan bowed. In the Force, he could feel the appreciation of the handmaiden right behind him for the way the Naboo’s force uniforms didn’t hide his ass like the Jedi’s robe had done, and his face was as red as his hair when he straightened up from his bow.

The Queen smiled to him, an expression more human and empathic that she let herself have most of the time when she was in full regalia, and he asked himself what exactly her Captain had said to her.

“We heard you were suddenly free of your time, Master Kenobi,” she said, and he grimaced.

“Just Kenobi, your Majesty.”

“Well, just Kenobi, Naboo may have use of your talents.”

“The wounded-”

“-yes, your help has been noted and thoroughly appreciated. But we want to broaden your field. Our trip to Tatooine…”

He could see the way she struggled to keep her mask. She was fourteen, and no matters how she could see herself as an adult, Obi-Wan himself, with the privilege of his few years more, understood the difference between thinking himself mature like he had had at fourteen, and the weight of maturity he had gained since.

“The things we saw during our impromptu stop on Tatooine opened our eyes to the Naboo’s privileges. We have our problems, of course, and even more since the invasion, but Tatooine…”

One of the handmaiden shuffled closer to her in a silent offer of comfort, and the Queen, with a grateful and discreet nod to her, took courage in her support.

Later, once they had changed the entire galaxy’s fate, Obi-Wan would remember that part and admire her courage.

It was crazy, it was without reason, it was a fourteen years old maiden deciding to change everything in thousand of beings lives, in entire star systems.

That day, everything changed, because Padmé Amidala looked a Jedi on hiatus in the eyes and said: “I want to attack slavery and burnt it down.”

#star wars #obi wan kenobi #my fics #the phantom menace

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karenhikari · 5 years

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The Ones Who Wander-11. The Hawk and the Hare

Hello, folks! I know, I know, I am the absolute worse at updating, I know. There's no point in apologizing, but if you do want to know, the reason it has taken so long is that I am currently undergoing a college admission process, so... everything is a mess and I am attending courses and doing projects at school and adulting sucks. But just that. To be entirely honest, I only received this chapter back from my beautiful beta yesterday, after having sent it to her a couple of months ago. Geminalupus wanted me to tell you that she is extremely sorry that it took so long to update but, to be honest, it wasn't her fault. It took me forever to write this down, it is only fair that it took her a few months to finish reading it through.

Now, the reason I just couldn't seem to get this chapter written is that, for the first time (spoiler alert) you get to read from the perspective of one of the heroes rather than from the kids. And let me tell you, this hero in particular had a lot to say about the politics and inner workings of Auradon. And... I hate politics, so... it was a bit troublesome. Things starting flowing better once she had given her opinion on the Head King of Auradon.

Either, this chapter is very, very special to me and I had waited a long time to write it. Remember, nearly a year ago, when I published Ginny's chapter? Well, I actually considered writing this chapter first and ignoring the structure I had already planned, simply because this one is more special to me. However, I like order, so I continued with the plan.

Anyways, i have kept this chapter from you long enough. Now... enjoy!

The Hawk and the Hare

There were many ways a woman such as Elsa Danica of Arrendelle and Vistborg could spend her day. Waiting in an overcrowded wharf was certainly not an option she would have thought of, much less chosen. However, that prospective became an even less satisfying alternative when the sole purpose of her journey was to pick up the child —or children, as that important information had been withheld from her— of the man who had tried to take over her kingdom and murder her younger sister.

To her, at least, this was glaringly a bad idea. That was it—put simply, retrieving the descendants of their worst enemies was the most questionable decision the current Head King of Auradon had made. It made absolutely no sense and, worst of all, it was dangerous.

In fact, Elsa did not approve of a number of things the previous Head King, Adam, had done either. To begin, the Isle of the Lost as a whole. She knew their adversaries could not be mended or rehabilitated. To expect something like that was incongruous, and, dare she say it, idiotic. Therefore, she could see why the Islanders should not be trusted to live within their society. She was not defending their right to freedom.

The thing was, neither could she understand why Adam and Belle had determined that a giant island be brought from the sea. She could not understand why Adam and Belle had decided that their aggressors, who had already been executed and exterminated, should be brought back to life. It was taking an unnecessary risk.

Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles, the thirteenth son of late King Fridtjof had never been dead. Even after Elsa had frozen and thawed the fjords of Arrendelle, Hans had only left Arrendelle with a black eye, which was Anna's courtesy, not even Elsa's. For three years, before the Crown Kings of Auradon had developed the idea of the Isle of the Lost, Hans had been kept in a dungeon under Rolskrod Palace, what could have been his castle if he had not been so eager to take over someone else's throne. Not even shackled like Elsa had been in her own kingdom, not even sent to jail to be surrounded by common thieves in a congested cell. No, privileged even as a prisoner, Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles had only been kept in an oubliette for three years and two months, not that Elsa had been counting.

Then, Elsa was still struggling to comprehend exactly how, Adam and Belle had announced their new plan. The creation of a considerable extension of land, brought from the bottom of the sea to its surface through magic. At the time, the magic prohibition hadn't been as strong as it was now. In fact, the hearsay and rumors of Fayanna's idea to regulate and possibly eliminate the usage of magic in everyday life had barely begun, a rotten apple in a fruit bowl that would blemish everything that came in contact with it.

Somehow, the ludicrous idea had been approved by the council. Fayanna, the most trusted advisor of the Head Kings, was named the coordinator of the project a few weeks after the announcement. They wasted no time in beginning the arrangements to transform their absurd plan something tangible. Immediately, they began recovering the remains of the deceased villains, drawing maps to decide where to put what they started to call 'the Isle' with something that already sounded like dread. They summoned villains such as Anastasia Tremaine and Hans Westergaard himself, the ones who had been leading a relatively normal life and the ones who had been kept isolated in jail, to inform them of the plans to relocate them.

Elsa knew she would not get a chance to punish Hans the way she wanted to, she knew there were laws and political logistics that stopped her from being able to unleash her wrath on the runt of the Southern Isles dynasty. And, in the same matter-of-fact, concise, precise way, she knew someone like him, so unsympathetic and indifferent would be incapable of changing. Elsa was convinced that all of them, who had already attempted to murder and sabotage everything others held dear would not change and, therefore, they should be kept away.

Elsa absolutely comprehended the need for a prison that kept the villains away from the good, hard-working part of the population. It made sense and it was in such a way that society had operated for centuries. You had to trim the weak branches of a rose bush for the plant to stay healthy and bloom. She could understand that.

What was beyond her discernment was the fact that Belle and Adam had decided to put all of those villains together, in the same place, which would either allow them to annihilate each other or to create alliances that made them more perilous than they had been the first time they had attacked. For years, each nation had kept their own villains imprisoned, they had each been responsible for punishing the offenders that they produced and preventing the story to repeat itself. However, now that more kingdoms were joining the United States of Auradon, the Head Kings claimed it would be better to create a new confinement to hold them all. It lacked every possible ounce of reason and coherence there was, if you asked the Queen of Arrendelle, and she had been quick to voice her opinions.

To be entirely honest, Elsa had never concurred with the ideology that Fayanna had drilled into Adam. The king was slightly older than Elsa, that was true, but he had also spent much of his youth deprived of human contact and mistreating his serfdom. The Queen of Arrendelle was in no position to judge what he had done while transformed into a beast. She knew that she had, too, committed despicable actions while she was too concentrated on keeping her powers a secret to wholeheartedly care about her people like she should have. However, that did not give Adam the right to have such a strong say in what other rulers did as he seemed to think he had.

Nevertheless, it wasn't long before smaller provinces like Prydain and Maldonia decided to accept the tempting offer of joining Adam's more powerful kingdom. According to Adam, he had the dream of a united kingdom, ruled by a head king that would make sure that all the other smaller sovereigns followed certain regulations. United they would be stronger, he claimed. United they would preserve peace and worship loyalty.

In theory, it sounded fair and good and tempting. By becoming one single humongous kingdom, they would share resources, eliminate the competition and considerably reduce the number of possible future wars. They would have laws and a higher power in charge of preventing disagreements from escalating to military combats. In theory, it sounded adequate, unobjectionably safer.

What Elsa was not keen on, however, was the idea of an almighty power who would be on her back, reading her reports and monitoring her. Adam had suggested an aristocratic democracy then. Yes, royal families still had significant privileges when compared to their subjects, but it was only because a prince or a duke had been trained to care for their people from a tender age. The bearer of such great power should also possess enough knowledge and responsibility to know how to properly use it, and members of the nobility were expected to know how to fulfill that role.

Adam had then gone on to be democratically elected as the first Head King of the United States of Auradon. He had sold the idea of an egalitarian, peaceable kingdom to small provinces that were in a competitive disadvantage. And they had hungrily bought it. Nonetheless, it had only been a matter of time before bigger and more recognizable kingdoms began to sign treaties and agreements, until most of the European kingdoms joined Adam in the search of his 'dream'.

Elsa signed the treaty for Arrendelle to become part of Auradon barely six months after Corona, her cousin's kingdom. It would only take Adam a year and a half more to get the Chinese empress, Ching Shih, to sign as well. With that, the United States of Auradon as they knew it was finally formed.

Some small provinces were still independent. Motunui, for example had blatantly refused to join Auradon, and mostly kept for themselves. Neverland, too, was not considered a part of the kingdom, although they were much more open to commerce and tourism than Motunui. Wonderland was out of the table as well, and though the inhabitants made an exception about their 'no visit' policy for Alice and her family, even she rarely visited.

It was shortly after the merging of their country that Adam began making decisions that seemed... nonsensical, to say the least. There were two proposals that Elsa had both loathed and feared from the first time she had heard the words leave Adam's mouth. One was the creation of Isle of the Lost. The other was the prohibition of magic.

Despite the fact that not every sovereign the United States of Auradon had approved of either of those propositions, the majority of them had. Therefore, Adam and Fayanna's little experiment carried on. After an odd —and, she said it with fear of being accused of treason, an obscure— agreement with Hades, the deceased villains were brought back to life and confined to an island. The Isle of the Lost, they called it now, with pride, with dread, with arrogance. The Isle of the Lost, a living reminder that their enemies still lived, waiting to retaliate against them.

The ones who had never been dead to start with were sent to join them soon after. To close with a flourish —and, supposedly, to prevent any outbreaks—, it had been decreed that a barrier be put around the island. Nothing could get in and, they swore, nothing could come out.

Fayanna recruited a vast number of adjutants, as her proposition was incredibly dangerous and impossible to do for a single person. Merlin, Tinker Bell, the Genie, even Zeus, the almighty King of Olympus, had assisted in the creation and maintenance of the barrier. Elsa's magical powers did not suit the undertaking, and therefore she had not been contacted or asked to participate. She wanted to believe that she would have refused to participate in the creation of the barrier even if she could have been able to help them.

Regardless of how, or who had supported such ludicrous idea, the Isle of the Lost had come to exist. Soon, both the formerly deceased villains and the perfectly alive ones were living in their new imprisonment. In a way, it helped Auradonians ―a gentilic Elsa was still trying to get used to―, in the laborious and often arduous task of forgetting. They didn't mention the island that was so close to Auradon's capital city that it could literally be seen from Auradon Castle's windows. They never mentioned the names of the sorcerers and witches that had once terrorized their people, not when the inscrutable veil of night covered their lips, not when the golden rays of sunshine bathed the marble of their castles. They pretended not to remember why Cinderella did not fit in during royal parties, why Aurora referred to three fairies as her 'aunts', why, out of the thirteen princes Fridtjof had fathered, only ten had still lived in the Southern Isles when the United States of Auradon became a glorious nation. They pretended and, even after all those years, their performance was dreary and extremely apathetic.

Likewise, Elsa had long ago learned the dialogues of the character she had been assigned to play. She smiled and she curtsied, she read letters and she signed commerce treaties with a languid hand, going through monotonous days in a haze. She kissed her sister's cheek and she threw her arms around her nieces and nephew with remorse, knowing that there were words that she held concealed under her tongue, adamant in her refusal to pronounce them.

It had been probably thirteen years since the last time anyone in her family had dared mention the disappearance of her cousin, Rapunzel of Corona. They met regularly, they celebrated their birthdays and they sent letters back and forth during the whole year. They always made it a point to spend both Christmas and New Year's Eve together, be it at Corona or at Arrendelle. Yet, they failed to talk about the eighteen years worth of memories and laughter that they had lost.

Elsa knew it made it easier, because Anna and she didn't talk about the years they had spent barely speaking to each other, about the searing pain that still burnt in their chests, too tangible and too recent. Anna, in her kindness and unconditional love for her never brought back how cruel she had been to her, she never mentioned a single one of the thousands of days she had spent, numbly knocking on the wooden door of an unhearing sister. They had learned —they had been forced to learn— to live in the moment and to embrace what they had because they could just as easily lose it, because they hadn't had it before and they wanted to make the most of it now that they did.

Thereby, Elsa could not blame them for tucking every agonizing reminder of their past lives under Persian rugs. If the memories of what had happened to other heroes aggrieved them as much as it still made her insides turn, if guilt and ache still blazed their eyes whenever they could not force themselves to forget, then she could understand their reasons. She had come so close to losing Anna, so close to feeling the remaining pieces of her family slip between her fingers… it only made sense that the other heroes yearned for this numbing relief.

For all that they didn't talk about it, the insistent, constant query of what would have happened if Hans' murderous plan had succeeded was a shadow that accompanied Elsa's steps both in the death of night and in the warmth of the morning. It wondered aloud, unrelenting, unstoppable, what would have happened if Anna had actually died, what if Hans' sword had impeccably severed the Queen of Arrendelle's neck, what if Hans had sat at the throne of a kingdom that was not his to claim. The thought never failed to make a striking pang of guilt and ache pierce her chest.

If anything, waking up every morning to the love of her people and to the sight of her family at the breakfast table only made the burning remorse blaze higher. It made her wonder what would have happened if she had failed to protect all of it, if her own fear had been greater than her resolution. It forced her to ask herself what would have been of Anna's unrestricted laughter, of the way Kristoff played "the Ballad of Flemmingrad" during Christmas Eve, his wonderful, sincere eyes locked with his wife's.

And every time, every single time that that thought, unwelcomed, shattering and irrepressible assaulted her, the Queen of Arrendelle found herself unable to move, unable to breathe. Elsa could understand the need to forget. She felt that pulsing desire often. She, too, wished she could take a long, exhausting walk in the woods, dig a hole under a centenary Betula alba and extract the incessant questions that plagued her mind to bury them, never to be heard of again.

Forgetting was the feeling of a warm, knit quilt for the traveler that had been surprised by a snowstorm on the road. Forgetting was the simple joy of meeting with an old friend you hadn't seen in a terribly long while and having the chance to talk to them carefree for hours that elongated indefinitely. Elsa knew that.

However, she knew that, in the same way that pouring her pain-stricken memories into a hypothetical grave was impossible and hoping to do so was fruitless, dumping all of their villains into a magical, faraway island, would not heal the wounds that were still open and festering within their silk robes. She had learned, the hard way, ones would call it, that not speaking about the shadows that haunted the high towers of their castles would only bring desolation. There was no way, no way that putting all the demons and the ghosts of a kingdom as big as Auradon in the same place could be a good idea.

Adam and Fayanna clearly did not share her belief. Neither did most of the inhabitants of Auradon. The Isle of the Lost gave them a solution, the answer to never once feeling your pulse raise in fear again. They would trim the weak branches of their perfect rose bush, they would focus on teaching the new generation about the mistakes that they should not repeat. How they would do that without mentioning the hard-learned lessons that Elsa's generation had endured, she had no idea, but they would find an answer along the way. They built new schools, they wrote books about the real-life love stories of their sovereigns, they widened the commerce among their provinces, they tightened the bonds that united their people.

They promised, time and time again, that this would be a bright, new beginning. The renaissance, they said, of a strong, fearless kingdom.

—*—*—

Regrettably, forgetting was not an easy deed to achieve. Especially not if the source of your agonizing memories was a living, breathing individual. Such a thing became glaringly obvious once the villains that had been casted aside, supposedly never to be thought of again, began to sire children, much in the same way that the inhabitants of Auradon did.

Life could not be tossed under a rug, no matter how much will power you put in trying to turn a blind eye to that fact. Life found a way to push, to crawl back from the depths of the blazing inferno you built to annihilate it. A way to be remembered. That was what happened at the Isle of the Lost.

As soon as the word that there were babies being born in the island spread, the extinct embers of the uncertainty some people had felt towards the project fired up all again. Esmeralda de Châteaupers, who had never agreed with the scheme to send the villains to a completely different land, began advocating even more relentlessly to make her voice heard. To an extent, Elsa supposed she had succeeded. Everyone in Auradon had heard of Esmeralda. She was the face of the victims of Claude Frollo, the representative of the gypsy community in France. She became part of the Council of Sidekicks. Even more, she was the official spokesperson of the council. Parallel to that, by marrying Captain Phoebus de Châteaupers she had managed to refine her social status, which had allowed her to voice her opinions even more loudly.

Elsa knew a good number of members of the royalty who found Esmeralda unbearable, insufferable. After all, kings and queens whose bloodlines went back centuries in the past refused to let other kings order them around. It was only natural that they became fuming when it was someone with a social status so low as a gypsy's the one who dared suggest they were doing something wrong. And that proved Esmeralda's point bright and clear—none of them were focusing their energies on solving the scarcities of Auradon, the shadows of inequality that still roamed around the corners of the castles and the tents of gypsies' camps, because they were too busy criticizing Esmeralda's attire and lack of prestige.

Some called Esmeralda an activist, a gentle woman with the heart of a warrior. Elsa didn't eulogize her as much. She didn't dare despise Esmeralda due to her poor upbringing, although she was not about to admire or support her causes either. Simply, Elsa thought that she was a strong woman who felt no trace of fear for what the others thought of her, and for that, gypsy or not, she deserved recognition.

To the long list of problematics she withstood on a daily basis, Esmeralda augmented the injustice of leaving the children of the Isle of the Lost in a prison. She claimed it was inexcusable, unethical, unjustifiable. She claimed that it would backfire, that the time would come when they were children no more, but creatures who festered on the fear and decay that seemed to constitute the main columns of their rotten society. She said, over and over again during the council meetings, that making children pay for the mistakes of their parents was as low as someone could get, that it spoke great lengths that their 'strong, fearless kingdom' had to be upheld in the aching shoulders of children.

Cinderella and a number of other royal personalities agreed with her. Still, Adam and Fayanna turned a deaf ear to their pleas and refused to move a finger to fix the situation. After two or three years, Esmeralda received the help of Corona, and they were granted Auradon's permission to send supplies to the Isle. They were hand-me-down clothes and nearly-spoiled food, but it was better than nothing.

Truthfully, Elsa considered Esmeralda's words to be an exaggeration. Esmeralda was too passionate, too quick to grant her unwavering support to a cause she did not fully comprehend. And, to be entirely honest, Elsa was a firm believer that there was no reason for her to be concerned with the conditions of the Isle of the Lost, when she had never even agreed with the creation of such thing. There was no reason for her to divert the resources of her people to try to fix the situation of the ones who had tried to destroy her kingdom and her family.

Eugene, who had concurred with Esmeralda as soon she said that no child should be allowed to grow in fear and indifference, had been assigned to get the supplies to the Isle. Every once in a while, Eugene and Rapunzel convinced Anna to donate a ship worth of food or of clothes, and Elsa allowed it. Nonetheless, the queen of Arrendelle had refused to listen to Esmeralda during the meetings, she had adamantly rejected each of the gypsy's attempt to make her consider the injustice that the Isle of the Lost represented on itself.

That was how things had been for the last seventeen years. Now, when Adam finally decided to step down from the throne, it turned out that his own son would be the one to 'democratically' succeed him. The Queen of Arrendelle was well-acquainted with young Benjamin. She had practically watched him grow, as both of them belonged to the royal families of Auradon. She knew the boy had a kind heart, and she was certain that everything he'd done until then was only fueled by good intentions and a utopic imagination. However, he was simply too inexperienced to handle the pressure of becoming the Head King of a territory as big and tumultuous as the United States of Auradon.

It seemed that Benjamin also questioned the decisions Adam had made during his reign, howbeit he did so for a different reason than the one the Queen of Arrendelle had to oppose the former king. Benjamin, who had only ever seen the good in the world, was incapable of comprehending how dangerous allowing the children of the villains into their domains was. He was part of Auradon's next generation, the one who had read the real-life love stories of their provinces' sovereigns in school textbooks, the one who had never feared the second the sun went down and ghosts roamed their palaces freely, the one that had only ever worn silk dresses and walked on marble castles.

Youth had blessed him with naiveness, and naiveness had cursed him with ingenuousness. Elsa knew with icy certainty that it was only a matter of time before the young prince's reverie caught fire in the flames of the villains' spite and turned into a nightmarish sight.

However, youth had also made Benjamin passionate, determined in a way that Elsa had to admire. If not for nothing else, she did so with sageness. That was the boy who would soon rule over them, they needed to redirect the fierce resolve of which he spoke about the children of the Isle of the Lost. Nonetheless, if he maintained it as the Head King of Auradon, he would be vehement and uncontainable. Notwithstanding the fact that Elsa praised a sovereign with such characteristic, she was far from blind. There would be no time for Benjamin to become a well-loved, wise monarch if his kingdom burnt to the ground mere days after his coronation. Still, the boy was set on his verdict, and there was no power on earth that could stop him from making his first decree as king a resolution to free the children of the Isle.

That time, for once, Elsa had wholeheartedly concurred with Adam. The Isle of the Lost had not been a good plan, not even at the beginning, but now that they had it, it was better to simply continue as they had until then. If anything, they could send more than leftovers, perhaps repair their old, crumbling bazaar and clean the rubbish obstructing the streets, but that was as far as Elsa was willing to go for the Islanders.

Benjamin, however, had not been dissuaded. He had refused to listen the life-hardened words of his advisors, he had ignored the, admittedly, more experienced opinions of older sovereigns, he had declined even the guidance of his parents. His outrageous project had been put into operation without losing a second of precious time. In mere months, the first four children of the Isle of the Lost were brought to live among them, in Auradon. And of course, being the idealistic boy he was, Benjamin had decided that the children of that most dangerous villains be the first ones to be relocated.

Contrary to what Elsa had feared, the first stage of his decree had not been a complete failure. In fact, the first scandal the Isle children had been involved with was when Mal, the only known daughter of Maleficent, began to fool around the no-magic rule. She was testing the limits, of that Elsa was certain. The queen had to admit it, she was amused, and she could hardly look down at Mal with scorn or qualm, for she firmly discouraged that prohibition herself. In fact, she considered the no-magic rule more a suggestion than an actual commandment.

It was simply ridiculous, to say the least. The fact that Fayanna, a magical being herself, a fairy who felt magic thump on her jugular and tickle the tips of her fingers, could even fathom over the idea that revoking their right to use the magic that was naturally, rightfully theirs was risible, absurd. Even worse, it was alarming and threatening.

The official reason for this new rule was 'to teach the new generation of Auradonians that magic was not a panacea, but a tool that had to be used scarcely. It was only their wit and creativity that would accompany them, their ability to do good that would forge the road for them to follow.' In summary, it was now seen as unfair that children born with the power to wield magic received the same education as children who were incapable of doing it. And, to promote equality, it had been decided that they should take away the 'advantage' of magic-natural children. Elsa huffed. Clearly, forbidding magical children to use their powers was fair. Clearly, they should take away their birth-right instead of offering non-magical children the possibility to learn magic in order for them to become sorcerers and witches.

Elsa had spent enough time denying the magic that coursed through her veins to simply accept Fayanna's outrageous rule. It had taken enough of her and her people to learn to live with her magic and accept the fact that her powers would not go away because they were part of her. If Fayanna thought she could simply come and order them to stop the use of their powers merely because she was the most beloved advisor of the Head King, she was dead-wrong.

Thereby, when the daughter of Maleficent began using her magic at Auradon Prep, Elsa was not counted in the number of people who felt their distrust towards the Isle children grow. If anything, she was amused. God knew how a girl who had been raised without the vaguest knowledge of magic had learnt how to wield it so rapidly. That, at least, was an admirable skill, and the Queen of Arrendelle had always praised when praise was due. Howbeit, whatever empathy-induced closeness she could feel for the daughter of Maleficent was not nearly enough to make her forget the Isle that girl had grown up in.

Surprisingly, it was not the children of the Isle of the Lost who had broken havoc during Benjamin's coronation. Jane, the very daughter of Fayanna, was the one who snatched one of the most powerful magical items from the hand of her own mother. Even more exceptional was it that the Isle children were the ones to stop Maleficent from utterly tearing apart Auradon Cathedral.

Perhaps, Elsa had caught herself thinking, Rapunzel was inerrant. Maybe Benjamin, with his naive cerulean eyes and the innocence of his youth, could see something that she had grown too hawkish to notice anymore. For a moment, she even allowed her mind to wrap around the conception that, perchance, Benjamin's decree was not as preposterous as it sounded.

Said resolution lasted less than three months, for it was after that time that Benjamin insisted that only the first stage of his decree had been carried out. It was time for the rest of the Isle children to be brought to Auradon, he insisted. That prospect was not appealing to the Queen of Arrendelle in the least.

They agreed on the need to send someone to the Isle of the Lost. To Elsa, it seemed they were testing the ground, making sure that the thin layer of ice that the recent snowstorm had formed on the surface of the lake was sturdy enough to step on it with their full weight. Without further ado, they designated the very daughter of Maleficent as the Ambassador of the United States of Auradon in the Isle of the Lost.

Rumors spread, vehement like wildfires, of the possibility of new children arriving from the Isle at the beginning of the next school year. Some of the Auradonians Elsa had spoken to had even began making theories about whose children would me the next to be brought to Auradon. Rapunzel, for example, had received notice that Gothel had sired a daughter, and she awaited the moment she would be able to meet the young girl with both dread and impatience

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Benjamin gave a press conference urging the hero families to 'Open their hearts and homes to the winds of change by enrolling themselves as tutors for one of the children of the Isle'. At the moment, Elsa had snickered. It was an outrageous proposition. To think, even for a second, that they would risk their families and kingdoms to welcome the offspring of their worst enemies was simply ridiculous. To ask from them that they put every ounce of normality and security it had taken decades to reconstruct on the line to receive the spawns of the ones who had tried to destroy their kingdoms was... unimaginable. Contumelious.

Notwithstanding, for a reason that the queen could not seem explain, it appeared that she was the only one seeing things that way. People like Esmeralda and Phoebus, who had been waiting for a sign that someone from the royalty had heard their appeal for years, immediately offered themselves to tutor even more than one child, if it were necessary. Rapunzel and Cinderella, along with their respective partners, were quick to follow their leads.

Soon, Benjamin's overture was not the only thing that had surprised the Queen of Arrendelle. In a matter of weeks, more Auradonian families than she would have thought agreed with such a ridiculous proposition were signing up to become the legal guardians of the Isle children. Even then, Elsa had clung on to hope that she would be able to escape this altruistic nonsense and keep her kingdom and family as far as possible from the Isle of the Lost and its inhabitants.

Said feeble faith came to an abrupt end one bright morning of spring, when Anna entered her office without even knocking, decision written on her features. She said she was putting her foot down, that they could not sit back while heroes of all the other kingdoms and provinces contributed to such an important change. She made it a point to insist that it had taken Auradon long enough to recognize the mistake the Isle of the Lost was, Arrendelle could not stay behind and be indifferent about this project.

When all of that failed to dissuade her sister, Anna added in an undertone, almost as if she were telling a secret, that Eugene had informed her that Hans had managed to have a son. Out of pure rage, Elsa had laughed. If Hans had a son, then that kid also had ten direct uncles who could look after him and receive him in the Southern Isles. The fact that Hans had spawned one, or two, or even ten children meant nothing to Elsa.

They had argued that morning, because they had both inherited their mother's stubbornness. When Anna's attempts to convince Elsa of pitying the children of the Isle failed, the princess' features became stern, distant and frigid in the same way marble statues were adamant and cutting. With precise words, she had reminded the queen of Arrendelle of the terrified, young girl that had been forced to remain incarcerated inside her room as the prisoner of a power she could not control. A prisoner, she said, as captive were the children of the Isle, expiating a crime they had not committed.

Anna knew her too well, Elsa was aware of it. It was usually of no concern to her, given the fact that she trusted her younger sister completely. She relied on Anna in the same way she knew a new morning would come after the sundown. To doubt Anna's loyalty was unthinkable.

On the other hand, there was no denying that Anna knew very well how to strike a low-blow when she felt the occasion called for it. Not whispering anymore, she dropped the one question that had haunted the queen of Arrendelle since she could remember—What are you so afraid of?

The vehemence of her words made Elsa step back and gasp for breath. Her hands shook when she answered that she feared not. It was a white lie, the tone of the virgin snow that crowned the mountains of their fjords, but it was the only answer Elsa could ever imagine herself giving. Admitting fear, even for a moment, was doubting her own ability to stop any damage from unfolding and harming her family. It was a weakness she could not allow herself to have.

Regrettably, Anna knew Elsa well-enough to not need the queen to voice the real reason behind her adamant negative. As soon as she noticed the profound impact her words had had on her sister, Anna's features softened. 'There is nothing to be afraid of', she had said. Elsa agreed, there was not—as long as they didn't take any unnecessary, reckless risks.

The only problem was that 'reckless' seemed to be Anna's middle name. Taking her sister's hands in hers, Anna had smiled at the queen of Arrendelle. She'd reiterated that it was not just to let children pay for mistakes they had not made. She decided to pressure Elsa further by asking her to not think of the children of the Isle as the offspring of their enemies, but as if they were only children, like any other in Auradon. Of course, Anna went a step further by mentioning her own son, Karl, and asking Elsa to imagine her little boy living under the conditions the children of the Isle were forced to survive in. Those had been her words. Not live, but survive in.

And, like Anna knew she would, Elsa had yielded. Her resolution had crumbled when faced with Anna's fiery resolve. The princess of Arrendelle was relentless, obstinate like no other, and she had never been one to take a 'no' for an answer. Added to that, she knew her sister thoroughly, she could interpret the thin line of Elsa's lips, a subtle sigh or a reluctant nod. Anna was not the kind of person to give up easily, and thus, she had insisted, pushing Elsa further and further until she knew it would be impossible for the queen to deny her request.

In honor of the truth, Anna had offered to be the one to travel all the way to France, so that she could pick up their new protégé, but Elsa had refused. After all, her sister was six months pregnant, and asking her to voyage in that state was not something Elsa felt comfortable with. They had not even been informed of how many children they were expecting or of whose descendants would henceforth be living with them, thereby, Elsa refused to endanger her sister like that.

The next safe option that would have lifted the burden off Elsa's shoulders would have been Kristoff. Given the fact that they were walking in a completely unknown territory, oblivious to the number of children they were expecting, to their ages and their parentage, asking her brother-by-marriage to pick up the child or children that had been assigned to them would have made things easier.

Certainly, a part of Elsa would have rested more easily, had Kristoff been in her place. After all, he was strong, steadfast, and could overpower a skilled, trained enemy. It was glaringly obvious that one, or even two teenagers, like the ones she had seen in the deck of the ship would be no match for him.

However, summer was approaching, being the number one purveyor of ice in Auradon, Kristoff's days had been increasingly hectic. Naturally, it would have been unthinkable and counterproductive to ask him to put his own responsibilities aside and board a plane to travel to a whole different country in order to pick up the offspring of their enemies. Then again, if they had bothered to ask Elsa her opinion, she would have answered that this whole project was poorly planned and loosely designed.

In the end, it all came down to the fact that Elsa could pass down her obligations to Anna, who would then stay safe at Arrendelle Palace. Conversely, Kristoff could not do so with his chores and leave for someone else to carry them on. That was why Elsa Danica of Arrendelle and Vistborg was standing in an overcrowded wharf.

In anticipation of this 'big day' ―that to her sounded more like a 'huge disaster'―, Anna had shipped their family carriage to Corona nearly a week earlier. Then, Elsa had boarded a plane, set to arrive at her cousin's kingdom, the day before. She had spent the night in the company of Rapunzel and her family, and, come morning, both of them had climbed on their own carriages and traveled from Corona to Auradon City. Elsa had to admit, Rapunzel had thought this whole project more thoroughly than she had, going as far as to take two carriages to Auradon City, in case one was not enough to take the children back to Corona. Of course, the queen of Arrendelle supposed that it only made sense. After all, Rapunzel had impatiently counted the days in her calendar for her to meet her new foster child—or children, the queen reminded herself. That hypothetical plural was too important to ignore. Elsa had, instead, dreaded the day and prayed to the Lord that He would change the minds of everyone involved in the relocation of the Isle children before it arrived.

The plan was that, after receiving their new protégé, they would travel by carriage to Denmark, where they would climb on a plane in order to return to Arrendelle. Rapunzel, always hospitable, had offered for Elsa to return to Corona with her and Eugene, so that they could leave the next morning, well-rested and refreshed, but Elsa had declined. Rapunzel and her family would have to deal with a villain child —or children— of their own, and Elsa simply wanted to return home as soon as possible.

'Soon', however, was a word that Elsa had not heard since arriving to Auradon City. The whole day had been hectic with Fayanna, Benjamin and the former kings giving announcements with big, unceremonious megaphones and handing out leaflets in land. Meanwhile, Maleficent's daughter ran from one side of the deck of the ship to the other, attempting to organize several dozens of teenagers with what seemed to be little success.

The children finally began to descend from the vessel nearly three hours after the scheduled time. The first ones to step on Auradonian land were probably Huns, judging by the way they were dressed. Afterwards came a flock of children that varied between the ages of four and eighteen, at least that's what it seemed to her. She recognized the Hook children. More correctly, she assumed they were the offspring of James Hook, given the fact that they were dressed in a poor attempt to imitate the pirate fashion and that Jane Rees was called to pick some of them up.

Not long after, the loudspeakers called her own cousin, Rapunzel. Elsa stayed at the plaza with Rose and Anxellin while Rapunzel and Eugene ventured to find their foster daughter. When they returned, they were accompanied by a black-haired girl. She wore a faded dress that had once been green, and the worn fabric clung to her bony frame, proving it was at least three sizes too big for her. Despite Rapunzel's upbeat attitude and Eugene's unfaltering smile, the girl that tailed behind them appeared uninterested and apathetic.

Unamused, Elsa simply raised an inquisitive eyebrow when Rapunzel introduced her as Ginny Gothel, her former captor's only daughter. At the mention of her mother, the girl simply huffed, although neither of the sovereigns of Corona seemed to pay any mind to it.

Soon after, Rose and Anxellin took matters into their own hands and offered to take Ginny to the carriages. It was a welcomed change of scenery, apparently, and the girl didn't argue against the proposition. Once they had left, Rapunzel insisted it would be a short while before they called Elsa, too, and she had to approach the wharf to meet her new protégé. The queen of Arrendelle, however, wasn't as convinced. They had never discussed the number of children that would be incorporated into Auradonian households, but she had certainly never imagined that it would ascend to more than fifty. She had been wrong, it was more than apparent.

It was at least two more hours, long after her cousin's family had left to begin their return to Corona, long after the time that Benjamin had promised, that Elsa's name was finally called. The pier had slowly emptied through the afternoon, as the children descended from the ship, and by the time the queen of Arrendelle was called, there were barely any people still at the wharf.

It seemed she had been granted the arguable honor of being the last of the heroes called to meet her protégé, she noted absently. Her theory was proven when, instead of simply guiding the islander down, Benjamin and Grimhilde's daughter descended of the ship first. The daughter of Maleficent followed, and the last member of the party was a young boy.

Soon, Elsa was introduced to the son of Hans, a sick-looking boy with milky skin and freckles dusted on his nose and cheeks. He did not seem to be paying much attention to his surroundings, and he barely lifted his eyes from the ground when Grimhilde's daughter said his name. To be entirely honest, it was… disappointing, to an extent. Lame, almost. He had none of the raw fierceness Elsa had seen in Rapunzel's foster child or the bulky muscles and broad shoulders of the teenagers that had just left the dock in Megara's company.

Instead, the kid paled in comparison as he tailed behind the daughters of two of the most feared villains. He limped as he walked, and the dull sheen of his gaze seemed more resigned than defiant. He was considerably young, as well, probably not older than six. The only vague similarity Elsa could find between that boy and the young woman that Rapunzel had taken under her care was the extreme skinniness, which made the worn-away clothes hang loosely on their bodies.

All things considered, this was not what Elsa had expected to encounter. Yet, the resemblance this boy had with Hans was undeniable. He had the same deep green eyes and reddish hair, an identical, turned-up nose and thin lips, ready to spit out lies and deceive and betray. It should have been no surprise, Elsa supposed.

After all, Hans had never been the typical kind of villain either. He had none of Jafar's sinister eyes and dark magic, none of Ursula's maniacal laughter or power. Hans was a charming young prince, with lips that dripped honey and innocent eyes that enamored foolish girls. If Elsa had learned something out of this whole ordeal, it was that one could not trust appearances. And if that boy was anything like his father, then the guiltlessness in his gaze was nothing other than deception.

Nonetheless, Anna had somehow talked her into entering this insane project, and Elsa valued her word of honor too much to step back now. She sighed deeply and closed her eyes for a moment. It was too late to refuse taking the child with her. If anything, she should be thankful that she didn't have to deal with a fully-grown teenager.

Endure, there was no other possible solution. Endurance and patience.

With a sigh that mixed both resignation and discomfiture, Elsa nodded her defeat and called Han's offspring over to her. If anything in this mishap was truth, that was the fact that Maleficent's daughter looked exhausted. It was no surprise, after she had been running around the wharf for the best part of the day. Elsa could at least recognize her effort and empathize with it, even if she was still against her charity project.

It seemed, however, that the kid was having second thoughts as well. With his eyes stubbornly glued to the floor beneath them and small fists clenched around the pleased cuffs of his shirt, he offered no answer to the queen when she called his name. In fact, he hardly seemed to be there at all, and neither did he reply in any way when both Grimhilde and Maleficent's daughters spoke to him. It was amusing, Elsa had to admit, that he did not seem an ounce more excited about the position they had found themselves in than she was.

Yet, duty was duty, and neither of them could refuse their luck. The kid seemed to understand that much, for he followed Elsa's lead without so much as a weary nod. He did not let out a single word, not even when Elsa inquired about his lack of luggage or when Grimhilde's daughter insisted that he was welcomed to ask any questions he might have.

The fact that this kid had been dropped under her care with, quite literally, nothing but the clothes he had on was a worry for when they got to Auradon. At least that was what Elsa thought, in her very honest opinion. For now, she would consider it a success if they managed to get to the carriage without any other incidents.

For the first time that day, it seemed that the God above had listened to her prayers. The pier was mostly empty, as was the parking lot. That fortunate happening was at least a comforting thought, if nothing else.

When they finally reached Arrendelle's royal carriage, Elsa allowed herself to internally claim a small victory over that deed. As soon as he saw them approach, Sigurd, Arrendelle's chauffeur, raised from his seat and hurried to hold the carriage door open for them.

"Thank you, Sigurd," the queen offered, flashing her loyal serf a brief smile that quickly dissolved into a strained gesture. "Now, allow me to introduce you to Henry. He is the son of former Admiral Hans Westergaard, the thirteenth son of late King Fridtjof," she recounted, feeling her tongue curl uncomfortably with the bitter stung of the words in her mouth. Perplexed, the driver started to part his lips as a response, but Elsa made a conclusive movement of her hand to let Sigurd know that it was not time to question about the boy's parentage. "And, Henry," she continued. "This is Sigurd, a beloved family friend and a versed server."

Again, the kid hardly bothered to lift his gaze from the floor to look in Sigurd's general direction. However, for the first time that day, his lips moved rapidly as he offered a timid reply. "A pleasure to meet you," he said, hurried and barely audible.

"My, you can speak," Elsa noted out loud before she could stop herself. As soon as she pronounced the words, she saw the boy minutely hunch his shoulders, almost as if an inaudible sigh had left his lips. "Forgive me, child, that was inappropriate," she immediately added. In a desperate attempt to change the topic, she stepped to the side of the carriage so that Han's son could step inside and gestured for him to climb into the vehicle.

Instead of answering, he reverted to simply denying with his head.

"No?" Elsa inquired. "What do you mean?"

"No, Your Majesty," he insisted. "I cannot board before you."

Elsa would have been lying, had she said his response did not throw her aback. Her eyebrows quirked upwards, and it took her a quarter of a millisecond longer than she would have liked to admit to collect her thoughts once again.

"I appreciate it, child, but I must insist," the queen reiterated. "I have to call someone before we leave, and I think you'll need a moment to settle in. By all means, go ahead."

This time, he dared not go against her direct instruction. He climbed into the vehicle after a moment of indecision. Elsa had not lied. She had, in fact, promised to call Anna as soon as she had news of who their new protégé would be. For what seemed to be the thousandth time that day, Elsa let out a tired sigh and then dialed the number she had long ago committed to memory. Anna picked up the phone almost immediately and welcomed her sister with a very unladylike shriek.

"Oh, goodness, Elsa! Where had you been? I tried calling you like ten times. I spoke with Zellie, what? Three hours ago? She said they were already leaving!"

"Indeed. Rapunzel left a while ago," the queen asseverated. "You just know my luck. I was literally the last person called to pick up the kid."

"Kid?" Anna questioned a heartbeat later. "I assume, then, it was only one child?"

"Only one," Elsa nodded. "And you won't believe who it is," before Anna even had time to guess who their foster child could be, the queen continued. "We were assigned Han's son."

"The little boy?"

"You're more informed than I am, it seems."

"Eugene has just mentioned some things," Anna brushed off. "You would know, too, if you paid attention to him when he speaks of the Isle instead of zoning out."

"I stand by what I have been telling you for months," Elsa insisted, adamant. "It is of no concern of mine who in the Isle of the Lost has spawned children or what has come of their offspring."

"Don't be like this, Elsa, you know better than anyone—"

"I just called to let you know we are on our way home. We should arrive tomorrow afternoon," she cut her off. "I'll let you know when we get to Denmark," she added as a second thought. Without letting Anna so much as gather her thoughts, Elsa hung up.

She would regret her actions later, she knew, once the coals of the fury that blazed inside her had cooled off. She would feel especially awful the following evening, once she got home and she stood face to face in front of Anna. Her sister had that quality, Elsa was more than aware of it. She knew her far too well and she could get her point across to Elsa with nothing other than a quirked eyebrow.

If anything, Anna wouldn't be resentful or upset at her for having reacted the way she had—she would be disappointed. And that burning knowledge was somehow worse than the prospect of a shouting match with her younger sister.

That was a problem for later, she reminded herself as she stepped into her carriage. She could not make plans of sailing overseas when she did not even have a ship to sail in. She would face the problems one at the time. And, in that precise moment, she needed to focus her energy on figuring out what to make of the boy that would be sitting right across from her for the next several hours.

She had told Benjamin that it would be a long and cold way to Auradon. The cold had never been an issue for her, but as for her first affirmation...

"Let's get going, Sigurd," she instructed, taking a seat on the unoccupied bench.

"Yes, ma'am," he nodded, with the reigns of the Norwegian Fjords* already prepared in his hands.

Elsa reminded herself to look at it from the positive side. Each of her steps was a step closer to returning home. With the comfort, however small, that that thought could provide her with, she slammed the carriage door closed. It might have been her imagination, but she thought she'd seen the kid flinch at the sound. She was more inclined to think it had been a product of her weary mind, because, when she consciously turned her eyes to the boy, he seemed frozen in place.

The first ten minutes of their journey scurried away in an awkward silence. Under regular circumstances, muteness or stillness were not things that bothered the queen of Arrendelle. After all, she had spent the best part of her teenage years living in loneliness. She was more than used to silence and solitude.

Yet, this time, there was something off about that quietness. According to the papers Maleficent's daughter had given her, the boy in front of her was only two years older than Anna's own son, Karl. However, she would not have guessed that the age gap between them was that small, considering how... unobtrusive Han's son was, for lack of a better word.

Karl, as Anna herself, was a chatterbox. He'd learned to speak way before his first birthday, and getting him to remain quiet and still was a challenge. God forgave you were traveling with him, for, in case you were misfortunate enough to be within hearing range from him, it'd be a long and seemingly never ending whining of 'Are we there yet? And now, and now? When are we going to arrive?'

His nephew was the only child Elsa frequently came in contact with, which indicated that perchance he was not a good parameter to measure every other child she encountered. However, there was something unnatural in the way Han's son carried himself. Whether it was because something was indeed out of place or merely because this boy was unfamiliar with his surroundings, Elsa might not know for a while. At least not until Henry trusted her and her family. What she knew with absolute certainty, however, was that this perfect stillness was making her uneasy. Perhaps that was why she took it upon herself to break the silence.

"This is your first time outside the Isle, aren't you excited?" She asked, giving further proof that she was not someone to be trusted when it came to social interaction.

The boy shrugged, weak and uninterested. "Scared," was his reply.

"Scared, huh?" She questioned, slightly amused. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

Funny, she thought to herself, that she had echoed the exact same words Anna had used when she tried to convince Elsa to join this insane project. Even funnier it was that she was not an inch closer to believing those words than she had been when Anna had said them the first time. At the moment, with the water up to her neck, she reluctantly admitted that it most likely made no difference.

"Listen," Elsa announced a few minutes later. "We will get to Denmark tonight. We left Auradon City extremely late, as you can see, which, as a consequence, means that we will arrive to Denmark at some time in the wee hours of the morning."

She was aware that there was no reason why she should share such information with the boy. If anything, withdrawing such instruction could have proven beneficial to her, in case the son of Hans intended to retaliate against her for the rather humiliating banishment of his father. Under any other circumstances, she might have strongly advised against enlightening him with the knowledge of their appointed schedule.

On the other hand, it seemed to her extremely unlikely that the boy seating in front of her could be plotting anything like that. It could have been nothing but a tactic to deceive her, that possibility did not escape her mind. However, instead of a vicious vindicator, he only appeared to her as what he had described—scared. Curled up in his seat, as far as humanly possible from Elsa, his green eyes riveted to the queen, attentively watching each of her moves, he seemed lost, meager and afraid.

With that in mind, she figured that giving him a handful of solid datum to cling on to in the midst of the chaos could hardly be considered an important threat. In addition to that, even if he planned on attacking her, it would have been a terrible move to begin an assault when he possessed virtually no knowledge of the land he was standing on or the people he had been sent to fight against.

"And tomorrow," she continued, "at the crack of dawn, we are to board a plane to Arrendelle, my kingdom."

The only prove he have of having heard her was a half-hearted nod of his head. After that, the queen decided against adding anything else. They remained in silence for probably thirty more minutes. This time, it was not necessarily uncomfortable, Elsa had to admit. It was expectant, if anything. It was electrified with restlessness, pregnant with apprehension.

That was how her whole trip to Auradon City had been, if she had to be honest. She had scrutinized the dozens of different scenarios that could unfold. She had recapitulated the names of the villains that had plagued the provinces that now conformed the United States of Auradon, in an attempt to envisage who could be the progenitor of their protégé. She had clung to the hope that she would not have to face the offspring of the man who had nearly destroyed her family.

Elsa Danica of Arrendelle and Vistborg had never believed in her good luck. Whatever star she had been born under, it had never blessed her with the bright fortune others seemed to have embossed on their foreheads. Therefore, despite having hoped beyond hope that this ordeal would not conclude with her housing the spawn of Hans, she had always suspected such would be the ending.

However, her lack of fortunateness did not exclude the possibility of unexpected revelations from unfolding. Which demonstrated why the son of Hans she had been introduced to looked nothing like the vicious adolescent she had believed she would encounter.

It was not an optimal time to be having second thoughts, she concluded wearily. Finally blinking herself back into reality, she took her gaze off the open window and turned to face her new protégé.

"Are you hungry?" She inquired, only then remembering the luncheon Rapunzel had packed for them in the morning. For all answer, the boy merely shook his head, his eyes focused on the burgundy carpet of the floor. "You should eat, child. It is late and still a long journey awaits us."

Despite the fact that she did not receive a verbal answer either, Elsa leaned under her seat to reach for the knit handbag Rapunzel had given her that morning. Rapunzel, always a generous hostess, had packed the bag with enough containers to feed probably six or seven people, no doubt deciding it was better to have more to spare in case the number of protégés was higher than they were expecting. So engrossed had Elsa been with the prospect of the day that laid ahead of them, that she had not even opened Rapunzel's package to check what she had sent.

Calmly, the queen of Arrendelle untied the knot her cousin had secured the bag with. She took out six bottles of water and placed them beside her on the cushioned seat. She then proceeded to pull out one of the plastic containers Rapunzel had carefully packed.

"Oh, this girl," she couldn't help but chuckle as she uncapped the dish. Inside, perfectly aligned to make the most out of the space in the bowl, Rapunzel had placed five kjøttkaker meatballs, with brown sauce carefully spread on them and pea purée served to the side.

Out of the three of them, Rapunzel was the only one who could cook to save her life. Anna, bless her heart, sometimes tried to bake a cake or attempted to make cookies, which more often than not concluded with a chaotic kitchen and burnt dough. In Anna's defense, she was perfectly capable of making a sandwich, that much was true.

As for herself, Elsa had never been in the necessity of learning such a skill. Born and raised to rule Arrendelle, her days as a child had been scheduled around memorizing the history of her country and their neighboring provinces, around studying languages from abroad and learning to navigate the shifts of the economic world. It was only natural that her housewife skills had fallen below on her priority list. Especially taking into consideration that there were several years of her childhood that had been lost to isolation and dread.

Rapunzel, however, had spent her teenage years perfecting a wide variety of arts, which included painting, dressmaking and gastronomy. Elsa had to admit, it was a nice highlight to be invited to Corona and enjoy a home-made meal that had been especially prepared by her cousin. It made it all the more significant. Added to that, Rapunzel was extremely thoughtful, and she had a way of always finding out your culinary preferences in favor of surprising you with a plate of whatever delicacy you favored over the rest.

She would have to call Rapunzel and thank her as soon as she was back in Arrendelle. With that in mind, Elsa turned to face the boy before her once again.

"Here," she handed the container over. The boy accepted it silently, barely looking up to her, although he did not meet her eyes. He then waited patiently for Elsa to fish out the cutlery that had slipped to the bottom of the bag. His hands fidgeted with the bowl, and when Elsa handed over a fork and a knife, he stared down at the food for a moment in mystification and hesitancy.

It was when he finally began eating that Elsa noticed he had two teeth missing. A canine and an incisor, both from the right side of his mouth. He was supposed to be seven, she remembered absently, it was not a unique feature.

"This is a courtesy from my cousin Rapunzel, the Queen of Corona. Have you heard of her?" She questioned instead, turning her attention back to Rapunzel's bag.

"No, Your Majesty. Forgive me."

Bewildered, the queen arched an eyebrow. "Well, I suppose there's no reason you should have," she reflected. Even though she was more than certain that Hans was aware of the fact that the Corona family was related to her own, Elsa could not think of a reason why he would consider it information important enough to share with his son.

Still questioning how much knowledge Hans really had about her family, the queen proceeded to take out a similar dish out of the bag. Calmly, she took off the lid and took in the exquisite smell. It was only when she was halfway through her meal that it occurred to her that she could ask the boy how much he knew of another of her family members.

"What about Anna, my sister?" She inquired, startling her companion, who flinched at the sudden sound. "Did your father ever mention her?"

"He sometimes spoke of Princess Anna," he admitted, more concentrated in the purée than in the queen.

"He did?" Elsa couldn't help but inquire. "And what did he say, if I may know?"

"He used to say that she had made a mistake, choosing to remain loyal to you," he finally answered, his fork frozen midair so he could answer, even though he did not lift his gaze from the plate. "He said she was not fit to be queen."

"Am I to assume he said the same thing about me?" She questioned, genuinely intrigued by what the answer may be.

Instead of replying right away, Henry recoiled into his seat. It almost gave Elsa the impression that he wanted to curl into the back of the piece of furniture and disappear.

"Please, child, speak freely," she encouraged, her right eyebrow quirked up with curiosity. "It would be unjust of me to hold your sincerity against you."

"He called you a witch," he finally answered, holding the fork Elsa had given him tightly in his right hand. Parsimoniously, he cut the meatball into small portions, giving Elsa the impression that he was playing with the food rather than thinking of eating it. However, she quickly discovered that it was only a way to keep his fidgety hands busy. "He said that you shouldn't have been made queen."

"I am certain that he did," Elsa sighed, pressing the plastic lid back on her empty container so she could put it back into the bag.

She couldn't have explained the reason behind her next actions. Probably, there was no good explanation as to why her hands moved to her neck and unclasped her necklace. More mystified than before, she pulled the locket from under her dress and opened it.

The necklace, a snowflake-shaped silver jewel had been a gift from her sister. Inside, a picture of her parents on their wedding day, joyous and bathed in glory, smiled back at her from the left side. On the right one, Anna greeted her with a crooked smile. One of her arms was placed around her son's shoulders, while the other one rested on her thigh, supporting her weight as she squatted down.

To Karl's opposite side, Kristoff stood in a similar position, his eyes closed as he smiled widely to the camera. Between his parents, Karl seemed more preoccupied with the piece of cake before him than with the prospect of having his picture taken. His cheeks and chin were covered in blue icing as his tiny hands reached for the sweet treat. They'd taken that picture during Karl's first birthday party, amidst the chaos of Anna insisting that it had to be perfect and her toddler, who was more interested in the shinny-wrapped gifts and yummy food than in posing for pictures. Elsa cherished it even more because of it.

"This is my sister," she introduced, turning the locket over so Hans' son could appreciate Anna's warm smile. "The one your father deemed unfit to rule. You will be distraught to learn that she is still fiercely loyal to me. And this one," she pointed to Kristoff's joyful figure. "Is her husband. They are here with their son, he's slightly younger than you."

As all answer, the boy simply nodded his head. Although he stiffly leaned forward to get a better look at the picture Elsa was showing him. The queen noticed with a slight tinge of curiosity that he made no movement to grab the locket or to come closer to her than was strictly necessary.

The thought assaulted her like a sudden gush of icy wind on a warm summer evening. It was abrupt, rattling and, above everything, unwelcomed. Elsa could not have explained where it came from, only that it appeared in the horizon of her mind like an unanticipated turn in the tracks of her train of thought. Once she noticed the inevitable divarication she was forced to take, it was too late for her to evade the realization that dwelled on her with a sudden swerve.

Had things been a little different, had Anna continued her original plan and married Hans instead of Kristoff, the little boy in the picture of her locket could have been an entirely different one. For a moment, Elsa's vision blurred and the blond of Karl's hair beclouded to become a dark ginger. For a moment, instead of Kristoff's open expression and sincere smile, the sharp features of a man with green eyes and an icy smile stared back at her from her picture. Had things been a little different, and the thought gnawed at her chest with frigid emptiness, the boy leaning closer to get a better look of her pictures could have been her nephew.

"They are all waiting for us in Arrendelle," the queen manage to articulate in a rushed breath. She brusquely pulled the necklace back and clasped it in place once again with trembling fingers.

"Who is she?" Henry questioned quietly, pointing to where the picture of Elsa's parents had been barely a moment ago with a slight tilt of his head.

"Those are my parents, the former rulers of Arrendelle," Elsa replied, her voice a little tighter than she would have liked to admit.

"She is very pretty," he mumbled, sliding back to his seat.

"She... was," the queen conceded in an undertone. She let out a small sigh, her hand tightly wrapped around the silver snowflake. She didn't let go until the sharp ends of the figure bit at her palm. Even then, she only lessened her grip, although her fingers remained firmly placed around the locket.

Silence fell between them with resignation. There was something unnatural about the way the boy before her sat, too still and too quiet; about the way he adamantly refused to look at her in the eye, about the way his hands rested, barely pulling at the loose ends of his pants. There was something in the way he hunched over and kept his lips pressed into a pallid line that made Elsa shift uncomfortably in her seat. There was something, between the way that boy only ever spoke in soft whispers and her own unwelcomed thoughts that made hot, flaring guilt be born in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to call that feeling uneasiness instead, because it was easier to do that than to admit that, for the first time since she had arrived to the wharf in Auradon City, she did not know how to proceed.

"There's more of these, in case you are still hungry," she urged, holding up the knit bag her cousin had given her in the air, a desperate endeavor to change the subject. "Rapunzel cooked for maybe six people, but it is just the two of us here."

"Thank you, Your Highness," he mumbled quietly, in an attempt, Elsa supposed, to not give her testimony that he was in fact still hungry, even though his eyes followed Elsa's hands greedily when she opened the handbag and put away his dish.

"Here," Elsa handed him another of the containers.

"No, Your Majesty, this..."

"You don't have to eat them now if you don't want to," she shrugged. "However, I will warn you, they won't taste as good when they are reheated."

"Thank you," he repeated, barely audible.

"This is a bestowal from Rapunzel, I can't let it go to waste," she remarked. "In fact..." the queen added as a second thought. "She might have included dessert..."

With that prospect to look forward to, the queen returned her attention to the contents of the bag. As was her custom, Rapunzel had packed the healthy, more nutritious food in the top containers, while the sweeter, sugary treats had ended up at the bottom.

"Here we go," she announced, opening the lid of the dish to reveal six carefully presented cardamom rolls. "She made skolebrød, with vanilla."

Delighted, she took one of the sweets and handed over the remaining ones to the boy.

"Your Majesty, this is... enough. More than enough," he immediately tried to brush off, even though there was barely anything left in his plate.

"Feel free to take it," Elsa insisted, carefully wiping the corners of her lips with a folded napkin. "Rapunzel made it for you more than she made it for me. She is very passionate about this whole... project. Which is more than can be said about me."

Following her dry remark, the boy silently took the pastries and continued eating. After that, they both fell into silence once again. Elsa wouldn't have called it grievous or uncomfortable. If anything, it was contemplative, reflective. Elsa was used to silence, she reveled in it. Far from finding it awkward, it made her feel secure and it saved her the trouble of small talk and forced interactions. Therefore, Elsa was not going to complain over the fact that the boy she'd been assigned to watch over was a quiet one.

With that in mind, Elsa took a book out of her purse and began reading. Truthfully, she was re-reading it, a habit she has acquired as a child, as she remained in her room with no company besides her books and piano. That book in particular was a personal favorite, a collection of her compatriot's theatrical plays, Henrik Ibsen. What she enjoyed the most about them was how were genuine, controversial, and straight to the point they were, how raw and unapologetic.

She refused to put her book down until after seven o'clock, once the sun had come down and it was impossible for her to continue reading. With a content sigh, she put her bookmark in place and slowly blinked herself back into reality.

She unseeingly stared out of the open curtains for thirty or forty more minutes, before finally deciding it had gotten too dark and closing them. The temperature had been consistently dropping for the last hours, but it was around eight thirty when the air turned chilly. It was nothing but a mild annoyance to her. However, she was fairly certain that, had Anna been besides her, she would have alternated her time between placing her hands under her thighs and hugging herself, both fruitless attempts to warm herself up.

It was that thought what finally reminded her that she was not traveling alone to some idyllic and unvisited part of the Norwegian forests. Instead, she was trapped in a very long ride with the son of the man who had plotted to kill her. And somehow, she had managed to forget that crucial piece of information.

When she finally turned to face him once again, she found Hans' son still stiffly sitting in place. Unlike what one would have assumed as a result of the calm stillness that had taken over the carriage —something impossible to achieve when one was traveling with children—, he was not asleep. Rather, his eyes attentively watched every one of Elsa's movements. At some point, he'd drawn his knees closer to the rest of his body, until he was now almost kneeling on the seat, careful to keep his shoes out of the cushioned bench.

His eyes were riveted to Elsa like a hawk. Although, upon further inspection, Elsa realized that that analogy was being too generous with him. A hawk, with capable wings and fearless talons, was a bird of prey, a lone owner of the skies, too powerful to fear even the prideful eagle. The son of Hans looked nothing like that. Curled up into his seat, he gave more the impression of a frightened hare, heedful to his surroundings, desperately registering every sound, in fear that the real hawk would find him. Following that analogy, she should be the raptor, Elsa realized with slight amusement. The thought was also slightly disturbing, and she soon decided to brush it away.

He was almost too tense to be sure, and the murkiness of the carriage made it impossible to be entirely certain. However, from the way that he hugged his arms close to his body and the fact that he seemed to be trying to take up as less space as humanly possible, Elsa thought it was safe to assume that he did not share her views when regarding the weather.

"You're cold," she concluded, not a question as much as it was a statement.

"No, Your Majesty. I am fine," he replied, almost immediately.

Is that so, she thought to herself, unable to stop herself from arching an inquisitive eyebrow at him. It probably made no difference, as the penumbras most likely hid her expression.

"Stand up," she instructed, her reaction sudden and unexplainable even to her.

The change was instantaneous. The words had barely left her lips when the steady rise and fall of his chest came to a halt. His hands, which had been loosely wrapped around his elbows, tensed until they were fists.

"Your... Your Highness... I am extremely sorry," he stammered weakly. "It was not my intention to trouble you, I... will not do it again."

"What are you talking about, child? Stand up," she repeated flatly, as she rose to her feet as well.

This time, the boy locked eyes with her for what had to be the first time since she'd picked him up that afternoon. There was something desperate in his gaze, something, dare she say it, pleading. However, it quickly changed into resignation when he saw Elsa stand in front of him.

With a choked whimper, he pulled himself to his feet and stepped closer to Elsa. His movements were so tense that they almost seemed mechanic.

"Your Majesty, I am sorry," he insisted in a brittle voice. "I assure you it won't happen again."

Judging from the way his breathing had sped up, he was on the verge of tears now. His arms were stiffly wrapped around his torso, and although it was hard for Elsa to be certain due to the fact that he had, once again, turned away from her, he seemed to be blinking repeatedly in a desperate attempt to reabsorb the humidity that had begun to pool in his eyes.

"It won't happen again, Your Majesty, I—"

"Hush, child, hush," Elsa finally interrupted him. In silence, she walked closer to him and crouched so she could be at his height. "I have no idea of what you are talking about. You have done nothing wrong."

Yet, she added to herself, even though her tongue curled in distaste at the prospect of saying it aloud. It was simply too cruel to torture the boy further, when it was so glaringly obvious that he was already terrified of her as things were. Pointing out that she expected him to fail soon was not something Anna would have approved. And, on this particular note, she agreed with her sister.

Without adding a word, Elsa's left hand moved to unfasten the button that secured her cape to her left shoulder. Soon, she repeated the motion with her opposite shoulder. Henry missed the movement, as his eyes were squeezed shut, but Elsa carefully slid the piece of clothing behind him.

"Here," she proceeded, placing her cape on Henry's shoulders. She adjusted the item so that it wrapped around his body. There was a third buttonhole on the left side of the neck, in case the queen wanted it to envelope her body instead of having the Aegean blue fabric cascade from the tips of her shoulders to the floor. Of course, the item was much too long for Henry to wear, and its lower part dragged along the carpet of the floor. When Elsa reached for Henry to button the cape, he practically whimpered at the contact. "Calm down," she shushed. "I don't bite, calm down."

He gave her a curt nod as answer, and Elsa decided to take the gesture as the boy's approval for her to continue. With precise hands, and trying to touch him no more than was strictly necessary, she adjusted the clothing item around him, trying to make it so that the soft linen was wrapped around his body. Carefully, she smoothed out the fabric and primped the white mink fur of the borders of the cloth under Henry's neck.

"There we go, child," she nodded. "This should be enough."

"Queen Elsa, what is...? Why?" He stuttered, his voice hurried and wobbly.

"I can't allow you to get sick before we are even standing in Arrendellian soil," she answered, even though the words tasted of deceit on her tongue. While that was true, she knew that it hadn't been the reason why she had stepped forward so munificently.

"I can't accept this, Your Majesty, I—"

"Hush," Elsa repeated once again. With measured movements, she slipped her left hand into the pocket of her gown and pulled out an embroidered silk handkerchief. She extended it towards the boy, and although he hesitated before taking it, he finally did and rubbed at his eyes. Satisfied with his response, Elsa rose to her feet and turned away. "Take your seat, boy. I do not find cold as troublesome as others do. I will be fine."

Once again, Hans' son chose not to reply verbally. Instead, he offered a faltering nod and quietly walked over to the bench he'd been using. Through the murkiness of the carriage, Elsa saw his hands grip around the fabric of her cape to pull it tighter around his body.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," he whispered after several minutes. It was a small sound, tight with something that Elsa did not identify, something that lingered in the space between them and that made Elsa shift in her seat with worriment.

For once, Elsa decided to follow the boy's example and not say anything. Instead, she folded her hands on her lap. She drummed her fingers against the Swarovski crystals of her dress, before finally sighing. She must be imagining things, she decided at last.

"It's still a long way to Arrendelle, child," she announced, turning her eyes to the tarnished window. "Better make yourself comfortable."

Afterwards, neither of them said anything. It only made sense. After all, Elsa had nothing to add, and Henry had made it very clear that he was not the kind of person who easily found his way around interesting conversation topics or awkward silences. Furthermore, they were two strangers who had found themselves sharing a carriage with each other by consequence of ill fortune. They had nothing to say to one another.

When Elsa finally returned her attention to the son of Hans, she found him fast asleep. His legs were tucked under the rest of his body, and his head leaned against the window. Soft exhalations of breath rhythmically misted up the glass. Strangely enough, Elsa noticed that he was sucking on his left thumb, which had to be a worrying behavior.

He almost didn't seem like a threat. Elsa nearly scoffed at the thought. Of course, she thought, he wasn't currently a threat. He was asleep and drained from the day, it was only natural. Likewise, an unconscious, well-trained soldier was completely incapable of inflicting damage.

However, Elsa knew that the fact that he was exhausted was not the reason she'd been assaulted by such thought. That boy, with a wobbly voice and tearful eyes did not seem like a threat even when awake. To practically state it, he was weak. His fight-or-flight instincts seemed to be permanently stuck on freeze, from what she had seen in the course of only a few hours.

Someone like him, someone so quick to obey and to please, someone so deprived of resolution, could definitely not have the upper hand against any of the children that Elsa had seen descend from the Pharaoh that afternoon. Clearly, he could not win against any of the kids that belonged to Miss Hook's crew. The mere thought of Hans' son fighting against, say, the boys that had left with Megara or even the young lady Rapunzel had introduced her to was risible, absurd.

There was an important age gap in her comparisons, Elsa was well-aware of it. However, it was not only size or skill that made the thought so terribly preposterous, it was the attitude of the kids. Were the Gaston boys had carried themselves with overbearingness and conviction, Henry was insecure and weak-willed. Were Miss Gothel had been fierce and oh-so-ready to talk back and to argue against Rapunzel, Henry was eerily quiet for a child his age, unnaturally still through their whole journey.

Careful, she reminded herself. This could very well be what he wants you to think.

It could be, she knew. And it made sense, too, to persuade her into thinking that he was nothing but a terrified young boy. Nothing but an innocent kid, in the same way that her own nephew, Anna's real son, was. Nothing but a child that had been brought up in the worst of conditions, only to be uprooted and thrown into the care of a complete stranger, like Esmeralda de Châteaupers wanted them to believe.

On the other hand... it did not seem to be adding up. Elsa praised herself of being a clever woman, one that could see through the ill intentions of others, one that was rarely taken by surprise. And, if she allowed herself to be honest... to think that the boy that had so completely rendered himself to sleep in front of her, that the boy that had literally jumped in fear at the prospect of her being mildly inconvenienced by him could instead be an egregious attacker waiting to strike seemed quite unlikely to her.

Hans, a wolf in sheep's clothing, a deceiving assassin-to-be, had sounded so secure of himself, he'd carried himself with such earnestness and strong conviction that it was unthinkable to doubt him. He had a seductive smile, he possessed a silky voice and rehearsed compliments curled around the corners of his lips with concealed scorn. It was inconceivable and nearly as absurd as picturing his backboneless son as a Machiavellian vindicator, to think that he expected Henry to become his successor and finish the work he had started at Arrendelle while, at the same time, not even instructing him on his charming qualities.

Careful, careful, she repeated to herself. With a sigh, the queen allowed herself to lean her head on the back of her seat and close her eyes. That morning, she had been certain that it was her duty to diligently stay on guard and protect her family from the arrival of a cold-blooded delinquent. It had been so clear to her, that nothing good could come out of this improvised project.

She wasn't as certain now. There was nothing, not one tiny, insignificant thing that had made her feel she needed to have her guard up. Nothing told her that that boy was plotting to destroy the life she had fought so hard to build. Nothing but the man who had sired him.

If anything, he seemed terrified. And it only made it all the more confusing. She was an expert at concealing her own emotions. She had spent a lifetime perfecting that art, it was only fair that she had become extremely adept at pinpointing someone who was doing the same thing. And, to be completely honest, it did not seem to her that the boy Hans had spawned wanted to take revenge for what had been done to his father.

Anna had asked her to give the Isle children a chance. A chance to prove that they were, in fact, only that—children. That they were scared, hungry and in need of help. A chance to prove that they deserved security and stability, and that they did not intend to follow in their parents' footsteps.

A chance, Anna had insisted until it was impossible for Elsa to refuse. A chance for them to simply be themselves.

"Very well," the queen of Arrendelle announced into the icy darkness of her carriage.

Hawks were patient. They could overfly the extensions of their valleys, eyes scanning the ground below until a single movement of their prey announced their downfall and the hawk, swift and ruthless, descended to grasp them in its claws. If she was a raptor in this unorthodox allegory, patience ran warm in her veins. She would play along, she decided. She would pretend to buy that hare's act and lower her guard.

If nothing else, she would do it out of curiosity, out of genuine desire to see how things unfolded. Only time would tell, she supposed. But if, by any chance, it turned out that Hans had in fact planned to retaliate against her family, then there would be nothing, no stilted analogies or pleas from her sister, no silly royal decrees or tearful apologies, that could prevent her from unleashing her wrath against the ones who had jeopardized her family.

And when the time to strike came, she would not waste time in charming smiles or play pretend for the sake of performance. No, if she was truly a bird of prey, she would shoot to kill, like she had always done. Ruthless, practical, unrelenting.

The first step one took on a freshly frozen lake was always hesitant, dubious. It always held a level of confusion and dread, the first attempt to examine how secure the ice was before applying one's full weight on the glassy material. This was her first step into the waterbody Anna had dragged her to. The water had frozen overnight and she had never been one to trust her good luck, especially not when the weight of her family's and kingdom's welfare ladened her down, heavy as lead shackles. She could be patient and wait until the ice could support her or until it cracked and fissured, drowning Benjamin's outrageous decrees and Anna's naiveness in its icy waters.

That was something she could do. She could wait.

Well... here goes nothing. It is here now! I am so, so happy. I loved how this turned out.

Now, a very long time ago BriEva actually asked me if Henry even had a tongue, as he had not spoken at all in the previous chapters. To be honest, I didn't think you guys would notice such a thing. While Henry's silence was absolutely intentional, I thought you readers would just brush it off and ignore it. It didn't happen, apparently, so imagine my surprise when she asked this and mentioned that "For some reason, she though Hans might have removed it". I am happy to inform, however, that no, Henry is fine, he can speak.

So, I know I shouldn't be picking favorites, because they are all my children and I love them all. However, Henry is a very special character to me, maybe because he is an OC, maybe because it lets me include Elsa. In fact, I even considered not including a child of Hans because I knew I would end up getting carried away because I absolutely adore Elsa. But I have no self-control, so here it is. What had to happen, happened. We have a son of Hans, I have an anarchic Elsa and life couldn't be better.

Now, for the *, the Norwegian Fjords are a breed of horses. Remember the ones with the darker strike of hair in their mane, from the Frozen movie? Those are them. They are lovely and I just wanted to point them out so you can go and see some pretty horse pictures.

Umm... I think that's all for now? I promise I will try to get the next chapter out soon but, like I said, life is a mess right now. Just remember, no matter how long it takes, I won't abandon this story, so rest assured I'm not just leaving it behind. It's just that school sucks. Meanwhile that happens, please know that your comments motivate me a lot, so please feel free to share your opinions and tell me, whose POV do you think the next chapter will be narrated in?

I love you all and read you soon!

#TOWW #the ones who wander #Hans #Southern Isles #Frozen #Elsa #Descendants #Descendants 2015 #Disney Descendants #Fanfiction #Angst #hurt/comfort

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stiltonbasket · 4 years

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chancellor of the morning sun: defense (reconstruction)

In which Lan Xichen throws hands and introduces her family to the second Maiden Lan; or, part 4 of the nielan au that has completely taken over my brain.

Part 1 | Part 2: Lesson (Youth) | Part 3: First Meeting, Mingjue (Childhood) | Part 4: First Meeting, Xichen (Childhood) | AO3

Jin Guangyao spends a great deal of time trying not to get on the wrong side of his stepmother's temper.

This is not a recent development, of course; she was so enraged when Jin Guangshan legitimized him that she beat him with her spiritual flail twice in the first week, and her beatings only grew longer and more frequent after her husband’s death. Jin Guangyao hardly grudges her for it now, of course; after all, he did kill his father, by slipping trace amounts of medicine into his tea for three straight months until he died during a visit to one of his mistresses—and then it was found that the young woman was only fifteen when the affair began, and sixteen when she had a child with him, and Jin Zixuan was so horrified by the revelation that he brought the Second Mistress of Mo to the Jinlintai and gave her a separate wing of her own, so she could raise her son in peace with all the advantages that befitted the half-brother of a sect leader.

(Jiang Yanli had been so pleased that Jin-gongzi was doing right by his baby brother that the news of Jin Guangshan’s death was almost immediately followed by word of Jin Zixuan’s renewed engagement, which pacified Madam Jin for a while—but not for long, because the gossip about Jin Guangshan seducing a maiden who was little more than a child infuriated her to the point where she began beating Jin Guangyao again the moment Jin Zixuan went to Yunmeng with Maiden Jiang’s betrothal gifts.)

And as luck would have it, this particular beating occurred the day before Jin Guangyao was supposed to journey to the Cloud Recesses to visit Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue, and his weak golden core ensured that by the next morning, he was not yet well enough to go.

He sent word to Lan Xichen—or to his Da-jie, now, since he swore brotherhood with her and then with Nie Mingjue after the war—and shut himself up in his room to wait for his wounds to heal, already wondering if he could reschedule his duties for the next week in time to make a visit to Gusu then. But the wounds proved slower to heal than he thought, and the next two days’ worth of work had to be put off, too—which is why Jin Guangyao is currently lying on his stomach in bed and fretting, because Jin Zixuan is almost certain to write and ask if he wouldn’t mind covering him for a little longer so he can spend more time with Maiden Jiang. But then he won’t be able to go next week, either, and then his plans to visit Gusu will probably have to be delayed until the next month, so Da-jie can have her little one in peace and recover before any guests arrive.

“Did she know I was going to leave for Gusu this afternoon?” he sighs, trying to stretch and wincing at the searing twinge in his back. “I wouldn’t put it past her to beat me worse on purpose, if she did.”

But his thoughts are interrupted a moment later by one of the disciples, who taps on the door and announces that someone has come to visit him. “Who?” Jin Guangyao asks blearily, raising his head and promptly regretting the attempt. “Tell them to give me five minutes. I’ll come receive them in the Fragrance Hall the moment I’m dressed.”

“Ah—they won’t wait five minutes, Lianfang-zun,” the disciple squeaks. “They wouldn’t even let me announce them to her ladyship, they’re already with me in the hallw—”

And then the door flies straight off its hinges, followed by a dark black cloud and a fresh-smelling white one storming into his bedroom before the white one cries out in shock.

“A-Yao!”

Jin Guangyao scrambles upright, completely ignoring the pain in his back as he fumbles for a quilt and pulls it over his shoulders. “Da-ge, da-jie!” he gasps, as Nie Mingjue glances back at the broken door and throws a pouch full of money at the poor junior standing behind him. “What on earth are you two doing here? Da-jie shouldn’t even be getting out of bed, in her state!”

“Which is why you’ve been talking of nothing but visiting me for weeks!” Lan Xichen cries, her eyes widening in horror as she sees the crusted bloodstains on the sheets and the used bandages littering the floor. “I knew there was something wrong when we got your letter, so Mingjue-xiong and I came here as fast as I could. Pass me my healing kit, A-Jue—and for heaven’s sake get that blanket off your shoulders, A-Yao!”

She rummages in the bag Nie Mingjue hands her and pulls out a few glass jars full of clear salve, which she smooths over Jin Guangyao’s wounds (one tincture for pain, one to ward off infection, and one to prevent scarring, apparently) before taking out Liebing to begin healing the gashes with spiritual energy.

“Ah, da-jie,” Jin Guangyao protests, looking desperately at Nie Mingjue—who is looking back at him in turn, his brows drawn together in a frown as the Lan sect master tends to each bruise and cut with murder in her eyes. “Should—should you really be wasting your spiritual energy on me, just now? This isn’t the first time I’ve been beaten, and I’ll get well soon enough with just the salve.”

“It isn’t the first time?” Lan Xichen repeats, so angry now that Jin Guangyao can feel the wrath rolling off her golden core in waves. “Who would do such a thing to you, now that Jin Guangshan is dead? Jin Zixun is still weak after the Hundred Holes, he couldn’t even have lifted a weapon like this—and if it was anyone on his side of the family, just tell me who it was and I’ll—”

“Isn’t it obvious, Xichen?” Nie Mingjue says, speaking for the first time as his eyes track the pattern of the wounds scattered across Jin Guangyao’s pale back—to identify the height of the person who gave them to him, as he understands a moment later with a sinking weight in the pit of his stomach. “Look at his wounds.”

“What about them?” Lan Xichen glances back at her husband in confusion before noticing that the gashes near the top of Jin Guangyao’s shoulders were made while he was kneeling, while the ones slightly lower down were dealt by surprise while he was in a standing position, and then the realization dawns on her face so quickly that Jin Guangyao feels a split-second’s worth of sympathy for Madam Jin.

“That—Jin-furen,” she hisses, pouring spiritual energy into his wounds so quickly that they finish knitting closed within the next minute, leaving nothing but irregular patches of new pink skin to prove that they were ever there. “First it was—oh, that woman!”

“Da-jie, you musn’t,” he entreats her, turning around as she stows Liebing back into her robes and marches towards the door with every inch of her body threatening consequences—and this even though she is with child, because she still carries Shuoyue at her waist and wears the horned silver crown of her rank pinned into her hair, and walks with the demeanor and bearing of a general even two years after the Sunshot Campaign.

Suddenly, Jin Guangyao remembers that this is the woman who took Wen Xu’s head during the war after driving him from the Cloud Recesses almost single-handedly, and the woman who stood in front of Jin Guangshan on the stairs of the Jinlintai nearly a decade ago, when he ordered his illegitimate son thrown down to keep him from offending his wife, and called him every name under the sun before securing the young Meng Yao a place in her intended’s household.

“Mingjue-xiong is rough-mannered with his men, but he is kind, and places their welfare far above his own,” she told him, holding his small, fine hands in her sword-calloused ones while they waited for Nie-zongzhu to find his way to her guest quarters. “You will be well-looked after as one of his disciples, I promise.”

“But he can’t—he cannot keep an eye on everyone, not every minute,” Meng Yao had whimpered, fighting the impulse to bury his face in Lan-guniang’s soft lap and cry because no one had been so gentle with him since his mother’s untimely passing. “I will never forget this, Maiden Lan, but please—my mother promised that my father would welcome me if I presented the pearl brooch he gave her, but the guards said—they said many women came with their babies, with just such a pearl brooch, and…”

“I am Nie-zongzhu’s betrothed,” Lan Xichen said peacefully, before patting his head so very carefully that he gave up and let his cheek rest against her knee. “He has made it clear that as the future lady of his household and his sect, his disciples are to honor my every command as they would honor his. If they mistreat you, you have only to tell me, and they will never do so again. And I will visit as often as I can, and expect letters telling me how you are faring when I cannot.”

“Why would you—I don’t understand, you…”

He meant to ask why a wealthy young mistress would go so far out of her way to protect a nameless nobody who had earned the disdain of a sect leader, and even promise him a place in a cultivation sect because she was so certain of her betrothed’s affections for her—but Lan Xichen seemed to read the question in his face, back then, and laid a finger across her lips before he could voice it.

“I am a woman, Meng-gongzi,” she said, suddenly sounding both very old and very tired as a couple of early lines appeared in her forehead. “I have had to fight for every inch of ground I wanted since I was old enough to walk. First I fought to remain with my uncle and brother, and then for the right to sit in on council meetings as my father’s first heir, and then to have the courtesy name my father wanted for me. I fought to have my wedding delayed until I was twenty-five, because the elders wanted me married away from Gusu Lan as soon as I came of age, and then I fought for my inheritance, the sect leader’s seat, and won it only this past winter.

“The cruelty of one’s birth forever weighing down one’s fate is not unknown to me, though my fate has never been cruel to me, only inconvenient,” the young girl sighed. “Being born a woman is not the same thing as being born a courtesan’s child, but I do not wish I was a man, and nor do you wish you were born to any mother but yours—is that not so?”

“It is,” Meng Yao whispered back. “I loved my A-Niang more than anything.”

What was it that Da-jie told him, after that?

“Then you understand that your circumstances are not your fault, or hers? Your father is a vile worm, Meng Yao, and none of his family have much claim to virtue, either. You will be much happier in Qinghe Nie, and if you find it does not suit you, ask Mingjue-xiong to send you east to Gusu Lan, and I will look after you myself.”

“What are you thinking about?” Mingjue asks him now, as Jin Guangyao finally clambers off the bed and pulls on some decent robes. “You’ve been awfully quiet, Guangyao.”

“Nothing,” he murmurs, smiling slightly. “I was remembering the day I first met you and Xichen-jie, that’s all.”

“And what a day that was,” his friend grumbles, crossing his arms before reaching out and handing Jin Guangyao his black velvet hat. “I was just thinking that the only good thing about being made a sect leader at eighteen was not having to sit with Jin Zixuan and Jin Zixun, and the next thing I knew, all the Jin disciples were running into the banquet hall to tell me that they had to stop my intended from tearing Jin Guangshan to pieces over some village boy.”

“You shouldn’t have brought her here, you know,” Jin Guangyao says abruptly. “Madam Jin—she can be cruel, and journeying all the way from Gusu by sword, in da-jie’s condition—”

Nie Mingjue snorts. “As a faithful disciple of the Gusu Lan clan, it is my duty to acquiesce to my sect leader’s wishes,” he intones, mirth dancing in his eyes as Jin Guangyao huffs and turns away. “And as a husband, it is my honor to accompany my wife on all her ventures, no matter what they might be. There has been bad blood between A-Huan and Jin-furen since she and I were children, and whatever passes between them today, A-Huan will emerge the victor.”

“Bad blood? With Xichen-jie?”

“Oh, I never told you that story, did I? Well, the first time Zixuan laid eyes on Xichen—and he was only a foolish little boy, so it never meant anything at all—he decided that he wanted to marry her instead of Maiden Jiang. Madam Jin was angered by that, of course, what with Jin Guangshan being the pig he was, and she scolded Zixuan for it, but then she decided that Xichen was at fault and that her precious son would not have said such a thing unless Xichen had invited it.”

“When—how old was she when it happ—”

“Ten,” Nie Mingjue drones. “Jin-furen heard a mindless remark from a boy not yet nine years old, and then decided that Xichen, a child of only ten, was in the same class as your father’s women—that is, she decided that Zixuan might fall prey to her wiles and leave Maiden Jiang in Jin-furen’s own place, someday. And she never treated A-Huan well after that until she was forced to, when A-Huan became Lan-zongzhu eight years later.”

He frowns. “But then there was that business of Mo-guniang, so who knows how many young girls there were before...well, before. Such crimes are punishable by death in Qinghe.”

It is at that juncture that Lan Xichen reappears, sweeping into the room with one hand tucked behind her back and her head held high before dismissing the poor junior disciple who must have been forced to witness her encounter with Madam Jin. Nie Mingjue and Jin Guangyao both spring to their feet at the sight of her, Nie Mingjue to help his wife to a chair and Jin Guangyao to take Shuoyue; but she waves them both off and elects to remain standing instead, cooling her face with a borrowed fan from Nie Huaisang’s collection before laying a hand on Jin Guangyao’s cheek.

“She will never mistreat you again,” Xichen sighs. “I have ensured it, A-Yao. Forgive me for taking so long to notice that you were being so ill-used here.”

“Da-jie, you shouldn’t have! What if she treats you even worse than she did when we were young, now?”

“What could she possibly do to me? I am the master of one great sect, and the mistress of another,” she says dryly. “At least until A-Jue officially gives up his position to Huaisang, but that’s beside the point. I didn’t lead a third of the Sunshot Campaign to balk at the prospect of defending a friend, so let us say no more about it.”

“But what did you do?”

“Jin-furen loves Zixuan above all things,” Xichen shrugs. “I spoke to her about her conduct, and then I told her that I would give her son and future daughter-in-law a full account of your suffering at her hands if she dared lay a finger on you again. She went as white as milk so I said that last, so she knew my threats were not idle ones. Especially now that Zixuan dotes on little Mo Yu so much, and wants to make certain that any other half-siblings of his are at least well provided for.”

Jin Guangyao gapes at her. “Da-jie!”

“Get over it,” Nie Mingjue advises him. “Xichen decided she was going to protect you when she was sixteen, so that’s what she’s going to do. Thank her, and then come back to the Cloud Recesses with us—we want you to be there when the little one arrives, so Jin Zixuan can stop handing off his duties to you and put his courtship with Jiang-guniang on hold for a month or two.”

“You want me with you when the baby comes?” Jin Guangyao repeats, his throat feeling suspiciously thick at the prospect. “But I’m not—I mean, I helped with a handful of births when I still lived in the brothel, but I have no great skill in—”

“I want you there as my sworn brother, and my friend,” Lan Xichen says gently. “And neither of you are allowed into the birthing chamber, anyway. You’ll make me too nervous to concentrate, with how much you both worry.”

“But, A-Huan…”

“You’ll thank me for it later, my A-Jue. Just wait.”

* * *

Three weeks later, Jin Guangyao discovers first-hand that waiting outside a healer’s ward with Nie Mingjue, Lan Wangji, and Wei Wuxian is very, very different from helping carry water and sponging women’s faces back in the Chrysanthemum House when he was a child, because the mother behind those bolted doors is his dearest friend, and the father sweating like a salted da bai cai by his side is his own sworn brother.

(Jin Guangyao refuses to think of what he did with the Song of Turmoil, and what nearly happened before he came to his senses and stopped playing it for Nie Mingjue, and who had nearly been killed during that last horrible qi deviation, leaping into the fray in attempt to protect a terrified Nie Huaisang.)

“Why won’t she let us in?” Nie Mingjue says now, shaking Jin Guangyao out of his dark musings as he stares at the door with wild eyes. “If anything goes wrong—I can’t be here, when she’s in there!”

But the only man Lan Xichen permitted into her room was, unsurprisingly, Lan Qiren, who managed to gather himself well enough to hold her hand through the pains even when she let out a string of curses that shocked every Lan in the vicinity past the point of speech.

“Where did Xichen-jie learn all those words?” Wei Wuxian murmurs, supporting his husband by his elbow as Lan Wangji sways dangerously towards the floor. He looks even more terrified than Nie Mingjue, for some reason, and every noise from Xichen’s room drains a little more color out of his face. “They’re very good.”

“My disciples never knew when to shut up when A-Huan was around,” Nie Mingjue groans. “I ought to have had them beaten for it, but I can’t blame them if their foul tongues are of some help to her now. “

But then, before anyone can try to distract Mingjue or Lan Wangji, or even convince them to sit down and stop pacing—a loud, strong cry rings out from behind the door, followed by a cacophony of shouted instructions from the attending healers and a sob from Lan Qiren.

All four men freeze in their tracks, and Lan Wangji looks as if he might be sick. “A-Jie—” he says hoarsely, starting towards the next room on unsteady, stumbling feet. “Jie!”

And a moment later, Maiden Jiang lets herself out into the hallway, and bows once in Nie Mingjue’s direction before smiling so widely that he plunges straight down onto the floor and stays there.

“A-Huan,” he begs. “Tell me, is she—”

“You have a daughter, Chifeng-zun, and mother and child are well,” she assures him, her own lips trembling slightly as Nie Mingjue bows his head and bursts into tears. “She kept herself safe the whole way through with her own healing cultivation, if you will believe it! The physicians are tending her now, and you and Wangji can come in to see them both as soon as Lan-zongzhu has had a sponge-bath and something to eat. But there is still much to be done in the first half-hour or so, so she has requested that you have something to drink and break your fast before entering.”

With that, she goes back into the healing ward and shuts the door behind her, and Jin Guangyao and Lan Wangji find themselves weeping, as well; though Lan Wangji weeps silently, pressing his face into Wei Wuxian’s shoulder and letting the tears wet his gown while his husband rocks him back and forth.

“I’m a father,” Nie Mingjue says, dazed. “A-Yao, I have a daughter!”

“So you do,” Jin Guangyao laughs wetly, as a disciple comes in with some food on a tray before fleeing as quickly as he can. “Who do you think she will look like?”

The answer—when the doors finally open, to reveal a room that had been thoroughly cleaned, a sobbing uncle, and a beaming Lan Xichen—proves to be that little Lan Jueying, who refuses to be parted from Xichen even for a moment without shrieking at the top of her lungs (unless she is being held by her father, of course, who bawls like a baby himself when Xichen first adjusts his arms around the child’s tiny pink body) looks exactly like her mother, and is just as beautiful.

Jin Guangyao adores her from the moment he first sees her, and as for Lan Wangji…

“A-Jie,” he sobs, cradling the grumpy, wriggling bundle to his chest as his sister strokes his hair with such a loving look in her eyes that Lan Qiren starts crying again. “A-Jie, she’s perfect.”

#nielan #the untamed #mo dao zu shi #lan xichen #nie mingjue #my fic #chancellor of the morning sun #nielan arranged marriage au

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