#burned to death trying to dance near the sun

[jdopes-recorder]

As much as I love hobi I would never dance with him because I will embarrass myself so hard I will proceed to yeet myself off a cliff

[hezzabeth]

There was someone singing in the greenhouse, someone with a pitch-perfect deep voice. Revati closed her eyes, pressing her ear against the glass door.

In a field where the paper daisies grow,

Underneath the sun's harsh glow,

I wander through, light and free.

Paper daisies, pink and white,

Your petals so bright.

I sing to you as the world beyond burns.

The smoke coils in the sky far above,

But your petals still dance around me.

Don’t be afraid; soon the rains will come.

Everything lost will grow again.

Paper daisies, pink and white,

Your petals so bright.

I sing to you as the world beyond burns.

The stars begin to rise,

My hands scooping your seeds.

Soon you will take flight

Towards the soft moonlight.

There was an old, prop piano in the abandoned Holly Bush Tavern. The only person who could play it properly was Mr. Gupta. During holiday festivals, he would coax melodies out of the sticky keys while Mrs. Gupta sang in a nasal voice. This was different. The singer’s voice filled Revati in a place she didn’t know was empty. The singing stopped abruptly as Revati’s weight caused the door to creak. Of course, the door creaked. The greenhouse was a wobbling claptrap box made out of welded-together old windows. Miss Grassroots, a tourist who had been dead for almost six years, had built it. Inside lay the heart of Baker Street. The heart had begun as a rose garden. Nanni was the one who began picking up the fallen red petals, drying them, and turning them into tea.

Revati only had vague memories of the first day of the invasion. Mrs. Grasston and Dusk had invaded the kitchens and gift shops. Together they managed to pool together seeds and cuttings in order to grow a small food supply. There was a wall of tomato vines, grown from several seeds found in old slices left in the bin. There were the garden beds where the potatoes and carrots grew. In fact, the potatoes were what kept Baker Street from starving to death. Next to one of the largest windows, the herb and weed boxes grew. Revati’s father was the one who ripped open gourmet tea bags in their home, discovering dried seeds inside. Bridgadeiro Bun was sitting under the lemon tree. “You’re a pretty good singer,” Revati said gruffly. “I was just trying to cheer up Deshia; she’s been feeling a bit depressed lately,” Bridgadeiro said, patting the tree's trunk. “Who’s Deshia?” Revati asked, faintly confused. “The lemon tree, of course! She said nobody's chatted with her for years,” Bridgadeiro said. Suddenly, the tree shook its branches, causing a fresh lemon to fall into Bridgadeiro’s lap. “Thank you for the gift, sweetheart,” Bridgadeiro said, patting the tree again. Revati stared at the lemon tree, not quite sure what to think. Could a tree really be depressed? It would explain why the lemons were so withered and small.

“All Buns speak plant; it's the same gene that causes our pink hair," he said. Revati glanced around, her eyes briefly falling on the giant pumpkin vine near the door.

"Are the plants talking right now?" Revati asked curiously.

"Most of them fell asleep hours ago. When they were awake, they just kept jabbering on about a golden lady," Bridgadeiro remarked.

"So, the lemon tree is depressed? I could get Aurora to come in here and read to her," Revati conceded.

"It's more than that. She misses the lady who planted her; she doesn't understand why she vanished and never came back," Bridgadeiro remarked. Revati found her hands stroking the book of fairy tales nervously.

"If she's talking about Mrs. Grassroots, she died," Revati replied flatly. Six years ago. Six years ago, there were over a hundred tourists living on Baker Street. Nanni, who had spent years living with mother, insisted on moving into an abandoned hat shop near the edge of the park.

The day the tornado hit was the same day Nanni decided to tell Revati all about her family history.

"I always carry the death stone in my handbag, along with everything else I'd ever need in an invasion," Nanni pointed out. Technically that was true; Nanni's giant handbag was filled with almost anything.

Outside, Revati could hear her father trying to roll down metal shutters. There was the sudden horrible roar, and Nanni's wall exploded in a cloud of rubble.

"A lot of people died," Revati finished, her voice trailing off. First came the tornado that caused a gap in the mirror walls. Then the trickle of automatic vegetable cleaners who decided to exploit the crack. Finally, the battle on Mansfield Park between the cleaners and a group of tourists.

"The lady that planted this tree was actually a member of the Lost Princess rebel army; she convinced a bunch of tourists to fight with her," Revati remarked, shaking her head. Then she firmly opened the book of fairy tales.

"It looks like some people survived," Bridgadeiro replied.

"I don't want to talk about it; I just want to read! Here, you can read with me; you might like this story," Revati replied.

Once long ago, in a lost village near the foot of Mount Raya, there lived a special little girl. She was known for her kindness and her deep love for nature. Everyone in the village called her Naisha. Naisha had a special gift; she could talk to plants. The villagers often saw her whispering to the flowers; they adored her magical gift.

One day, Naisha learned about a legendary tree called the Kalpavriksha. The old ladies in the village whispered that it had the ability to grant any wish. Drought, fearsome and terrible, had swept through the land. Flowers withered, no longer able to whisper. Trees forgot their songs. Naisha decided she must seek out the tree and wish for one thing alone: rain.

"Wake up," a voice screeched, and Revati's eyes snapped open, the book of fairy tales tumbling onto the ground. Aurora was standing above her, the bright morning sunlight making her hair glow.

"Morning," Revati yawned and then jumped when she realized Bridgadeiro was asleep next to her.

Bridgadeiro slowly awoke, smacking his lips together.

"Juniper said you were in here; she never mentioned the boy," Aurora remarked coldly as Revati slowly stood up.

"Anna made him sleep in here; I must have passed out while reading," Revati said.

It was then that Revati realized Aurora was holding a tray filled with fresh strawberries.

"Hmph," Aurora said, shooting Bridgadeiro a suspicious look as he also stood up, patting the tree trunk.

"Let me guess, Queen Victoria sent these with an apology?" Revati asked.

"Yes, and a request to fill her vodka order," Aurora said, placing the tray on the ground.

"If she was really sorry, she'd give us a strawberry plant," Revati pointed out.

"Oh, you don't need one of those! You have the fruit," Bridgadeiro remarked.

"You can't just shove a strawberry in the ground and hope for the best; it rots," Revati replied. Bridgadeiro merely leaned down, examining the strawberries. After a few moments of careful examination, he picked up the biggest, brightest berry.

"You can; you just need the right formula," he said. He vaguely walked towards one of the empty garden beds that was going to be turned into an onion patch. Carefully, he dug a small hole and placed the strawberry inside before covering it in earth. Then, he reached into his massive jumpsuit pocket and this time pulled out a small vial of portable perfume.

"One pump should do it," Bridgadeiro remarked before pumping a cloud of perfume onto the soil. The earth began to twitch and vibrate, and Revati gasped as greenery sprouted from the soil. The plants quivered and then twisted as white flowers bloomed. The petals then shriveled and fell off as the center of the flowers grew into green berries. A few seconds later, the berries blossomed into a deep red.

"They shouldn't be doing that! Strawberries take two weeks to grow," Aurora gasped.

"I suppose they would in the wild, but I just gave them a pump of my Gene Grow fusion serum!" Bridgadeiro said, leaning down to examine the strawberries.

"They should produce fruit every day, but only if you talk to them nicely," Bridgadeiro added as he picked a strawberry and handed it to Revati.

Revati sniffed it suspiciously before taking a tiny bite. It tasted just like a strawberry.

"Does that stuff work on all plants?" Revati asked curiously.

"It tends to go a bit haywire when you spray it on legumes; you end up with giant beans that have no nutrients," Bridgadeiro said.

"I saved your life; think it's only fair you spray all the plants in here," Revati said firmly.

"It would be better if I planted their seeds outside and created new crops; otherwise, the rapidly growing plants could burst outside the walls," Bridgadeiro replied. Revati nodded crisply.

"I'll be sending someone to check on your efforts later today; I'll be far too busy working," Revati replied with as much dignity as she could muster in a sleep shirt before marching out of the greenhouse. The book of fairy tales lay abandoned on the ground.

Revati carefully changed into her work uniform. When she was a child, her wardrobe consisted of souvenir t-shirts from the gift shop fashioned into dresses. Now that she was almost an adult, Revati had to get creative.

Most of the gift shop sweatshirts had been swiped long ago. Instead, Revati put on the top half of the cafe's old uniform. It consisted of a magenta and purple striped waistcoat with a navy blue blouse covered in tiny clocks. The bottom half should have been a matching bustle skirt. Revati switched it with the men's purple trousers. Revati then carefully redid her braid and applied some more soot lipstick. Aurora, still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, was waiting for her in the kitchen.

"You're wearing your second best outfit," Aurora remarked.

"I suppose I am," Revati replied as she grabbed her coat.

"I thought you said you were done with romance after that whole mess with Little Hardi last summer," Aurora said, and Revati stopped walking.

"I am!" she protested, and Aurora pressed her thin lips into a disapproving frown.

"You were sleeping with him."

"God forbid I fall asleep next to another human being," Revati said as she marched through the cafe past Nanni, who was sewing something.

"You kept him! You gave him a job," Aurora added knowingly.

"I didn't keep him! He's not a feral child; he can leave whenever he wants," Revati snapped as they stepped outside, and she put on her sunglasses. Olde Landon was always at its worst in the morning. Like all major tourist attractions and cities, Old Landon had an atmospheric blanket high above the park's surface. It meant that nobody in the park froze to death at night, but it also meant the morning light was far too bright.

"Is that Little Hardi and Queen Victoria standing next to the fountain?" Revati sighed wearily.

"They both arrived at sunrise; I told them you were busy, so your mother made them breakfast," Aurora remarked.

"Sunrise; of course, they sacrificed sleep so they could get here first," Revati remarked, marching towards the two other leaders. Queen Victoria was wearing one of the park's costumes, a stained white lace wedding dress. Little Hardi, on the other hand, was wearing a deep blue doublet with a ruff collar and matching tights.

"Little Hardi, is your brother still unconscious?" Revati greeted him.

"We took a vote last night, and he played Macduff," Little Hardi replied.

Revati, who knew fully well what that meant, had to stop herself from flinching.

"You killed him? That's a little harsh," Revati pointed out.

"It was for the best; we need a strong leader during a time of invasion," Little Hardi remarked practically.

"Time of invasion? Isn't that a little dramatic?" Revati had to ask.

"There must be another crack in the wall; thank Jane, it's probably not too big! You two would be far too young to remember the vegetable cleaner invasion," remarked Queen Victoria.

"I was twelve," Revati said dryly.

"I was fourteen; the tornado destroyed the Hamlet's haunted castle ride, and the appliances killed the actor playing Ophelia," Little Hardi pointed out.

"You're both still tiny children as far as I'm concerned; I can't believe this is who I have to work with," Queen Victoria replied, and Revati brushed past her with annoyance, heading to the dress shop across the street.

The shelves of the dress shop had long ago been stripped bare. All that remained were the three Penny Farthing Bicycles that had been part of the shop's window display. Revati wheeled her Penny Farthing outside only to see Queen Victoria having a heated discussion with Aurora.

"What do you mean she's going to ride to the wall by herself? All representatives from all towns should go!" Queen Victoria was screeching, slapping Aurora's shoulder with her fan.

Revati parked her bicycle and marched towards Queen Victoria, grabbing her hand.

"Slap my assistant again, and I'll break your fingers; you know I can do it," Revati growled.

Little Hardi, who was now sitting by the fountain, laughed.

"I was just speaking the truth! We have a treaty; during times of crisis, we unify," Queen Victoria said, her voice tight and a little frightened.

"I don't see Lady Morganna here," Revati pointed out, referring to the ruler of Medieval faire.

"You know perfectly well Medieval faire cut us all off after the tornado hit! They probably all died off years ago," Queen Victoria snapped back. Queen Victoria was right. Medieval faire was located in the center of a massive fake castle complete with a drawbridge. After the invasion, Lady Morganna had yanked up the bridge and refused to speak to anyone. Anna and Nanni had tried to visit several times with baskets of dried lemons. They were horrified when someone from above threw the contents of their toilets onto the streets.

"My new friend said he saw naked people in the wilderness dancing around a murdered television! Sounds like Lady Morganna to me," Revati merely replied, pointing to Bridgadeiro. Bridgadeiro, who was in the middle of taking several pumpkins out of the greenhouse, waved.

"Could be a coincidence; regardless, you are not going to the wall! We need to have a proper group committee meeting first! Then a vote," Queen Victoria's.

Revati just rolled her eyes and released Queen Victoria's hand, causing her to stumble and fall onto the floor. Revati then reached into her jacket, pulling out her stun gun, shoving it into the queen's stomach. The Queen made a faint whimpering sound as her eyes rolled backward, and she collapsed again. Revati then aimed the gun at Little Hardi, who held his hands up, protesting.

"I'm not going to stop you! I came here to propose marriage," Little Hardi insisted.

"Marriage? To me?" Revati asked dubiously.

"All kings need a consort, and I'm not interested in Big Hardi's husband," Little Hardi said, slowly getting down on one knee.

Revati stared at him and shook her head.

"I'm seventeen," Revati pointed out.

"Well, the wedding wouldn't be for another couple of years," Little Hardi replied.

"I thought we agreed to keep our relationship professional after the handkerchief incident," Revati pointed out, and Little Hardi held a hand to his heart.

"I told you dozens of times I had nothing to do with my brother's plot," Little Hardi insisted.

"He accused me of cheating on you using an old prop handkerchief as evidence, and you believed him despite it being the exact same plot of the play Othello," Revati pointed out. The entire incident occurred over a year ago and ended with Revati kidnapped and tied up on the stage in a white fluffy nightgown.

"I'm a very insecure person," Little Hardi pleaded. Dating while trapped in a fun park during the apocalypse was difficult. Before the feral children came along, Revati was the youngest person on Baker Street. All the teenagers in Whistleton were raised to be incredibly prissy. Most of them refused to do anything more than dance or hold hands. Little Hardi had been a fun, age-appropriate choice. Little Hardi was happy to do far more than hold hands.

"No," Revati said firmly.

"No? Really?" he asked, sounding faintly surprised.

"First of all, your legal system involves killing criminals on stage in the middle of plays, which is horrifying," Revati pointed out, and Little Hardi shrugged.

"Secondly, I'm not an idiot! You just want to marry me so you can take over our greenhouse," Revati pointed out, and Little Hardi gasped as if looking deeply insulted.

"That's not true! If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, but no such roses see I in her cheeks," Little Hardi pleaded as Revati climbed onto the penny farthing.

[misfortunekeep]

MORE INKBLADE HEADCANONS CAUSE I CANNOT BE STOPPED

Once, they got invited to a high born party because Adaine is The Elvin Oracle and their world's saviour twice over and despite being only half a dragon (wild, untameable) some people considered them noble and an invitation was extended to him, they were forced to dance (too proud to admit you can't dance, Hakinvar? Don't tell me you've gotten rusty after years of being uninvited to these dances, Abernant?) when Adaine got a prophecy and her eyesight is gone, burned white with the power of Divinity, and so as to not be humiliated of stopping in the middle of the dance floor he pulls her close so her weight was on him and continues dancing like nothing was wrong. When she came to, he lifted her up to twirl in the air so that her sudden jolt would be disguised to look like she was surprised by his sudden maneuver. Later he is smug.

I saved you from social embarrassment, Abernant. You're welcome. No the fuck you didn't!? (There are eyes on them, they were so close and that twirl wasn't in the choreo-)

Adaine, rich kid and sister to Aelwyne Abernant, stepsister by law to Figueroth Faeth, and to an extent also stepsister by law through Fig to Fabian Seacaster, and Oisin Hakinvar, with the pride of a dragon and surrounded by the most judgemental teens to have ever walked through the doors of Aguefort Academy, have the most judgemental stare and together they embody all the disapproving posh noble bearing down on some unfortunate soul in ridicule when they are irritated and someone just said something truly astronomically stupid

Adaine is dangerous as she is, but she becomes even more when she accepts that she will probably end up with Oisin. It's an acceptance of his proposal and by doing so she has accepted to become a part of his hoard. Anyone who tried to kidnap her has met a horrible death either by the hands of herself and/or her party or, if they were lucky enough to evade their righteous fury, Oisin's dragon madness.

Walking dragon hoard Adaine is bwksnislanxjf

Walking Dragon Madness Adaine is ajsjbdakks

When they get sucked into their own world snapping at each other with sharp words and even sharper glares, thinking themselves alone (they never are), Oisin always somehow ends up draped on Adaine's back looking as smug and satisfied as a dragon atop his hoard while she hisses acidic curses

If they sleep together, Oisin is always coiled around Adaine, his body and tail covering her so that none can see her unless he moves which he never does, creating a barrier between her and the outside which settles her anxious battle weary mind, everyone has learned to steer clear from lunging distance when they try to wake them because it's when they're asleep and just waking that Oisin's his most Draconic, attacking the intruder near his hoard before he realizes they're in the football field and their friends are here to wake them up because the sun is setting and they need to go home

[misguidedasgardian]

The Winter Sun (19)

19. Premonitions

MASTERLIST

Summary: The snow melts and the dragons danced 

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Fem!Targaryen Reader 

Warnings: Cursing, medieval and asoiaf customs, AGE GAP, Cregan is 12 years OLDER than reader), arranged marriage, dark magic!, intended infanticide, war and all that comes with it, death of secondary characters, mentions of murder and annilhilation,  might miss some warnings

+18, MINORS DNI

Wordcount: 3,2 k

Notes: We are going to fast forward a couple of months. Also, unlike in the White Dragon, I will NOT dwell on the war itself and the details, only those important to our storyline

Aemond was restless

Rhaenyra had not answered to the death of her son, except for the fact that numerous spies had come back to the capital with tales of meetings and reunions, and Lords calling their banners into war, and pledging their allegiance to Rhaenyra…. Lords that conformed more than half of the Crownlands…

The Greens had the Stormlands and the Eastlands… they needed the Riverlands, if they hold them… they will prevent the two biggest armies from coming down against the capital… the Northern army and the knights of the Vale

War was imminent

As all the Houses of the Crownlands falling to Rhaenyra’s side, they needed to move 

Harrenhal

Harrenhal was the destination for Vhagar and her rider, a small army had gone ahead to take the burned castle, and when Aemond arrived… He killed House Strong and all its members, children, the elderly, women, and men, all fell to his sword, and as the day ended, so did the house that was a banner to Aegon the Conqueror himself. 

All of them, but one… Aemond spent two months in the company of Alys Rivers…

“I see him”, she whispered, her dark green eyes looking at the flames in front of her, flaming green in the hearth, she threw herbs at the fire, and it burned even brighter, “he is far away though”, Aemond came close to her, placing his hands in her hips, whispering in her ear

“Can you do it?”, he asked darkly, leaving a wet kiss under her ear

“Babies, my love, are very difficult to bewitch”, she moaned, as she didn’t stop putting things in the fire, “you see, they are protected by things such as love, and innocence, and this one in particular…”, she seemed to see something in the flames, “this baby in particular is protected by a very ancient energy”, he stopped, looking at the fire as well, but he couldn’t see anything in the flames

“What energy?”, he asked, seriousness tightening his voice

“The Old Gods protect him from evil”, she said softly, “and the love not only from his parents, but from his family, and the Lords and Ladies that follow house Stark, and… something else”

“He is some sort of magical baby?”, he asked in a mocking tone

“No, my love, he is just… he has been expected not only by his father, but by many people on the realm of the North, their love and loyalty protect him”, she said, but she couldn’t hide the worry in her face

“Can you do it or not?”

“I’m going to try”, she said 

A low growl awakened you with a jump, as did Cregan, when you adjusted your eyes, you saw that Autumn was standing at the foot of the bed, looking at the door of your room. 

You had never seen her like that, all the hairs in the back of her fur were standing up, were bristled, and she was showing her huge teeth menacingly. 

“Autumn?”, Cregan called, standing from the bed, grabbing his sword from beside the nightstand and then he unsheathed it, but to the surprise of all of you, there was no one there. The door was opened, yes, but the hallway was empty, the giant Direwolf was growling at thin air

“What is happening?”, you asked, sleepily, Cregan was looking at the door, but again he was met with nothing, he then looked back at Autumn and she wasn’t growling anymore, but she had her golden eyes pointed in that direction

“What is it girl?”, he asked again, he walked out of the room, into the hallway to find it completely empty, only the guards, in the end of it near the stairwell, in a second Cregan came back, he looked in the crib at his son and the sleeping puppies and he breathed more relaxed, he then petted Autumn’s fur and went back to bed, The direwolf’s stand was now more relaxed, she even laid down again, but her golden eyes were set on the door.

“What was it?”, you asked sleepily

“It was nothing”, Cregan whispered again the skin of your shoulder, hugging you tightly

“You sure?”, you asked, and then you felt Cregan’s warm breath in your neck

“Sometimes the Direwolfs see things we cannot”

“That doesn’t make me feel better”, you giggled, because you believed he was kidding, and you fell back to sleep in your husband’s arms. 

The simple human eye couldn’t see it, but Autumn could see the looming shadow trying to enter the room, to go near the crib, at her growls the shadow stopped and stayed at the entrance, but then it disappeared in thin air, the mission failed. 

Alys watched you in the flames with a frown, but as she felt Aemond’s arms around her, she relaxed when he kissed her neck

“Did you do it?”, he asked

“I couldn’t”, she admitted

“What about him?”, he asked, “What about Cregan Stark?”

“That is something else entirely”, she said then, but she didn’t like what she saw, she turned around to see him, and he looked down at her with a content smile on his face. "you will have your chance with Cregan Stark", she whispered, "I have seen it, him burning under Vhagar's flames", she chanted, her voice entrapping him like a siren's song.

When Autumn put her pups in Rickon’s crib, they were fluffy beans, they hadn't even opened their eyes yet, they were newborns just like your baby, but they were growing quickly, you giggled trying not to step on them, as you were trying to get dressed. 

There were still very small, the size of cats with triangles as tails and their ears still down and floppy, but they were super cute 

They were growing their teeths and found no better practice than your shoes, they nibbled at your feet as you moved around the room. Luckily, their teeth weren't big enough to injure you yet. 

Autumn was in the corner, looking at you as you walked around the room, watching her puppies, she was taken with you now, not leaving your side when you were in the room, and her pups

“Are you ready gorgeous?”, Cregan asked as he entered your chambers, you jumped in surprise, you had not heard him approach and he was probably staring at the scene, Autumn, six pups, your son in his crib, and you walking around the room 

“Yes”, you said, adjusting your clothes 

“I’m not sure if I want you flying alone right now”, he said, worried, “that psychopath is out there”

The snow had melted, armies were being assembled, and Jacaerys was going to go back to Dragonstone. The plan was for you to go with him, to get Vhaelar back, and to see Rhaenyra and surrender the North formally to her.

“I know”, you said, looking back at him, “but I will be in and out, and they will never know I went”, you said with a shy smile, “besides I need Vhaelar here, where she can protect us”

“I know”, he still hugged you tightly in his arms, his face buried on your neck. “Are you sure you are ready?”, he asked then, and you nodded

“The maester cleared me”, you assured him, “it’s going to be alright”, you wanted to tell him you didn’t want to leave Rickon, that the very thought of it ripped your heart to shreds, but if you did he was never going to let you go and you needed to do this, you needed to understand what was happening in the South.

And to get your dragon! 

“The nannies and I will take care of Rickon”, Cregan promised you

“You better”, you mocked, and he smiled warmly, you looked at your son. It was funny, one of the little pups had taken to him specially, and was cuddling with him in his crib, a little gray fur ball 

You took your son in your arms and cradled him against your chest, Cregan hugged you tightly as you did

“Please take care”, he whispered in your ear

“I will return within the week, I promise”, you answered, without stopping looking at your son in your arms, you truly felt like your heart was breathing and moving outside of your body

You left Rickon in his crib as you turned your eyes on Cregan, and as he met them with his own, he was surprised. You were looking at him with desire and he caught you right then

“What?”, he asked, as you just draw a sword on him, you only smiled widely

“There is something I want us to do before I left”, you whispered with a sneaky smile, he blushed, but he smiled

“Are you sure?”, he asked, you smiled

“I want another one”, you whispered, looking at Rickon, and he smiled widely

“Perfect, because I want another one too”, he chuckled, and he threw himself at you, catching your lips in his, and embracing you.

“WAIT! NOT IN FRONT OF THE CHILDREN!”, you laughed as he hugged you tightly against him 

. . . 

Jace looked at you mockingly when he saw you coming all messy, with your hair disarranged and a goofy smile on your face

“Alright”, he growled, and you just giggled

Vermax was restless, you could tell he didn’t like people, but he looked at you as you approached him, and he growled in warning

“Jace”, you called, the brunette raised his hand

Now you realized why they called him the “ill tempered”, it took you a good hour, but finally, Jace and you took to the skies on his back

It was the first time you flied on a dragon that wasn’t Vhaelar 

the flight was long, and still cold, you and Jace were dress for winter and still struggled, you decided to flight until you reached Dragonstone, it was a long jump, but, with the current war playing out all over the Kingdoms, you really didn’t know who to trust, except the Arryn’s

Luckily, you arrived in Dragonstone at night, and even though you were happy to be here, and relieved everything seemed fine, you already were missing your baby, Rickon, Jace smiled back at you as you approached the castle by the long stone bridge.

It was the middle of the night, everyone was asleep but a handful of guards that received you and led you to your chambers.

“Queen Rhaenyra shall receive you in the morning”, it’s the only thing they said as they left you at the doors of the same room you stayed in with Cregan, a year ago.

Gods you missed them, your husband and child.

The very next day, you were received, as promised, by your cousin, the Queen, and her entire court/family, and everyone greeted you warmly, but you could feel the cold, the mourning and loss of Luke, even though it had been two months already.

“I came in representation of house Stark, dear cousin, my queen”, you greeted, “the North is yours”, she smiled solemnly and bowed her head

“Cousin, I’m afraid I will need more than words, I need them to march South”, she said firmly, you could see the fire in her eyes, the seriousness in her voice, clearly the gentle smile and kind eyes were gone, smoked off by the death of one of her children.

“It was a hard winter”, you tried to explain, “but Cregan is calling his banners as we speak”, you assured her, and she just nodded.

Everyone around you kept talking about battles, and wars, how the Baratheon army was ready to march, and how the Greens took Harrenhal, you trembled when you heard who in particular had taken it.

“He is clearly defying us!”, said Daemon, “we need to take it back!”

“What will they do with it anyways?”, asked another, “The usurper named Criston Cole as his hand, he clearly doesn’t know what he is doing”, he laughed, but you didn’t think that was a laughing matter, Criston Cole was no idiot but a seasoned soldier and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard 

“I agree”, said Rhaenyra, “but also…”

“My Queen”, the meeting was interrupted by the maester, who came rushing in with a letter in hand, “an urgent message from Lord Stauton!”, he said as he rushed to Rhaenyra’s side

Your cousin took the scroll and read it, she got serious all of a sudden, and she looked at Daemon

“The green are threatening Rook’s Rest”, she said, “Cole is there, with an army, Lord Stauton managed to close the gates to the city but he is being laid siege upon”, whispers and dark words were being exchanged in the room, “he calls for help”

“Of course we need to send someone!”

“He is our ally”, many sentences were exchanged but RHaenyra seemed truly puzzled

You were interrupted by a sharp pain in your breasts, and you had to excuse yourself from the meeting. The maester warned you it might happen, your milk accumulating in your breast without RIckon to drink it. You whined pathetically when you found yourself alone in the hallway.

Rhaenys soon joined you, with that maternal look in her eyes she only saves for you 

“Looks like my body also misses my child”, you excused with a smile, she embraced you tightly against her, comforting you 

“How is he?”, she asked once you separated, she accommodate a hair strand behind your ear

“Oh, he is so beautiful, sometimes i look at him and I can’t believe he is real”, you explained, and when Rhaenys looked into your eyes she found them filled with love, “but at the same time, it’s scary how real he is and how much I love him!”, you said then

“That is what it is like”, she said, you shared a complicit smile, and you felt sad because she had lost her two children… but she has grandchildren now… she held you hands in hers

“When all of this is over, I will go and meet him, maybe stay a bit in the North with you”, she offered, and only that made you forget all about your pain

“Nothing would make me happier”, you promised her

“It is done then”, she said, and you smiled widely

“You promise?”, you asked

“I promise” 

“Good”

You didn’t really want to play a part in the war, so after the Dragonstone Maester gave you a few mixed herbs to soothe your pains, you decided to do what you came here to do… 

Motherhood had really taken a toll on your body as you panted trying to regain your breath and reach the top of the Dragon mount. But you didn't need to, Vhaelar showed up in all her glory, with her signature growl you could recognize everywhere.

She landed down the hill, she was go big it made the earth near you shake, you had missed her and almost forgotten how beautiful she was, you haven't seen her in almost a year

“Ritzas, Vhaelar”, [Hello, Vhaelar], she cooed in response, greeting you, coming so close you petter her snout, “Nyke missed ao”, [I missed you] 

You feared she might not take to you after leaving her here, but, she did, you could feel the bond strengthening.

There wasn’t much left to say, or to talk with the rest of your family, Rhaenyra was not the same anymore, she didn’t want to talk, she didn’t want to chat or ask about your life in the North. She wanted war, she wanted blood, she wanted her throne and she wanted revenge, so the best thing for you to do was to go back to Winterfell and give her an army, not promises. 

So after you said your goodbyes to your family, the very next morning, you flew back to Winterfell. 

This time, as your dragon was bigger, you arrived home as the sun was setting, only three days after you left, you were glad you were home, of course Cregan was there to greet you, as the snow had melted into water and the water had made the soil under you mud, the courtyard was a bloody mess but you couldn’t care less as you let your husband embrace you in his arms.

“How is Rickon?”, is the first thing you asked and he chuckled

“He is very well”, he said calmly, “the nights had been a nightmare though… he missed his mommy”, you smiled widely, and you barely greeted Sara as you went running to your rooms to see him. You gather him in your arms and he opened his violet eyes just for you

“Rytsas ñuha dōna valītsos”, [Oh hello my sweet boy], yes you were speaking High Valyrian to RIckon so he could inherit it, “konīr iksis mirri jaelan ao naejot rhaenagon”, [there is someone I want you to meet]

You carried him outside once you made sure he was dressed for the weather, and as Cregan who was speaking to the Maester of arms of Winterfell, he opened his eyes widely

“No!”, he said

“You had you turn, now I have mine”, you said, not taking a no for answer

“This is different! that is a huge dragon!”, he said, pointing outside the walls

“You promised Cregan”, you said one more time as you were crossing the huge gates, “trust me please?”, you asked, seriously, he looked into your eyes and found nothing but determination, so he sighed and nodded, you looked back at Vhaelar who was in the same spot where you landed with her, and you walked towards her slowly

Cregan stood a few feet behind you, but he didn’t even dare to move.

“Vhaelar”, you called, “bisa iksis Rīkon”, [this is Rickon], you introduced. Her golden eyes looked at you with curiosity and then at the bundle in your arms, she leaned in even close her, so she could smell him, “issa hen nyke, ñuha tresy”, [he is from me, my son] 

As she was smelling him, she closed her huge eyes and when she opened them up again, her pupil had enlarged, making them seem almost entirely black, as she cooed at him. You smiled widely seeing her interaction

She drew a happy, gentle roar as she kept gazing at him, you made sure his little face was exposed to your bonded dragon. Rickon seemed to look at Vhaelar with his Valyrian eyes, but he was just too small yet to give a real reaction. 

Vhaelar raised her head and cooed once more, before she turned around slowly not to crush you or push you and she took flight

You turned around happily and Cregan was standing there, with a huge smile on his face

“That was incredible”, he said, “she seemed to take to him”, he admired

“They couldn’t have bonded, but yes, she did seem to understand who he was”, you were so happy, Cregan took RIckon in his arms and then he took you both into Winterfell, the night was falling over the North and you needed to rest. 

Aemond was even more restless as he was placing his armor on him, with the help of Alys

“When will it happen?”, the dark haired woman could feel it in his skin, the desire of another, the desire to kill and conquer, she didn’t like the first part, but she smiled nonetheless

“Soon my love”, she purred in his ear

“When?”, he insisted, she frowned leaning over and kissing him under his ear 

“In thirty sunrises the wolves will come for the lands of the rivers”, she chanted, “they will meet the dragon and burn under their flame”, it was so, she had seen it

“IN a month then”, he said, Alys looked into his eye through the mirror in front of them, and she finally saw him smile

“That is what I have seen”, she said

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[ladystarksneedle]

Darkly, delicately

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Character

Warnings: Minor character death, mentions of period typical crimes and their punishments, prostitution, implied smut.

Word count: 4.7k

Summary: All her life Meynara has struggled to belong. Captured and taken to a land far away she's made her place in the world of Westeros with allies she can count on one hand. With the siege of Duskendale by the army of King Aegon II, she finds herself facing odds that change the course of her life once again, weaving her fate to the tune of the dragon in a dance hidden through time, as the war between the blacks and the greens rages on.

Link to read on ao3: here

She hears the bell ring twice as the castle erupts in chaos. “Noom, Narrah, Nyel” she chants to herself as the third dong reverberates through the wind drowning the screams around her before she's shoved hastily to the safety of the dingy cellars below. The scent of sweat fills her nostrils as she navigates the musty cramped quarters, filled to the brim with anxious ladies clasping their hands in prayer as they kneel together trying to stifle their whimpers. Lady Meredyth wrings her hands nervously as she stares into the distance, somber in demeanor. A moment of recognition seems to pass through her eyes as she spots her near the hastily barred door, before she turns abruptly to question her ladies maids’ who bow their heads in response. She finds her place near one of the walls, turning away from the woman reprimanding those around her to assess the scene in silence. Ever since the war began she knew the siege was inevitable. The family of the dragon had torn themselves in two embroiling most of the realm in their chaos and it was about time they too were hit with the consequences of their support. One of the dragons would soon grace their skies, she only hoped it wasn't their queen. Rumors of the kinslayer had wafted through Duskendale these past few moons. Round the winding harbor and the cobbled streets, onto the market square threatened over a bargain gone wrong, passed around taverns along with a drink in hand all up to the Dun Fort and it's gates in hushed whispers carrying over inwards to the pale walls enclosing winding threads weaved together for their lady, his name had evoked fear, disgust and surprising wonder alike. As the clashes of metal drew nearer to them she wondered how long it would take for him to finally reach his mark.

Seven blows was all it took to bring down the giant gate of the Dun Fort. The irony of the number isn't lost on her as they are rounded up in the central courtyard by noon. Captives surround her in haphazard lines along the posts and below the outer gate manned by armed men in green, their banner of the three headed dragon glinting maliciously in the sun. Some of the women struggle to stifle their sobs as they watch their husbands and sons being rounded up for slaughter before being hushed with a shove and a sharp word. She cranes her neck to see an older man at the head flanked by two heads of silver around a familiar face kneeling in chains.

“People of Duskendale, you face the price of your betrayal! Lord Darklyn has condemned you all but the King is just and merciful. Whoever wishes to make good on their vows again and pledge allegiance to the true heir to the Iron throne need only speak it now and his grace shall consider their folly pardoned” booms the older man, his tanned skin streaked with the blood of the burning ports. She hears a few whispers of indignation and fear before a handful of knights step forward to pledge their allegiance. It is a meager number which she realizes dissatisfies them deeply.

“Very well then” murmurs the King before they hear a shrill roar near the top of the castle. There in all his glory, perched atop the highest parapet, she sees a beast so beautiful, unworthy of the carnage it has wreaked, yet as it growls and makes its way towards them with its scales of shimmering gold she feels the true power that the men before her yielded. More of the folk around her now rush to bend the knee, hastily murmuring their pleas and apologies as the men in green smile haughtily. A lone eye, stern in its gaze, catches her unmoving. She suppresses the shiver that runs through her as she curtsies in response. The urge to live has long outlasted whatever moral code runs through the heart of the realm and it does not fail her today. Somewhere to the side she hears a familiar scoff of distaste. “It won't be my head on a spike when they're done with us” she thinks as she stares at her rival in defiance. Lady Meredyth scorns her in response as she's dragged off to witness the event of the day. Lord Gunthor kneels a few paces before her, locking eyes with their captors before turning to face her with hurt and disdain. She sees him gaze at her for a moment before offering a few words of comfort to his wife along with affirming his allegiance to the Queen with pride. She feels a quiver of fear pass through him, a cry of anguish a few feet away and an unrelenting stare on her as he's beheaded. A hush falls over the courtyard as the deed is done and the guffaws resume their way to the main hall shoving all in their path. Somewhere in the distance her heart leaps, far away across the fishing villages dotting the skyline towards the ruins of Hollard castle near the fork of the Crownlands. Duskendale would face a similar fate tonight.

She wastes no time in making herself scarce. She trains her ear on the whispers clinging to the walls as she makes her way downwards. They have been sacked by a little under three thousand men amassed during their journey through Rosby and Stokeworth that are to stay on till further word from the King. The lower kitchens and the halls are filled to the brim and are easy to blend into as she hurries towards her destination. She finds herself taking the familiar flight of stairs past the makeshift bakery to wind down to a hidden door below. Exactly three knocks later it opens to reveal a harsh face staring right at her.

“You are late”

“Forgive me for trying to stay alive” she huffs in return.

“Did they hear you?”

“Not yet”

“Let us keep it that way then.”

She knows he means to assess the threat before them both before feeding her to it. That is how it has always been, her body for the price of their safety. For all her bravado she hasn't been able to escape the clutches of home and the thread that ties her to it remains the one that cuts her the most.

“I know what I have to do”

“You move on my command Meynara, not before, nor after. We've made a decent life for ourselves here, do not go ruining it now.”

“I suppose the head of the lord staring at us as we walk through the hallways is enough of a hurdle in our path” she retorts shakily.

“As if you were ever fond of him”

“No, perhaps I wasn't. Doesn't mean I wanted him dead either”

“Life and Death are right around your corner”

“Faith shines the ability to prevail in both” she finishes turning away from him. Those were his father's words, ones that he'd told her on the boat to Westeros as they lay together shackled and starved. She remembers his eyes shining with a promise in the dark, willing her to forgo her fear. It seems a lifetime ago yet the man before her stares at her just the same. It is her gaze now which is filled with apprehension rather than the faith she's long left behind and no feelings of ardor can bring back the naive trust she has lost.

There is a feast to be held in honor of the King as Duskendale had yielded with ease, unprepared and caught off guard. Perhaps if Gunthor had insisted on better fortifications and riders rather than her religiously mounting him each night, his head wouldn't be hollow and unattached at the moment. She finds herself slinking into the shadows, with that thought, trying to keep an eye on the party at hand. The ale flows freely in the lower halls with the men getting handsy with the serving girls despite their indignation. Her only option is to reach the upper halls unnoticed hoping the stronger wine would dull them long enough to be done with her faster. She spots him in the distance as she makes her way up. He stands still near a burly man, eyes as empty as the dead hanging outside. A brief flicker of warning passes through to her before he's consumed to his farcity. Faith shall have to suffice for both of them tonight.

The main hall is decorated with banners of gold yet much sparse compared to the mess below. Anyone with a title should occupy the benches ahead of her, some newly appointed lords and generals, who all sit jesting and drinking below the dias as the men of the hour watch on. She watches the King engrossed with the head cook’s daughter fully partaking in the merriment. She sees her blush and smile coquettishly turning a lock of her hair as she entertains him and wonders how much persuasion it took for her to be offered up on a platter. Freshly plucked and naive, innocence was always coveted first at the altar, of worship and sacrifice alike.

Next to him sat two men with equally stern faces. She recognised the first with the booming voice, still in his armor refusing woman and drink alike, surveying the crowd for an imminent threat yet the man flanking the King's left drew her attention the most. To see him in person after their loss at noon made her skin tingle and the rumors had not done him justice. He sat poised, with his hair still braided for battle, eye lazily surveying the crowd like the elder man next to him, sipping from his chalice at ease. His gaze seemed unfocussed, unwilling to seek out anything in particular yet she saw through the haze. A predator responds only when it spots a worthy threat.

“What's a pretty thing like you doing all alone” she hears someone say before being grabbed by pudgy hands. The man near her reeks of nauseating sweetness. Arbor red she discerns as he leers close to her.

“Apologies my lord, I was on my way to serve the King” she lies promptly.

“Perhaps you might serve me first then. His grace would not refuse his loyal subjects tonight” he spoke earning a few jeers.

“Wait” she hears a crisp voice break through the crowd. “That one is mine”

There is no room for argument as she's pulled by two armed knights towards the dias, under the eye of the dragon.

“My my brother, you've caught a pretty one. A shame she's too old to be plucked” smirks the King playfully biting the girl on his lap.

She sees the prince ahead of her regard her with interest before beckoning her forwards with his finger. It isn't long after his appraisal that he takes her by the arm retreating to the sounds of muffled cheers. She feels him make his way around the castle assuredly, neither in haste nor at leisure, before he pulls her into the nearest chambers he can find.

“What can you do for me?” he asks abruptly, leaning against the door as he surveys her again.

“Whatever you desire my prince” she responds, as demurely as she can muster.

“I do not wish for pleasantries”

She balks at his refusal as she stands before him, tilting her head to observe him closely.

“I meant what I said”

“Are you a whore?”

“I am what you want me to be”

“If I wanted a whore I'd find one more willing, you may quit your farce”

“And what if this isn't one” she finds herself saying.

“Then I have wasted my time and I do not wish to be proven wrong”

She stares at him in bewilderment and defiance meeting his gaze as he turns to pour himself another cup of wine.

“I can entertain you to your heart's content”

“I am not a man who revels in the pleasures you seek to offer”

“You are hard to please, as any prince should be, yet I am not one to yield. Allow me to show you instead” she says confidently walking towards him. He looks at her skeptically, before his eye widens slightly upon hearing the clinks that follow her. He lets her lead him to the chaise nearby, raising an eyebrow at the sound that clings to her while she smiles at his astonishment, ready to finally play her part.

She keeps her gaze on him as she begins her routine, serpentine and sinuous, twisting her arms above her head with precision entrenched in her bones. She feels his eye take in her form, the flow of her wrists twisting like waves to the swell of her breasts rising and falling with each turn, moving in tandem with her hips all while the room jingles with the ring of threes; Noom, Narrah, Nyel. He continues his trail along her frame trying to match her pace and she sees him relax through her lids, taking in his enraptured face.

“Is this to your liking, my prince” she smirks as the ringing comes to a halt, the chanting of her soul, awake at the appraisal in his gaze. She finds her answer soon in the nights to come.

“You move to the sound of the gods” he says as they lie together, sweat clinging to them as the wind wafts through the open windows. It is the second night under the new command of Duskendale and all seems to be at rest, lying in wait for the bells to strike.

“Do you believe in them?” she whispers back, turning to regard him with mirth “I thought the Targaryens fashioned themselves as gods”

“The blood of Old Valyria leaves little to imagination.”

“But Valyria is gone and all you have left in this strange land is the power you wield through the skies” she continues stroking his bare arm.

“Which strange land should I thank for gracing me with such beauty tonight” he whispers, turning a lock of her hair between his fingers as he gazes into her eyes.

“Norvos, across the narrow sea”

“Norvos” he repeats, rolling the syllables around his tongue regarding her with awe. “Are all Norvoshi so,”

“So?”

“Quiet”

“I thought you found my chatter incessant”

“I never heard you” he stops her, “Not once as you crept around the castle all the way into my bed”

“You wish to know my secret?” she asks him playfully “Perhaps my blood is as special as yours”

He scoffs in turn earning a crease to her eyebrows which does not go unnoticed. “We are not so different, you and I. We both seek to soar far beyond what fate plans for us”

“Your riddles can exhaust a man far more than your movements” he huffs petulantly.

“You are only displeased because you cannot decipher this one” she hums thoughtfully earning her a pinch to her hip which she swats away promptly.

“Careful, I am not fond of that wayword tongue of yours” he warns her with a smirk.

“Why when it has given you such pleasure? What is the use of depriving yourself of such an investment” she finds herself giggling in return to the bashful pout of his lips.

It has been long since she's been so enamored with a man. There have been a few, young and beautiful, not immune to the charm she summons at will but none so rigid yet tender that makes her heart want more.

“Dance for me” she hears him say as he lies back, hair splayed around the pillows like a halo.

“As you wish your grace” she responds devilishly, slinking away from his embrace to twinkle under his eye.

Their nights continue with well practiced rhythm as their days stretch on. She finds herself at the precipice of good fortune, confined mostly to his chambers as his prize, content to stay hidden till she's displayed with pride. The King she learns takes offense to her growing presence in his brother’s life yet is dissuaded to take action by his elder hand, his disapproval making itself known in its own way.

“My lady, the prince is betrothed to Lady Baratheon of Storm's End and is to be married in a few moons”

“With the tide of the war changing ever so often I feel it best to practice restraint Lord Hand. I'm playing my part just as everyone, as a loyal servant to the crown won't you agree?”

“As I am certain you are” he responds with distaste.

“The prince seems quite sated does he not? What then I wonder, merits such growing concern. As long as your plans come to fruition I am sure a woman such as me should hardly pose a worthy obstacle” she bites back eager to send him away from her new chambers. Victory in the face of adversity tastes almost as sweet as the dreaded wine she brings to her lips, sipping at it with mock delight as she watches the commotion enfold out her door. As he walks to give way to someone, she hears a familiar scream of anger grace the threshold. Lady Meredyth barges in, red faced and fuming. She finds her predicament almost hilarious were it not for the state she's in. Dressed in mourning for a neglectful husband who managed to give her a daughter too young to give away for the dwindling power she now tries to hoard, she tries to muster whatever pity she can find for the woman, before she opens her rotten mouth.

“You seem mighty pleased with your situation, finally living up to your true potential as the whore you are”

“Widowhood suits you my lady. The black brings out your eyes” she responds back sarcastically.

She sees her spit at her feet before she's escorted away, spewing curses through the halls. There is no greater joy in watching the old crone claim her late husband's chambers where she rode him to death while she lounges on her very own bed waiting to be taken in the arms of pleasure at night.

“What did I tell you about that tongue of yours” he retorts as he pulls her into an alcove at midday.

“To use it more often” she whispers, running her lips along his jaw. The walk she'd managed to take away from her confines had proved to be a welcome change after that harrowing ordeal in the morn.

“You wanton thing. Do not vex me outside of these walls”

“You have my word” she says flightily resuming her course along his neck.

“And much more” he breathes, palms burning through the blue she's clad in. She finds herself smiling as she pulls him closer, enjoying his proximity during the quiet of the day. Perhaps nights are not the only thing to look forward to anymore.

She feels his presence in the hallways later, long before she turns the corner, trying to rid herself of the evidence of her dalliance.

“You've lost your faith” he remarks somewhere behind her.

“I've simply found it around another corner” she replies, turning to face the judgment in his dark eyes. There are bags underneath them, weary with doubt and the wisdom he seems to wield like a weapon.

“He is a dangerous man to be around. Someone who kills his own is not one to be trifled with”

“And yet we've faced far worse”

“Worse than treason?”

“Tell me you don't mean to support yet another foreign queen”

“You've grown slow” he states glaring at her. She finds herself at a loss of words. Her old self would have caught on to what was spoken almost instantly with an equally sharp retort in tow. Shame creeps up on her at being caught off guard, vulnerable and at his mercy.

“I will not fail you” she says, turning to avoid his eyes, tears glistening amongst her own. “I am only doing what I think best”

“And therein lies the problem”

“Lady Meynara” a voice cuts through the silence suffocating her as she turns to face the source of her shame. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back regarding her companion with distrust only for her to turn around to find him gone.

“Do all of you possess such talents of evasiveness” he questions her as she sighs and makes her way towards him.

“It has served us well”

“On the contrary, it makes you noticeable. The very thing you are ever so keen to avoid”

“I think you happen to have a keener eye than most, my prince. Do not fault the entire realm with the same flaw you possess.”

“I would hardly call it that”

“A flaw?”

“More of skill honed and fortune bestowed” he smirks leaning towards her.

“Something that earned you your birthright” she questions back impudently. “I've heard the rumors”

“I didn't think you'd put much stock in them”

“One tends to learn a lot through tales, true and false alike. Besides aren't rumors as such keeping your plan afoot”

“You know far too much to be jesting as such. Do you not fear for your life?” he asks her, eye glinting in the light.

“You'd have me hanging near the gate by now if I was such a threat”

“By your feet” he replies, watching her face darken. “You needn't worry as long as you serve me.”

“That is a threat my prince, far worse than what I'm accustomed to”

“Good, my intentions must be made clear then.”

“And what exactly might they entail”

“Your faith for a price” he says regarding her in earnest. The promise of more lingers on her lips as he leaves her wondering what it is she plans to do about it all.

“You mean to leave” she asks him on the third night they're together, with the moon at its height bathing them both in its embrace. He's reclined on the bed, one arm resting behind his head as he listens to her, eye closed in sequestered bliss.

“Rumors can only serve their purpose with cause to back them”

“You are to leave at dawn then?”

He hums in response as she fidgets with the sheets around her.

“Do not fret, I shall ensure your safety for your word”

“That is a hefty promise”

“And one I intend to keep”

“You will tire of me soon enough.”

��Perhaps,” he says, opening his eye to look at her. “Yet I'm certain it won't be so soon”

She feels the sheets pool at her feet as she rises to sate him for the night, eyes trained on him as she watches him cock his head in piqued interest. There is an unspoken understanding between them as she glides by the bed, running her fingers over the wood to stand in the center of the room, the light from the candles illuminating everything she wishes for him to see.

“Not tonight” she murmurs, running her hands over her hips.

“You'd deny the man who holds your fortune” he asks incredulously.

“I'd offer him something far sweeter”

“And what is sweeter than your company my lady”

“Joining me in ways a man would take his woman”

She sees the bed dip with his weight as he rises, moving with agility to stand before her. She cranes her neck to see him peer down at her, eyebrow raised at the game she wishes for him to play.

“In Norvos, we move like this to show our feelings. For emotion sometimes is best expressed through something tangible” she says reaching forward to steady his arms.

She feels him follow her movements with ease, twisting and turning with surprising accuracy never letting her out of his sight.

“You are a trained warrior”

“So are you, it seems. This is much like swordsmanship”

“All art is said to be inspired”

“What inspires you tonight little soldier” he rasps as he spins her around, arms enclosing her as she stares ahead. She feels his breath against her neck, her back pressed against the ridges of his body leading her to exhale before she writhes in his embrace.

“I do not wish to be a piece in the war you play at”

“We are all pieces to be moved about, each for a different purpose”

“It seems you've mastered my tongue in these past few days”

“I've only claimed what's mine” he says running his hands along her waist.

“Your plan will only work on trust, something the people here lack in abundance. Faith, which you scorn me for holding on to, is only meaningful if adhered to in earnest”

“I don't begrudge your faith” he whispers, turning her around to face him. “Just who it's tied to”

She finds herself mesmerized by the blue of his eye, so still yet violent, unrelenting yet open to the words that spill from her lips. “He is what connects me to who I am”

“To cherish something so deeply is a suffering in itself that I've come to accept. I think you understand that very well, Aemond.”

She feels him stiffen at the mention of his name, fingers clasping her arms tighter before he turns her around in a pirrouette, bowing before her as he ends their performance.

“Always your way, yes” she responds breathlessly.

“I do not wish to mold you Meynara, only to make you realize how well you belong. I can offer you something far more than the life you wish to subject yourself to”

“Wealth and power?”

“Purpose” he says with finality.

“Then I ask one thing of you. Bare yourself to me, in good faith” she whispers, watching him carefully “and I shall do the same.”

“Haven't I seen all of you?” he questions, removing the barrier across his face.

“Not without adornment” she says, reaching down to remove her restraints. “They are as much a part of me as this is of you” she finishes reaching up to cup his face. The sapphire glistens brilliantly as she stares at the angry scar accompanying it, intensifying his beauty.

“Is this what you've heard of” he remarks, gritting his teeth at her request.

“Indeed” she replies, reaching up to stroke his face. “We wear our shame and pride on our sleeve. It is time to embrace it together for the purpose you so wish to achieve”

“It will require much more than I've since asked from you”

“I think it is time I left the chains that bind me my prince, yours will have to suffice for now”

They wake again at the crack of dawn to the domestic bliss of togetherness. There in his chambers she experiences what it means to be a wife at last. The euphoria of nurture, she'd long dreamed of since she was a girl, envelops her in a sense of longing and nostalgia. As she bathes and readies him for battle, she finds herself gazing at him wistfully.

“I shall return soon”

“I am aware. I did not forgo my bindings for a lie”

“You wished to soar did you not.”

“You know, the Norvoshi do not trust a man without a beard. They say one as such lacks the honor to defend and the foresight to lead” she responds by running his blade across his face as he turns away from her.“You have your own honor though”

“Many would disagree. I am said to be cursed ”

“One man's curse is another's blessing. You shall return a King”

“Because I've given you the freedom you desire?” he jests “Your faith is truly boundless”

“As is your routine. Hold still while I finish or they'll have to wait the whole morn for you to ride out with glory”

It is an hour later after she meticulously braids his hair and secures his armor, over his eye and body that she finds herself truly bogged down with the weight of his departure. He kisses her temple as he leaves, the act too chaste for her to protest before he's gone. As she sits ruminating on her time spent with him, she hears the flap of the great wings of Vhagar, leathery and forceful as she rushes to spot her out of her window. A shadow falls over the Dun fort as she flies past, giving way to three rings of the great bell of Duskendale, thrice for the sound of freedom that soars through her heart.

Taglist: @arcielee @succnfuccubus @barbieaemond @watercolorskyy @paprikaquinn @witheredoffherwitch

[sinistergooseberries]

A Goodbye

Not beta read or anything. Literally the most self indulgent thing ive ever written. enjoy. inspired by @rambheem-is-real 's nsfw posts that got the horny wheels working.

Pairing: Varadeva

NSFW

*****

Khansaar, 2010

There it was. Laid out in front of them like an animal's carcass.

Love had never been easy for Varadha. Love had always been an enemy, a weakness and every other attribute that tainted that word. It ate away at him like a disease and spit him back out like phlegm. When love did not want him, it made him its weapon.

So he looked at its corpse. Beaten, ragged and dirty, as it was meant to be. He was the one who had ended its life, so why was he feeling like a gaping hole had been made in his heart?

And why did love look so alive in his eyes? Why did it writhe and dance and reach out and pull Varadha towards him? Why did it seem to want to live when he kept killing it? Why couldn't it just go?

"Varadha," said Deva.

"Go." A piece of his heart turned to stone as he said that.

"Varadha, listen-"

"Get out. If I ever see your face again, I'll put your head on a spike and hang it at Khansaar's doors. Go."

Well, it had achieved what he wanted it to. That writhing love stopped its dance in Deva's eyes. In its remains, all that was left was a rising anger.

Good. At least he would go out of this world in the wake of that love. No death would be more respectable.

But Varadha knew Deva more than he knew himself. That anger, so familiar to him, cooled down, replaced with another emotion

It wracked him to his bones.

Don't leave me, he wanted to say. I love you. Love me back. Please.

But he stood his ground.

Deva turned around, and walked out of the room. The entire place descended into silence. No one spoke a word. The sun set.

Varadharaja Mannar became King.

***

Khansaar, 2017

The corpses that lined the border of Khansaar reminded him of another time, when burning bodies were all you could see around you.

He could also see Deva on top of the cliff.

Love still felt like a punch to the gut.

How untamed could something be? How could it still be alive, with all of its guts spilling out? How could it be alive and fight to burn and writhe, when blobs of its blood had fallen for 32 years?

And why did it need to haunt him of all people?

Deva was just as beautiful as he had been all those years ago. Even as Varadha prepared for a proper death this time, he couldn't help but look at the one man who made him feel like he was at the heights of pleasure and in the depths of despair at the same time. How could he not when Deva looked at him with storms in his eyes?

Varadha wanted to ease them. Ease all of his worries away. He didn't care about that Aadhya girl, he didn't care about anything. He just wanted Deva to look at him with those eyes of his. He wanted to drown in them, lose himself in them and then kiss the man's head, caress away the lines on his forehead and love him like he had always wanted to.

"Get me his head," he said instead.

All the people at his disposal marched out, perhaps hoping for an intense battle.

Well, he had just sent a hundred men to their deaths. He made a silent prayer to Katteramma to forgive him.

It didn't take long for the men to be disposed of. Deva was quite singularly focused on murdering anyone involved.

As Varadha sat in his throne, the doors burst open, and in bulldozed the man.

He couldn't help it - he never could when Deva was near - he noticed Deva's minute details without even having to try. It was like a built in mechanism that couldn't be removed. A little scar there, a bit of rugged scruff here, a small mole that had been the highlight of his days during their childhood.

"Varadharaja Mannar," began Deva.

Varadha shook himself out of his little trance. What use was it being in cahoots with a dead love?

He lifted his hand to stop Deva - no, Devaratha - from continuing.

He looked at everyone else in the court. "Get out. All of you. This is between me and - Devaratha." His jaw clenched.

Everyone filed out in a few minutes. The court room, which had been filled with clamouring noise earlier, fell quiet.

Neither of them said a word. Both of them knew what the other was thinking.

Deva put his weapon down. He raised his arms up in surrender and walked towards the throne.

Varadha didn't move an inch.

His footsteps echoed in the courtroom as he made his way to the throne. Varadha's heart constricted just a little bit more with each step.

Deva stopped at the foot of the stairs. His gaze was laser focused on Varadha.

"Devaratha," Varadha said.

"Where is Aadhya?" asked Deva.

"It doesn't matter. She never did, did she?" Varadha smirked. "It was never about her."

"Then give her back." Deva's face contorted, fury radiating off him in waves.

Varadha let out a chuckle, humourless and dry. That fury would go back in again, simmer in his insides. Old habits.

"Come on, Deva. We both know how these things work. I can't give her to you, unless you give me something in return," he said instead.

Deva's fist clenched. "What do you want?"

"You."

Deva's expression went from fury, to confusion, to - something else, and then finally seemed to settle on a decision. Deva raised an eyebrow at him, as if he was asking something.

Varadha watched him squirm. In a twisted way, he felt a bit of triumph. He bet Aadhya couldn't decipher all these minute expressions.

"Come," he said.

Deva took a few cautious steps, wariness shrouding his form. Varadha, as usual, just watched.

One step. Two. Three. Four. Five.

The man was right in front of him. He could smell his sweat and the remnants of gunpowder. He could feel the heat radiating off of Deva.

Varadha's breath caught.

Deva seemed to register that, and a small smirk made its way onto his face. And Varadha, as usual, traced every movement that Deva made.

Eventually, their eyes met. They had to. It was inevitable for them to look at each other like the other held the answers to the universe. It was inevitable that they would search for the answers to their unspoken questions in each other's eyes.

Deva's eyes dissolved into something soft. Varadha - he was helpless. Even if he wanted the harshness of vengeance or past anger to take over his heart, Deva could simply look at him and he would forget everything.

That's just how it was.

God, he was gone. He was delusional. That was the only way he could explain - whatever this was.

How badly messed up it was that he was imagining Deva getting closer to his face, as if he was about t-

What the fuck.

***

Deva was kissing him.

Lips were pressed against his own, bearing down on them.

And Varadha's lips moved. He didn't remember it clearly. Perhaps it was the little bit of whiskey he'd had in the morning.

But Varadha moved. He put his arms around Deva's neck and kissed him back. He bit Deva's lips, opened him him up.

The sensation of his tongue felt sent a jolt through Varadha and heat pooled low in his groin.

He had longed for this. He had longed for it like a parched man in a desert for water. He wanted to be engulfed in Deva's scent, completely surrounded by it. He wanted to kiss this man to pieces, kiss him into submission.

He pulled Deva onto his lap, not leaving his mouth for even a second. The gasp that escaped his mouth just riled Varadha up.

He wanted the man to whimper. To moan and gasp and writhe against him. He wanted him to lose his control and give in.

Well, only one way to do it.

Varadha parted from his mouth. He pulled Deva by the ass and thrusted up, grunting as he did so. Deva gasped.

"Y-you fucking bastard," the other man gritted out.

"Mhm?" Varadha hummed as he rubbed their crotches once again.

Deva just kissed him again, forcefully parting his lips and biting down on them.

Varadha moaned, the pain mixing with the pleasure and making everything hazy around him.

That distinct smell of Deva clouded every other sense of his, and the only thing he could feel was the touch of his lips, the heat of his breath and that heady, heady pleasure.

Deva separated them, and a string if spit extended between their lips. Deva was breathing hard, and Varadha wasn't any better.

Deva's eyes were dilated, and the look in his eyes spoke more than he could ever express with words. Varadha's eyes trailed down to his lips, so plump and kissed. He caressed them and felt Deva suck in a breath.

God, he was beautiful.

He pressed a haphazard kiss to Deva's lips. He didn't move away after letting go. Instead, he let their temples touch.

It was a simple act, a simple touch. Yet it felt like he had finally come home, and had been laid to rest. The hand that had been on Deva's lips, now became intertwined with his hair, pulling them closer to each other. Deva sighed.

He didn't know for how long they stayed like that. Everything felt a bit hazy, and his cock wasn't in the mood for calming down either, throbbing as it was.

Deva seemed to have regained some of his senses. He leaned forward and kissed Varadha's temple. Then his eyes. Then the tip of his nose. The apples of his cheeks. The space between his upper lip and his nose. He peppered kisses across his jaw.

He reached Varadha's neck, and that is where he chose to stop. Varadha looked to the side, and caught Deva staring at him. A small smile came into Varadha's vision.

Oh.

Oh.

Next thing he knew, Deva was kissing his neck, licking it, biting it, loving it. All he could hear around him were little gasps and moans. Deva was grunting as he played with the sensitive skin on Varadha's neck.

Varadha ground against Deva, craving that sweet release. He kept thrusting and rubbing, Deva's erection an acute reminder of his arousal. He wanted this just as much as Varadha did. A little bloom of possessiveness occurred in his heart.

His hand, which had been around Deva's neck, now made its way to his crotch. He palmed the man's erection.

Deva bucked up against his hand, and the moan that came out of his mouth went straight to Varadha's cock. He pressed down on Deva further, bringing out more of those.

Not once did Deva let go of his neck. At one point, he did something with his tongue that almost made Varadha come in his fucking lungi.

He pulled him away from his neck. Deva looked dazed and was about to dive back in, but Varadha pulled at the man's hair. Deva let out a moan.

He looked so fucked out. They hadn't even put each other's cocks inside each other. Something warmed in Varadha's heart at that.

Deva got up. Varadha stopped himself from whining at the loss.

Deva kneeled in front of him.

"What-"

"Shh. Let me do my thing." He placed a finger on Varadha's lips.

This is probably the last time I'll love you went unsaid, but they both understood it.

He took away his hands to work on Varadha's lungi. He untied it, and looked him in the eyes while doing it. Varadha didn't shy away.

Deva looked down at Varadha's twitching cock, the thin cloth of the boxers the only thing separating it from him. He licked his lips.

Varadha palmed his cock through his boxers, little moans escaping his throat.

Deva looked mesmerised by it all. It made Varadha feel a certain type of way.

He placed a hand on Varadha's. They moved together, touching where the other didn't, rubbing where the other didn't, caressing where the other didn't.

"Don't look at me," Varadha breathed in between gasps.

"Where else will I look?" Deva murmured.

Varadha didn't know what to say to that, so he concentrated on Deva.

Deva pulled down his boxers, and Varadha's cock sprang up. He hissed at the sudden sensation of cold wind.

His - whatever - seemed to notice and came to his aid.

"It's aroused," said Deva.

"Shut the fuck up and suck it," replied Varadha.

And Deva did just that.

***

Aftermath

"Did you just have sex with him?" asked Aadhya, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline. She had the most incredulous expression on her face.

Deva, to save his ass and reputation, did not reply.

"You did," she said in disbelief. "Oh my god, you went and fucked your fucking ex. What the actual fuck."

Deva stayed quiet.

"Unbelievable," she said.

After a few minutes, though she asked, "Was he that good?"

*****

ummm so that was that. i just wanted an excuse to write porn yall. i hope its not all bad. i hope u find some alright things!

[jukti-torko-golpo]

A Moment with the Mothers :

Aadya

I was blindly running through a dark landscape. The ground was rough and stones were piercing into my foot. I dared not stop running. Some shriveled black corpse-like hands were taking form and trying to pull me into the darkness. Their nails dug into my skin and left bleeding gashes. A putrid stench of death, decay and blood filled my nostrils. I was exhausted. My lungs seemed to burn. The place was infernally hot. But those creatures were painfully frigid.

I stumbled and fell. Panic seized my heart. The creatures caught up with me. Their presence brought back forgotten grief, fear and hatred. I felt anger, helplessness and every other negative thought that had ever crossed my mind.

A deafening humkaar reverberated through the terrain. It was terrifying. But it brought a strange sense of safety with it. I saw a few creatures crumble to dust around me. A pair of feet appeared in front of me. The skin was like the primordial darkness of the universe. It was stained with a blood-red alta and adorned with anklets made of exploding stars. I looked up and found Devi towering over the entire terrain. Her dark flowing locks formed the sky above. Her eyes burned with the power of a thousand suns. Her tongue was hanging out, dripping blood. She was naked. Time started and ended in the expanse of Her body. She was adorned with celestial bodies. A mundmaala hung around Her neck. A gleaming golden kharga in one of Her hands. A golden bowl in another hand, blood sloshing around inside it. She seemed to hold the entire cosmos in Her third eye. A strange mixture of fear and relief gripped my heart.

She jumped and landed among the creatures of the shadows. Her scimitar flashed like golden lightning. And bodies of those creatures piled up on the floor. She danced with a bloodthirsty frenzy, trampling over hundreds of those beings. I trembled with fear at the violent sight in front of me. Kaalratri danced the dance of destruction. She then turned towards me. Rage burning in Her eyes, She let out a blood-curling scream. She ran towards me. I was paralyzed with fear. A part of me was wildly flailing inside me...trying to run away. Another part pinned her down waiting for the Devi. She stopped in front of me and swung Her kharga. I closed my eyes. It went through my neck with an excruciating pain.

Tears rolled down my face as I opened my eyes. The pain had faded away quite a bit. I was shocked at what I saw. A shriveled decaying form of me laying dead at Her feet. I broke down in fear. All the ugliness that was within me lay in front of me now.

I started to drift into a sleep and the darkness around me seemed to dissolve away. When I woke up I was in the middle of a beautiful forest clearing. Large arching trees provided such cooling shade with their embrace. A little brook was trickling nearby. Birds were chirping all around. I was in the womb of Prakriti. The Devi appeared again. dressed in a soft white saree with a broad red border. Her skin was glowing like a blushing dawn. Her eyes held me with such tenderness. She smelled like chandan. She smiled and called me to Her. When I went near her She held my cheek and I started to heal. All the wounds started closing up. Every strained muscle seemed to relax. The exhaustion seeped away. I felt rejuvinated. Her hand had such a cooling touch...just like a cooling breeze against a burning feverish forehead.

She sat on a rock and I sat at Her feet with my head on Her lap. I cried my heart out to Her, long hidden grief, confusion, fear...along with feelings I have never been able to explain to myself. She held me close...humming some ancient melody to me. Not a word was spoken, but so much was conveyed.

Everything seemed to make sense suddenly....every turn that my life has taken, every person that I have met, every day I have lived through, every bit of gyaan I have acquired, every aspect of samsaar that I have learnt so far...all of them has to contribute towards slaying that demon within us, the ugliness within us. Every moment lived leads to slaying the darkness withing us and laying our existence at the feet of The Mother.

She embraced me and dissolved into me. I woke up with a start. My fever had gone down after two days. I was sweating, I felt like someone had breathed in a new life into me. The sunlight formed a strange pattern on my floor...a Trishula.

[ohwhataniight]

more than the world can contain - Chapter 4: A Scandal in Belgravia

Part 2

J

If I had a therapist, she would note down yet another trigger in my list of traumas: swimming pools. The smell of chlorine. Semtex. Although I am fairly certain that having a phobia of deadly explosives should be considered the picture of good mental health. Anyway, I don't currently have a therapist. But, on second thought, maybe I should reconsider.

Because my flatmate is complete bonkers, and I have to deal with his antics every day.

I’ve only managed to get what feels like two hours of blissfully dreamless, uninterrupted, Xanax-induced sleep, after we return to Baker Street, before I wake up with a scream.

The reason I'm screaming is that Sherlock is awake and hovering over me, watching me sleep, his pale blue eyes glinting in the dark as the lights from the street catch them in their stride through the windows. He’s staring intensely at my face, brow furrowed, as if he's trying to decipher some code. He’s wearing a look I became acquainted to for the first time tonight: uncertainty, with an unusual tinge of vulnerability. Once again in this night that feels like a century, he looks much younger than he is.

“What on our-planet-that-orbits-the-sun are you doing?” I hear myself mumbling as I rub my eye with the heel of one hand, and even I’m surprised with my own eloquence at this ungodly time of the night, after a near-death experience. It’s then when I register the slight pressure of cold fingers on my other wrist. “Your hands are cold, you look like a vampire, you act like a vampire. Is there anything you need to tell me, Sherlock?”

“Nope, nothing,” he pops his p quite dramatically, drops my hand on the frame my bed rather gracelessly (this is going to bruise later) and throws himself up, walks away, silk blue robe swishing around him.

I sit up and my eyes slowly get accustomed to the darkness of the room. “Sherlock,” I demand, cutting him dead as his tracks by the door. “You were taking my pulse,” it sounds like an accusation. “In the middle of the night.”

“Nothing to worry about, all seems normal.”

“Yes, but why were you taking my pulse?”

“It’s for an experiment.”

I’m still faced with his back. “Listen,” I say. “There’s no need to be worried. I’m alive, and I'm home, thanks to an uncharacteristic stroke of luck. And, well, you.”

A breath hovers in the empty space between us for a second. “You've got your answer, John,” he eventually exhales, still refusing to turn around and face me. "Not the one you want, maybe, but definitely the one you need."

“What answer? Sherlock, why do you have to be all enigmatic? It’s bloody 3 in the morning, you’re allowed to take a break, y'know?” I stand up from my bed, barefoot on the carpetted floor, infuriated.

Finally, he turns around. Be careful what you wish for, Johnny, I think, because his gaze is burning through me. It's pretty intense, disarming. Especially considering everything that’s taken residence in my mind during the past couple of days.

“You have been wondering whether I am capable of human emotion for a while now. Whether I care,” he almost spits the word. “Well, John, tonight you have observed it’s in your best interests if I don’t. I hope that explains my usual... disposition. Now, go back to sleep. You are still in shock.”

“And you aren’t?”

He doesn’t respond. Just stares at me. Then, “why would I be?”

I take a few steps, closing the distance between us. My heart is thrumming like a caged bird and I want to extend my hand, touch him, comfort him. But this isn’t how Sherlock Holmes works. “We are all bound to lose people we care about in our lifetimes, Sherlock,” I eventually resort to say, realizing I’m feeling slightly dizzy - the shock, the benzo, his stare. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t. Care. I mean.”

More seconds pass. They eavesdrop, they dance in the room, its air thick with our scents (sleep, leather, upholstery, sweat, whiskey?) My flatmate remains unmoving, the bloody vampire. “Right,” he says eventually, before turning around again. “Goodnight, John.”

During the following days, we become... closer. It’s strange to observe, even stranger to feel. I find Sherlock doing our laundry one morning. It’s almost endearing, even though my white jumper is now bright pink after being washed with his aubergine shirt. He even makes me toast a couple of times, makes sure I’m always properly nourished. I don’t catch him checking my vitals again, to my slight disappointment, as I realize with a feeling of dread one day. But I remain feeling quite touched. If not a bit flattered.

Also, my blog is booming. He develops a habit of mocking my titles, but even though he’s the king of banter, I am the writer in this equation. I make him internet famous, he makes me tea. Deep down, I know we both like it.

One night about a week later, I’m at a medical conference in Dublin, I’ve had a couple of beers, and I’m flirting with a beautiful brunette. An oncologist. She’s brilliant and sexy. I think her name’s Sue? And then the facetime app on my phone starts ringing. I’ve been ignoring Sherlock’s increasingly urgent texts all night. They ranged from “John, are you up?” and “I need your insight on the comic book case” to “Pick up John it is a matter of life and death”.

“I’m sorry, I need to get this,” I sigh, and Sophia (?) looks frustrated. My knees wobbles as I try to stand up from the bar stool and it takes a while for my feet to get accustomed to the floor again. “What do you want?” I hiss at the camera after picking up.

“The printer, John, it’s all in the printer. I need you to find out the model of the printer, quickly.” He looks... naked, wrapped in a white sheet, in what seems like his bed. My flatmate texts me “u up” when I’m away, and then facetimes me from his bed in nothing but a sheet. No wonder people talk.

“I’ve met someone, Sherlock,” I whisper-shout, walking out of the pub and the cold Dublin air slaps me in the face. “It was going very well until you rudely interrupted us...”

“Don’t tell me you’re not in the least bit excited to hear my brilliant deductions, then write all about it in your little blog...”

“I’ve met someone, as I just told you. The world doesn’t revolve around you...”

“I don’t think that the world revolves around me,” he says, looking terribly offended. “Although admittedly it would make much more sense if it did...”

“Come on, Sherlock,” I chuckle at the camera. “I see how you dress, flamboyance is your middle name, and you love an audience. Need I remind you that my first role in your turbulent life was that of a skull on the mantelpiece?”

“You’ve evolved since then.”

I’m left gaping incredulously at the level of his audacity. “Well, ta.”

“Anyway, John, contrary to your assumptions about my person, and despite the fact that I still do think you would profit profoundly from an introduction to the joys of custom-tailored trousers, I don’t care what people think.”

I hear myself giggling in the middle of the pavement as people less drunk than I am pass by, chatting merrily. The buzz of the city makes me somewhat giddy too. “Prove it.”

“How?”

“Wear what you’re wearing now during our next case.”

“What do I get if I do that?”

“You see, you don't have the balls to do that...”

“What do I get?”

“My acknowledgment and utmost respect.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Dull.”

“Okay, okay,” I chuckle again. “I’ll buy us dinner. Wherever you want.”

“Cafe Royal?”

“Cafe Royal.”

“Fine,” a wide smile spreads on his face. It’s endearing, really.

When I return inside, Susannah is unfortunately nowhere to be seen.

*

Sherlock, please tell me you’re not currently headed where I’ve just been informed I’m headed wearing that sheet. I was drunk last night when I dared you.

Reservation for two at the Cafe Royal at eight. See you soon. SH

And God save Her, of course. SH

To be continued...

[strafepanzer]

tiny tiny drabble under the cut. implications of suicidal thoughts, and mentions of suguru and his death.

You wonder if Satoru’s eyes are rimmed red beneath those glasses, but you’re too choked up to ask.

Instead, you place your hand on his, wrap your fingers around his own where they clutch at his seat. He doesn’t acknowledge you, but he doesn’t take his hand away either, just sits. Sits and stares.

The view is beautiful— the sun about to set for the day, painting the sky in oranges and pinks and blues— the wind lightly tousling his hair, giving what’s left of the suns rays the chance to dance through those white locks. But you don’t stare; you can’t.

Your eyes glass up again, and you blink away tears. The ache in your chest burns the more you think, the more you remember why you’re up here, why he’s here with you.

“What were you gonna do up here?” His voice is cool, not quite cold, but icy enough to make your heart sink.

Guilt has you retracting your hand, tucking it between your thighs, trying to suppress a shiver. “Nothing. I was just… nothing.” You land on, eyes finding your shoes.

Satoru stands, shoves his hands in his pockets, refuses to look at you. “It’s hard, isn’t it?” He muses, moreso to himself as he approaches the edge of the roof with long, slow strides. His hair whips as he bends over the railing. His lips move but you can’t hear what he says.

Were you going to jump? The though has you scared, has you clenching your jaw and sniffling, wiping tears on the sleeve of your sweater.

It’s selfish of you to even think it, to even entertain the notion. You can’t do it. You can’t leave Satoru after he went through the painstaking ordeal of saving you from Kenjaku, after he spent all of his time convincing the higher ups that you’re friend not foe. After vouching for you.

But he’s not a replacement for Suguru.

And neither are you.

“We’ve been through this,” he’s saying, voice carrying over the wind, arms splayed melodramatically. “He was never Suguru! I thought you understood that?”

His audacity has you prickling. “I do! Does that not make it worse?” You yell back, your tears flowing again. Anger and sadness and remorse. “I did all of those bad things! I was a pawn! Nothing else!”

“He would never have wanted you to do that—“

“I know!”

“So think! Why would he want you to join him in the afterlife?”

You hiss in a breath of air, taken aback. He stands before you, bent at the waist to look at you nose to nose.

“It might be cruel, but it’s right.” He says coldly.

Your heart stutters and you bite your bottom lip so hard you taste copper. He stands up straight, folds his arms, waiting.

Always waiting. Always two steps ahead.

It was stupid to think he’d even let you get near the ledge.

“You’re just upset because you can’t do it. You can’t join him where he is. Gojo Satoru can’t die.” You choke out.

He thinks on your words, processes them slowly before crouching at your feet, taking off his glasses. “I don’t want to die, and neither do you.” He says, a hand on your knee, face neutral, those ethereal eyes of his a shifting cerulean. “We have so much life left, and the real Suguru would want us to live. All he wanted… was for us to live.”

You throw yourself at him and he catches you, falling back on his ass and cradling you in his arms. “I don’t feel… like I’m living.”

“I know.”

“I don’t wanna feel like this.”

“I know.” He repeats, smoothing your hair with a hand. “I know.”

You stay like that for an eternity, holding each other close, unwilling to let go. Minds race and tears fall, soaking his shirt, while your fingers grip onto him for dear life.

When you finally calm yourself and look up at him, Satoru’s eyes are red around the edges.

[rainboq]

Arcadia is Burning

Summary:

With her life in cinders following her parents' bitter divorce, Rachel finds herself torn away from the sun and surf of Long Beach and dragged into the rainy forests of Oregon; dumped by her dad in a little town called Arcadia Bay in the ass end of nowhere to attend a boarding school named Blackwell Academy. Confused and hurt by her sudden exile, Rachel turns to The Vortex Club, run by the cream of the school, and theatre to keep herself busy. Embedding herself with the eldest son of town's preeminent family, Nathan Prescott, in the process. At least one girl, a local firebrand struggling with the sudden death of her father, Chloe Price, seems to promise a reprieve from the constant boredom as she drinks her way from party to party, skipping class and getting in fights. She just needs to find a way to get her to notice her. But not all in Arcadia Bay is as it seems. A trusted friend today could be your worst nightmare tomorrow, memories are long, and there's not much of anything but forest and the ocean for miles in every direction. There's nowhere to run from her problems, precious little to distract her, and trying to keep them under control will only cause them to build and build... Until they consume her.

Preview:

Embers flicker in the air around her.

Tiny pinpricks of winking incandescence floating in place.

Her hands reach out but the lights dance away from her touch.

Will o’ the wisps slipping between her fingers and flowing around her arms.

She reaches for purchase.

To grasp and hold.

Rachel falls.

Tumbling into an ocean of lights below.

Warm and cold, young and old, blue and gold.

She falls into the space between their indifferent glow.

The lights show her no truth.

They give her no empathy.

They exist in their multitudes but none react to her.

Tumbling through their spaces, she reaches out for them again. 

Desperately trying to touch their glow and feel their warmth.

A blue light shimmers as she draws near, dancing agonizingly close to her touch.

She flails forward, trying to touch it, her fingers managing the barest graze.

Warmth fills her as she holds it tight.

An agonizing, burning hotness as they float away again and she falls below the cluster.

With nothing but the fire in her veins and the blue glow in her hands.

The air turns to flame as they tumble.

Art by the ever delightful @patchodraws!

[reds-skull]

BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

This took a while because I was busy with uh... stuff...

I don't like how short it turned out, even though for my old standards it would be long.

Either way, this chapter is called "Hell Rising". Hope you enjoy!

Page 9 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 3:

Why do you, asked the beast, Not fear me, monster of sharp bones and teeth? The blind man considers, I do not believe in beasts, I do not believe in monsters, I believe in the man’s nature, to be kind, And in his storm, to be utterly merciless, In his moon, to aid the poor, And in his sun, to burn the sinner.

Soap gets dragged to the ground by Ghost, the huge man collapsing. He snarls, “the fuck- let go!”

Ghost doesn’t let up, so he shakes his grip off. Soap looks up, mouth open to snap at the bastard, before he halts.

Ghost tries to hide everything human about him - his skin covered by layers of dark clothing, face shielded with a grotesque skull, but no matter how much he tries, he cannot hide his eyes.

Dark brown, lit by the scarlet red flares, shine up at Soap. 

And he sees in them pure, unadulterated terror. 

Soap’s breath hitches, his gut roils. In an instant, Ghost isn’t this larger-than-death soldier, a monster more than a man, a name to strike a fear greater than God.

Ghost is a man. A man that fears, just like him, that bows to the rule of nature and to the innate dread of the Reaper.

The flare near them dies down, taking with it the light gleaming in Ghost’s eyes. Soap looks down, watching him try to move his left leg, the muscles shaking with exertion. Whatever’s wrong with him, it’s spreading-

“Yer poisoned…” 

Ghost stills, so much so that Soap isn’t sure he’s breathing. “I am.” the man lets out.

Voices come closer to their position, boots crush through stalks of wheat. Torches and flares flash through the plants, casting dancing shadows over the both of them. Soap feels his heart thrumming, and he knows he must choose.

“Ghost.” he levels the man with a determined stare, and he snaps his gaze to Soap’s. “I know ye would rather leave me to die, go scurry away to whatever hell ye crawled out of.” He rises to his feet, “but we both know ye can’t. Now, would you rather die alone…”

Ghost’s head tilts, Soap offering a hand, “...or fight together?”

For a breath, nothing moves, the world plunges into darkness.

In the next, Ghost takes his hand, and rises to his full height, “don’t happen to have something in mind, do you Sergeant?”

Soap flexes his jaw, mentally going through the supplies he has left in his rucksack. Bleach, bottles, screwdriver… oh!

His lips stretch to a maniacal grin, “I do, actually.”

A rustling behind them snaps both of their focuses, “can ye walk?” Soap looks back, Ghost’s leg trembling but holding.

“Well enough for your plan?” Ghost nods to his leg.

Soap sighs, “has to be.”

Ghost nods, “lead the way.”

They drop to a crouch, slowly backing away from the soldier nearest to them. Ghost’s steps aren’t as silent as they usually are, and his steps crunch loudly. The soldier turns around, light pointing at them. They both stop moving. Soap watches his hand move towards his radio.

They get spotted, it’s over. Ghost swiftly pulls out a knife, but with his condition, Soap is not certain he’ll win.

He nabs the knife from Ghost, dashing forward.

“Shit, we got one here-!” the soldier squeaks, before Soap slams into him, landing them on the ground. He hits the radio with the hilt, shattering it. The soldier scrambles for his rifle, and Soap stabs him above his tacvest, but it’s not enough, he’s going to get the gun-

A knife drives into the man’s eye socket, and his limbs fall as if his strings were cut. Soap heaves a breath, and turns to see Ghost looming over him.

Did he just throw that knife from that angle, in complete darkness, and nailed the soldier right in the eye?!

“I had him.” Soap lies through his teeth. He takes the discarded rifle and loops the strap around his shoulder.

Ghost shakily bends down to rip his knife off of the soldier’s skull, “clearly.”

“Awa’ an bile yer heid, ye posh bastard.”

The bastard in question stares at him for a moment, and grunts, “I’ll pretend I understood that.”

Soap pushes off the body, starting for the parked vehicles, “means go fuck yourself, you overconfident arsehole.” he over enunciates.

He thinks he mishears the smile in Ghost’s voice, “much better.”

After maneuvering around several soldiers, the armored trucks left on the road come into view. Ghost’s leg got better as they continued sneaking through the field. Despite how mad he still is at the back stabbing liar, Soap can’t help but feel a smidgen of sympathy for the man. If his arm and leg were to spontaneously stop working, with no predictable pattern, he too would be terrified.

Soap continues to wonder who Ghost really is. The most likely answer is a lone merc, but… the 141 doesn’t go after such small threats.

That is, unless they pose an international threat.

They clearly knew each other… perhaps this isn’t the first time Ghost evaded them.

Soap pulls out the bag of black powder from his pack. It’s really not enough for what he wants to try, but when are the odds ever in his favor?

“Alright.” Soap turns to Ghost, “what I need is a spark plug, as much gas as we could gather, and a distraction.”

The headlights allow for him to see Ghost’s brows furrowing, “what are you going to do?”

Soap smirks, “ah, jus’ gunna blow up their convoy to high hell. Leave ‘em stranded with no lights, and we can run off into the night.”

Ghost seems to mull the plan over, scanning the trucks. He points to one in the back, further from the rest, “I’ll drive this one away. They’ll think we’re escaping with it, and run back to their vehicles…”

“... you want to blow them up.”

Ghost nods.

He exhales. It won’t be a merciful death, that one. But who says they won’t go back to killing civilians once they return to the city?

Maria and Victor flash in his mind, the fearful children left in the rain alone to die, and his heart hardens. No one had mercy for them. Not one soldier considered stopping their maddening march through the city, shooting anything that moves. Never asked whether they’re shooting parents, brothers, grandmothers, daughters, or actual threats.

Not a single one.

Suddenly, Soap doesn’t care what happens to the Hunter’s soldiers anymore.

Soap assesses the forces left by the trucks. About 8 soldiers, one for each truck. Soap has the rifle he took from the body, and a couple of knives he gathered around the city. He knows ghost has a silenced pistol, and an unknown number of knives (which he keeps pulling out of thin air like the worst magic trick in history).

Ghost must’ve noticed the wheels turning in his head, because he says, “I can take the three up front, let them make some noise and draw the others. You’ll get the spark plug and gas while they’re busy with me.”

“And how are ye gonna get back to the truck?”

The fucker just shrugs, “easy to disappear in the dark.”

Soap side eyes him, before rolling his eyes. “I’ll take out the two at the back, I see a fuel tank in the truck bed.” 

“Copy.” Ghost answers, and easily slinks away, like a predator hunting for prey. Soap readies his blade, and stalks closer to his targets.

The blood spilling down his arms doesn’t even register in his mind anymore.

Ghost’s diversion worked, maybe too well. Soap quickly finishes spilling the gas around the first truck in the chain, letting it mix with the rest of the river forming from the punctured tanks of the others.

The spark plug is rigged and ready, all he’ll need to do is throw it at the gas, and it’ll trigger the reaction. The longer they wait, however, the less strong the reaction will be, as the gasoline mixes with the oxygen in the air.

At this moment, Soap really wished they had comms. But, this isn’t a real mission, Ghost isn’t his teammate, and there are no regulations to be found.

Soap backs away, letting the wheat crops hide him again, and he waits. Keeping his head on a swivel, splitting his focus between the ruckus the soldiers are making at the front of the convoy, and the truck at the back.

He chokes on a breath when the lights turn on, the vehicle instantly shifting to drive backwards at neck breaking speed. Soap didn’t see even a hair of Ghost before that moment.

Perhaps his overconfidence isn’t that unwarranted…

Shouting fills his ears, soldiers scrambling for their trucks, not noticing the gas leaks in their hurry. A fatal mistake.

As soon as most of them are in, Soap inhales, draws his arm back…

And throws the spark plug. It hits the road with full force, igniting with a small yellowish-white flame. Instantaneously, it spreads like blood in water, and the fire encompasses the trucks. 

The first explosion is so strong it singes his nose hairs, Soap wildly thinks. He would be admiring the tall flames, if the crackling blaze wasn’t accompanied by anguished screams. He may have no remorse for the Hunter’s soldiers, but he’s not going to take joy in their death.

Ghost’s truck is far ahead, headlights turned off. Soap wonders if he’s just going to leave him here, go back to the city and do whatever ghosts do. Maybe it would be for the best, it’s not like he’s really keen on sticking with the bastard.

Still, a part of Soap doesn’t want to be betrayed again.

That part cheers on when Ghost’s form slowly comes into view, bone white skull almost glowing in the fire’s light.

The man stares at the destruction Soap caused, and returns his gaze.

“Truck’s out of fuel. You saved anything from their’s?”

Soap lifts his eyes to the sky, “...fuck.”

They’ve been walking for so long, the sun has started to rise, the stars fading away to reveal greyish dull skies.

Soap’s eyes are flagging. He hasn’t slept more than a few minutes since the first shot was fired, and while he’s used to going a long while without sleeping, he’s been on high alert the whole time. It’s starting to take a toll on him.

Ghost isn’t faring much better, not that the man is saying anything. His left leg is shaking again, almost tripping on nothing every couple of steps.

He abruptly stops, when he spots a shed not too far from them. Probably made to keep farming equipment, and looks like it’ll be cramped as all hell for men of their size, but it’s the only building for miles and fuck, he’s so tired.

“Ghost.” the masked man grunts. “We should stop to rest.”

Ghost snaps his gaze to his, then to the shed he’s pointing at, “I don’t need to sleep.” he grounds.

“Aye, aye, yer strong and ye don’t need anyone, got it. I’m not going to pick ye up if ye fall, ye big lug.”

Ghost puffs his chest like he’s about to retort, but he deflates, “...fine. I’m taking first watch.”

Soap doesn’t wait for him to follow, starting to walk towards the shed. As he gets closer, he can see just how dilapidated it is - wooden planks rotting off it’s walls, door almost falling off the hinges. He can’t wait to finally lay down.

The inside of the shed doesn’t look much better, with broken tools strewn everywhere, and a dirt floor. Soap takes a tarp off of the wobbly table, and lays it on the ground. At least this way they’re not gonna sleep on actual soil…

Ghost sits down, facing the door. Soap considers the rifle in his hands, before cautiously passing it to Ghost.

If he shoots him in the back at this point, Soap prays hell is real for him.

He lies on the tarp, his spine groaning in relief. Soap turns his back to Ghost, closing his eyes and sighing.

Ants of anxiousness climb his skin, heart refusing to calm. Soap turns around, and presses his back to the wall. He stares at Ghost for a moment. The man has his gaze glued to the door, rifle resting between his thighs. Soap never noticed the markings on the skull mask, white lines dragging down the cheekbones, like tears. 

He doesn’t mean to, but Soap’s eyes close on their own volition, and he drifts off to sleep.

“What have you done…?”

Soap looks down. His hands dripping blood. He lowers them, revealing the body of their target. Dead, neck sliced and breath choked out.

“We were supposed to bring the HVT back alive!”

His fists clench. Leaving him alive would’ve doomed the rest of the world. His screaming CO doesn’t understand, none of them understand.

The corpse rises, loose jaw swinging, blank eyes rotating in darkened sockets to leer at him.

“I’ll be seeing you again, MacTavish… I promise”

Blood drops from his mouth, filling the helo, red rising and rising until all Soap can see is the target’s laughing mouth.

“And when I do… I’ll take away everything you ever knew.”

Something shakes his shoulder, and Soap instantly grabs it, snarling as he opens his eyes. It takes him a few moments of frantically looking around to realize he will not be seeing a dead man speaking to him.

Soap looks down, to the boot he still holds in his hand. Ghost’s boot. He lets it be ripped away.

“Your turn on overwatch, Sergeant.” Ghost flatly says, standing over him. Soap’s gaze lingers on his brown eyes for a moment longer, before he rises to his feet.

He silently takes the rifle propped against the wall, and leans on the table. Ghost slowly sinks to the floor, and lays down to sleep.

He looks away, staring at his reflection in the window.

Soap wonders if that target is laughing at him from hell. Despite killing him, the man still took away everything he knew. His life’s work, his house, his friends.

Himself.

[asteroidtroglodyte]

[what am i]

Mutant

It is 2004. Is the Geiger Counter heavy because it’s Old Tech, or because it’s a Geiger Counter? I do not ask the question aloud. My father is talking. I rotate it in my hands, examining it. He is talking about his father. The Geiger counter is a relic of my grandfather’s military service. It is older than me. It is older than my school. It is older than my father. I turn it on. A red light glows. The dial fidgets. “Are we safe?” I ask aloud, as it softly, slowly ticks. “Are we ever?” My father answers. My look of horror is met with laughter.

It is 1999. There is a photo of a mushroom cloud rising out of a deep blue ocean. It sits inconspicuously in a wooden frame near my grandfathers chair. I stare at it. I have recently learned about atomic weapons in an abstract sort of way in school. My grandmother speaks. “Your grandfather took that picture.”

It is 2002. “These are some of my favorite books.” My father believes I am old enough for his old novels. The entire John Carter of Mars. Asimov, Bradbury, Clarke. Foundation & Empire. Edgar Rice Burroughs. Tarzan.

It is 1971. My father hunts wild pigs. Dogs he has raised from puppies explicitly for this purpose rustle through the jungle ahead of him. He is like the pigs, the descendants of Europeans on tour, left behind by boats bearing death. He is armed only with a large knife and his dogs. He survives.

It is 1955. My father plays with the Geiger counter that I will hold in my hands one day. It is humid and hot inside the Quonset hut. My father points it at my grandfather. The dial dances; the machine goes tickticktick. My grandmother is sleeping, or trying to; migraines take her out for days at a time, sharp pain and vivid halos exacerbated by the tropical sun. The noise wakes her, and my grandfather takes the Geiger counter away.

It is 2009. “Weird.” Not the sort of thing you want your doctor to say. “Has your heart always done that?” I ask him to explain what he means. “Oh, it’s just, it’s… beating… funny?” He indicates some squiggles on a monitor, as if I could see the patterns as he did. “Do you mind if we run some tests?” I would be a fool to decline.

It is 1977. My father watches the stars. The sea is still. He has turned off the lights on his boat, and the nearest artificial light is over the horizon. He eats fish he caught during the day. He comes to land to get the supplies he cannot catch; tools made of metal; rope, line, medicine. He spends seven years on that boat, going from island to island. He survives.

It is 2019. My father puts dilute hydrogen peroxide in his water bottle. We dress and depart. He hike through the craggy desert highlands, rich browns and ambers of the desert varnish broken by the occasional brilliance of a tarantula hawk. The local wildlife is smart enough to seek shelter at this time of day, but we are Sons of Empire and ignore the sun, like Adam turning his back on God. We traipse over broken boulders, fighting gravity for a scenic view. He tells me about the past between breaths; this mountain was sacred, once. Those who sanctified it are dead now. The way he talks, you would think that he killed them himself. The breeze is hot and dry on the ridge top. Looking down on the valley below, he drinks deeply from the bottle. He offers me some. “Extra oxygen” he says, with the air of someone sharing valuable advice. Tentatively, I take a sip: It is slippery, and burns slightly. My 70 year old father climbs back down from the mountains with me. We pretend the desert sun does not exist.

It is 1946. The War is Over. The Good Guys have won; or so the story goes. My grandmother is newly married, and loves her husband very much. Once, she had been a daydreaming farm girl, a fan of the Wizard of Oz books; She feels like Dorothy, transported, when her husband’s work whisks them away from rural California to The Pacific. They’re working on something big, he says, but loose lips sink ships and he says nothing else.

It is 1949. The migraines are paralyzing. The doctor tells her she is pregnant, and her mind fades to static. This is the 5th time she has been told this in her life, but she has yet to give birth to a single living child. The Geiger counter ticktickticks whenever her husband is near.

It is 1950. My father is born.

Mutant

Survivor

Son of Empire

Human

[greaterspawnislands]

whumptober 2022

happy whumptober! here’s where I’ll be posting and updating angels fall from blinding heights for the rest of the month!

read it here -> https://archiveofourown.org/works/42068244/chapters/105621156

chapter one snippet under the cut :)

CW: near-death experience, drowning

He can't die here, not like this, but he also can't risk being trapped here when Ender finally does take the monument for himself. That's almost a fate worse than death, and one that Phil knows Ender has been trying to secure for a long time now.

But he's swimming against a whirlpool. The current keeps sucking him backward for every inch of progress he tries to swim forward. The burning in his lungs is becoming unbearable, and there's no sign of help above or below.

Black spots begin to crowd at Phil's eyes as pressure builds, disorientating enough that his frantic kicking falters and water begins to leak into his mouth. Reflexes kick in, attempting to expel the water from reaching his throat, but there's no air left to push. As water fills his mouth and nose, Phil's head tips back to the refracted image of the sun dancing above the water, hand outstretched in a final plea as the whirlpool threatens to suck him down into its depths.

And then Phil lands on solid stone.

It's a long drop, and the sudden drop in pressure doesn't help much, either. Saltwater spews from Phil's mouth, splattering all over the stone as he expels every drop of it in order to refill his body with precious air. His shaking hands press harshly against the stone, water draining from every part of him as he frantically blinks saltwater out of his eyes in order to get an understanding of what had happened.

The second he starts to lift his head up, though, he's practically assaulted by a flurry of terrified crows, all of their wings fluttering against his skin in a pitiful attempt at drying him off. Phil chokes on a laugh, voice rough with convulsions as he tries to get an answer out of his murder.

"What just fuckin' happened?" he asks, just as the stone under his hands answers for him, by spreading moss across the floor faster than moss should ever grow on its own.

[neo-lucien]

Very smol drabble this time, just something that’s been on my mind ehe. If you want a part two lmk. I recommend listening to Softcore by The Neighborhood while reading this :3

Softcore

The silence was deafening, like the flash of lightning right before thunder struck. It was the kind of silence that only seemed to happen when you neared death, when everything else slowed down, down, down, almost appearing to be completely still. It wasn’t quite like life was flashing before my eyes, but like my life itself stood apart from me, growing impossibly further, further, further away. A kiss, so gentle and tender to cradle my glass-like stupor as to not harm me. And then it befell me.

The thunderous cracking of breaking down.

I don’t want to play this part, but I do, all for you.

I’d known since the beginning it was doomed. He was enamored with his duties, I was enamored with him, even despite knowing it was for nothing. Yet when he was here, with me, it were as though I were his only muse, the melody of his life, the spark that set his heart ablaze. I’d be the one to guide him through every dark night, to protect him from the demons that plagued his mind. And then he’d be gone again, and I’d be home alone, left with only the memory of his laughter in the halls and my thoughts.

Are we too young for this? It feels like I can’t move.

Loving Kyojuro began to feel more like my duty, and then the thought of not being with him pained me even more than the thought of staying with him. Confusion became my personal demon, stuck between the adoration I felt for my darling Kyo and how to deal with the growing barrier between us both. Soon, sharing my heart started to tear me apart. The halls grew cold, cold, colder when he was gone, and never seemed to get as warm when he’d come back.

The laughter in the halls disappeared, and in its stead would be the image of the back of his robe as he left. He would try, occasionally, to fix things, and behave as though nothing were wrong, yet he never seemed to quite understand the actual problem itself. I yearned for his presence when he was away, yet craved space lest I break when he was around. It was like living with a stranger, like I was sharing my life with someone I barely knew anymore. The bed felt like being stranded in the middle of the ocean; in a bottomless space with no sign of life for miles and miles.

Shadows danced across the walls, like my own personal demons to taunt me. Even when I closed my eyes, I could still see them, and I could hear their mocking laughter. I needed my sun to burn them away, to cast away the shadows with his radiance, but I knew I’d become too drained if he stayed too long. The confusion of not knowing anymore whether I still loved him or loved the thought of him plagued me and kept me dancing eternally around the bonfire. The front door creaked open, I could faintly hear it as I lay in bed, yet I stay in my spot, remaining still with my eyes closed.

I could hear the sound of his familiar footsteps, trudging closer and closer to the bedroom. It opened slowly, then stopped. It was quiet, then, as I lay there, waiting. For what, I didn’t know, but I stayed still, eyes gently shut. And then his footsteps came closer, closer, closer, till I could sense him looming over me. I could feel his gaze on me as he crouched down, and felt the familiar sensation of his fingers running through my hair. He was quiet, still, as he continued to watch me, fingers moving to gently trace the outlines of my features. And then he spoke, quietly, like what he was saying was a secret.

“How much I love you, my dear flame… For you, I’d fight the world, again and again, if it meant keeping you at my side.”

I can hear the sound of breaking down.

[talonslockau]

Fire and Ice - Chapter 34

Chapter 33 || Index || Chapter 35

The heat had become nearly unbearable as greenleaf continued. The sun was beating down relentlessly, making it all but necessary to stand in the shade to prevent overheating. It had been almost half a moon since it had rained; that, combined with the high temperature, made it seem as though nearly all the water in Thunderclan territory had dried up overnight.

It was too hot for nearly any cat to handle, and so the Clan had adjusted to mostly going out at night. Even patrols on the Shadowclan border had been cut during the day; there were reports that the Thunderpath was hot enough to burn a cat to death, so Bluestar had decided there was little point to defending it. If Brokenstar wanted to invade so badly he would have his warriors burn alive to do so, there was little reason to believe a few warriors would significantly deter him.

The daytime was mostly spent trying to stay cool in the shade; a few warriors had even taken to digging out shallow hollows for shade, but most of the time it was too hot to even do that. The apprentices, however, were not so lucky. They still had a single job to do, which was to bring cool, life-giving water to the queens, kits, and elders, who were more susceptible to the heat than the average cat.

This did mean that they were able to drink all that they wanted during each trip, but it had the downside of having to run through the heat, carrying dripping bundles of moss. Cinderpaw had had the bright idea of submerging herself in the river, but the resulting mess of fur had made her even hotter, so none of the others had tried it.

Firepaw and Ravenpaw had been tasked with the water bearing after sunhigh. The two padded into camp, their bundles still dripping, and departed to their respective areas; the nursery for Ravenpaw, and the elders' den for Firepaw. 

He carefully set his burden down on an empty nest, not wanting any of the precious liquid to spill down onto the dirt. "Who needs water?" He asked softly into the den, the shadows lighting up with eyes as he spoke.

"One-eye hasn't had any yet today." Halftail spoke from the end where he was sitting alone. "She should get first drink."

"Nonsense." One-eye's voice was raspy even as she turned the water down. "You're older, so you should-"

A screech rang out across camp, setting every cat's fur on end as memories of Shadowclan's attack danced through their minds. "Stay here." Firepaw ordered the elders, though he knew they would come if they very well pleased, before darting through the entrance.

The commotion came from the nursery, where a furious Frostfur faced off against Ravenpaw. "You're not setting paw in my nursery!" She spat at the black tom. "I don't care what you have. I won't let you harm my kits."

Firepaw padded across camp, his sense of urgency vanishing like water in the heat. At least no one was in danger; everything else was secondary to that. "What are you talking about, Frostfur?" Firepaw mewed soothingly. "Ravenpaw would never harm your kits."

Frostfur snorted angrily. "That's what he would have you believe!" She hissed at Firepaw, but her bright blue eyes didn't move from their focus on the oldest apprentice. "But I know better. You're not coming near Goldenflower, traitor."

Ravenpaw, for his part, was cowering beneath the white queen's fury, the mossball he had been carrying laying in the dust between them. Firepaw winced to see the life-giving water it held draining into the dust instead of going to the thirsty queens. "Come on, Frostfur. He's only bringing water for Goldenflower. Surely he can't do any harm with that." The ginger tom pleaded, pressing against his fellow apprentice in the hopes of slightly comforting him.

"What's going on?" He heard a commanding voice from behind him before Frostfur could answer, and turned to see that a small crowd had gathered around them. Bluestar was standing directly behind him, her own blue eyes blazing in the greenleaf sun. "Frostfur, surely you recognize these two Thunderclan apprentices?"

"I only see a Shadowclan traitor and a kittypet sympathizer!" Frostfur growled, her bristled tail lashing. "They might claim loyalty to Thunderclan, but I know where their true hearts lie!"

Firepaw bristled, ready to defend himself, but it was Bluestar that spoke first. "Don't be ridiculous, Frostfur. Ravenpaw and Firepaw have both been excellent apprentices for Thunderclan. Starclan themselves approve of these two."

The angry queen huffed dismissively. "Of course they do." She spared a brief glance to Bluestar before fixing her gaze back on Ravenpaw, like she was afraid even that moment would be enough for the terrified tom to slip past her. "They've just pretended to be good apprentices to fool you. Not me, though. I know the truth." She hissed, her voice low, as though afraid someone unwanted might overhear them. "I'm not letting them near our kits. Not as long as I still draw breath."

"Frostfur, please." It was a different voice - Dappleshine, one of the other longtime queens. "Goldenflower and Speckleflight need this water. Surely you can make an exception, just this once?"

He could tell the answer by the way Frostfur's face rankled before she even spoke. "And give them a chance to hurt our kits? Absolutely not."

The rest of the Clan seemed shocked at her words, and Firepaw himself didn't know what to say. He had heard rumors of her wrath before, but this was beyond anything he could have imagined. He opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn't summon any words to challenge her in this moment.

"I'll get it." A lithe gray form darted between the two opposing sides to grab the mossball off the ground, and he realized gratefully it was Pepperpaw. "I'm safe, right?" She asked Frostfur soothingly.

The nursery guardian eyed her warily, as though she too were some sort of Shadowclan spy. Finally, she nodded and allowed just enough space for the spotted molly to squeeze through. "Fine. But no one else."

Pepperpaw dipped her head in acknowledgement and padded past, not even glancing at the other two apprentices. The ginger tom understood why, but it still hurt to feel so ignored. With the drama dealt with, the crowd dispersed, leaving only the two apprentices, Bluestar, and Dappleshine for Frostfur to stare down.

Bluestar finally sighed and lowered her tail from its challenging stance. "I understand the heat is affecting everyone, Frostfur, but you can't just accuse two hardworking apprentices of being disloyal to the Clan with no proof." She admonished the queen wearily. "I hope this won't happen again."

Frostfur snorted again. "Oh, but there is proof. He tried to poison your deputy in front of you." She whipped around and disappeared into the nursery, her ears closed to any argument the others may have given.

Firepaw sighed in both disbelief and relief. "I don't know what that was all about." He commented to Ravenpaw beside him, only to realize the dark apprentice wasn't by his side. Whirling around, he was just in time to see a white tail-tip disappearing into the bramble tunnel out of camp.

"I don't either." Dappleshine admitted. "I'm sorry, Bluestar. Frostfur's been a bit paranoid, with the rumors about Shadowclan going around, but I didn't think she'd go so far as to lash out at Ravenpaw. I'll try to talk with her later."

The leader nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Dappleshine. I'm sure you'll sort this out." With that, she turned and returned to her lounging spot by Whitestorm and Lionheart, not even sparing a glance to Firepaw. He wilted, unable to help but feel impossibly small in the moment. Even Dappleshine ignored him, choosing instead to follow the other queen into the nursery, leaving him standing alone.

Firepaw's heart ached as he glanced towards the entrance. The scene from just moments ago replayed in his mind, the sheer rage in Frostfur's eyes as she spoke and the seeming lack of sympathy from everyone else. Just as he was about to return to his duties, a bolt of realization arced through him. The words she'd spat at them: he'd heard them before, talking about the very same skinny black tom that had just fled.

"That's what he would have you believe." He mumbled under his breath as his eyes fixed on Longtail, who was cleaning Mousefur's ears. Beside him were Tigerclaw and Dustleap, who were talking about something he couldn't hear from here. As he watched, the larger tom looked up to see Firepaw watched him, his amber eyes shining bright in the darkness.

He looked away quickly, recalling what Ravenpaw had said about his father. Tigerclaw would ensure that the dark tom would be driven out of the Clan if Firepaw didn't do something. But what could he do in the face of an entire Clan?

[aphellos]

Sometimes i just wanna die (wish that I could tell you why).

Blue flames eventually lower in heat, joining the burning staffs still touched by wicked orange even as their wielders lay still. Leaving Aphelios the last thing standing in the burning field. He cannot smell the ashen air, cannot feel the singes on his leathers. And soon, the moonstone weapon in his grasp is dissipating. Try as he might to hold Infernum close, it fades from the physical realm all the same. Alune's final words to him are an impossible distance away, until he can no longer sense her at all. Aphelios is left alone in the burning field. He doesn't dare look at the ground, where the Solari scouting party now lay scattered about. Disdain and pain seared into their features. The air stings his eyes as he makes to leave, and Aphelios can only think of the lives cast aside tonight, hate guiding them to their deaths. By his hand. He cries well into the night, even when he has left the field to burn itself out.

When the poison's effect has completely ebbed, Aphelios swears all he had sustained while pain was dulled comes to light all at once. Harsh rays of the sun warms the hidden, lonely temple he sought refuge in until he is sweating and gasping for fresh air. But he cannot move from his bedding, exhaustion making the thought of rising again impossible. Waves of heat make his points of pain all the more noticeable. From crown to heel, there was something that hurt all the way down. Rolling from back to side, an agonised scream has no chord to be heard from. He sobs as his reddened eyes are squeezed tight. There are no tears left for him to cry.

Aphelios often wonders what will happen to him, when the Lunari are no longer hunted, no longer branded heretics. His journeys across Targon seldom have interruptions to these thoughts. One day he will pray for his sister's powers one final time. When they no longer need protection, there will be no need for weapons. His duties fulfilled. His purpose, completed. A loose rock underfoot threatens to send him clambering over the edge, but a quick hand grabs hold of a branch to keep him on the narrow mountain path. It's thorns dig into his palm, but he pulls himself up regardless. Looking down in the valley below, he can see the effects of the previous night's fight in its entirety. Half the hillside scorched to the dirt, the other alight in the falling sun's light. The fight for the Lunari would be a long, grueling one. And despite how it would end, he prayed for it's finality every moment.

Even deep within the sanctums of Targon, they were not safe to celebrate with all of their hearts. The world was awake in the day, and at night, celebrations would be seen or heard far further. Music reverbed in the caves, singing was whispered and dancing slow. All performed in the darkness without Her light. But still the Lunari celebrated; life, each other, and every night gifted to bask in the Moon's beautiful light. When Aphelios had entered, the crowd grew silent. Greeted with only bows of respect and words of gratitude for his sacrifice. The protection he and his sister gave them imperative for their survival. A hoarse voice replies faint as a whisper, when needed. Conversations peter out once they ask him all he knows of where he has been, if they will need to move soon, and what should be done next. Most was for the Moon to answer. None wish to speak of their ordinary days with him even when he has the chance to ask, fussing over repairs to his sacred garb or when he had last eaten. If he had been using the noctum gardens newly cultivated in nearby sanctuaries for him. Broth is forced down a throat still raw from the flower's poison before the Weapon excuses himself. As he nears the cave mouth, the festivities slowly begin again. He decides to guard the entrance for the rest of the night.

His purpose called, tonight. Agony awaited him in the prepared bowl Aphelios stared down in. His gaunt, tired features catch in the reflection, dark eyes pleading for rest staring back. But it was not just suffering he and all he faced this eve would be brought. The only connection to his sister was brought to painted lips as he drank. Even as he convulses, Aphelios could hear her. Alune reaching him again, until she is by his side. She understood better than many the weight of their responsibility, but even so there is joy in having him close, again. He can feel her questioning worry for him, wondering what has happened since they had last found one another. Alune, in her isolation, depended on him to see the physical realm. Aphelios was her link, and her hand. As much as he needed her, she to him. And they could not waste precious time with sharing burden. Especially when one of them felt it tenfold. He would not ask her, in her sanctuary, to mourn for his isolation. With noctum settling into his system, the Weapon readies himself for duty, his hand finding Alune's choice from the arsenal tonight.

i prevail; paranoid ⁺₊⋆ ☾