#chapter 11 of maelstrom

[knight-hiccup]

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₁₁

This is Chapter 11 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 11.4k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 11

A/N: Content Advisory: This chapter is intended exclusively for a mature audience. It contains explicit and graphic depictions of severe injuries sustained in a realistic war setting, including detailed gore, nudity, and the death of characters. Additionally, it features realistic portrayals of wounds inflicted upon the Red Death and other dragons. Strong, offensive language is also present. Reader discretion is strongly advised due to the intense and disturbing nature of the material. There are also light/lightning/flashing gifs. You’re responsible for what you read.

The wind howled like a chorus of restless spirits, a mournful dirge born of Njord's restless breath over the vast open sea, clawing at your face with icy fingers as the Deadly Nadder carved through the twilight sky. Two days and one night had bled into a relentless blur since Hiccup's hurried lessons in the arena, his voice steady as he taught the others to wield the dragons' might against the vast, untamed ocean.

Now, perched atop the Nadder's vibrant scales, you clung to Hiccup's waist, your arms a steadfast anchor of warmth against the cold as he guided the beast through the fog-choked air. Astrid pressed close behind you, her grip firm on the ropes, her breath a faint rhythm against the gale.

The dragon's wings beat with a thunderous cadence, each stroke a defiant chant against the abyss below—a sea of churning black, unbroken by land, whispering tales of Aegir's wrath. The night descended swiftly, the sun sinking as the moon cast a faint, pale glow across the starry, bruise-purple sky.

Your cloak, heavy with the weight of wolves' fur, whipped against your sides, its warmth a frail shield against the frost that gnawed at your bones as you dug your face into Hiccups own. The horizon stretched endless, a void where sky and sea merged, and yet Hiccup's resolve burned brighter than any beacon, steering you all toward the dragons' nest by memory and determination drawn by Toothless' chained suffering.

Your mind drifted, tugged back to a moment from the first day's flight, when the ocean's expanse had swallowed all sense of Berk. Snotlout, ever brash, had pushed his Monstrous Nightmare into a reckless dive, his nervous laughter ringing like a war horn as he taunted the others to match his daring.

The dragon's flames had flared almost reaching the boy, a defiant blaze against the gray, then a sudden gust caught the Nightmare's wing, sending Snotlout plummeting toward the waves. Your heart had lurched, a scream trapped in your throat, but Hiccup's instincts were swifter than thought. He'd urged the Nadder into a spiraling descent, its talons grazing Snotlout's cloak and grabbing him with time to spare.

With a grunt Snotlout sighed in relief thinking no one heard. When Hiccup hauled his cousin onto the Nightmare's back, the boy's face paled, his bravado shattered by the rush. Hiccup had guided Snotlout's dragon—calming the beast with a murmured command.

The incident had sobered him, his posture rigid as he gripped the dragons' horns, his showboating silenced by the ocean's unforgiving void. Now, as you flew, Snotlout rode the dragon with a cautious hand, his silhouette a dark smudge against the fog, no longer daring the gods to test his mettle.

Hiccup snapped you back to the present—lifting your head, Hiccup’s shout pierced the gale, sharp as a raven’s cry over the storm.

"Land ahead!" he called, pointing to a faint shadow piercing the mist—a jagged islet, one of the scattered teeth of islets that meant you were only a few more hours to Helheim's Gates' edge until you would see the gray shroud that hid a new world. The islet came into view rising from the sea's embrace as the twilight deepened, the sun's last embers sinking beyond the horizon, and Hiccup urged the Nadder downward, his command a signal for the others.

"Swiftly, before the light's gone!" The dragons obeyed, their wings slicing the air as they descended toward the rocky outcrop, its surface slick with salt and seaweed, gleaming like the scales of Jörmungandr himself. You landed with a jolt, the Nadder's talons scraping stone, and dismounted in a flurry of cloaks and ropes.

The rest followed, their dragons settling around with rumbles of exhaustion. Five hours, Hiccup had decreed, to rest and steel themselves before the dawn's first light—just enough time to catch up to the longships. The air carried a bitter chill, laced with the tang of brine and the faint musk of dragon breath, and you drew your fur cloak tighter, its weight a bulwark against the cold that sought to claim you.

The camp took shape under the gang's weary hands; A blaze kindled from flint and driftwood, casting a golden glow across the stone. You all huddled close for warmth, your fur cloaks—etched with runes of Eihwaz for resilience—draping like war banners over your shoulders.

The dragons curled around you, their scales radiating a primal warmth that rivaled the fire's crackling heart, their breaths a low hymn to Freyr's enduring strength. The Nightmare's tail flicked, sending sparks skyward, while the Gronckle snored, its bulk heavy against the wind. You settled beside Hiccup and Fishlegs, your body sinking into your furs, the day's flight leaching the strength from your limbs.

After the others had long fallen asleep, Hiccup and you talked for some time about what was to come. Trying to figure out a plan but coming short with anything but risky ones. The sky was crystal clear as you two lied down beside each other staring at the stars, unable to sleep from the stress. Without hesitation Hiccup slid his hand into yours without glancing your way, squeezing it in reassurance.

"Stop worrying, okay?" he said, his voice steady and warm. "We've got this, you and me. Whatever's coming—whatever obstacles try to stand in our way—we'll face them together, just like always. We've beaten the odds before, haven't we? Time and time again, we've come through stronger—nothing will get in the way again."

He paused, his eyes locking onto yours with a quiet intensity, the kind that carried the weight of years spent side by side—through victories that left you breathless with laughter and losses that carved you all raw.

Moved by his certainty, your fingers curled around his with a gentle, unspoken reply. You squeezed tightly, as if to anchor yourself to his resolve, then shifted closer until you were pressed against his side, your head resting lightly on his arm. The warmth of his presence enveloped you, a quiet shield against the chill.

He stiffened for a moment, caught off guard by your closeness, his breath catching as he processed your move. Then, slowly, a smile curved his lips—a private, tender thing, meant only for himself, as if he'd just rediscovered a truth he'd always known.

With a careful, almost reverent motion, he draped his arm around your shoulders, drawing you nearer to share his warmth. His embrace was steady, protective, a silent little oath that echoed his earlier words: they were in this together, unyielding against whatever lay ahead.

In the stillness that followed, the air seemed to hum peacefully in your closeness. The world beyond you faded, leaving only the quiet rhythm of your breathing—If only it were to stay this way.

"I trust you," you murmured sleepily, voice a fragile thread of sound, barely louder than the sigh of the wind—but he heard you.

The words slipped from your lips with a quiet conviction. Nothing else was said, as sleep claimed you swiftly, a mercy granted by the gods from the cold, and your dreams still a darken tapestry of Toothless' wails and Hiccup's tear-streaked face as you clutched his cloak.

Beside you, Hiccup still lay awake, his gaze tracing the contours of your sleeping form, the firelight dancing across your features. A smile, soft as a feather falling, curved his lips, and he let the warmth of your presence lull him into slumber, your fur cloaks pooling around you both comfortably.

Dawn's approach stirred you first, years of Gobber and Marta's relentless training etched into your bones, forcing your eyes open despite the weight of exhaustion. The fire had dwindled, its flames licking weakly at the driftwood.

Hiccup now had both his arms wrapped around you, his face close but tucked in his furs, and his hair falling over his eyes as he slept peacefully. It warmed you, and you couldn't help but lay your head back down and admire this rare moment. How cute he looked in this moment to you, it made you smile uncontrollably.

However, you couldn't stay there forever no matter how much you wanted to. So, ever so gently you unwrapped his arms from you causing him to stir and mumble, earning yet another smile from you and you rose quietly to hunt for more wood, the warmth of him gone and the chill replacing it.

With practiced care, you fed the blaze quietly, the crackle of fresh logs a defiant song as old as time, playing against the predawn chill. The air smelled of salty, ocean breeze and charred driftwood, mingled with the faint sweetness of the herbs you'd packed. From your bag, you retrieved a small iron skillet, its surface worn by countless meals, and set to work.

Strips of smoked boar sizzled, alongside some rye bread in herb-butter and cheese, their savory aroma curling into the air like an offering to Odin. The gang slept on, their snores a discordant chorus, but the scent of breakfast tugged at Hiccup's senses. He stirred, his auburn hair a wild tangle, and propped himself up, blinking against the fire's glow.

His fur cloak—thick and oversized, nearly swallowing his lanky frame—trailed the ground as he shuffled to your side, settling close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. Your smile reached your eyes, a light to him in the frost-kissed dawn.

The closeness of him steadied you, his breathing a soft rhythm that mingled with the fire's crackle, its warmth seeping into your bones against the northern cold. This far from Berk, the air bit deeper, a chill that whispered of Niflheim's frozen halls, but your cloak—lined with wolf pelts and stitched with Algiz runes—held the frost at bay.

Hiccup's own cloak, a massive bear hide that seemed to engulf him, drew a quiet laugh from you, bright and sudden, slicing through the dawn's hush. "You look like a bear cub stumbling from its den," you said, nodding at the cloak's bulk, your voice laced with affection.

"Did you raid Gobber's stores for the largest one he had?" Hiccup's lips quirked, a crooked smile breaking through the weariness carved into his face.

"It's practical," he countered with a shrug and wave of his hand, tugging the fur tighter with a mock huff, his green eyes glinting with a teasing spark. "Keeps the wind out—and makes me look formidable, don't you think?"

Your laughter softened—easy not to wake the others as a shared warmth bloomed in the space between you—a small fleeting shield against the war awaiting beyond the horizon, a terror which gnawed at you.

The moment stretched, a quiet harbor amidst the break of your journey, until Hiccup's voice broke the silence, low and earnest.

"Need help with anything?" he asked, his gaze flicking to the skillet, a flicker of guilt in his eyes at letting you shoulder the work alone.

You nodded toward the bag at his side, its leather worn from travel. "Fill the wooden cups," you said, your tone gentle but firm. "They're in there."

He set to work, his fingers deft despite the cold, pouring water from his waterskin into the small carved oak cups, their surfaces etched with tiny runes. The meat hissed in the skillet, their aroma growing richer, and soon Astrid stirred, her braid askew as she blinked awake, drawn by the scent.

Tuffnut followed, his yawn a raucous bellow that shattered the quiet, rousing the others. Snotlout groaned, his stomach growling as he sat up, eyes gleaming with hunger.

"It's been weeks since I tasted your glorious cooking," he admitted sleepily—eyes still closed his voice thick with anticipation, a rare note of gratitude beneath his usual bluster which made you snort.

The gang gathered around the fire—slowly, one by one, and gathering their food portion. Their furs pooling like a warrior's camp while the dragons' warmth encircled you all as the first light of dawn crept over the islet, heralding the battle to come.

As you all sat there in silence, the fire's embers pulsed like the dying heart of a dragon, casting a flickering glow across the rocky islet, cloaks draped heavy with the pounding weight of Freya's woven threads on your shoulders. Sleep clung to your eyes, a stubborn veil that sharpened the truth dawning in your chests—this was no saga whispered by skalds, but a war clawing at the horizon.

The dragons' nest loomed, a jagged wound in Midgard's flesh, and beyond it, the specter of kin—Stoick, Spitelout. . .Gobber—the Vikings of Berk—whose axes might turn against you if Hiccup's plea for peace fell on ears hardened by centuries of blood-feud. You would be a liar if you said it didn't terrify you.

Your hands tightened around the wooden cup, its Tiwaz rune rough against your palm, as the reality settled like a stone in everyone's gut: this was your first war, a crucible forged of hundreds of years in dragon fire and Viking steel, where failure could shatter the fragile hope Hiccup had finally kindled.

The sea churned beyond, its waves a restless hymn to Aegir's wrath in silence as the meal had vanished, bread and boar savored and gone, leaving you all to linger in the fire's waning warmth, reluctant to break the fragile calm.

The twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, huddled close, their whispers a soft cadence, plotting something or steeling their nerves—you couldn't tell. Astrid, Hiccup, and Fishlegs sat by the embers, their voices low, weaving plans and contingencies, their words punctuated by the Gronckle's snores.

Snotlout, ever restless, stood apart, performing a bizarre ritual of armpit stretches and grunts, his movements jerking like a berserker's dance, as if to banish fear through sheer bravado. You rose, your cloak trailing as you drifted to the islet's edge, where the sea stretched toward the unseen nest.

Stretching alone, your muscles loosened under the fur's weight, but your thoughts spiraled into a maelstrom of worry. In the horizon was a gray veil—seen even from where you stood, hiding the longships and Toothless' chained form, and a gnawing unease settled in your bones, whispering of perils beyond the beast fire.

The sun hit you in orange hues, like fire licking at your worried soul—breathtaking, like the calm before a storm. Your boots scuffed the slick stone, the wind's briny sting sharp against your face, and you stared into the fog, searching for answers the sea refused to yield.

The unease deepened, a shadow cast by no sun, and your brows furrowed, carving lines of dread across your face. You didn't hear Hiccup's approach, his boots muffled by the wind's mournful wail, until his hand—warm, calloused—rested on your shoulder. You jolted, spinning to face him, your breath catching as his green eyes met yours, soft yet piercing, like the first light of Yggdrasil's dawn.

He studied you, reading the worry etched into your features as easily as a runestone, and his expression softened, a quiet sorrow flickering beneath his resolve. Slowly, his fingers brushed your cheek, a fleeting touch that traced the curve of your skin before tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was tender, unguarded, and it sent a shiver through you, warmer than the cloak's embrace.

"Don't carry this alone," he said, his voice low, woven with the strength of Thor's hammer. He glanced back, ensuring the gang's chatter masked his words, then leaned closer, his breath a faint warmth against the cold.

"Whatever we face, stay close to me," his words, earnest and calculated, carried a spark of something deeper, a longing he hadn't meant to betray, and it hung between you like a star kindled in the dark.

Your face warmed, a flush blooming beneath the wind's bite, and your stomach fluttered, urging you to close the distance. You kissed his blushed cheek then stared at him to pull him into an embrace that could anchor you both against the coming war as his arms tighten around you.

Astrid's shout sliced through the moment, sharp as a blade. "Dragons are ready! Pack up—we're heading out!"

Her voice carried the weight of command, stirring the gang to their feet, their cloaks flapping as they gathered their meager supplies. Hiccup turned, his gaze lingering on you, and offered that knowing smile—crooked, confident, the one that had steadied you through countless trials.

It was your promise that he'd stand beside you, come what may. You nodded, the dread in your chest easing just enough to let you breathe, and followed him back to the group, your boots crunching against the stone. The dragons stirred, their wings rustling like war banners, and the islet grew taut with purpose, the dawn's first light glinting off scales as you prepared to fly toward the nest—and the war that awaited. 

A/N: Content Advisory: This following part of this chapter is intended exclusively for a mature audience. It contains explicit and graphic depictions of severe injuries sustained in a realistic war setting, including detailed gore, nudity, and the death of characters. Additionally, it features realistic portrayals of wounds inflicted upon the Red Death and other dragons. Strong, offensive language is also present. Reader discretion is strongly advised due to the intense and disturbing nature of the material. There are also light/lightning/flashing gifs. You're responsible for what you read.

The veil of Helheim's Gate loomed before you, a churning wall of gray cloud that swallowed the dawn's frail light, as if the jaws of Níðhöggr himself had exhaled the fog to shroud the dragons' nest. A few hours' flight had brought you to this threshold, the air growing thicker, heavier, with each beat of the Deadly Nadder's wings.

You clung to Astrid's shoulders, Hiccup's arms tight around you from behind, his breath steady against the wind's feral howl. You all hovered at the veil's edge, your dragons shifting restlessly, their scales glinting like war-forged iron under the muted sky.

Nostrils flaring with chests that pulsed faintly, as if pleading with the gods for passage through this accursed haze. Ruffnut's voice broke the silence, flat and hollow, her words tinged with a dread that mirrored the knot in your gut.

"This fog. . .it's like flying into Hel's own maw. Are we sure this is even a good idea?"

Her monotone cut through the wind, her eyes darting to the others, seeking reassurance none could offer. The rest murmured in agreement, their faces pale as bone, but Hiccup's voice rose, steady as a chieftain's oath.

"Trust the dragons," he said, his tone unyielding. "They know the path. Follow their lead."

He nodded to Astrid, who gripped the Nadder's reins, urging it forward with a sharp command, and you felt Hiccup's hands tighten as you plunged into the veil, the world behind dissolving into a stinging, ashen blur.

The air grew warm, unnaturally so, a cloying heat that seeped through your wolf-pelt cloak and pricked at your skin like embers from a cursed forge. The deeper you flew, the more the warmth turned oppressive, a suffocating weight that pressed against your chest, whispering of the nest's unholy heart.

Unease coiled in your gut, shared by the gang's tense silence—Snotlout's knuckles white on the nightmare's horns, Fishlegs's muttered prayers to Thor, the twins' bickering stilled by the fog's eerie grip. Even Hiccup and Astrid, who had once glimpsed the nest in darkness, seemed to falter, their breaths sharp against the heat.

This was no mere cavity but a wound in Midgard's flesh, its pulse a drumbeat of dread that quickened your own. Eyes seemed to watch from the fog's depths, unseen and malevolent, and the Nadder beneath you stirred, its movements jerky, as if drawn by a force beyond its will. The other dragons followed suit, their wings slicing the haze with frenzied urgency, as if hypnotized by some ancient call.

"This is it! We're getting close!" Hiccup shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Let the dragons guide us—they know the way!"

Astrid's whispered words, barely audible, sent a chill through you, "I hope we're not too late. . ." Her doubt pierced your resolve, and your gut twisted, the weight of Toothless' chains and Stoick's war pressing heavier as the veil swallowed you whole.

The haze bit like embers, searing your vision, blinding and relentless, a gray shroud that choked your senses and burned your throat with each ragged breath. Visibility vanished, the world reduced to the Nadder's frantic wingbeats and the gang's muffled cries. Ruffnut and Tuffnut grappled with their Zippleback, its twin heads thrashing as they clung to the dragons horns, cursing under their breath.

Snotlout squeezed his eyes shut, his face a mask of terror, while Fishlegs wailed, "We're gonna slam into a rock!" But you, Hiccup, and Astrid held fast, trusting the Nadder's instinct, its talons curling as it surged forward urgently. Hiccup's grip on your waist tightened, a lifeline against the blinding winds, and you leaned into him, your heart pounding like a war drum.

Then, as if the gods had torn the veil asunder, the fog expeditiously parted, and the nightmare unfurled before you—a vision so horrific it seared itself into your soul as you blinked the burning ash away. The Red Death loomed—roaring—a mountain of scales and malice, its massive form sprawled across the volcanic shore like a titan cast from Ragnarök's forge.

Its hide, a patchwork of red, blue, and gray, gleamed sickly in the firelight, its six eyes—a piercing silver and slitted—burning with a hunger that could devour worlds. Jagged spines lined its back, each the size of a longship's mast—the same as the crown on its head, and its maw gaped wide, revealing rows of teeth like blackened spears, dripping with molten saliva that hissed against the stone. The volcano behind it towered, its new crater glowing with an infernal light, casting the beast in a dread silhouette that seemed to choke the very air.

Your heart plummeted, a stone sinking into the abyss of your gut, as your mouth fell open, eyes wide with disbelief that clawed at your sanity. The beast bellow surged, a tide of malice that drowned the cries of the dying, and around it, chaos reigned. Longships lay shattered, their dragon-headed prows splintered into kindling, Embers gnawed the wreckage, their glow consuming the shore.

Bodies floated in the water, Viking warriors reduced to broken husks, their armor spent, and flesh torn, legs stripped to bone by rocks and splinter. Bodies burnt to crisp by dragon fire, their nudity a grotesque testament to the battle's savagery. Crimson tides churned, fed by the slaughter’s toll, pooling on the black sand where survivors screamed, their battle cries ragged with defiance and despair.

A warrior's arm dangled from a jagged rock, severed at the shoulder, its fingers still clutching a sword etched with Algiz runes, now useless. Another lay sprawled, his chest caved in, ribs jutting like shattered spears, his eyes staring blankly at the sky as blood bubbled from his lips.

The air reeked of charred flesh, sulfur, and iron, a miasma that choked your lungs and burned your eyes with tears—not of sorrow, but of raw, visceral horror. Just as there were dozens of men, there were dozens of dead dragons that littered the ground, their scales scorched and muted, wings torn to pieces, a Gronckle's head half-severed as if bitten off, its tongue lolling in a pool of its own ichor. This was war, a slaughter forged in fire and evil, and it hit you like a million shards of ice, piercing every hope you'd carried from Berk.

The scene unfolded in agonizing slow motion, as if the Norns had woven time into a tapestry of torment, forcing you to witness each atrocity with unbearable clarity. From the Nadder's back, you saw a Viking charge toward the dragon, his axe raised, only for the beast's tail to whip through the air, crushing his legs into a pulpy mess.

Another collapsed, screaming, his armor splitting as blood sprayed, his thighs bared to the bone, a grotesque nudity born of violence. The Red Death's claw descended, tearing through his chest like a warm knife through butter, and his scream died in a wet gurgle, his body flung into the sea like offal.

"Hiccup!" Your voice ripped through the inferno's roar, a sharp, desperate cry that slashed like a blade through the chaotic din surrounding them. The name rang out, raw and urgent, as your breath clouded in the frigid air, mingling with the sulfurous reek of the dragons' nest.

You all hovered in a fleeting pocket of stillness, suspended amidst the terror of noise and motion—a cacophony of shouted orders, the clatter of steel, and the relentless howl of the wind that threatened to swallow them whole. Hiccups own eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and resolve, scoured the carnage below, searching for a thread of hope amidst the shattered longships and blood-soaked shores.

His grip on your waist tightened, his ragged breath hot against your ear, grounding you as he ground himself. Astrid wove the Nadder through a blast of flame, its heat searing the air like the breath of Muspelheim.

"Stay with me," he whispered, his words a sorrowful yet solemn vow to Odin, etched with the weight of a warrior's oath. The beast guttural cry pulsed, a tremor that cracked the stone beneath, its six eyes blazing like cursed stars—whipping against the gale as the battle's horror unfolded.

"I've got a plan!" Hiccup’s call rang out, bold as a chieftain’s horn, rallying the gang, commanding attention. Every ear turned, locked on him, though none dared look away from the Red Death's towering malice of a titan.

"Fishlegs! Break it down!" he called, his gaze snapping to the boy, who flinched, his round face pale with terror and confusion. "The dragon, Fishlegs! Give us your analysis—now!"

Fishlegs blinked, then scanned the beast, his voice trembling but rising with the frantic clarity of survival. "Alright—uh—heavily armored skull, tail built for bashing and crushing! Stay clear of both! Small eyes, huge nostrils—depends on scent and sound, not sight!"

Hiccup nodded, his mind racing, a spark of strategy kindling in his green eyes. "Okay. . ." He breathes, "Good. Lout! Legs! Stick to its blind spots, make as much noise as you can—keep it disoriented! Ruff! Tuff! Find its shot limit—piss it off, get it reckless!"

Snotlout's brow furrowed, his voice sharp with disbelief. "As if it's not already angry?"

Ruffnut barked a laugh, her eyes glinting with feral glee. "That's my specialty!"

Tuffnut scoffed, yanking at the Zippleback's reins. "Since when!? Everyone knows I'm more irritating!" Tuffnut went to argue going to flip his dragon's head.

Hiccup's shout silenced their bickering, sharp as a chieftain's command. "Focus! Just do what I told you! I'll be back as soon as I can!" Hiccup shouts and the three of you leave them.

He turned to Astrid, his voice steady. "Keep driving, watch for threats. We're finding Toothless." You and Hiccup scanned the chaos below, hearts pounding in unison, bound by a shared resolve to save the Night Fury.

The Nadder dove, Astrid's hands steady on the reins as you and Hiccup searched the burning shore for Toothless. The Red Death's hide bore wounds—gashes from Viking spears and swords still pierced in its legs, oozing a viscous green ichor that steamed on the stone—but they were mere scratches to a beast that dwarfed mountains.

You could hear the arrival of the twins, Lout and Legs arrive on the scene surprising everyone down below as they went to work on top of dragons. The beast tail lashed, smashing another longship into splinters, and a Viking's body sailed through the air as Astrid, you and Hiccup flew by, his gut split open, entrails trailing like a comet's tail before he struck the volcano's rim, lifeless.

Your stomach churned, bile clawing at your throat as the screams of the dying wove into the dragons' roars, a symphony of despair laced with the twins' reckless taunts. Toothless’ anguished roar tore through the inferno, a cry of chained defiance. His chained form a dark silhouette against a burning ship, his obsidian scales scorched but defiant. Hiccup's eyes locked on him, his resolve a blazing beacon.

"There!" he shouted, pointing to the Night Fury's thrashing form, his voice thick with urgency.

Astrid guided the Nadder downward, flames licking at the dragon's wings as the inferno around Toothless grew, a pyre threatening to consume him. Hiccup rose into a kneel behind you, his hand bracing on your shoulder for balance, and leapt onto the ship's burning deck, the wood groaning under his weight. Without hesitation, you followed, landing hard, the heat searing through your boots as embers stung your face.

"It's too dangerous!" Hiccup protested, his eyes wide with fear for you, but your stern gaze silenced him, a fire in your expression that brooked no argument.

"Together, remember?" you half-shouted, your voice cutting through the crackle of flames.

He sighed, a flicker of pride softening his fear, and nodded to Astrid. "Go help the others!"

Astrid pulled the Nadder skyward, her curse lost in the wind as she rejoined the fray. The ship groaned, its timbers buckling under the fire's assault, and Toothless grew frantic, his chains rattling like the shackles of Fenrir.

Around you, it was nothing but a slaughterhouse—Viking corpses strewn like offal, one warrior's legs bared to bone by splintered wood, his flesh a blackened ruin, another's skull crushed, brain matter oozing onto the sand. The air tasted of iron and char, a miasma that choked your lungs, but you and Hiccup moved as one, your eyes fixed on Toothless, bound by a vow to free him or die trying.

The Red Death's snarl thundered, in a wrathful hymn which shook the earth, a call to Ragnarök, and the war's bloody tide surged, its cost carving deeper into your soul. Hiccup and you tried to figure out how to unchain Toothless in a frenzy of anxiety.

The burning ship groaned beneath your boots, its timbers splintering as flames licked closer like a ravenous beast. Toothless thrashed against his chains, his obsidian scales heating, his concerned wails a dagger to the gut as you and Hiccup worked frantically to free him.

"It's alright, bud! We're here, hold on!" Hiccup's voice broke through the fire's roar, raw with desperation as he tore at the crude headpiece clamping Toothless' jaws, its iron bolts rusted and unyielding.

You scrambled to the dragon's side, your fingers fumbling with the leather bands binding his hind limbs, their edges biting into his flesh, leaving raw, weeping welts. With a grunt, you released the straps, his wings unfurling with a leathery snap, their tips singed but unbroken.

Hiccup attacked the chains at the dragon's chest, his dagger scraping against iron links, now twisted by the fire's heat. The air choked with ash and blood, the reek of charred flesh mingling with the sulfurous stench of the nest, and every crackle of the encroaching flames tightened the knot in your gut that you were losing time.

Beyond the ship, the Red Death spit for that of the volcano's blackened rim—annoyed by the twins and Snotlout, its gouts of fire painting the sky in hues of Ragnarök, while a Viking screams as he gets tossed in the air and eaten—ragged, futile— a sound that quickly echoed from the blood-dust air.

Your hands were fast as you freed one hind chain, the iron clanking against the deck, but a sudden uproar from the gang pierced the chaos—Snotlout's curses, Fishlegs's panicked shouts, the Zippleback's twin roars mingling with the dragon's thunder. Their struggle to keep the beast distracted faltered, a fraying thread that made Hiccup panic, and your stomach lurched, torn between Toothless and the friends facing death's maw.

Hiccup's hand seized your arm, spinning you to face him, his green eyes blazing with urgency through the smoke. "Listen to me!" he shouted, his voice cutting like a seax through the din. "I've got this—you need to help them!"

You opened your mouth to protest, the words clawing at your throat, but he pressed on, his grip tightening. "They need you more than I do right now! I need time to free Toothless, to get us there faster. I'm begging you—I've got this, please."

His plea, raw and unguarded, carried the weight of his shoulders. Your frown deepened, a maelstrom of fear and loyalty warring within, but you nodded, your voice steady despite the ache.

"Alright." With a heavy sigh, you turned, the flames' heat searing your back as you moved to leave, each step a battle against the instinct to stay.

"Hiccup!" you shouted, pausing at the ship's edge, your voice sharp with a fear you couldn't bury. He turned, his face smudged with soot, his eyes meeting yours through the haze.

"Be careful," you said, the words a quiet prayer to Freya, laced with the weight of all you couldn't say.

His lips curved, a faint, crooked smile that held his defiance. "You too," he replied, his voice soft but resolute, a vow to return to you.

He turned back to Toothless, the steel pole he found flashing as he hacked at the chains, the Night Fury's sounds mingling with the fire's crackle. You leapt from the ship, landing hard on the black sand, the impact jarring your knees as embers stung your face.

The chill that shivered down your spine at the sight all around brought new nightmares—Viking and dragon remains strewn like broken offerings, one alive, but in agony held his leg screaming—his right leg split open, and femur jutting like shattered oars, A dark tide seeped from his wounds, staining the sand. Another lay face-down, his lower half stripped from his upper half to the battle's savagery. A dead Zippleback sprawled nearby, one skull caved in, the other torn from its body, green ichor seeping from a gash that exposed its shattered jaw.

The beast hide, oozing viscous green from spear wounds, loomed like a mountain, its roars drowning the gang's desperate cries. You ran toward them, your cloak flapping like a war banner, the weight of Hiccup's trust and the gang's survival driving you into the heart of the inferno.

The air was a furnace, thick with the stench of blood and ash, as you sprinted across the shore, dodging a falling spar from a burning longship. The gang's dragons wove through the sky, their roars a defiant hymn against the Red Death's wrath, but their movements grew frantic, their strength waning under the beast's relentless assault.

Snotlout's shouts, laced with profanity, rang out as he urged his hammer into one of the dragons' eyes, while Fishlegs's voice cracked, lost in panic as he came hurling down with his Gronckle. The Zippleback's twin heads spewed gas and sparks, but the beast massive claw swiped through the air, narrowly missing them, its bellow shaking the earth like Jörmungandr's thrash.

A Viking's scream cut short nearby, his body hurled skyward, his armor rent to expose a gutted chest, entrails dangling as he was crushed under the beast paw, the ash swallowing his blood. Your stomach roiled, the horror sinking deeper, but Hiccup's plea echoed in your mind, amidst the carnage.

Toothless' wails grew fainter behind you, Hiccup's silhouette a shadow in the flames, and you pushed forward, your heart a war drum beating for the clan, for Hiccup, for the hope of ending this slaughter. The Red Death's eyes burned through the smoke, a promise of death, and the war's bloody tide surged, its cost carving into your soul as you raced to join the fight.

The inferno raged, a crucible of fire and blood that painted the dragons' nest in hues of Ragnarök's dawn. Astrid's sharp eyes caught your wave through the smoke, her Deadly Nadder swooping low, its talons grazing the black sand as you leapt onto its back, landing with a thud behind her.

The dragon's scales burned hot beneath you, its wings slicing the air as it climbed. "Where's Hiccup and that dragon?" Astrid shouted, her voice a blade over the cacophony of roars and screams.

"He's got it under control!" you yelled back, your words steady despite the chaos. "Hiccup needs us to buy him time! Get me to the beast's head—I'll join Snotlout!"

Astrid grunted, her jaw tight, and urged the Nadder toward the Red Death's massive skull, weaving through gouts of flame that seared the air like Loki's deceit. The beast was distracted, its six eyes swiveling toward the Zippleback's taunting blasts, the twins' laughter a reckless hymn to Thor.

You leapt from the Nadder's back, a warrior born of Berk's unforgiving heart, your movements fluid and precise, a dance of defiance against the Red Death's anger. Mid-air, you unclasped your wolf-pelt cloak letting it fall in a discarded heap down below, the weight shedding to reveal the battle-hardened form beneath.

Astrid's voice rang out as she pulled away, "Good luck!" The Nadder banked sharply, joining the fray above, leaving you to face the beast with Snotlout, your pulse surges like a dragon's beating wings, tempered by the fire of years in silent practice.

You landed atop the beast's thrashing head, balancing on its jagged scales with the grace of a Valkyrie, your boots gripping the slick surface as it roared, a sound that split the sky like Mjölnir's strike. Kneeling swiftly, you drew twin daggers from your fur-lined boots, their blades etched with Sowilo runes, gleaming with the promise of victory.

You sprinted into a slide across the beast's skull, opposite Snotlout, who hammered at its right eyes with desperate blows, his curses lost in the wind. Without hesitation, you plunged one dagger into the dragons hide, the blade sinking deep into its armored flesh, anchoring you as you hurled the second dagger with lethal precision into one of its six eyes on the left.

The orb burst, green ichor spraying like a cursed tide, blinding the eye and drawing a bellow of agony that shook the volcano's rim. The gang froze, jaws agape, their eyes wide at your transformation—from the quiet baker who kneaded bread in Berk's hearths to a warrior forged in secret, trained daily to slay dragons, now unleashed in a maelstrom of steel and fury.

Tuffnut's voice broke the stunned silence, a wild cheer cutting through the chaos.

"Holy fucking Thor, you're a badass!" he shouted, his Zippleback weaving dangerously close as he gawked.

Snotlout faltered, his hammer pausing mid-swing, mesmerized by your ferocity, until your voice snapped like a whip. "Focus on the task at hand!"

The beast thrashed, its head jerking in agony, and you and Snotlout clung to its scales, your muscles straining as the beast's roars drowned the warrior cries of Vikings below. Seizing the moment, Astrid and the twins struck from behind, the Nadder's spines and the Zippleback's gas blasts peppering the beast's flanks, drawing gouts of steaming ichor.

You drew another dagger from your boot, its hilt now worn from hidden practice, and sprinted toward the next eye, your boots slipping on the blood-slick scales. With a cry, you drove the blade deep into the second orb, the eye rupturing in a spray of viscous green splattering you in its hot blood.

The Red Death's screech a death knell that rattled your bones. The beast bucked, knocking Snotlout backward, his body slamming into the crown of spines, where he clung, cursing, "Hel!"

You dangled from the beast's brow, your dagger lodged in its hide the only thing keeping you from the jagged shore far below, your arms burning as you fought to hold on. The dragons remaining eye locked on you, burning with a fury that could sunder mountains, its massive claw swiping futilely, too short to reach.

You yelped, your grip slipping, Snotlout too far to help, his own hands clawing at the spines for survival. Astrid's shout pierced the chaos—"Hiccup's up!"—and a surge of strength flooded your core. With a guttural cry, you heaved yourself upward, muscles screaming, and scrambled back onto the beast's head, your daggers flashing as you charged the opposite side—wasting no time.

The twins' Zippleback dove, snatching Snotlout in the air from the crown just as he had scrambled across, their gas trail igniting in a burst that singed the dragon's neck. Astrid's Nadder swooped toward you, but the beast's head thrashed, as if sensing her intent to get you, forcing her to bank sharply.

The Red Death's maw opened, inhaling with a force that sucked the air from the sky, pulling Astrid's Nadder into a spiraling struggle, her curses lost in the wind. Then, a piercing shriek tore through the chaos—the unmistakable phantom wail of a Night Fury. Your heart leapt, knowing Hiccup and Toothless had joined the fray, their shadow a fleeting hope against the madness.

In that split second, you drew another dagger, your last, and drove it into a third eye, the orb exploding in a gush of ichor that coated your arm in a hot mess, as the beast's roar shook the earth. Astrid's Nadder broke free, her wings beating furiously as she climbed.

Its jaws gaped wider in agony, its throat glowing with molten fire, and Hiccup seized the moment—Toothless' plasma blast rocketed into the maw, a blinding violet star that erupted in the beast's gullet. The shockwave knocked you off balance, your boots slipping as you tumbled down the beast rising head, the world spinning in a blur of fire and blood. You plummeted, the shore rushing up, and shut your eyes, bracing for the end. But the ground never came.

"Did you get her?" Hiccup shouted.

Toothless' talons gripped your shoulders, his gummy smile a relief as he held you aloft, his wings beating against the smoke. Hiccup leaned forward, his face taut with worry, his eyes searching yours for signs of harm. He extended a hand, and with Toothless' help, you scrambled onto the dragon's back, settling behind Hiccup with a breathless effort, your arms wrapping around him as the Night Fury soared.

Your veins pounded, adrenaline and relief flooding your veins, and in a fleeting act of instinct, you pressed a kiss to Hiccup's cheek, the gesture soft against the war's brutality. He turned, his eyes widen, and he smiled, and gently took your hand to kiss it, his touch a calm amidst the chaos.

Hiccup's resolve hardened, a new Hiccup—fierce and perilous like a warrior ignited within, roused from slumber with a singular purpose. His eyes locked on the beast, burning with unyielding determination.

Toothless' wings cut through the smoke, landing hard on a rocky outcrop away from the heart of the fray, the black sand trembling beneath his talons. The Red Death's roars echoed, a thunderous curse that shook the island, its wounded eyes oozing green ichor like tears of a fallen god.

Hiccup's face was taut, smudged with soot and resolve, as he turned to you, his voice urgent but steady. "You need to get off," he said, his green eyes locking with yours, a storm of determination swirling within.

"Toothless and I—we've trained for this. I have to do it alone."

Your heart lurched, a protest rising in your throat. "But Hiccup!" you cried, the words raw with fear for him. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead and pressed his own against yours, the gesture soft yet fierce, a shy substitute for the words he couldn't yet speak. The warmth of his lips lingered, grounding you.

"Trust me," he urged, his voice a plea, his eyes searching yours with a desperate intensity, as if willing you to believe in him one last time. You bit your lip, your chest tight with dread, but nodded, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I do trust you. . ." Slipping off Toothless' back, you landed on the blood-slick stone, your boots slipping slightly as you took Hiccup's hand. He stared down at you, his gaze serious yet softened with a love that needed no words.

"Go get him—Dragon Master," you said, your voice steady despite the ache, a spark of pride cutting through your fear.

Hiccup's lips curved into a smirk, and Toothless' gummy tongue swiped your arm, a fleeting comfort before the Night Fury's wings clapped, launching them skyward in a thunderous burst that echoed like Mjölnir and lightning.

Footsteps pounded behind you, and you turned to see Stoick, Gobber, Marta, Astrid and the gang, and more sprinting toward you, their faces etched with awe and terror as they watched Hiccup and Toothless climb the sky. Stoick's armor was dented, blood streaking his beard, while Gobber's peg leg scraped the sand, his hook gleaming with ichor.

Marta's braid was singed, her axe notched from battle, and Astrid's eyes burned with a mix of pride and worry, her Nadder circling above. The Red Death, still reeling from its blinded eyes, thrashed sluggishly, its massive form casting a shadow like Jörmungandr's coils, its roars muffled by the pain of your daggers' wounds.

Sulfur clouded your senses in a miasma that clawed at your lungs, but your eyes stayed fixed on Hiccup, a lone silhouette against the inferno, Toothless' wings a blur as they vanished into the smoke. The Night Fury’s keening howl shattered the silence, in a spectral call from the heavens—Its unmistakable wail, a phantom echo reverberating through the nest, but their speed rendered them invisible, a specter of vengeance born of lightning and death itself.

Then, a violet plasma blast erupted, slamming into the Red Death's flank, the explosion illuminating the beast's hide in a sickly glow, ichor spraying like a cursed fountain. The crowd gasped, Stoick's fist clenching—worried and proud—as Hiccup and Toothless vanished again, swallowed by the haze.

A slow, creeping terror gripped you, your breath catching as the beast stirred with a vibrating growl of pure red hatred, its massive wings unfurling from lack of use with a groan that rivaled the earth's own lament. The wings stretched, blotting out the sky, casting you all into a darkness as absolute as Hel's embrace, their jagged edges tearing at the clouds like the claws of Níðhöggr.

Debris rained down—shattered scales, bone fragments, and ash—pelting your shoulders as you braced against the onslaught, the wind howling with the beast's fury. With a bone-rattling leap, the dragon launched skyward, its wings flapping with a force that unleashed a gale, knocking you and the Vikings backward with hard force.

Screams and grunts filled the air—Gobber cursing, "Fucking beast!" as he stumbled, Marta shielding her face, Stoick planting his feet like an oak against the storm. Each flap sent shockwaves, the sand stinging your skin, until the beast climbed higher, its shadow receding as it pursued Hiccup and Toothless into the heavens.

Beneath your ribs, a relentless pulse surged, echoing the clash of war as you scrambled to your feet, the Vikings rallying around you, their faces pale but resolute—a testament to the battle's cry. The Red Death's roars grew distant, its wounded maw trailing smoke, but the nest still burned, flames licking at the wreckage of longships, their dragon-headed prows reduced to kindling.

Toothless’ distant cries pulsed through the smoke—thrashing—in hope amidst the carnage, and you clung to Hiccup's promise, your daggers spent but your spirit unbroken. Stoick's hand rested on your shoulder, heavy with unspoken gratitude, his eyes fixed on the sky where his son waged war against a beast.

The gang's dragons circled around them, their roars a defiant chorus, but the beast shadow loomed, a promise of death that threatened to consume all. Your gaze never wavered, locked on the heavens, where Hiccup and Toothless fought to end this slaughter.

The sky churned darker, a cauldron of smoke and storm clouds that swallowed the frail light of the afternoon skies, as if the gods themselves mourned the slaughter below. All of your eyes were fixed on the heavens where Hiccup and Toothless had vanished. Roars reverberated, a primal curse that shook the ground like the footsteps of Ymir, its wounded head and maw trailing wisps of black smoke, and three of its six eyes blinded by your daggers, oozing green ichor that hissed against its scales and splattered down below.

Then, a shadow broke through the distant haze—Toothless' sleek form, Hiccup's silhouette hunched low, streaking across the sky like a comet forged in Valhalla's fires. They flew far off, a daring gambit to lure the Red Death away from the island, away from the survivors huddled on the blood-soaked shore.

"Quite the chief you have in the making there. . ." Gobber bellowed to Stoick beside him, his eyes wide with astonishment.

"Aye. . ." Stoick murmured, his voice hushed with awe, utterly thunderstruck.

The beast followed, its massive frame a nightmare of scales and fury, its remaining eyes locked on Hiccup and Toothless with a hunger that could devour the stars. It ignored you all, its roars a single-minded vow to crush the Night Fury and his rider, the only ones who dared defy its reign.

You watched, astonishment and fear warring in your chest, as Hiccup and Toothless banked sharply, their speed a blur against the gray veil. The beast pursuit was relentless, its wings—each flap a thunderclap—tearing through the air, knocking jagged islets into the sea as it passed.

The splintered rock sent waves crashing, salty droplets splashing your face, stinging your eyes, while shards of sand and stone pelted you all, the debris biting like fangs. Stoick's bellow was nearly drowned by the gale, his massive frame shielding the teens with Marta as Gobber braced against the wind, his hook glinting with ichor. Your gaze never wavered, fists clenched, a silent prayer to Freya etched in your eyes for Hiccups safe return.

Hiccup's plan unfolded with desperate precision, guiding Toothless higher, their forms weaving through the chaos to draw the beast away from the nest's heart. The beast bulk grazed another islet, shattering it into rubble that rained into the sea, the impact sending a tremor through the ground beneath you.

Hiccup urged Toothless upward, the Night Fury's wings slicing the air as they climbed into the heavens again, vanishing into a roiling storm of dark gray clouds that churned like the breath of Níðhöggr. The sky swallowed them, their piercing shrieks fading into an eerie silence, leaving only the Red Death's distant roars and the crackle of burning longships.

Your breath caught, your lips bitten raw with worry, the taste of iron sharp on your tongue as you stared at the clouds, willing Hiccup to emerge. Stoick's hand tightened on your shoulder, his grip a mirror of your own fear, his weathered face carved with the anguish of a father who might lose his son.

The Vikings around you stood frozen, their shields dented and bloodied, their eyes reflecting the same dread—Gobber muttering curses, Marta clutching her axe, Astrid's jaw tight with unspoken terror. The nest burned below, flames licking your skin with glows of red, its dragon-headed prow reduced to ash, while a Viking's corpse nearby stared blankly.

The silence stretched, a torturous void that gnawed at your resolve, the weight of Hiccup's absence pressing like a stone on your chest. When suddenly the Red Death's shadow loomed beyond the clouds, its wings casting flickers of darkness through the storm, as the Night Furys' blast bent on in vengeance against it one after another—showing the beast silhouette.

Your pulse pounded, eyes never leaving the sky. Stoick's grip steadied you, his silence growing louder, as you all shared vigil for the boy who carried Berk's hope. And you all held your breath, their outcome hanging on a thread woven by the Norns, as you waited for your Dragon Master to return. 

A sudden roar tore through the silence, not the Red Death's bellow but a rushing of a thousand winds, as if a mountain had been hurled from the heavens by Thor's own hand. The smoke parted, a veil ripped asunder, revealing the beast plummeting face-first toward the earth, its massive frame a colossus of ruin.

Flames choked its maw, erupting from within, a molten inferno that lit its scales in a sickly glow, its three blinded eyes still oozing green ichor like cursed rivers rushing. Its wings tattered and riddled with holes from the Night Furies' relentless plasma blasts—flailing desperately, clawing at the air to regain flight, but the beast was too broken, its strength bled out by Hiccup and Toothless fury.

Your eyes snapped to a smaller shadow—Hiccup and Toothless, falling directly in the Red Death's path, their forms spiraling through the smoke, too close to the beast's flaming jaws.

A scream ripped from your throat, "Hiccup!" raw and piercing, a blade of terror that cut through everyone as you all watched on.

You surged forward, your boots pounding the sand, but Gobber's arms seized around you, pulling you into a huddle with the others as you all braced for the cataclysm. The beast crashed—instantly breaking its neck under its own greedy weight, a shockwave of fire and force slammed into you all, the heat searing your skin like the breath of Muspelheim, the blast's weight nearly crushing your bones.

The world dimmed, your senses dulled by the impact, the heat and force pressing you into the sand as you clung to consciousness. You lay there, half-buried under Gobber's arm, his bulk shielding you, his breath ragged as he teetered on the edge of oblivion. The nest fell silent, an eerie void that smothered the screams and roars, leaving only the crackle of flames, ash and the groan of the beast dying form.

Your eyes fluttered open, your body aching, and you slipped from Gobber's slackened hold, his frame still dazed from the blast. Rising, you stood frozen, your face pale, your frame trembling as you stared at the fireball engulfing the beast, its massive body wreathed in flames that danced like the fires of Hel.

The beast scales smoked, its torn wings limp and bone, its maw silent but for the fading hiss of its final breath. Your mind screamed one truth: Hiccup and Toothless were beneath that beast's nose when it fell, their forms swallowed by the inferno. Your heart weakly skipping with dread, a war drum drowning all else, and your feet moved on their own, slow at first, then breaking into a sprint toward the blaze, uncaring of the heat that scorched your skin.

Gobber's shout echoed behind you, "Get back, damn it!" but he stumbled, falling forward as he reached for you, his peg leg sinking into the sand.

Stoick's bellow, Astrid's cry, Marta's plea—they all faded, drowned by the thunder of your pulse, the drums of your heart roaring in your skull. You leapt over a smoldering longship spar, its dragon-headed prow charred to ash, and dodged a Viking's corpse. The heat was a living thing, clawing at your face, but you pressed on, screaming Hiccup's name, each cry a jagged sob that tore your throat raw.

The flames began to subside, leaving the Red Death’s form smoldering in its own massive form—groaning in on itself before collapsing, lifeless, its busted body a mountain of scorched scales and oozing wounds. You didn't hesitate, scrambling over its shattered hide, the heat searing your hands as you climbed, your boots slipping on ichor-slick stone.

Stoick and Gobber caught up, their voices hoarse as they joined your desperate search, calling Hiccup's name into the smoke. The nest was a tomb, littered with the dead—a warrior's severed arm clutching a sword up high, another's skull crushed, brain matter smeared on the sand. Your eyes burned, tears carved paths through the grime caking your cheeks, as you searched the inferno's heart for your own, fear and hope warring within, praying to Odin that Hiccup and Toothless still lived. 

The fires dwindled, their hungry tongues retreating into embers, leaving the dragons’ nest shrouded in an endless gray sky, a lifeless veil where no sun dared pierce. Soot drifted like mournful flakes, cloaking the shore in silence, soft and silent, blanketing the black sand in a spectral shroud, each flake a whisper of the Norns’ cruel judgment.

The dragon lay dead, its colossal frame a broken mountain, its scorched scales cracked, oozing green ichor that steamed in the cooling air, its maw frozen in a final, silent roar. The island was a tomb, littered with the wreckage of war—corpses strewn like offerings to Hel. A fallen Nadder’s corpse slumped nearby, its throat torn, blood seeping into the earth, its lifeless eyes staring at the soot-choked sky.

You searched frantically, your boots slipping on the slick sand, your voice hoarse from screaming Hiccup’s name, each cry a jagged wound in your throat. Minutes had bled into an eternity, and still, no sign of him or Toothless, the absence a dagger twisting deeper into your gut.

Your chest ached, a hollow void where hope had once burned, and the thought of Hiccup’s death clawed at your soul—if he was gone, what would become of you? The world without him was a page unwritten, a hearth gone cold, and the weight of it threatened to crush you.

Yet you searched, driven by a desperate need to find him, to defy the fates that mocked you with silence. Stoick and Gobber were close, their figures blurred by ash and tears, their own cries for Hiccup echoing yours. Stoick’s shouts, raw and thunderous, struck you like seaxes, each call for his son a plea to Odin that went unanswered.

“Hiccup! My boy!” he roared, his voice breaking, a chieftain reduced to a father’s anguish.

Gobber, exhausted, dragged his peg leg through the debris, his hook scraping against shattered longship timbers, his face streaked with tears he wiped away with a trembling hand. The air was heavy, thick with the reek of despair, and every step you took felt like wading through frozen rivers, your body screaming to stop but your heart refusing to yield.

Then, Stoick’s shouts ceased, a sudden silence that pierced the haze sharper than any blade. You turned, your breath catching, and saw him sprinting toward a shadowed form in the soot, his massive frame moving with a frantic hope that mirrored your own.

You ran after him, heart pounding, tears streaming down your face as Gobber stumbled behind, his grunts of effort mingling with the crunch of sand. There, amidst the wreckage, lay Toothless, his obsidian scales scorched, his wings limp, sprawled like a fallen warrior on the bloodied shore but unbroken.

You gasped, a sob tearing free, your tears cutting paths through the ash on your cheeks as you reached him. Stoick dropped to his knees beside the dragon, his eyes searching frantically, tearing at the broken saddle, the twisted gear, his fingers shaking as he sought his son.

But Hiccup was nowhere—gone, vanished into the same inferno that had claimed the Red Death. Stoick’s shoulders buckled, a titan crumbling, and he fell forward, his sobs wrenching, raw, as if the gods had carved out his heart.

“My son. . .” he choked, his voice a broken whisper, tears streaming into his bloodied beard.

You caught up, your eyes falling on the empty saddle, the shattered stirrups, the gear snapped like brittle bone. The sight struck you like a war hammer, and you grew cold, your blood turning to ice as the truth sank in—Hiccup was gone.

Your hands flew to your face, covering your mouth as a gasp of pain escaped, your body trembling with a grief too vast to contain. Slowly, you sank to your knees, the charred-soft sand yielding beneath you, your head bowing until it touched the ground, your body curling in on itself as sobs tore through you.

Each cry was a shard of glass, cutting deeper, soul screaming against a world without Hiccup, without the boy who’d been your anchor, your fire, your home. Gobber knelt beside you, his own disbelief a heavy shroud, his hand resting on your back, trembling with the weight of his own devastation.

“Not the lad. . .” he whispered, his voice cracking, tears spilling as he stared at the empty saddle, the Godson he’d raised now lost to the flames. The ash felt softer now, a silent elegy, blanketing you all in a grief that choked the air.

One by one, the others approached—Vikings, Marta, the gang—emerging from the haze like ghosts, their forms dented, their faces gaunt with battle’s toll. When they saw you and Stoick, hunched in mourning, Toothless’ still form a testament to loss, they stopped, their silence a collective dirge.

Astrid’s eyes glistened, her jaw tight, a tear cutting through the soot on her cheek. Marta clutched her axe, her braid singed, her lips trembling as she bowed her head. The Vikings stood solemn, their war cries silenced, their hands resting on sword hilts etched with runes, now useless against this sorrow.

The nest was a pyre, the beast corpse a lifeless monument, its wounds steaming in the gray light, but no victory could mend the void Hiccup’s absence carved. You remained on your knees, your sobs a quiet lament, your hands clutching the sand harshly as if it could anchor you to a world where he still lived.

Stoick’s cries softened, his massive frame shaking, and Gobber’s hand tightened on your back, a shared grief binding you in the ash’s mournful fall. The sky above was as lifeless as you felt. Gray and the sun taken away, and the weight of Hiccup’s loss pressed down harder and harder, a wound that bled with every breath, as you mourned the boy you came to love. . .The boy who had flown too close to the stars.

A low groan broke the silence, a faint stir from Toothless, his obsidian, soot covered scales shifting as his eyes fluttered open, glowing faintly in the charred dust-dim light. He watched Stoick closely, his gaze piercing, as if judging the man who’d chained him, who’d driven Hiccup into this inferno to begin with.

Stoick’s voice cracked, a whisper torn from a father’s shattered heart. “Oh, son. . .I did this.”

His words hung heavy, a confession to another he’d lost, laden with guilt that bowed his shoulders. Toothless held his stare, unblinking, until another tear traced Stoick’s weathered cheek, falling into his bloodied beard.

“Oh, son. . .I’m so sorry,” he choked, voice a plea for forgiveness to his boy he loved so dearly.

The dragon’s eyes softened, as if sensing the truth in Stoick’s sorrow, and with a slow, deliberate grace, Toothless unfurled his wings, their singed edges trembling. Beneath them lay Hiccup, unconscious but breathing, his auburn hair matted with ash, his chest rising faintly, cradled in the Night Fury’s embrace like a warrior shielded by Freya’s mercy. The sight was a miracle, a spark of light in the darkness of Hel’s grasp, and Stoick’s shout of Hiccups name shattered the silence, a cry of joy and disbelief that echoed through the air.

You heard nothing, the world muted by the weight of your grief, your silent sobs a relentless tide that drowned all sound. Gobber’s hands shook you, his voice distant, urging you to look, and you lifted your head, your eyes heavy with exhaustion.

Through the haze, you saw Stoick cradling Hiccup, pressing his son’s limp form to his chest, his face buried in Hiccup’s hair as tears streamed anew. You blinked, your mind refusing to believe, certain it was a cruel vision born of despair. Then Stoick’s voice broke through, a triumphant roar that shook the heavens.

“He’s alive! He’s alive! You brought him back alive!” he shouted, his glee a hymn, directed at Toothless, whose gummy smile flickered, weary but proud as he relaxed.

The words pierced your fog, and you sat up, your face a mask of grief, your spirit stuttering back to life by just a small hope as you questioned what you’d heard or if you misheard. Cheers erupted from the Vikings afar—Astrid’s glee, Marta’s sob, the twins' cheers and the Viking’ roars—confirming the impossible: Hiccup lived.

Your head throbbed, a million hammers pounding from within, a headache born of anguish and relief, but you forced yourself to stand, your legs trembling as you staggered toward Stoick and Gobber. Stoick was knelt beside Toothless, his hand resting gently on the dragon’s snout, his voice soft with gratitude. 

“Thank you for saving my son,” he said, his touch reassuring the Night Fury that the rift between them was mended, that all would be well.

Gobber, wiping his eyes, managed a shaky grin. “Well, most of him,” he quipped, his voice thick with relief, a spark of his old humor breaking through the sorrow.

You reached Stoick’s side, your breath catching as you saw Hiccup for yourself—his chest rising, his face pale but alive, his gear battered but his spirit unbroken. A laugh, half-sob, burst from your lips, raw and unrestrained, and Stoick’s hand found your arm, a knowing gesture that anchored you in the moment.

You reached out, your fingers trembling as you brushed Hiccup’s hair from his eyes, the familiar strands soft beneath your touch, a lifeline to the boy who’d been your heart’s compass. Tears fell anew, cutting fresh paths through the soot on your face, but these were tears of joy, of a miracle wrested from the jaws of death. Stoick rose, lifting Hiccup gently, his massive arms cradling his son like a treasure reclaimed from the sea.

Toothless stirred resting his head, his wings folding as he watched Hiccup, his loyalty undying. You stood beside Stoick, your hand lingering near Hiccup’s, heart swelling with a love that had endured this crucible of a war. The ash settled, the gray sky softening, and though the cost of battle scarred the shore, a small streak of sunlight found its way through.

This is Chapter 11 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr and Kristen my co-writers + beta readers ♡

Lovely tag list ~ @kikikittykis | @icantcryicantstopcrying | @teeesthings | @ph4nt0m19 | @sammypotato | @cultish-corner | @ken-zah | @edynmeyer1

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Girl Next Door - XIII

A Constantine x FemVampire!Reader (feat John Wick!) fic based on this imagine. all chapters gen. warnings: NSFW, blood, biting, violence divider by animatedglittergraphics-n-more pic is BRZRKR #11 cover 😍

⚠Trigger warning: UNBRIDLED AND GRAPHIC VIOLENCE, if that squicks you DO NOT READ!⚠

13. ride the lightning

How does one describe the chaos of sitting in the eye of a lightning storm?

Wick is as terrifying as he is breathtaking, and you watch with horror as he is unleashed upon the room. Vampires seem to materialize from the very shadows, sounding the alarm, trying to combat the lethal threat in their midst. All of them die as they come against the inexorable force that is the dhampir John Wick.

He tears them limb from limb, using teeth and hands and the very chains he'd been bound with, the manacles still encircling his wrists. He uses them like flails, whipping his opponents with all the force of a hurricane. 

All this practically happens in the blink of an eye. Don Juan barely has time to react before the maelstrom descends upon him. Wick hits him hard enough to knock him across the room, blood spouting like a fountain. There is no reprieve before the dhampir has pounced on him again, and the two powerful monsters tumble and brawl like mad dogs. It seems Juan has the upper hand until Wick coils from his back and kicks him away, sending the vampire soaring into the black depths of the cave.

The battle rages and the hive continues to swarm, Juan’s vampires foolishly daring to challenge the dhampir in the throes of this berzerker rage. One of them has Wick’s sword, and when Wick takes it from him the tables turn even more ridiculously in the slayer’s favor. He severs limbs and lops heads, leaving blood and gore in his wake. You think you see him extract a heart with his bare hand, gripping it in his fist before crushing it into a pulp. 

That is when don Juan appears again from the shadows, his face a bloody mask, with a broadsword in hand and the fires of Hell shining in his eyes. “Dhampir!” he seethes. “I will END you for this!” 

Wick bellows back wordlessly, the power of his rage filling the enclosed space with crackling energy. You watch wide-eyed as a good chunk of the cave ceiling breaks free above you, crashing at your feet. 

Jesus Christ. They’ll bring the whole place down around you all, you fear, even as you cannot look away from the impending battle. 

Maybe he gives the impression of the soft-handed gentleman of leisure, but it quickly becomes apparent that don Juan knows how to use a sword as he and Wick clash. Toledo steel meets Japanese Tamahagane, and sparks fly, blades flashing too fast for the eye to see. Juan is the only vampire yet who could actually match Wick for strength and speed, and you watch with dread as Wick barely dodges losing his head. In turn Juan keeps ahead of Wick’s every slash and thrust, moving with a speed and grace that is as mesmerizing as it is infuriating. 

You scream as the vampire breaks the steel of Wick’s sword in half with a mighty blow, and hits the dhampir with some kind of power that knocks him flat on his back. Juan makes a fist, and Wick writhes on the floor as though his guts are in Juan’s clawed hand. Straining against your chains, you gather what little psychic power is left to you, imagining it formed into a sharp needle as you fling it at Juan. 

It does not really damage him, but he pauses to look at you with a snarl–it’s the only window Wick needs to swipe with what remains of his razor sharp blade, right through don Juan’s legs at the knees. 

With a horrified expression Juan falls to the cave floor. Wick gets to his feet, picking Juan up by his throat with a fearsome snarl, and hurls him again towards the back of the cave. More vampires are appearing from the depths–holy fuck how many can there be?--and with a single, feral look back at you Wick picks up Juan’s broadsword, and charges back into the fray.    

The enraged dhampir disappears further into the shadows of the cave. The din of the battle echoes back to you–until the cacophony finally fades, and then, there is just eerie, heavy, silence.

Your heart lodges in your throat, and does not budge until you see the outline of Wick’s imposing form again at the edge of the torch light. His chains are gone. He is hurt, clearly limping. He makes his way to you, and only belatedly do you realize he is dragging don Juan by his one remaining limb. 

The vampire is unconscious, and Wick drops him unceremoniously before you like an offering, and the sword clatters to the floor soon after. You should be horrified, but it smacks of a hunter laying a kill at his woman’s feet in a time when man lived in caves, and you are not unmoved. But that blue light has not receded from his eyes, and he stalks towards you like a predator. 

I kill vampires. It’s what I am.

Could he kill you?

“John?”

He only grumbles in response, stalking towards you, and you are afraid.

“Jardani?”

“Don’t say it unless you mean it, ptichka,” he growls, his huge hands encircling your waist, pulling you against him. You are practically naked, and he is covered in blood from the massacre he just unleashed; that is not what frightens you. His eyes still glow that eerie blue, and you wonder if it is not like the warning glow of a fuse on a bomb. Maybe he’s injured, but you would be a fool to think him wrung out yet.  

“You’re scaring me,” you tell him honestly, and you feel him deflate against you, burying his face in the curve of your neck as his arms wrap around your torso, breathing you in. You feel it as that crackling energy recedes back inside him, leaving him as close to human as he can ever be. 

“I would never hurt you.” He whispers it with the vehemence of a vow against your skin, and you want to believe him. God, do you want to believe him. You fold yourself against him with your hands still bound above your head, letting him engulf you with his larger form. 

You don’t want to cry; it’s embarrassing, and you don’t have time for it, but after what don Juan did to you it comes out anyway in hiccupping sobs and he holds you like something precious in his hands that could just as easily tear you in two. You don’t understand the soft things he says to you, hushed murmurs in Russian or some long dead dialect of it, but they calm you anyway. That intoxicating aroma of flowers and spice envelops you again like an opium haze, and you melt into the shelter of this man.  

When at last you quiet he draws back to look at you with those ageless dark eyes, though he does not let you go. When he brushes his lips against yours in an achingly gentle kiss it feels as though nothing could be more right in the world. 

You are so fucked.

You look up at your wrists encircled in iron, jangling your chains. “Can you find the key for me?” you ask quietly, as if you speak too loud you might break this spell of precious calm between you.

The low sound that rumbles from his chest echoes straight to your womb. He runs blunt fingers up the underside of your arm lightly, a maddening touch that makes your good sense go fuzzy at the edges. “Jardani…”

His grip upon you tightens; he leans in to kiss you again, claiming your mouth as his weight presses you back into the wall. 

The warmth of his blood-slicked skin upon yours is bliss, though a trill of hesitance surfaces in the very back of your mind. As though he senses it he speaks. “I want to be a better man for you,” he tells you roughly, his voice hoarse from battle and desire. “But I would be a liar, if I claimed this is not exactly how I want you.” 

Where don Juan’s hands on you made you want to scream, Wick’s rough paw tracing your curves is maddening in a completely opposite way. It is hard to tell what is that intoxicating dhampir magic upon you, consuming you, and what is just…your own rampant desire. You forget that you are not lovers, that you have not done this before. Maybe you are in love with John Constantine, and he was inside you not hours ago…but it is so easy to forget everything, in Wick’s arms. Deep down, you know that you want him in a way that feels as though his name was always written upon your soul. 

He nuzzles the bend of your neck, grazing your pulse with his fangs. You know he must be hungry, after such an expenditure of energy and taking such damage. You fight a war with yourself, aching to feel his fangs in you again, but you're not sure he'll stop, once he starts, and you don't have much to spare. Logic wars with lust, the eternal battle of wits versus hormones.

Usually, the latter wins. 

“Jardani…” you coax, hoping sanity will prevail. “You have to set me free.”

He groans in response, kissing your pulse. “I don't have to,” he protests, and though there's a hint of his usual insouciance, mostly you're afraid he's absolutely serious. You open your mouth to protest again, but he swallows whatever you intended to say with his lips on yours, like a starving man who intends to eat you whole, starting with your mouth. 

You're not sure who escalates this already torrid exchange with a fang piercing your tongue–all you know is that what was already a bonfire escalates into a full on inferno. He eats at your mouth, lapping at your tongue as that agonizingly wonderful wave of desire fills your every cell. As you strain against your chains to be closer to him, to have more, he takes mercy on you with one of those muscle-strapped thighs between yours. You grind on him desperately, too far gone for anything resembling restraint, your pride totally forgotten. 

He migrates from your mouth to your neck, piercing your flesh and drinking you down, grabbing handfuls of your curves to hold you close. That scintillating, excruciating pleasure pulses and purrs inside you. It is him, but also, it is the two of you together, and when that magic reaches its shining peak in your loins you think you might implode for the exquisite rapture of it, release like a chain explosion sparking and spreading from your greedy cunt up your spine. Through the ringing in your ears it takes you a few moments to realize he is talking you through it, whispering low words in your ear that you do not understand, but you feel all too well. 

He kisses you again with your blood in his mouth, a slow and sensual thing that manages to curl your toes all over again, his tongue swiping the seam of your lips. “My pretty little bird,” he whispers. “The things I am going to do you, when we have time and a soft bed…” 

The sound you make in answer is barely human–but then, neither are you. 

When he produces the key you don’t know if you want to smack him, or laugh. He had it all along? Did he take it from Juan, or one of the other vampires? With a knowing little smile he reaches up to unlock your manacles, smirking down at you with a warmth in his eyes that could start a forest fire. 

If you had any sense left to your name, you would be furious for this little bit of trickery. However, that is not what you need. When you throw your arms around his neck he embraces you hard, enveloping you in those strong arms and lifting you off your feet. You feel your heart glowing like a hot ember in your chest, and you have no fucking idea how all this is going to work out in the end, but at the moment it doesn’t matter. 

A flash of an image surfaces in your mind: tangled under warm blankets with this man’s powerful body curled around yours while the winter winds and the hungry wolves howl outside, and you are unfalteringly certain that nothing bad can ever touch you again. 

You feel that way now, pulling back to look at him, searching his handsome, blood-flecked face. You say nothing, and neither does he, but you know he senses some shift in you. Whether in the widening of your eyes, or the hitch of your breath–but he makes no life-altering demands. All he asks of you, is for another toe-curling kiss with the tilt of his head. His soft lips on yours feel like a promise, and for the umteenth time this night you think to yourself: you are so fucked. 

“We have to go find Constantine,” you say as you pull away from him. “I know he’s in danger.” You feel it tugging on you at the distant end of your metaphysical cord. Trepidation. Fear. Resolve. You’re not sure if taking you from him was meant as a trap, or a distraction, but it can’t be good. 

“You’re too late.” The thing at your feet that only vaguely now resembles don Juan grins a bloody grin. “They have the psychic, that woman detective, and they’re doing the ritual tonight. Mamon will rise, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” 

“Where?” demands Wick with a growl that raises the hair on the back of your neck. 

Don Juan, however, just spits blood at the dhampir’s feet. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“You can heal this eventually,” says Wick with a dismissive wave at the vampire’s missing limbs. “Tell me, or I will take your head too.”

“You won’t leave me alive,” scoffs Juan. “I was not born yesterday.”

“My word.” 

“As a gentleman?” The laughter that grates from Juan’s lips is bitter as the betrayal of a friend. He is not biting–and you are running out of time.  

Wick casts a look at you before returning to the vampire. “As a husband,” he answers. “It is the only vow that I ever held truly sacred.”

“John Wick, murderer and romantic…how sweet,” taunts Juan, rolling his eyes. Even in this state, he cannot be anything but that what he truly is: an asshole of the purest grade. 

 “Tell me,” says Wick darkly, brandishing a knife produced from somewhere. “Or I will keep you like this for centuries more. I will take pieces from you until you are nothing but the talking head you are, but you won’t die. Trust me, I know.” 

Juan just glares, until Wick begins advancing on him with the knife, seemingly going for an ear. “Fine!” shouts the vampire, desperately leaning away just before the blade touches his skin. “Fine, fine, hijo de puta.” Lower, under his breath he continues to grumble, “Chinga su madre, pinche pendejo...”

“You were saying?” 

Mad as a rattlesnake, but realizing he has no other alternative, Juan spills the beans. 

—-----------

*hijo de puta - son of a bitch *chinga su madre - fuck your mother *pinche pendejo - fucking bastard *🤣🤣 i’m so sorry…

[hello-vampire-kitty]

Servamp chapter 144 translation "Alicein Mikuni-JUDGEMENT

READ THE CHAPTER ON MANGADEX!

Translation notes:

Page 11

He's most likely referring to his ability “Coppelius Coppelia" from chapter 122 .

Page 16

Perhaps some of you recognize who is talking in the last panel. I assume it must be Mikuni, but I'm not certain...If it might sound familiar to you, please let me know!

Page 22

"I knew that would happen". "To know" was the furigana reading while the other reading was 'to predict/to estimate"

Page 25

Oh boy, I had some trouble understanding what Mikuni was trying to say because of a word that he uses that needs explaining.

If I'm right, he was commenting on what Kuro told him about Germain in regard to turning back time. Mikuni is apparently saying that Germaine failed to rewind time, most likely because he was affected by Kuro's death and perhaps and this is just my speculation, he had to more complicated magic stuff. Perhaps if he didn't revive Kuro as soon as possible, he was going to loose him forever.

Mikuni said the word 渦中 which can be translated as (in the middle of a) scandal; controversy; quarrel; turmoil. It also has the meanings of "maelstrom, vortex."

So yeah, the word is often used metaphorically to describe being caught in the middle of a difficult or chaotic situation.

Last page

Mikuni calls it the 'first round' and here's a fun fact. While looking to see how it could be translated, I found the term used in the context of video games, so it's basically "'first playthrough" and when the kanji for number 2 is used 二周目 it means 'new game plus'.

If Mikuni was known to be a gamer like Kuro, I could have used those terms xD

Lastly, the line at the bottom of the page, "Mikuni's 'world' begins..."

The word to start/to begin is commonly written as 始める (hajimeru) but here it is written as 創める which is used more in literary works and it has the nuance of 'creating, founding, establishing'.

Tanaka-sensei once again chose a word that reflects a theme.

The Book of Genesis in Japanese is written 創世記 and as you can see, the first kanji is the one I explained earlier.

So yeah, hope you liked these notes and let me know your thoughts about the chapter!

[missvaseline]

Whenever you watch me: Chapter 11 (Griffith x Reader) 18+

When Griffith was a child, he found his very first member. They've grown together and she became the best swordsman he’s ever seen, a prodigy. But there is a difference between being a mercenary, and then being Griffith’s.

Here is the link to: Previous Chapter

Her lips tasted like his flavor.

The rising cacophony from the camp finally shattered the buzzing around her mouth. Shouts, the scream of sharpening steel, the frantic neighing of warhorses. Reality swallowed her whole, a brutal tide drowning the nascent embers of that fragile hope. The swordswoman broke from the treeline’s embrace, sprinting towards the maelstrom. Armor clanked with quick steps. She saw him almost immediately- Griffith, issuing orders while holding onto his calm. He turned as she approached, eyes finding hers across the churning sea of men and steel. The intensity from their encounter still simmered there.

“The eastern flank is faltering,” he stated, his voice cutting through to her, devoid of any hint of their earlier intimacy, yet somehow carrying its weight. “Laban’s strategy holds, but the Tudors press hard. The King’s Fifth needs support at the vanguard. You’re with me. We reinforce the front.”

Not the command post. Not guarding nobles. The front line. With him. The reversal of events felt succulent with fierce wild joy that surged through her. It fried whatever confusion was within. This was where she belonged

“Understood,” her voice clipped.

They moved together then, a whirlwind of silver and steel cutting through the ranks. Reaching the front, the true face showed itself. Mud churned with blood, the air thick with screams and the sticky coppery stench. Tudor soldiers, emboldened by numbers, crashed against the thinning line of the King’s Fifth like a relentless tide. The Swordswoman drew her blade naturally. It was as if a dam within her had burst. Years of discipline, hours of relentless training, the gnawing ache of being sidelined. Now she was feral. She ran forward, hands tight in her hilt as she swung at the side of a knight caught mid swing with his war hammer. Her sword rattled against chainmail, dulling a curdled scream beneath it. She twisted her upper half further to sink the edge of her blade deeper before stepping out to relinquish it from the hilt of his flesh. The swordswoman didn't have time to fully see the knight slump to the ground before she heard the whirl beside her. She side stepped, sabre slanted to arm herself as biceps hardened, taking the brunt of a long sword head on. Soles of her boots skid against pebbled rocks while teeth grit.

“Fucking bastard-” she snarled before falling forward, swords singing together as the sliver of eyes beneath the Tudor Knight's helmet widening at her bold move. Her sword came through his chest. She stepped forward with more strength. When warmth spilled over her tightened fingers, the last gasp parted from him and his sword slipped to dirt was when she stepped back to let his body fall. Two. Men fell before her like wheat before the scythe, their surprise often the last expression on their faces.

From the slight elevation where he coordinated the flanking maneuver, Laban watched, flinty wide eyes open with an echoed expression of bewilderment. He saw speed and the almost contemptuous ease with which she dispatched seasoned Tudor warriors. But more than that, he saw the ghost. It was Kael reborn, Kael’s ferocity unleashed without the older man’s weary caution. The sheer volume of her kills was mounted with every twist and arc of her blade She spun, avoiding a clumsy axe swing. Her proximity to freedom felt close to an earlier sensation. A whisper from beneath oak branches.

It was enough.

A hulking figure, sensing the momentary lapse, roared and charged. His movements were surprisingly fast for his size, his massive sword descending in a whistling swing aimed directly at her neck. She saw the rusted chainmail, and hatred burning in his eyes. Sunlight glinting off descending steel.

Instead, silence slammed down where the clang of impact should have been.

Griffith stood where the knight had been seconds before. His sabre was clean, yet the Tudor knight lay crumpled at his feet, neck severed in the way he attempted on her, eyes rolled up in their sockets. He turned to her, and the Swordswoman braced herself for the expected fury. Instead, he had placid concern etched over his features. The serenity wasn't coldness; it was deeper. His azure eyes scanned her with swift and thorough assessment for injury, devoid of panic or overt anger.

“Are you unharmed?”

She could only nod with a tight throat. The adrenaline drain leaving her suddenly weak-kneed. Sheer absence of his anticipated rage was more disorienting than the near-death experience itself. It didn't compute. It felt wrong.

He stepped closer, his gloved hand gently, briefly, resting on her shoulder pauldron. Intention was entirely unknown.  "Stay alert," he gently patted her shoulder in a comradic gesture, "The battle turns. We press forward."

Then he was moving again, directing the charge, voice ringing with clarion command. The touch on her shoulder burned hot even through her armor plate. His calm, attentiveness, kindness- it sliced deeper than the Tudor’s blade could have. She watched Griffith become a beacon of silver against the chaos with his commands slicing through the battle like whip cracks. The echo of his touch lingered, more potent than the sweat cooling beneath her armor. His unexpected calm was a puzzle piece that refused to fit, leaving an unsettling vacancy where fury should have been. Shaking off the disquiet, she raised her blade again.

But the surge had already broken. The Tudor charge, emboldened by their initial success against the strained King’s Fifth, seemed to lose its impetus with the Hawks joining the vanguard. Where moments before there had been a desperate scuffle, now the Tudor were sputtering like dying embers. The Hawks flanked the remaining pockets of Tudor soldiers. And the cries of battle shifted, thinning cries and Shouts into chirping buzzards. The Swordswoman advanced, picking off isolated opponents, but the frenzy was gone, replaced by the grim task of cleanup. Mud sucked at her boots as she moved through the wreckage of the failed assault. The sweet adrenaline ebb leaving behind a weariness and the hollow ache of her earlier confusion.

Laban strode onto the churned battlefield from his command position. He stopped near the Swordswoman, nodding towards the impressive tally of Tudor dead surrounding her position. The ghost he’d seen in her movements was now evidenced by the sheer destruction she'd wrought.

“Good work, soldier,” he rumbled, the compliment gruff but sincere, carrying the weight of a commander’s rare approval. “You fight like him. Fast. Decisive. You honor his memory with that blade.”

“Hopefully I'm not just a ghost of my father in your eyes.” She replies, flicking stray blood onto mud before wiping the rest away with the purple cape of Tudor knight severed in half. Entrials gleamed from the sun above. Breathy laughter cracks behind her.

“This wasn’t a probing attack, too reckless for their main force right now. These weren’t frontline grunts. Look at their gear, what’s left of it. Better quality. Desperate, maybe, but skilled.” He spat onto the blood soaked ground while he focused on the narrow point of where the Tudor came between tall trees. “I’d wager they were a suicide squad. Sent ahead specifically to try and decapitate Midland command before the main offensive even begins tomorrow.”

His assessment resonated, clicking another piece into place. A targeted assassination attempt on the leadership. It explained the ferocity and seeming disregard for their own survival. And it underlined the danger of her post. Though she hadn't felt in danger even with cool steel swiping for her neck earlier.

“Figures.” She muttered, eyes narrowed at the blood seeped onto the crevice of her hilt as she tried to rub it away.

Guts had emerged from the across the field, his amor slick with blood. A scar knitting at his forearm. “West’s secure.”

Laban had given him a nod, “Good.”

She expected there to be a conversation between them when there wasn't any to be had. Guts lingered, his silence heavier than questions. Though he spoke anyway.

“You alright?”

She hadn't answered at first, believing he was speaking to Laban, but when the silence fell- she turned to meet their gazes pointed at her. The concern unnerved her more than his usual indifference. She hadn't imagined him being concerned, much less voicing it. She bristled, armor suddenly suffocating and hot like it wasn't winter’s eve approaching. “Fine. The ambush just… caught me off guard.”

His dark eyes held hers longer than she would surmise. She swore he saw it all. The distraction and guilt, the taste still haunting her lips. Guts’ dark eyes didn’t waver. The skepticism wasn't aggressive, just a quiet, heavy certainty that settled between them like dust after an explosion. He shifted his weight, the movement seeming to draw the very shadows of the alley deeper around them.

A deep hum settled through him in response, “I saw some of the auxiliary tents were damaged. Now that the perimeter is secure, come and help set up replacements.”

For some reason it didn't feel like a simple request. She paused first and then fell into step with him.

“Do your due diligence.” Laban said as a parting to them both and she realized his hovering sounded more like fanfare than the standard observation. It was a few steps on, then she saw him point vaguely back towards the treeline where she and Griffith had emerged separately moments ago.

“Seemed like you had other things on your mind. Saw you come out of the woods after Griffith did.” His comment lashed at her without him intending to, making her flinch. He’d seen them. Not together, maybe, but the implication was clear, hanging thick and undeniable in the air. Her constructed excuse crumbled between them, leaving her exposed. And he wasn't finished. This time he was stripped of pretense, “And when the attack hit near the command tent while Gaston was rallying the guard- I was patrolling the perimeter. Heard someone crying.” He looked uncomfortable saying it.

“Sounded like you.”

Crying? She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged, only a dry click in her throat. Her mind scrambled, searching for denial, deflection, anything- but Guts’ focus on her subtle trembled form offered no escape. Before the crushing weight of exposure could fully snuff her, her eyes followed trails of smoke tangling above scraps of charred canvas, fragments of what structure they were. She subliminally took the opportunity to ignore Guts’ observations, sifting through the debris to salvage whatever survived.

Guts kicked away a beam now made of charcoal, easily snapping it from the force.

“Looks like eight.” He mused.

Her eyes briefly flicked to the scene as she gathered stray daggers hidden beneath torn cloth, “Nine. I'm sure we have a surplus at the supply carts.”

He grunted at the worse circumstances. The swordswoman stood with a dagger, an old cloak, a sword and a bed roll that managed to survive nearly unscathed. She sighed, finally managing to gather her wits to answer his question before she went rummaging for items in the dirt.

“One of the commanders knew my father. I got emotional. It was beyond me.” She whispered beneath the veneer of Midland knights and Hawks scattering to their duties alike.

The dueler didn't turn to look at Guts before she faced the direction of the line of carts. “Could use a hand bringing supplies for nine tents.” with that, he followed. By the time they had made it eastward, the supply carts themselves looked trampled and raided. She stepped faster, more determined to follow clues of smoke curling in the air, leaving Guts behind. When she rounded for the supply cart, she saw Corkus pinching the bridge of his nose, Pippin pulling out tainted canvas from the din of a burnt cart with arrows sputtered from it. They must've been chewing through the supply carts first right under the Hawk's noses.

“Hey! I’ve been looking for you!" Rickert panted, addressing the Swordswoman, his eyes wide.

“Yes, Rickert?” She asked.

“You saw your tent, haven't you?”

The Swordswoman's tired look was enough of an answer to him. He managed carefully through an unsteady pant. Poor boy must've been running around in charge of site management with dwindled resources by now.

“Well, the supply carts have been torched along with the military grade tents. We had another set only to find those were torched too along with the weaponry carts”

The Swordswoman stared, words barely registering past the ringing in her ears that frustration began to chime. Rickert, mistaking her stunned silence for simple shock at the loss, hurried on, relaying his orders.

“Commander Griffith heard about it already. He said…” he lowered his voice conspiratorially as he stepped forward, “well, he’s allocated you space in his command tent for now.”

She must've been glaring daggers at him, her eyes parched from her focus on the young mercenary. Rickert shifted nervously, fumbling with his vambraces out of a nervous tick, clearly reciting a justification he didn’t fully grasp himself. Corkus and Pippin found themselves in the vortex of his words, stepping closer to eavesdrop.

“Said since you’re guarding the nobles anyway, and his tent is right near their command post. It's just practical. Saves setting up a new one right away, keeps you close to your duty station. The other Hawks are setting up further back, consolidating…” Rickert trailed off as he finally registered the profound, almost identical looks of stunned shock from everyone nearby. The Swordswoman felt the blood drain from her face. Griffith’s tent. His tent. After what transpired just moments ago? The world tilted, the ground unstable beneath her boots.

Guts’ reaction was a mirror of her own internal hell, but reflected through a different lens. His eyes widened fractionally. Corkus, standing in his simmering resentment, looked utterly poleaxed. His jaw dropped, eyes bulging, sputtering incoherently for a moment before raw outrage contorted his features.

“His tent? Are you kidding me!?”

The accusation of favoritism, always boiling, now exploded into full blown certainty in his furious gaze.

“Why?” The word clawed its way out, desperate and ragged. She grabbed Rickert’s arm, ignoring the startled look on his face, needing an anchor in the suddenly pitching world. “There must be something else- Officers’ quarters, requisitioned space. It’s safer to have separate tents, surely?” The plea sounded weak even to her own ears, laced with an impropriety she couldn't fully articulate but felt viscerally.

Rickert gently disentangled his arm, his expression sympathetic but firm.  “I’m sorry, but the fire took the main supply carts- the ones with the spare command grade canvas. Everything’s gone. Griffith’s orders were clear. He said you should take it up with him directly if you had objections. Look, I need to help allocate what supplies we do have left.” With a final, apologetic glance, he turned and hurried away towards the smoking remnants of the supply line, leaving her adrift. Pippin had stopped rummaging for items, his glance seemingly mirroring Guts'.

Take it up with him directly. The suggestion was laughable. The near-miss in battle didn’t seem to phase him for this reason.

“Great.” She sighed to herself, her knees growing wobbly with frustration. She kept her face tilted to the earth, afraid that if otherwise, the heat on her face would be seen through her skin.

“Unbelievable,” Corkus sneered, breaking the stunned silence. His gaze dripped with envious contempt. “Of course she gets to share the White Hawk’s tent. Biggest one in the whole damn army, probably got feather pillows and silk sheets. While the rest of us are crammed five to a leaky canvas!

“Corkus,” Guts’ voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "You’re dismissed from guard duty. Go help Rickert with the supplies.”

Corkus sputtered, indignant, but one look at the unyielding set of Guts’ jaw and the dangerous stillness in his eyes seemed to convince him. Muttering curses under his breath, he stalked off, defeated. She could feel Guts’ eyes on her as she stared down into the dirt with items balled in her arms.

“Do you need help carrying them?” his voice slivered through her grievances.

“I should be good. Thanks.” she gave a weary smile at him, trying to cover her growing angst. Pippin and Guts had stared at her enought to make her jolt from her place. "I'll just put this at my new tent." Before Guts could stop her she had already weaved herself through knights and mercanaries.

On the way to the noble’s tents, her eyes scanned the command area, settling on a large tent where muffled voices hummed within its hearth, indicating a debriefing was underway. Griffith was inside, undoubtedly charming the Midland commanders in the serenades they needed to hear. But standing just outside the flap, patient and observant, was Owen, the Toumel Knight leader. She haphazardly paced into Griffith’s tent, noting the spacious area. More- the smell of him before she placed her items down on the ground. Corkus may have not been lying. Though, the dueler didn't have the time to see for herself. she was quick to Catch Owen before the nobles did, slipping out from the tent to dart directly for him. He could at least tactically give answers, his non bias reasoning may be more clarifying than her gut deep down assuming that this wasn't coincidental. If anything, Midland could fetch her a spare tent.

“Sir Owen,” she began as she approached, keeping her voice level.

He turned, offering a polite, if slightly weary, smile.  “Ah, the Hawk herself. Settling in?” 

“A question, if I may,” she said, skipping the pleasantries. “Midland command- are there absolutely no spare officer’s tents available? Any reserves at all?”

Owen’s smile faded slightly, replaced by genuine sympathy.  “None, I’m afraid. The fire was thorough, hit the primary stores hard. Everything extra went up in smoke. Why do you ask? Does this have to do with Commander Griffith lending you space in his pavilion?”

So, it was already common knowledge among the command staff. She felt like she was being stripped of her skin and exposed for everyone to see. “I understand the necessity, but I worry it could be politically unwise for him. Sharing quarters with a soldier, even one under his command. Nobles gossip.” She offered the concern as a plausible, detached observation, hiding the frantic personal objections churning beneath.

“Commander Griffith seems remarkably unconcerned with such whispers,” he observed dryly. He hesitated, then seemed to make a decision, lowering his voice slightly.

“Look, I don’t wish to alarm you, but Commander Laban is my closest friend. We spoke after you met him this morning. Griffith likely offered his tent as a form of protection. Your father- he was a significant figure, and at one point, a political enemy, or at least a perceived one, to certain factions within Midland.”

The Swordswoman stiffened, her blood running cold despite the lingering warmth on her lips. Laban knew. Owen knew. How many others? This offered a potential logic, albeit a disturbing one. Protection through proximity, control disguised as shelter. It fit Griffith’s pattern.

“But,” Owen frowned, tapping his chin,“that’s the odd part. From what Laban recalls, and from the histories I know- very few of the current high command actually saw Kael in person, especially not near the end. Which makes Lord Lyle’s comment earlier, his claiming you looked familiar rather surprising. Almost impossible.”he trailed off.

The Swordswoman seized on the doubt. “Lord Lyle looked old enough to confuse my face with any number of soldiers he’s seen over the decades,” she countered, perhaps too quickly. “Memory plays tricks.”

Owen shrugged, though his eyes remained troubled. “Yet, Laban seemed quite unsettled by it, Lyle’s apparent recognition. Staying close to Griffith, within the commander’s inner circle might be best. I say this to reason you, as you came here looking for answers presumably.”

Hidden in plain sight. Or trapped in the center of the storm. With Griffith, she suspected, there was rarely a difference.

"But why?" she pressed Owen, lowering her voice, needing to understand the underlying current pulling her into these dangerous waters. "If Laban knows who my father was and the potential complications… why bring me here? Why involve me with the high command? Wouldn't it be safer for everyone, including him, to keep me at arm's length, or buried within the Hawk ranks?" Why wasn't he trying to oust her, leverage her past, or simply warn Griffith away?

Owen shifted his weight, his gaze sweeping the perimeter as if ensuring their conversation remained private. His answer, when it came, was coated in the smooth patina of courtly diplomacy, yet felt oddly hollow.

"Commander Laban values competence above pedigree." Owen added, a slight emphasis on the word, "though, trusting the known quantity, even one with a complex past, is often safer than relying on the shifting allegiances and whispered poisons of nobility. They backstab each other for sport.”

His answer felt practiced and evasive. It didn't fully explain the personal risk Laban seemed to be taking, nor the almost paternalistic way he’d handled the dagger. Something was missing. But Owen wasn't finished. He leaned fractionally closer, his next words delivered with a quietness that prickled the hairs on her neck.

"And between us… it wasn't Griffith who initially pushed for your placement here."

The Swordswoman froze. "What?"

"Laban utilized the King's formal decree quite deliberately, commander Griffith, initially, seemed less than enthusiastic about you being detached from the main Hawk force and placed directly within this command circle."

He clarified. That clarification punched the air from her lungs. Griffith hadn't wanted her here? He hadn't lied about the King's decree being the impetus, at least not entirely. But his reluctance. Now, it contradicts everything. She stared at Owen until he shifted uncomfortably. There was no reason for him to lie about this.

"I… see," she murmured, the words feeling inadequate. There were no other tents. Laban had insisted she be here. Griffith, after initial reluctance, had seized the chance created by the fire to ensure she stayed, right next to him. There was no escape hatch, no alternative lodging. She had to stay in his tent. The realization settled with the cold finality of a dungeon door slamming shut.

And then, slicing through the confusion, came the memory of Griffith’s voice in morning dew months back:

"Was it less confusing when we were younger? Sharing tents, telling each other stories? Was it better when we did those things?"

Sharing tents. How convenient. How perfectly, suspiciously convenient that circumstances had now forced them back into that childhood intimacy, the very state he had wistfully recalled back then.

A fleeting thought surfaced- Casca. Could she share with Casca? But the idea died almost instantly. Casca commanded Hawk units, her tent would be positioned with the main encampment, likely miles from this command nerve center where the nobles and generals huddled. It was logistically impossible, reinforcing the stark reality of her situation.

A humorless scoff escaped her lips, "Funny," The word came tight with irony, "I accused him of engineering this, of wanting me here all along. He didn't exactly fight me on it." in fact he leaned into it.

Owen chuckled softly, a sound of genuine amusement mixed with a hint of resignation. He clearly recognized the intricate dance of power and personality between the Swordswoman and the White Hawk, even if he didn't grasp all the steps.

"Well, Navigating Commander Griffith's motivations seems a campaign strategy unto itself. He may have simply recognized the inevitable once Laban invoked the King."

The Swordswoman let out a weary sigh, rubbing her temples against the burgeoning headache the day’s revelations had induced. The tent flap behind Owen remained closed, muffled voices still audible from within. "How long do you expect their debriefing to last?" she asked, the edge returning to her voice. Patience felt like a foreign currency she couldn't afford right now.

Owen glanced back at the command tent, then back at her, a teasing glint in his eyes.  "Impatient to move into your new accommodations, are we?"

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, armor plates groaning faintly in protest. Her jaw set stubbornly. "I think I've had quite enough surprises for one day, Sir Owen. Knowing what comes next feels like a necessary tactical advantage at this point."

He turned slightly, lowering his voice again as if sharing a confidence that bordered on impropriety.

"Regarding Laban, he likely made some promise to Kael. Years ago."

The Swordswoman's breath hitched. A promise? To her father? "What kind of promise?"

“I do not know. Laban guards his past closely. But Kael saved his life once, perhaps more than once. Debts like that, among men like them, are not easily forgotten, regardless of politics or kings."

This added another layer of complexity, a motive rooted in honor rather than strategy or manipulation. But it still didn't explain everything. "How did he even know it was me?" she pressed, the question burning. "My father kept his family life separate. How could Laban possibly recognize me after all these years, amidst thousands of soldiers?"

Owen hesitated, his gaze flicking towards the royal crypts, unseen beyond the camp bustle. "He told me… it was at the funeral procession. For Julius and Adonis."

The Swordswoman frowned, trying to recall the chaotic, grief stricken event.

"The queen noticed the disturbance. Laban was standing quite near her then, part of the immediate royal escort. He said when you looked up, after bowing, he saw your face clearly for the first time. And he knew. Instantly."

Stunned silence descended again. The funeral. That humiliating moment under the queen’s glare, Pippin hauling her back. Laban had been right there. He had seen her face, recognized Kael’s daughter in the midst of royal mourning, and said nothing until this morning. A familiar figure detached itself from the command tent, gliding towards them with that distinctive grace.

Griffith was approaching. And the fragile truce brokered by Owen’s partial revelations felt suddenly, terrifyingly inadequate. She remained quiet, caught in the crosscurrents of relief, suspicion, and unwelcome guilt over her earlier certainty about his motives.

“Sir Owen,” Griffith greeted him with a nod, his smile polite but brief, a necessary acknowledgment before turning to his true focus. His azure gaze settled on the Swordswoman. “Finished with your duties here?”

She felt Owen’s presence beside her keenly, a reminder of their conversation, of the truths and half-truths exchanged. The guilt reveberated. She had accused Griffith, raged at him, based on assumptions that were, apparently, incomplete. She kept her eyes fixed on a point somewhere over Griffith’s shoulder, unable to meet his gaze.

“Yes,” she managed, her voice subdued.

“Good,” Griffith said, his tone smooth, accepting her quietude without comment.  “The command tent is being struck for the evening redistribution. You should move what little remains of your gear to my pavilion now. I managed to salvage a spare bedroll from the secondary supplies; I’ll take that. You can have the cot.”

His offer of the cot, the prime sleeping spot felt like a means to butter her up. It wrong-footed her again, making her earlier fury feel churlish. They began walking beside one another- keen not to touch, moving through the bustling camp towards the large, distinctively marked tent that served as Griffith's mobile headquarters. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the sounds of the recovering army.

Finally, the pressure became too much. She cleared her throat, the sound small in the open air. “Griffith…” She paused, struggling for the words. “About earlier… my accusations about Laban’s request… I apologize.” The admission felt like swallowing stones, heavy and unpleasant, but necessary.

He glanced at her, and surprise had caught him before he wiped it away. “There’s nothing to apologize for.” His dismissal was effortles. “I told you it was the King’s decree, invoked by Laban. I knew you would eventually see the situation for what it was, without my needing to force the perspective.” He hadn't lied, not technically, but he had allowed her anger to run its course, knowing the facts, when revealed, would land with greater impact. He had let her discover it herself, maintaining his position of quiet authority and deeper knowledge, even in reconciliation.

"How long is this arrangement likely to last?"

Griffith glanced sideways, the setting sun gleaming in the azure of his eyes.  "Until the next supply convoy arrives with replacement command tents. Could be a week. Could be a month, depending on Tudor movements along the supply lines and the King's priorities."

A month. The word hung in the air between them. A month of sharing this confined space, of unavoidable closeness, of navigating the treacherous territory they'd entered under the oak trees. Slow heat crept up her neck. She looked away, focusing intently on the rhythmic crunch of their boots on the path, suddenly finding the pattern of trodden grass fascinating.

Then, another question surfaced, nagging at the edges of her understanding. "Owen mentioned… you initially objected to Laban’s request for me to guard the command unit." She risked a glance at his profile, seeking confirmation. "Why? If you knew Laban… knew the potential connection?"

Griffith didn’t break stride. "Because, I knew how you would react. Being confined to a command post, guarding nobles while the main battle rages elsewhere. You'd feel caged. Pent up." He paused, letting the accurate, if unflattering, assessment land."And when I suspected Laban's insistence stemmed from his past ties to your father, I objected even more. It adds layers of complexity I couldn't predict or control. Placing you in the center of that felt unnecessarily risky."

"Understandable then." She concurred for a rare once.

He stopped just outside the entrance to his large, well-appointed tent. The canvas glowed warmly from the lantern light within finally facing to the darkness showing itself over the lands. "Now, circumstances have changed. Laban's motivations, Lord Lyle's scrutiny, the general instability after Julius' death… the safest place for you is close. Where I can ensure your protection directly." A faint, almost self-deprecating chuckle escaped him. "Frankly, I don't trust the average Midland knight or even most of these noble commanders to adequately defend a potted plant, let alone someone as… prone to attracting trouble as you are."

"Fair point," she conceded quietly, turning away from him. Her attention snagged on the pitiful state of her bed roll, cloak, secondary sword and dagger. The scorched fabric, the pervasive smell of ash. It felt like a tangible representation of her own precarious situation. She picked it up, scowling as she tried to shake out the worst of the soot and smooth the stiffened wool, focusing intently on the futile task. It gave her something to do, something to look at besides the man sharing her enforced sanctuary.

Behind her, the distinct sounds began: the click and scrape of buckles being undone, the sigh of leather straps loosening, the soft thud of discarded pauldrons hitting a trunk lid. Griffith was removing his armor. Piece by piece, the barrier of polished steel that defined the White Hawk was coming down, leaving behind the man beneath. An involuntary tension coiled in her shoulders. She kept her back resolutely turned, fiddling with the cloak, pretending to inspect a particularly stubborn scorch mark, feigning difficulty in balancing her sword against the campaign table – anything to avoid acknowledging the intimacy of the sounds, the vulnerability inherent in shedding one's defenses.

"I'm going to the lake to wash off the grime of battle," Griffith's voice broke the silence, "The water will be cold, but it's necessary."  She could almost feel his gaze on her back. "If you feel unsafe going alone later, given everything… you're welcome to come now. There's safety in numbers, even for bathing."

Her cheeks, already warm from their earlier proximity, felt blistering. The suggestion hung in the air, seemingly innocent, practical even, yet loaded with unspoken implications after everything that had transpired. Bathing. Together. Griffith had bathed in lakes and rivers alongside the entire Band countless times over the years. When they were younger, scrambling through streams after dusty spars, it hadn't meant anything more than rinsing off sweat and mud. There had been an easy camaraderie, an absence of sin born of shared hardship and childhood familiarity.

But things were different now. She was different. He was different. He wasn't the lean boy she’d wrestled with anymore; he was Griffith, the commander, sculpted muscle and unnerving grace, a man whose touch now ignited far more than simple friendship. The kiss. That brief pressure of his lips had irrevocably changed the landscape between them. The thought of seeing him stripped of his armor, of being near him in that state of vulnerability after that… it felt like bathing with her soul and secrets out from her body. Too intimate. She hadn't consciously bathed near him, not like that, since they were well into their teens, since the undeniable realities of their maturing bodies had erected invisible but potent barriers. She hadn't seen him fully unclothed since then.

"We haven't-" Her voice caught, forcing herself to turn and face him, needing to establish distance. He stood now only in his linen undershirt and breeches, his armor neatly stacked. Even partially clothed, the lean power of his build was evident. "...bathed together like that since we were young, Griffith."

He met her gaze, and it was too hard for her to read what was in them. He nodded slowly.

"True." He didn't press more than that. "If you feel uncomfortable, perhaps ask Casca to accompany you later. She’ll likely be heading down with some of the other women."

His easy acceptance somehow felt more cutting than persistence would have. It made her feel… childish. Unreasonable. Yet the boundary felt necessary. "Then why… why even suggest bathing together now?" she asked, needing to understand his reasoning, needing to know if it was another calculated move or simply thoughtlessness.

He seemed genuinely taken aback for a moment, a scoff slips from him as he parts tresses behind his ear. "Honestly? It didn't occur to me that it would be like that. Old habits, I suppose. Practicality. Thinking only of safety after the attack. My apologies." He didn't linger on the awkwardness. With a final, almost formal nod, he gathered a small bundle containing soap and linen.

"I won't be long."

He parted the tent flap and disappeared into the fading light, leaving her alone in the suddenly vast, shared space. It was going to be either a long week, or a very long month.

Go to Next Chapter

[julibellule]

Celestial Chaos - Aftermath

Relationship: Aziraphale ♡ Crowley 

Summary: I remain curled on the floor, a small, broken thing, my body refusing to move, my mind refusing to engage with the reality of the situation

Rated: General (tw: First person POV, OC's POV, Mild gore, Parent Aziraphale ♡ Crowley)

Chapter: 11/17

Words: 2912/23k

From the story: Celestial Chaos

From the series: Celestial Chaos

Song that goes with this chapter:

Fallen fruit - Lorde

—-------------------------------------------

Read Chap.10 - Quetzalcoatl

Crowley breathes with ragged, uneven breaths. He is trembling, his own strength frayed, but still, even in his distress, he managed to crawl to Aziraphale, to shield him. 

Aziraphale is breaking. His shoulders quake, his breath comes in shuddering gasps, he is caught somewhere between grief and terror. He looks lost, adrift in emotions too vast to bear. His hands are fisted in Crowley’s coat, knuckles white, as if anchoring himself to something—anything—that is still real.

And I am trapped within the eye of the storm, a maelstrom of searing, unrelenting power coursing through me. It crackles in my veins, white-hot and blinding, a force both ancient and newborn, coiling and uncoiling in waves that pulse outward, distorting the air itself. It is creation and destruction in perfect, terrible harmony. I barely feel the ground beneath me—I am untethered, weightless, and yet unbearably heavy with the enormity of what I now hold within me.This raw, unfiltered power still surges through me in waves – a white-hot torrent of light and warmth that threatens to consume me. It's exhilarating and terrifying, a godlike energy pulsing through my veins, radiating outward in waves that shimmer in the air.

I feel it.

I feel all of it.

Read Chap.12 - Aziraphale

Read on my AO3

[ao3feed-destiel-02]

A Match Made in Music

A Match Made in Music https://ift.tt/Z7EMAxo by Raven_Fuchs Dean Winchester rose to fame as the lead singer/songwriter for the now defunct Muscle Car Maelstrom. The band imploded once the shady dealings of their former manager was discovered. Now Dean is starting afresh with a manager/agent he trusts who is recommending that he use the publicity around the winner of a recent televised talent contest to help relaunch himself and his career. To say that he is highly sceptical that Castiel Novak is anything but a wannabe rock star, is putting it mildly. Dean is soon confronted by Novak’s talent and has to admit that he’s the Real Deal. What happens as sparks fly between the two men in ways that Dean never could have anticipated when he’s faced with a match made in music. Words: 9665, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel (Supernatural), Charlie Bradbury, Bartholomew (Supernatural), Balthazar (Supernatural) Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester Additional Tags: Rock Star AU, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Musician Dean Winchester, Musician Castiel (Supernatural), low angst, Marriage Proposal, Destiel - Freeform via AO3 works tagged 'Castiel/Dean Winchester' https://ift.tt/imgEN4w January 26, 2025 at 11:44AM

[changingplumbob]

🩷 Rotation 7 💜 Chapter 7 💙

Household Members: Bob Pancakes, Eliza Pancakes, Dale Pancakes, Iggy Pancakes, Fergus Pancakes, Ginger Pancakes Part 1 ... Part 2 ... Part 3 ... Part 4

🩷 Rotation 8 💜 Chapter 8 💙

Household Members: Bob Pancakes, Eliza Pancakes, Onyx (Deadname Iggy) Pancakes, Fergus Pancakes, Ginger Pancakes Part 1 ... Part 2 ... Part 3 ... Part 4 ... Part 5 ... Part 6

🩷 Rotation 9 💜 Chapter 9 💙

Household Members: Bob Pancakes, Eliza Pancakes, Onyx Pancakes, Fergus Pancakes, Ginger Pancakes, Strawberry Pancakes, Tiana Pancakes, Maelstrom Pancakes Part 1 ... Part 2 ... Part 3 ... Part 4 ... Part 5 ... Part 6 ... Part 7 ... Part 8 ... Part 9 ... Part 10 ... Part 11 ... Part 12

[maelstroumwaterfall]

Arbormagic Syndrome | Chapter 11

Chapter 11

It was all quiet in the castle as the students, Madam Pince and Minerva walked through the corridors, illuminating the stone walls with the bright light of the Lumos. It could indicate that Maelstrom was the only threat but it was too early to loose the guard and let the students go back to their dormitories.

When they were in the Great Hall among the crowd of other students it felt much more safe. As soon as Bill spotted Charlie amongst the other students he immediately went towards him while Ismelda, Merula and Rowan moved towards the nearest seats at the table. They all felt that significant tension after what happened, nobody wanted to start talking, though nobody knew what to say either.

Surprisingly, Rowan was the first one to speak up. He looked doubted, conflicted and worried, yet he definitely had something to say. It was all noisy there, everyone was talking and discussing the happening, not understanding what is going on at all. Rowan looked up at Snyde and Murk, before gesturing them to move a little away from the main crowd.

They stopped in the corner where there were less people, though it was quite close to the exit that meant if someone or something dangerous goes inside, they'll be the first ones to face it.

-I have something to tell you.. I didn't consider it that important before, but now I think it could have something to do with all that mess. - he started, immediately catching the attention of both Merula and Ismelda.

-What? You knew something about it and didn't tell us? - Snyde asked, not understanding why would he try to hide something in that situation. It was clear that the situation was becoming dangerous even a few days ago when Maelstrom's abnormal behavior became more than obvious.

-I said I thought it wasn't something important! Like.. Not related to whatever is happening now. Just listen, please. - he repeated before he looked behind him to check if there was something happening in the Great Hall as the headmaster was probably going to have a speech for students if it's needed to warn them about something or calm them down.

-A week or maybe.. three weeks ago? I don't remember.. Well.. Maelstrom has told me that he probably found the next Cursed Vault.

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......Three weeks ago......

°It was a day after Waterfall and Merula went to the Forbidden Forest to try and find any signs of the next Cursed Vault. They told Rakepick try didn't find anything, but in truth Maelstrom has spotted something interesting not far away from the place where they were searching. He wasn't going to tell anyone untill he investigates it himself°, there was no reason for him to share the treasures if he finds the final vault first.

He didn't have any intensions on finding his brother, he didn't want to have that traitor by his side anymore. They agreed on looking for the Vaults together after Maelstrom attends to Hogwarts, but Jacob ran away without him like a pathetic coward. At least Rowan believed his true intentions were to find his probably dead brother, no matter how much Merula was trying to prove otherwise. He would most likely not be willing to risk his life for a bunch of gold just like others. If there was only a way to get rid of this annoying, ugly pig Snyde, things would be much easier for him. Though, maybe there is a way. He just needs to wait for that opportunity.

°He was studying Disillusionment Spell for a while now, he understood there will definitely be a use of invisibility even since the third year. He sneaked out of the castle, not worrying about taking a broom or something else.° He already imagined how he finds the last vault and breaks the curse alone, getting all the laurels and proving his parents he's not that spoiled, lazy and worthless failure he used to be called.

°The place he found was a kind of a cave, he wouldn't pay any attention to it if he didn't notice that slight gleaming of light somewhere there. The entrance was very thin and he would have to crawl to get inside and he's lucky if he will not end up stuck between between the firm, stone walls without anyone knowing he's there. He carefully bent down and started slowly moving through the cramped stone walls.°

°He was about to stop when he just started, feeling a pure disgust at the cadaveric odor coming from the cave°, but decided to risk if it means getting unimaginable wealth himself. His parents spent all their life achieving the wealth they have now, and he will achieve the same in his teenage years, without a need to spend his days working on some brats for a few gallions.

The light was becoming brighter and he was already expecting to see mountains of gold that will provide him with an unimaginable wealth for his whole life. He didn't even think what else could be there, even since the disgusting odor was become even more and more significant over time. °He squeezed through the rock walls and ended up on the icy surface.°

°The whole space was illuminated by the magical, bright light coming from whatever was underneath. It was a beautiful and hypnotizing picture, and he stood right above that, something mysterious and unknown. He leaned closer and wiped the icy cover a little, before he instantly flinched back and the beauty and charms of the place disappeared in his eyes after he saw what was beneath.°

°It was a half-rotten, distorted dead body, covered in a wooden like bark. He saw something creeping under the ice, it looked like small white-blue snakes and after a moment he could see they were a reason of the bright light inside. He couldn't quite see everything because of these, they were everywhere there, like there were thousands if not millions of these snakes that made it impossible to concentrate through the incredibly bright light.°

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-You said he saw snakes? - Ismelda asked, already understanding why Rowan thought it has to do something with the current situation.

Rowan simply nodded, understanding that it's already clear that the things Maelstrom thought were snakes are most likely the parasites they've discovered.

-I'm starting to feel less and less pity for him, not like I did at all. - she said, rolling her eyes. She could figure out Maelstrom was hiding something but she couldn't imagine this coward trying to go there alone. She even smirked a little, knowing that happened to him after he to trick everyone, especially her. She even remembered how Waterfall was the one joking about her death, though it was happening quite too often.

It got to the point where it she couldn't ignore it and just laugh at his pathetic behavior, it started making her feel extremely annoyed and disgusted. She still regrets the Devil's Snare didn't manage to end his pathetic existence at the first year, things would be much easier for everyone without this pathetic brat roaming around.

Rowan frowned and gave her a strict glance, feeling hurt by her words and the way she's so casual about it. - Just let me tell everything. - he said in a sharper tone, though one could say he simply wanted to make her shut up because he couldn't bear seeing her so easy on his friend's death.

Merula was taken aback by Rowan's sudden outburst, even though he didn't show that much of aggression towards her. It wasn't like him, but she probably also went too far, after all, Maelstrom was a very important person for him and seeing someone smirking at his death was definitely not pleasant. She started feeling guilty, though it didn't make her feel any pity for Waterfall even in the slightest, but she felt like wanting to say sorry to Rowan, but already started continuing telling.

She decided to not say anything and just listen quietly. He was a person that over time made her feel like she doesn't want to see him feeling bad even in the slightest, even though she was harsh with him at first. She was even becoming less impulsive and rude by his side, though the side of Maelstrom near was always making her explode. It looked like Maelstrom managed to get on everyone's nerves, she was even noticing how Penny and Tonks were becoming less and less willing to stay by his side.

Rowan sighed and then continued telling, sometimes glancing at the dark corridor near them, expecting to see something slowly crawling towards them in the shadows in any second.

---------------------------------------------

°He couldn't believe what he saw and couldn't even suppose what it was as he's never heard of something like this before. He looked around, spotting an another entrance, leading to another part of the cave. He made a few steps closer and managed to take a better look at the insides. It looked like an old room, with a table, faded notes and even small table lamps that of course weren't working anymore.°

°He also noticed something growing from under the ice, it looked like trees but the benches seemed to grow absolutely randomly. As he walked further he noticed more dead bodies under the ice, he wondered if there really were so many people that tried to break the curse.° He also wondered if his brother there, even though it didn't matter for him like that anymore. He ensured himself he'll not end up like them, he definitely is much smarter and stronger than that.

°He made a next step before he head a loud, cracking sound beneath his feets. His heart felt like it stopped while the soumd echoed along the cave system. He watched how the fissure slowly spread along the ice and then stopped as if waiting for the next opportunity to worsen the situation. He took a moment to regain his breath, thinking of what he should do next. If he goes and reaches the 'room', there will be no chance left for him to come back.°

°He made a short step back and gritted his teeth at the side of the ice that is barely firm enough to bear a standing person, again having a crevasse spreading along. He only now noticed how the creatures beneath started cycling fast around him and that's where he didn't wait any longer before rushing back to the cleft that was the only entrance and exit of the cave.°

° -No! - he yelled, running as fast as he could and feeling a pure terror by the only thought of ending up like the ones he saw under ice. He was in a meter before the cleft when the ice underneath him broke and he fell down in the icy cold water. He didn't risk to open his eyes but he could felt how the parasites were touching and leaving burns on his skin. He managed to move his head out of the water and had to wipe the like it seemed hundreds of these disgusting creatures.°

°He was trying to grab the edge of the cleft, trying to get off the water like a trapped beast. His heart was beating wildly as he finally managed to reach the edge and cling on the rock surface. He pulled up, trying to wipe away the disgusting creatures that covered his clothes and body, before he hurried to crawl out of the cave. As soon as his feets finally touched the ground he rushed away, not daring to look back or slow down.

°He looked at his hands, looking at the slowly disappearing burns on his skin before reaching for his wand to use Lumos. He was lucky he didn't catch the attention of any other dangerous creature in the forest or it would be the last time he was seen near the castle grounds.°

°He wasn't sure if he should tell Rakepick and others about that place, the only thing he was sure about is that he wouldn't let him find out that he was there. After he sneaked back to his dorm room, Rowan was the only one he told about that place. They were going to make a research and even tell others so it'll be safer as they wouldn't have to go there alone, but after a few days Maelstrom suddenly denied that idea and said he found out it was just an old cave lake and they didn't need to go there.°

°When Khanna asked why he thinks so, Waterfall only said he found something about it in the book, yet didn't show it to him saying why can't he just believe him. It was strange but they had more problems than that and that's why Rowan didn't pay that much attention 'till now when the situation became critical.°

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

-I wanted to tell you when we all were in the library but I really wasn't sure about that all. The only thing that could be a proof for this was Maelstrom's strange behavior after that happened. - Rowan said, letting out a heavy sigh, feeling guilty that he didn't come up with it earlier. Maybe things would be better if he did that in time and warned everyone. Maybe Maelstrom wouldn't be dead now if he did at least something.

-We must tell Professor Dumbledore, if someone knows what is this it must be him. - Ismelda suggested and other seemed to agree with it, especially since even McGonagall said she didn't know what it was.

-I don't think it's the right time. Everyone's in panic, we need to wait 'till the situation with Maelstrom is solved. They definitely have more things to do now than to listen to our suggestions. We'll approach him right after they announce that it's safe. - Merula said, seeing how the teachers are discussing something. Their worried and doubted expression made her feel hesitant and concerned too, just like everyone else in the room.

-If they even will. It's not clear if Maelstrom was the only one.. like this.. We can still be in danger. - Murk glaced at the entrance of the Great Hall, barely lit and threatening to hide dangers in it's darkness. Rowan nodded but as soon as he wanted to say something in response the floor was shattered with the powerful explosion from somewhere beneath their floor. They leaned to the wall to not fall. Everyone started panicking again. Some of the teachers rushed away from the Great Hall, probably to the place where the explosion was caused.

There was another strange thing, when Merula entered the Great Hall first to warn the teachers about Maelstrom she didn't see most of the teachers there because they were looking for the cause of the threat around the castle, but when she came back with others almost every Professor was already there, except of Professor Snape.

[knight-hiccup]

I can’t wait to write MC running her fingers through Hiccups soft hair. I can’t write this story fast enough.

[caparrucia]

New chapter for the Zhongli/Childe dragonheart inspired AU: schemes, schemers and the idiots who love them.

[johnwickb1tsch]

andar conmigo ~ part 11

A Walk in the Clouds/Don John crossover outline/fic- Paul Sutton x fem!Reader x Don John triangle ~ You grow up at Las Nubes vineyard, and have to go home to your dying father. You take your fake new husband, Sgt Paul Sutton, with you...Your old flame don John does not like this at all. Warnings: don John STILL being himself an asshole, nsfw chapter map

You scream, certain in the span of a blink that he will land on his neck and you will be a widow before you ever got the chance to actually marry the man. 

Paul hits the dirt hard–and your heart with it–but he rolls with the impact, and somehow ends the disaster standing on his feet, looking utterly flabbergasted that he emerged unscathed. His smile is like the breaking of sunshine from behind an ominous cloud. The horse shies to the far end of the pen, stomping indignantly, and the crowd erupts with shouts and whistles for him. Everyone is delighted–except for don Juan, of course, who looks on with the expression of a man who bit into a particularly wretched lemon. 

That is when you are certain Juan cinched the saddle badly–if at all–and deliberately tried to hurt Paul with this escapade. Vibrating with rage, you march over to him, poking him hard in that solid chest of his. “How dare you?” you hiss. 

“Cálmate,” he sneers, batting your hand away. Calm yourself. 

But you have never been so angry in your life, rage filling you like a howling forest fire, and you wind up to slap him. He catches your wrist at the last moment, jerking you close with that iron-hard strength that always takes you by surprise. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says low in your ear, before releasing you to stalk back into the pen. No one paid any attention to your exchange, all fawning over Paul, who has thankfully had the good sense to exit the corral and leave the horse-breaking to the professionals. 

It takes a good five minutes for you to reclaim your temporary husband, everyone crowding around Paul to clap him on the shoulder and rib him for falling off like a circus monkey. You are still trembling by the time he sidles over to you, his joy dampening as he sees you are on the verge of a breakdown. 

“Hey now. I’m fine.”

He is covered in dust, and there’s a scrape on his cheek. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” you say, masking the maelstrom inside you with low words. It doesn’t fool Paul for a second. 

“Hey,” he says again, drawing you into the circle of his arms. “It’s alright. Please don’t cry?”

“I’m going to cry,” you inform him, your facade cracking a little with your voice, “And I’d like to not do it here. Will you take me inside?” 

When you frame it this way he slings his arm over your shoulders, leading you towards the house. You notice as you walk together that he’s developed a slight limp. 

Estupido. 

This idiotic, loveable, absolute puppy dog of a man. 

If he’d been seriously hurt…you would have done a lot more than tried to slap don Juan.

“Is anything broken?” 

“No,” he insists, but makes a sound through his teeth as he puts weight on his ankle.

“Lean on me,” you insist quietly, and once you round the wall of the courtyard, he does. 

Once you have him safely bundled in your room and seated in a chair he pays you a sheepish smile that makes you want to forgive him everything. “Guess you’re going to say ‘I told you so,’ huh?”

You give him a look that only makes him grin wider, the scamp. “Do I really have to?”

“Hmm. Well…I think my cowboy days are behind me now.”

Thank God.

“That’s a relief.” You dab at his chin with a wet rag, getting the dirt out of the scrape as gently as you can. “Though…you did very well, considering.” 

His dark eyes sparkle for your reluctant praise. 

“I had some good last-minute advice.” You narrow your eyes down at him, but your annoyance just seems to bounce off this man like rubber. Stranger yet, he seems to enjoy it. “You were pretty worried about me, huh?” 

“Of course I was. Have you ever seen a man turned into a vegetable from a kick to the head?” You shudder, remembering an incident with one of your older cousins when you were a girl. The memory of his dead, staring eyes will always haunt you. By some mercy he only lingered a month, before succumbing in his bed.  

“I’ve seen plenty of terrible things, honey,” Paul gently reminds you, looking down at his hands.  

You freeze, feeling stupid in that moment. He’s seen that and worse, you’re suddenly sure. But then…you are angry all over again. Because he survived all that, just to nearly die for the sake of riding a horse? 

“Then why risk it?” you snipe. “What for? To prove you are a man? To who? To them? To Juan? To me? I already know you’re braver and truer than anyone!”

He looks up at you with those liquid brown eyes, and you feel yourself melt all over again. “Are you saying…I've got something to live for?” he asks hopefully.  

“I should hope so! You have your whole life ahead of you!”

“That’s not what I mean.” 

You make a small, exasperated sound in your throat that causes his lips to twist, trying not to smile. 

“Tell me why you were so worried.” 

“You know why.” 

“Not sure I do…” He pulls you in closer between his spread legs, looking up at you with that pleading dark gaze. You have to close your eyes against the strength of the emotion that fills you at that moment, another round of tremors quaking through your bones. 

This man. 

“You know I care about you.”  

“Uh huh.” He rests his chin upon your breastbone, still looking up at you expectantly. 

“I told you that you’re precious to me.” 

“Yeah.”  

His hands have made it to your waist, spanning your back, holding you to him. It makes you dizzy all over again–you are finding it harder and harder, to imagine life without those hands on you, holding you, comforting you, making you go to pieces…

“Paul…” you whine, begging for mercy he might not be in the mood to grant right now. You’re not really sure how you end up straddling his lap. He pulled you, maybe, or…you just melted into him. More and more, it seems like that is how things have been going. You are helpless as a magnet seeking iron with this man, the one thing you are meant to hold on to. His strong arms wrap around you, holding you to him, and you stay like that together for a long time, your head on his shoulder. 

“You have to promise me to be careful with Juan,” you whisper. “He meant to hurt you today.” 

“Oh. Maybe he hoped, but it was just one of his mean little games.” You marvel that even now, this man can’t imagine that off the battlefield, someone truly meant him serious harm. 

“No, Paul. He cinched the saddle too loose. I’m certain of it. He hoped the horse would kill you for him.” Paul is quiet in your arms as he digests this, not dismissing your accusation again. “Maybe…we should go, before something terrible happens. I can take you back to San Francisco.” 

His powerful body shudders with laughter beneath you. “You’re gonna escort me home, huh?” 

You sigh, knowing it sounds ridiculous when he puts it like that. You just…can’t shake the need to protect him, when it seems for some reason no one else in the world ever has. 

He kisses your temple. “Sweetheart, you are my home right now. I’m not leaving you.”  

You lift your head to brush his lips with yours. “I’m scared,” you admit. You wish the two of you could just steal off into the night, much like the first time you fled this place. 

He nods, and it means the world to you, that he doesn’t outright dismiss your fear. He’s the only man in the world you know who has actually listened to you. You comb your fingers through his hair at his temples, looking at him from so close, your heart so full you think it might explode. You almost feel as though you are watching from outside your body, as you gather your breath and gird your loins, ready to tell him how you really feel. “Paul…I lo–” 

There is a knock on the door. The interruption makes you jump as though you’ve been caught. “Y/n?”

You get to your feet, reluctantly answering the door when you recognize Esmerelda, the head housekeeper’s voice. “Sí, Esme?” 

You crack the door to find the older woman looking despondent on your threshold. “You need to come quickly. Your father…has taken a turn.” 

You shoot an apologetic look back at Paul, who nods with understanding even though you know for all the world he wants to hear the rest of the words you’d had for him, right on the tip of your tongue. “I’ll be right there.”

“Thank you, Esme.” 

With a sudden feeling of dread in your heart, you close the door behind you, and you run. 

[simarazauberhandwriting]

The big moment when Liv finds out where she comes from is getting closer :D

The big moment when Liv finds out where she comes from is approaching :D

-> Sophia couldn't say how Liv and she had got to her quarters, but now she was sitting on the edge of her bed. The engineer watched her partner, who was dozing again in her wheelchair with that duck on her lap.

Ever since they had left the ship's doctor's office, Sophia had been in a maelstrom of worries and fears. Why? Why had Dr Winter had to tell her all this? She buried her face in her palms while the thoughts of the youngest daughter of Therva-Schuss&Patronen-AG dug deeper and deeper into her distress. How was she supposed to explain to Liv everything the doctor had told her? Especially now that everything was returning to what felt like healing. What was expected of her?

At that moment, as she hid her face in her hands, the engineer heard her girlfriend's voice: "Something's bothering you … If Algea is mean to you…" The second officer of the Abyss Crusher didn't get any further because Sophia interrupted her, shaking her head: "No, it's not that…" She removed her hands from her face, recognising Liv's sceptical expression - followed by a yawn - out of the corner of her eye.

"Liv… We have to…"

"I know…"

"No, you think that…"

"Exactly, that's where you're wrong, Emchen."

Sophia had hastily got up from the edge of her bed, almost losing her balance. By the stars, what was she supposed to do? Fear flooded through her when the engineer saw the agonised look on Liv's face.

"Talk to me. Tell me what's on your mind."

"It's not that easy."

She gesticulated desperately with her hands as she walked restlessly towards the door and back towards her girlfriend.

"Oh, and you think having to sit in this chair is fun?

She looked at her girlfriend in bewilderment, unable to get a word out. "Nothing is easy! It never has been! Do you think my life hasn't kicked me in the face again and again? Do you think I wouldn't have liked to give up? How many times have I begged Aster to take me with her," Liv continued, goaded. Her voice suddenly softened and her expression relaxed.

"Whenever things get even halfway better, everything has been taken away from me, except you. You're the only person who hasn't left and I'm not going to let anything come between us."

She sniffled and looked at Sophia with a gaze that was fuelled by equal parts fear and anguish. A first dampness gathered in the engineer's eyes, the harbinger of tears.

"I escaped the blue line and Dante died … Arthur found me and Zoey disappeared … I meet you and … And you stayed."

She raised her bandaged right hand as the first gentle tears trickled down Sophia's cheeks. "I love you and no matter how hard it gets, I'll stand by you, just like you were there for me. So please tell me what's going on," Liv added in an almost insistent tone. With a trembling voice, Sophia replied: "That's not the point…" "Then what is it about?" her girlfriend pleaded desperately.

The duck, which had been sleeping in Liv's lap, stirred, quacked in offence and nibbled at her wrist, so Sophia lifted it up and placed it on her bed. The animal curled up there and closed its eyes again. In a quivering voice, the second officer commented, "Thank you…" Sophia held her left forearm with her right hand and took her eyes off her girlfriend.

"You're welcome…"

There was an oppressive silence for a while until Liv spoke up: "Do I have to keep begging you to trust me?" Sophia shook her head wordlessly at the question.<-

Dreams of electronic tears, Chapter 11: The new morning's fierce flame, Scene 1: Nora

[kim-pink-and-pink]

Chapter 1:

In the quiet solitude of his apartment, the man, William, found an old journal filled with cryptic symbols and disjointed sentences, awakening a curiosity that would unknowingly set the stage for his descent into madness.

Chapter 2:

As William delved into deciphering the enigmatic writings, he became obsessed with uncovering their meaning, spending sleepless nights connecting dots that seemed to lead nowhere, while a subtle unease crept into his psyche.

Chapter 3:

Strange occurrences plagued William—whispers echoing through empty rooms, shadows that danced with a life of their own. Yet, he dismissed them as mere products of his overworked imagination, clinging to a semblance of normalcy.

Chapter 4:

The symbols in the journal began to blur, distorting reality as William's perception unraveled; he questioned the authenticity of his surroundings, caught in a disorienting loop of paranoia and confusion.

Chapter 5:

Sleep became elusive, replaced by vivid nightmares that intertwined with waking hours, blurring the boundaries between dreams and reality, leaving William haunted by a persistent sense of impending doom.

Chapter 6:

Friends and family noticed William's erratic behavior, his conversations spiraling into incoherent ramblings as his once vibrant eyes dimmed with a growing sense of detachment from the world around him.

Chapter 7:

Isolation consumed William as he withdrew from those who cared, convinced that the answers to his unraveling sanity lay within the cryptic symbols, now etched into the very fabric of his deteriorating mind.

Chapter 8:

The walls of his apartment closed in, adorned with scribbles that mirrored the patterns in the journal; every inch a reflection of the fractured state of William's sanity, now teetering on the brink.

Chapter 9:

As he ventured deeper into the labyrinth of his thoughts, the whispers intensified, morphing into sinister voices that echoed the darkest corners of his subconscious, feeding on the fragments of his sanity.

Chapter 10:

Reality fractured like a shattered mirror, and William found himself lost in a kaleidoscope of distorted perceptions, unable to distinguish between the real and the imagined, a puppet of his own disintegrating mind.

Chapter 11:

Paranoia gripped him, and William began to see malevolent figures lurking in the periphery, their ominous presence fueling his descent into a state of perpetual terror.

Chapter 12:

The once-coherent symbols in the journal now resembled chaotic scribbles, a manifestation of William's unraveling sanity, his identity dissolving into a maelstrom of confusion and existential dread.

Chapter 13:

Desperation set in as William clung to the last fragments of his sanity, seeking refuge in the very symbols that had initiated his descent, unaware that they were the threads binding him to the abyss.

Chapter 14:

Reality became a shifting mosaic of fragmented memories, each moment a distorted reflection of the past, and William struggled to grasp the slippery threads of his eroding identity.

Chapter 15:

In the final throes of his descent, William succumbed to the all-encompassing madness, his mind a chaotic symphony of dissonance, the remnants of his sanity forever lost to the relentless march of insanity.

[thekuraning]

kura's on the ball this morning! Chapter 11 of Tiger & Bunny fic Maelstrom, with a little rewind action goin on :)))

Title: Moving on in a Maelstrom

Rating: M

Chapter 11: What happened that morning at Betel Prison

Chapter summary: Something happened the morning after the instagram post shared by Wild Tiger went viral.

[songue85]

Questions for Fic Writers ✏📝💻

@faeriekit tagged...

1. How many works do you have on Ao3?

Only one! Most of mine are all in FF.net, maybe one day I'll post them there, but for now, yeah, single fic.

2. What’s your total Ao3 word count?

Today (10/30/2023), measly 45k, but I'll be posting two chapters this week, so... 50k soon?

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Now, Spider-Man and Batman, but I've mostly published Doctor Who fics, usually crossovers.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Just AO3, that is Arachnomaly. If I include the works in FF.net, then, by favorites, it would be:

5) Maelstrom in the Darkness - An Essay on Blindness: What if Uzumaki Naruto had been incurably blind from birth? Oh, I wish I had time to write more, so many ideas, so LITTLE TIME!

4) Smoke on the Water - The Untold Stories! Based on the popular "Smoke on the Water" story by Sir-Mercutio-McHuffer, who authorized me to publish chapters as a separate, sorta-not-exactly-canon bonus chapters!

3) Different Doctors Meet a Most Unique Universe: after a talk with @zaziecurie , I started writing this collection of short stories about The Doctor in Steven Universe's reality, different takes as his many incarnations (4, 10 and 12 posted, but I had other ideas)

2) Justice-Whimey : formerly my longest fic to date, it's a tie with the first place, The Tenth Doctor is a patient in Arkham Asylum, DC Universe, in an reality-altering adventure;

And at the top

1) ARACHNOMALY! Surprise, two months of posting and it is my most favorite story at the moment at FF.net, though it's always a one chapter behind from AO3's schedule (less than half of its ao3 equivalent in kudos as well).

5. Do you respond to comments?

Sure, always! I don't have too many comments, but what I get, I try to reply on the same day or the following, at most!

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

My short story Destiny is Not A Game , in FF.net, based on the finale of the game X-Men: Destiny.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

What is this 'happy ending' people talk about so much?!

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Hate in ao3? Maybe... overzealous criticism?

The worst stuff, as expected, is in the reviews in FF.net, but, again, it's FF.net, so what can you do against great guest reviewers such as...

9. Do you write smut fic? If so, what kind?

Used to, but they are for my wife's eyes only !

10. Do you write crossovers? If so, what’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Currently, Spider-Man x Batman comics, but the craziest were my forays into Doctor Whooves stories (my focus, as always, had been more of a whovian than ever a brony, I'll admit)

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I hope not!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope! Maybe I'll do it myself for Arachnomaly, one day!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes, long time ago, but never published it - it was a crossover with The Idealist 33. Actually, I fibbed, I heavily edited a chapter for their story, Doctor Whooves?, chapter 7, which almost makes it half mine, kinda?

14. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

Oh, wow, let's see, there are so many... NaruHina ? Though I always had a spot for NaruIno? In RWBY, Dragonslayer, just for the fics I've read. Peter Parker x Kitty Pryde, just because of the Ultimate Comics, but PeterxMJ for life.

... and in my writing, yeah, The Doctor (Whooves) and Ditzy Doo.

... it was a phase, mom.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Well, "Spider-Man Must Not Ruin the Future" is an old project, Spectacular Spider-Man crossover with X-Men: Evolution, trying to integrate both realities in one story.

Also an untitled story where the six original Mighty Morphing Power Rangers get saved by the arrival of Black Dino Thunder Ranger, hilarity and feelings ensue (those who know, will understand the potential!)

16. What are your writing strengths?

I've been told that, when I get the character, I REEALLY get them. Like,

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

If I feel the chapter needs to be short, it will be short. Sometimes, I can get too concise for my own good.

Also mispeling, but I've been getting better, I think.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I'm always writing in another language, but I've been venturing on writing a character who communicates mostly in ASL.

19. First Fandom you wrote for?

Doctor Who!

20. Favorite Fic you’ve written?

Tie for Justice-Whimey , Arachnomaly and Charades 4 6, actually!

And that's all, folks!

Thanks once again to Faeriekit for the tag!

Whoever would like to continue, follower of mine or not, feel free to consider themselves tagged!

[isnt-it-pretty]

20 questions for writers

I was tagged by @comfort-questing! Thank you, this was fun.

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

Currently 55

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

576,498! That's over six years of posting

3. What fandoms do you write for?

I've written for many! Currently I have active WIPs for Genshin Impact, Tamora Pierce, Persona 5, and Demon Slayer. (I also have a couple unposted for Mistborn)

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

By Only a Flicker (FMA)

Into Darkness and Howling (Genshin)

Maelstrom (Demon Slayer)

Pray to Blades of Grass (Genshin)

Fingernails the Colour of Rust (Genshin)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try to! Sometimes I miss some but in general I try to. It encourages involvement, which I love. Fandom as a community is really important to me.

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Hmmm okay so. I'm going to list a few because I can't decide because they're all very specific.

Fragile Things isn't really an angsty ending, per se, but it isn't happy. You know that long term it isn't going to get any better. Xiao is still chronically ill; Collei is still terminally ill. They have each other but that doesn't change the circumstances.

A Dream of a Memory (Genshin Impact) is Hurt No Comfort because it's a prequel so idk if that counts

Still Too Similar (Tamora Pierce) is a modern take on a canon death, which I'm also not sure counts because it's based off canon.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

It's probably between The Sea That's Painted Black and Pray to Blades of Grass

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Nope! I don't think I ever have but I wouldn't really be bothered if I did. I'd just delete the comment.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Once! It was kinda angsty, kinda sweet. I write smut like a wealthy Edwardian woman who would die if somebody so much as said an annotomically correct word.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

No I haven't but I've seen some great ones.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Sort of? There is a person who was inspired by my work and wrote theirs without credit (which is whatever, it's all fic) but they paraphrase plagarized my first chapter, which was devistated. It made me stop writing for a couple weeks because it just killed my desire.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yeah! Several into Russian, and then a couple other languages.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

None currently posted but I did with @currentlylurking when we were younger! And I've helped my friends as a sounding board for fics for years. I just don't have time to co-write, sadly.

14. What's your all-time favourite ship?

I don't really have an all time favourite. Currently I write a lot of cynonari/tighcyno from Genshin Impact, which I love, but I think my oldest ships are Alex/Thom and Numair/Thom from Tamora Pierce? So that might count more.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

*Sigh* at this point? Probably Into Darkness and Howling. I love the fic and the concept, but the general discourse around the character ruined any writing of him for me. Everybody gets so mad about characterization and localization that even if the fic never got any complaints I'm just not comfortable attempting. Also the popularity of it really scary even if the character wasn't contentious. There's too many expectations of it now.

16. What are your writing strengths?

My ideas are amazing. I come up with great canon divergent AUs.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Sometimes it feels like everything lol. Spelling is definitely my worst, you just can't tell since I use a beta reader and spellcheck. Characterization and making my characters unique in thoughts and dialogue can also be a struggle.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I haven't done it but I like it when it's done well! I think you have to intersperse it with the original languague of the fic and make sure it contextually makes sense without needing a translation.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Technically Tamora Pierce in an old notebook but officially my first works were Soul Eater. (They were really really bad)

20. Favourite fic you've ever written?

I like a lot of them but Fragile Things is held close to my heart.

I'm tagging @faelynny @currentlylurking @marcellebelle @lavenders-writing @clementinecoastline no pressure to do it though!