#chapters: hunger for vengeance | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

coltermorning · 7 months

Text

Of Love and Loss Ch. 5 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: Needing peace of mind, you search for it in the familiar and find it in the unexpected.

Author’s Notes: Chapter five of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, graphic depictions of violence

AO3 Link

Of Love and Loss

Five: Fleeting Peace

Word count: 3703

I fear this may be the most foolish thing I’ve gotten myself into to date. The woman, still nameless, is in mourning or grief or both and rarely speaks. Makes me wonder what she was like before all this drama. And here I am, more idiot than guide, leading her toward land unknown by either of us. The blind leading the blind. It’ll be a miracle if we make it out alive.

It had been two days, and you still could not stop thinking of that elk, of your father’s words in your ear, of the older man reminding you of your mother. Your mind was running in circles, an endless stretch of memory and reality closing in on each other. The only bit of normalcy to speak of was the return of your appetite.

You had eaten twice since waking on your back in that camp wagon, half whole again, the ability to keep food down born of necessity rather than any sort of want. That had led to your hunger returning, and it burned through you now with a vengeance.

It was night, you and the man had stopped and made camp, and he was cooking meat over the flames of the fire, the smell making you understand why wolves were so drawn to carnage. Your stomach was rumbling with want.

“You want some?” he asked, not even bothering to look up at you. You wished he would—you were sure your hunger was written across your face. But he didn’t, so you were forced to respond.

“Please.”

After cooking it through, he handed you half. You tore into it like a wild animal.

“Glad to see you’re eating again. I was worried this would be a short trip, starting with you starving to death.”

You shot him a glance but kept eating, needing it more than air.

Once you finished, you debated going out to kill something yourself. You were that hungry. But the thought was cut short.

“So. You ever actually been to Nebraska before?” he asked.

“No.” You backtracked, considering. “Once.”

“Which is it?”

“I’ve been once.” If you could call that being. But you didn’t elaborate. He called you on it.

“Well. Ain’t you just full of talk.”

“Always.”

He laughed. The sound drew your attention, nearly startling you. Then you realized what you had said and grew somewhat proud—your old humor finally resurfacing. It gave you the courage to speak a little more.

“My momma got pregnant with me in Nebraska. She and Pa left before they knew, but I guess it counts.”

“I guess it does,” he said. “So you made this journey before, huh?”

“I have,” you said, thinking fondly on your parents so proud to have a child together, wanting to start their lives with no one but you up in the mountains. “Though I can’t say I’ll be much help with directions.”

Arthur smiled this time, a crooked-looking thing. “No, I wouldn’t think so.”

Braving the unsettling feeling you got from talking, you went on. “Have you ever been?”

He reached in his satchel and pulled out a box of cigarettes. “Passed through a couple times. Never stopped long enough to say I’ve really been there.”

“I bet you’ve been all over.”

He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and eyed you. “What makes you say that?”

You shrugged. “Folks you run with. All those wagons.”

He nodded, lighting a match on his boot and bringing it to his mouth, cupping his hand around the flame so the wind wouldn’t catch it.

After he took a long drag, smoke curling up and whipping away, he offered you the box. You waved it away.

“Don’t smoke?”

“Don’t know how.” You said it before thinking better of it, and Arthur’s resulting expression made you wish you had come up with something else. There was a gleam in his eyes, like a boy with a scheme.

“Don’t know how? It ain’t hard.”

You shrugged, cutting off opportunity for him to push. But push he did. He held out the box to you once more. “Take one. It’ll take the edge off.”

You looked away. There was no taking the edge off. Not when the edge was as big as a mountain. A cliff to fall over.

He sat back, stowing them. “Suit yourself.”

The remainder of the night passed quickly. You bundled up in the spare bedroll you’d been given and cut out the cold, cut out everything. You were exhausted. Your side was aching after all the riding. Your whole body was. But that just leant to heavier sleep, which soon came to you quicker than it had in a long time.

You slept the whole night through. You awoke later than usual, though still early. An old habit formed by hard days of work better spent in the mornings.

Sitting up, you took in your surroundings and found Arthur kneeling by the fire. He saw you stir. “Morning. Sun’s up before you this time.”

He was exaggerating about the sun. The morning still had that blue glow to it that only a barely risen sun could make.

You made to stand anyway and sucked in a breath—the pain in your side was going nowhere. You felt your bandages under your layers to make sure they weren’t damp with blood.

“Nigh time you rewrap that anyway,” Arthur said, eyeing your hands.

“It’s fine,” you told him, trying again to stand. This time you managed it, but it must not have been a very impressive show of it. Noticing, Arthur made for you. He stepped into your space, making you retreat into yourself until he lifted your coat from your side, checking your bandages himself like it was any other thing. For some reason, you let him.

“Yeah, I’d say change these.” He stepped back. “Don’t want ‘em getting dirty.”

You stared blankly at him. You had nothing to replace the bandages with.

He gave you an amused look. “Didn’t think I came that unprepared, did you?” He walked over to his horse, pulling out more cloth from his saddle bags. “You make me take you all this way and I’m sure as shit getting you there in one piece,” he said, unraveling the cloth. He brought it over and held it out to you. You took it, glad he didn’t try to do it himself.

Realizing you would have to near abouts undress your torso entirely to rewrap it, you turned away, stepping into the nearby trees. You started shedding layers, each movement pulling on your stitches. You’d never had stitches before. Never been hurt this badly. You suddenly hoped more than anything this man knew what he was doing.

“How long do I have to keep these in?” you called out, finally getting to the bandages.

“The stitches? Depends,” he replied. “Until the skin starts to heal back together. Which in your case may be a while.”

How long was that? You thought to ask but stopped when you got all the wrapping off and saw your injured side again. It was a nasty sight. A giant bruise, black, yellow on the edges. Scraped skin. A jagged red cut with stitches holding it together, nearly six inches long. You could only sit there and look at it a moment, trying your best not to think about how you got it.

“How do you take them out?” you blurted.

“Just cut the knot and pull. Won’t even hurt.”

Like hell it wouldn’t. You had half a mind not to let him near you again.

“How’s it look?” he asked. “Swollen at all?”

Desperate not to look at the wound a second longer, you started wrapping it, not caring if it was green so long as you didn’t have to see it carving up your side.

“No,” you answered. It truthfully wasn’t. A little agitated, but considering the damage, that seemed expected. You probably should have cleaned it a little but used the excuse of there not being any water around.

You finished winding the cloth around your middle, securing it before observing your work. It was shoddy. You let your short chemise back down, and it bunched up where you had tied the bandage off. You let out an annoyed breath, smoothing it over best you could before putting your shirt back on. When you tucked it in, you purposely left it baggy. No need to draw Arthur’s attention, make him feel the need to rewrap it.

You donned your vest and coat, making sure your father’s ledger was still in the inside pocket, and stepped out of the trees.

Arthur turned your way. “You sure it’s fine? You’d tell me if it looked like it was gonna kill you, right?”

You didn’t respond. Even though it didn’t look bad, dying from natural causes didn’t seem like something you could stop. It was a higher hill to climb, one you didn’t care enough to do anything about.

You started making way to your horse when Arthur stopped you with a hand around your wrist. “Right?” he insisted, voice lower. That same commanding voice he had used on the man who had cornered you by the river.

Surprised that he had grabbed you, you yanked your hand away and pushed passed him without a word. It was an odd thing—you didn’t feel fearful like you would if anyone else had grabbed you. You were angry with him. He knew better.

He let out an annoyed groan and a small word that was likely ‘Jesus’ but let you be. And, getting back to the matter at hand, you headed for your horse. You wanted to go on a hunt. The only real hunting you had done since being on your own was the elk hunt, and even that hadn’t been usual enough to sate your desire. You needed the quiet of the land around you, the animals calling out to each other. Nothing else to think on but prey and your father telling you to focus, to breathe out, to shoot. It was peace unlike anything else—something you desperately needed.

You got the spare rifle you had been loaned off your horse, examining it. It was a basic thing. Perfect, really, for its intended job.

“If you’re planning on shooting me with that, I can promise you, I shoot quicker.”

Peace interrupted once more, you closed your eyes and took a breath before turning to Arthur.

“I’m going hunting. Alone.”

“Like hell you are. Feel like getting yourself eaten in the process?”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’ve been hunting for most of my life. I know how to protect myself.”

“I don’t doubt that, but like I said, I’m getting you home in one piece. So I’m coming with you wherever you go. You don’t like it, you shouldn’t have asked me along in the first place.”

“I need…” You couldn’t say it. Not to this stranger. Peace. And how to explain that you could only get it in the woods, surrounded by animals and nothing more.

He waited expectantly, his hands on his gun belt. You huffed a breath, needing him to understand but knowing he wouldn’t. He was too stubborn to give it up.

“Fine,” you said. “You can come. But please stay quiet. I need quiet.”

He quirked an eyebrow but said nothing more.

After taking some ammunition from him for your gun, the two of you left the horses and your small camp behind and set off. You went where sound and sight led you, unfamiliar with the terrain but immediately picking up on a few deer trails. The tall animals usually barreled through the woods in the same places, leaving small tunnels through the trees and low-growing bushes. Even though the tunnels were much less obvious than they would be in winter, you followed them.

Much of hunting was thinking like the animal you chose to stalk. Deer were all instinct, all bursts of speed and subtle power at the slightest noise. Rabbits were less thoughtful but faster still. Anything bigger was normally aggressive, and anything else was not much for hunting. It was a game, a need fulfilled and satisfaction saw through. You found yourself floating along with the feel of it, the first time you hadn’t been weighed down since the fall. Then a loud pop of a stick sounded behind you, and you whipped around.

Arthur stared right at you, almost like he was waiting for you to get onto him for it. Not wanting to make more noise than necessary, you only held a finger up to your mouth to quiet him and continued on.

After enough walking that you reached a place your were sure other humans hadn’t touched in years, you stopped. You knelt and examined the ground, listening hard. There was a lot to stillness. Much more than other hunters realized. So you sat, letting the animals reveal themselves rather than chasing them down.

Ten minutes passed without a thing. Then, slowly, came three deer. They likely smelled you or Arthur, their heads occasionally popping up, their tails twitching. But you stayed still, became the woods around you, waiting for their trust.

They were foraging around, likely searching for food they would need before the snow hit. It made them desperate, and desperation gave way to ill caution. More minutes passed, and they forgot to be afraid of that unknown smell. They walked on far enough that moving your gun to your shoulder wouldn’t be noticed by those round brown eyes. You did so slowly and silently, hardly breathing. You aimed for the doe in the middle, the only one with her side turned to you—the easier shot. You waited a few beats, watching, not rushing. You always used to rush, and your father had called you on it every time. It usually resulted in an unclean kill or spooked game. So you waited, making sure all was in order, hearing your father tell you to be patient before you let out your last breath.

The gun fired, startling the deer and the birds and everything alive. When the deer went down, you weren’t torn apart by it this time. You were proud. You had done everything right, just as he had taught you. A hunt years in the making. You had just never known what the cost of it would be—to be so sure despite being so alone.

“You keep shooting like that, and I’ll start to think you’re some sort of sharpshooter.”

The voice startled you. You were so engaged in what you were doing you’d forgotten the man was there. You turned to him, looking at him without really seeing. Wordlessly, you stood and made for the deer.

Sure enough, it had been a rather impressive shot. The deer hadn’t been close by any means, not to mention the trees spanning the distance between you. You’d hit her right in front of her ears, downing her immediately, just as you had the elk. If it had been a buck, you’d have gone for the heart, but this doe had made it easy on you. You knelt beside her and heard footsteps beside you, then the scraping sound of a knife against leather. You looked up to find Arthur holding his knife out to you. Willingly this time. So different from the elk hunt.

“Thank you,” you managed, taking it from him. You meant it in more ways than one. Despite who he was, talkative and humorous, he had let you be more times than you truly deserved in the short span of the time you knew him.

He didn’t respond, so you got to work.

In an hour, the pair of you were back to your horses with enough meat to last you weeks. Probably the whole trip. Arthur had brought a little of the elk along but left most of it for his people, so this would more than cover you in the meantime. Especially with how cold the weather was turning. That was one thing your mother loved about the snow—meat didn’t go bad in such coldness. Or it took a lot longer to. You silently thanked her for that small knowledge as you packed down your horse.

“May be easier to use one horse to pack,” Arthur said. “We can both ride the other.”

“Not enough meat here,” you said simply. Plus, you didn’t want to ache twice as bad when you were suddenly without a saddle.

“Ain’t you knowledgeable,” he quipped. “How’d you learn all this anyway?”

“Learn what?” You finished with the meat and took some to cook.

“Hunting like that. I thought Hosea was good, but I ain’t ever seen anything like that. You track like a bloodhound.”

Your chest welled with pride. “My father taught me.”

“Well he was a good teacher then.”

You ignored the ‘was’ and went on, happy to brag on him. “He grew up in the country, in the Nebraska plains. He always did want to move to the mountains, but he was already a man of the land before he was even a man. That love of it, that reverence, it made him a good hunter.”

“I’m sure,” Arthur said.

With that, your father’s warm memory running through you, you made for the fire to eat a well-deserved meal.

You were halfway through eating when Arthur asked, “Is that how your father made his living then? Hunting?” It was a curious question, one that made you stare at the man because he said it with such caution. Like he knew better than to be asking it. You wondered why but let it slide. Instead of answering, you tugged the ledger out of your inside pocket and handed it to Arthur.

He fumbled it open, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion over the first few pages. They were where your father had learned his letters, likely scribbled nonsense to Arthur. But he kept flipping and eventually must have reached something he recognized, as he began to read.

You took your last bite of food when he asked, voice full of confusion, “Does this say goat?”

You looked over at him where he sat, poring over the ledger like it was the most interesting thing in the world. You felt pride surge through you once more before getting up to make him show you what he was talking about. “Where?”

He pointed to a spot on a page, and you sat at his side and squinted. The word could have been goat. It could have been a lot of things. Your father had also taken on a peculiar shorthand of his own making that only you and your mother could read. Her more so than you.

“Go back a page.”

Arthur did so, and you spied the date across the top line—May of 1888. The memory made the edge of your mouth tug upward.

“Sure does. That’s the year we had goats. The only year we did. Momma hated them. Here, go back.” He flipped to the page he had asked about, and you pointed to the numbers on the edge of the page. “Some figures for what he sold that month. See the goat line?”

“W…B? Am I reading that right?”

You couldn’t keep your smile at bay now. It was a foreign thing, feeling it stretch across your face. Something you didn’t think you had the strength to do anymore. But you did as you said, “Wolf bait.”

“Wolf bait?” Arthur turned to you, voice full of disbelief. His eyes locked onto you so close that you noticed for the first time how colorful they were. Gemstone green and sea blue. That made you come to your senses, your nerves taking hold. You quickly looked away, though your smile at the memory never quite left.

“Yep.”

“You’re kidding me,” he said. “You fed the goats to wolves?”

You thought of the end line for that year written later in the ledger—the most profitable year your father had ever recorded. You smiled again. “Something like that. They may have gotten loose and…”

Arthur let out a laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just…of all the ridiculous things to make you finally crack a smile,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t figure for goddamn goats.”

It was a bit silly, but you suddenly couldn’t keep a straight face. You wondered when the last time that had happened was.

“Then what’s this?” he asked. He pointed to something else in the ledger, and you were swept away from any further thought about happiness or the lack of it.

The pair of you sat together and pored over the pages for what felt like an hour. You couldn’t remember the last time you had felt so riddled with pride over something. It was like showing the very heart of both your parents to Arthur. It was an entire livelihood written down. Your childhood, your adolescence, your adult memories all coming back to you. It was exactly what you needed. The very thing to pull you outside of yourself for a moment, however brief.

It only occurred to you once the camp was packed up, you and Arthur had mounted, and the trip resumed that he had latched onto that ledger on purpose. Not because it was inherently interesting, and not because of any sort of politeness. It was because the ledger had been the first thing to make you speak, truly speak, since you’d met the man. He had picked up on that, on your love of your family before everything had gone so wrong. And he used it to help ease the pain for a little while. You realized then you were wrong about him. He was gruff and overly honest and sometimes flat out mannerless, but he was smarter than you figured for. Or maybe caring was the better word.

While the pair of you made out into another cold day, you were suddenly glad you had picked Arthur to come with you over anyone else. The man who had cared enough to save you. The one who was doing it still.

_________

Chapter six is here.

tag list: @tommys0not0beloved @ultraporcelainpig @photo1030

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing

49 notes · View notes

nephilimsss · 5 months

Text

𝗶'𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗶𝗺 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝘆 𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗿𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲. coriolanus snow

PAIRING ➨ coriolanus snow x fem!oc (named brutus) GENRE ➨ fiction SUMMARY ➨ taken after the song brutus by the buttress, it essentially goes lyric by lyric, and the chapters will be based off the lyric i choose that day ! WARNINGS ➨ maybe some smut in later chapters, death, manipulation, the hunger games, friends to enemies, enemies to fake lovers, fake lovers to murderers. SELENE NOTE ➨ first installment ! MAIN MASTERLIST

coriolanus snow was a strange child, no matter what he said against it. he showed little to no emotion, and sometimes he had to look around him to figure out which emotion he had to put forth to make himself look normal. however, coriolanus believed brutus—a girl with a boy's name—to be strange, from the way she picked haphazardly at the frayed edges of her uniform, to how she picked apart her steak sandwich and ate it in three separate pieces. first the bread slices, then the meat that was once in the middle, though she would nibble slightly at it before placing it in her back, wrapped in an expensive silk handkerchief.

if corio did that, his grandma'am would surely be angry with him for dirtying up something that was more than likely older than his father. he did not want to associate with brutus, no ma'am or sir, he was perfectly fine with sitting away from her, halfway across the classroom. she didn't exactly look dirty or poor, since every time she frayed her skirts, they would be immediately repaired or replaced with ones made of a heavier, more expensive material, or how she once complained about how the water had tasted funny when it was coming out of the drinking fountains—which, to be honest, corio did agree with her ramblings—and the next day it was announced that brutus' father had paid for an entirely new purification and fountain system in the academy so his precious daughter didn't have to drink the disgusting water.

nonetheless, when the professor announced that they were to do a group project, coriolanus wanted to team up with one of his friends in the class, however, his wish was not answered when he heard he was paired up with brutus. he was hit with a gust of what he once knew to be the smell of champagne and strawberries.

"hello coriolanus," she stuck out her hand for a shake, the pleasantries that had been drilled into them before the war had not left the younger capitol citizens. the adults, however, were still haunted by the monstrosities they had committed during it, and sometimes struggled with keeping face.

"hello brutus," he grasped her hand in his, shaking it gently before letting it go and grabbing his pencil. something about her was fascinating yet slightly unnerving, whether it was the way her auburn curls fell softly about her shoulders or the fact that her left eye was a bright green while the right a muddy brown. the green seemed to see straight through him, see that he needed the others' emotions to influence him because he did not seem to feel anything other than possessiveness, anger, and a slight need for vengeance after the death of his parents. his father he barely knew, but his mother. . . he was angry at the world for the way it took her from him. . . both her and the unborn sister he was going to have. if it weren't for the districts, he wouldn't be an orphan.

it had taken a while, a few months, to be a little more exact, for coriolanus to think of brutus as a friend. he found out why her name was brutus—her mother had wanted a boy, and was angry to find out that the child she bore was a girl—and why she stored the meat from the steak sandwiches they got at lunch—she wasn't the biggest fan of meat, and she had a pet dog at home that would be happy to eat it.

sometimes brutus was a little strange, but corio did not care for that as long as it did not affect his own image. sometimes she would invite him to her home—much larger than the apartment he shared with the grandma'am and tigris—to play with her dog, which was much larger than what he had imagined (he thought she had gotten a lap dog, which was very much not the case), and would sometimes even spend the night after he called the grandma'am back home to tell her where he was. after he had fallen asleep there a few times, on the ninth sleepover he had, he found out that brutus' mother had begun getting him his own clothing and even an armoire for the things she had bought. brutus's mother would even send him to school with a full belly of eggs, bacon, and a nice toast with some goat's cheese, and he was ever more thankful for her presence in his life.

brutus had broken off their friendship.

years of it in the making and she had broken it off.

corio thought he wasn't a bad friend. in fact, he was the best person that anyone could have in their lives. sure, he used them for his own personal good, but they received some of it back. when he felt like being nice. however, when brutus came to him to break off the friendship, she had been crying for who knows how long before she approached him. the puffiness of her eyes and the ring of red that marred the once-white sclera told him so. "what is it, brutus?" he snapped. "your mother wants me to come over tonight," he tapped his foot impatiently on the ground.

"you're no longer invited," she replied, quiet sobs marring her speech.

"did your mother say so?"

"no," she shakes her head. the curls, once at her shoulders, now hung by her waist, and they flew softly around her. "i say so. you have gotten closer with my mother, and i see that you are now only using me to get closer to her. she has always wanted a son, and now that she has you, she has cast me aside. never come by again." she breathed in, but it was broken by a few unshed tears. "i'll leave your things in a box outside the gates. but after you get them, leave. never come back. go back to that shabby apartment of yours. never talk to my mother ever again. don't contact us any more. and stay away from me."

thank you to @tinfairies for feeding into this illusion! love you will all my heart <33333

#tom blyth #coriolanus snow imagine #coriolanus snow fanfic #coriolanus snow #tom blyth series #tom blyth imagine #tbosas #the hunger games #the hunger games prequel #lucy gray #lucy gray baird #lucy will make a later appearance in this!

26 notes · View notes

courtofthrones · 11 months

Text

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x reader

Summary: What happens when two people who are the opposite ends of a thread of fate try to get the other end of the thread to burn knowing they would burn too. Because he was the throne but she will see the throne burn.

A/N: This is definitely an Eris loaded chapter. I think this is by far the longest chapter(still not much longer). I haven't checked for any mistakes so please ignore them if you can. Reblogs and feedback of any kind appreciated.

..................................................................................

STAGE VII: HOLD YOUR BREATH

"And you must incorporate the royal colours in your wedding attire dear to signify our union with the High family. You know what I will have the seamstresses bring their best red fabrics."

You didn't even bother gracing the repetitive droning of your mother with a reply. With the fateful day of your wedding approaching faster than ever your mother had all but declared herself the sole decision maker on the matters regarding the preparations for your impending nuptials.

And you could not be more grateful about it because you were more than happy to not spare a single thought on it. But as you walked the castle grounds you prayed to the Mother for her to just shut her mouth for a single moment.

Having been reinstated in his court duties due to the 'mercy' of the High Lord your father had been busier than ever, so he made sure to take an evening walk with his family everyday before dinner.

However today the meetings had run a little longer than the others so Myhir who always accompanied him during court matters had also joined the walk. With a strong grip on your hand he helped you through a particularly treacherous path in the garden. You grabbed his arm a tad tighter with every step you took, allowing yourself a moment of happiness amongst everything.

You could also see it on Myhir's face how much these small moments meant for him. Having to see your lover get married and not being able to do a thing surely couldn't be easy. Had it been you in his place you would have crumbled with heartbreak.

Eris yearned for a warm bath in his chambers after the exhausting day he just had. Having to play all these mind games along with endless court posturing for years without a crack in his mask truly did manage to suck the soul out of him.

As he made his journey back to his private chambers his mind managed to wander off to thoughts of a certain sharp tongued beauty. His thoughts seemed to do that a lot these days. Revolve around you.

You were strong, that he'd give you. Having endured the scorn of the court for decades without so much as shedding a single tear. But that is where his admiration of you ended because due to some unfortunate reason you managed to bring out a part of himself that he had long thought buried.

You always said the right words with enough bite for him to lose control of his emotions. There has always been something lurking beneath your eyes ever since he saw you in the garden at the gala. If it was hunger for vengeance or something else he was not sure.

And you being aware about his association with Lady Alena Velon certainly didn't help with matters. For the last few days he has tried thinking of all possible ways you could use that information to your advantage but he has failed in reaching to a conclusion.

Unpredictable and disastrous.

Truly someone that tore through all his walls and left him utterly unarmed.

As Eris looked out towards the royal gardens which shined golden under the setting rays of the sun through the glass windows, his thoughts suddenly died in his mind.

There you were. Looking graceful as ever walking with your family, your arm around that damned advisor.

Again.

Smiling and looking up at him as though he held the stars in his hands.

Eris Vanserra thought himself a novice when it came to matters of the heart but he knew in his heart at that moment, it was a look between lovers. Hanging onto every word, grabbing each other a tad closer and gravitating towards each other no matter where.

At that Eris began closing the space between you before his mind could come up with a reason for it.

You allowed yourself this one moment of reprieve from all your burdens, walking alongside Myhir. The day had not yet ended and it had already tired you out. Your parents had managed to walk quite a bit ahead of you, so you let yourself look at Myhir unbashedly.

"Is there something on my face?" Myhir said as he bent down to pluck a rose from the garden.

You took the flower from his hands as he held it out to you ."Can I not look at you just because I want to?"

"Is that so?" He watched as you put the flower in his hair.

You mimicked the smile on his face."Yes because it is quite beautiful."

"What is?"

It took all your strength to not let out an annoyed groan at the voice of the person you wanted to get away from the most.

"Your grace ." Myhir greeted him.

However Eris only glared at him with annoyance on his face before turning to watch you with his keen gaze.

" I will escort the lady from here. Leave us." Eris finally spoke with a cocked head in the direction of the palace . Without even sparing Myhir a second glance.

Myhir opened his mouth as if to protest but thought better of it and bowed his head in farewell before walking off towards your parents.

" Walk with me." Eris commanded before you offering his arm. He always sounded like that.

Authoritative and entitled.

"And pray tell me why should I do that ?" You grit out with venom in your voice and you hated yourself for it. You should know better than show him how much his presence affected you. This simmering enmity between you both had managed to invade your life and lodged itself deep in all aspects of it.

Eris managed to take a hold of your hand and played with your fingers absent-minded. Your breath caught in your throat.

"Do not look so upset princess. You were smiling to your heart's content just a moment ago. Surely you could manage taking a walk with the one you are set to spend the rest of your life with."

Your lips pressed themselves into a thin line. "That is a hard thing to do , don't you think? Since neither of us are each other's choice."

" Yeah I can see that." He scoffed as if finally remembering the reality of the relationship between you both.

"What is that supposed to mean?" You ask narrowing your eyes at the harsh tone in his words.

"Do you take me for a halfwit? Surely you did not think I wouldn't find out about your secret lover. For a lady who was so vexed about my relations I expected you to hold yourself to the same standards but alas I was wrong."

Your bones went gelid right where you stood. This would be the information that you would wish to share with anyone but him. “It is none of your concern,” you replied rather blandly.

Eris is all stormy anger and volatile fury at your words. None of his concern? Is that to say he was right in his assumption. He did not have the name for it but he felt extremely unsettled at the thought of your heart being occupied by another. At you not looking at someone with hatred shining in your eyes.

It was unnatural and utterly selfish.

"None of my concern? I think it is especially my concern to know who my soon to be wife is entertaining herself with." He gritted out as if he would start breathing fire.

You stood there with your hands still in his gentle grip wildly different from his harsh voice and the world melted around you like ice facing fire.

"Entertainment?" You could not believe the word. "Is that what everything is to you ?"

"Do tell me what it is then? Do not tell me it is true love?" Eris didn't quite understand where the question came from but it left a sour taste in his mouth.

"Jealousy is not a good look on you darling."

You say all amused smiles and cheeky voice. You looked like you were enjoying yourself, like a predator toying with it's prey.

"Why would I be jealous of your little boy toy? Though I expected much more honour from you."

It is truly pressing how affected he is at your words.

The setting sun painted the sky in shades of orange and red as if your mere presence made the Autumn Court dance, Eris thought to himself. With fire beneath his skin Eris Vanserra truly was the Prince of Autumn but you were Autumn incarnate with your fiery smiles and cinnamon fragrance. However the breathtaking scenery did not alleviate the tension surrounding you both.

"You speak to me of honour? You? Son and heir of High Lord Beron Vanserra? Where was this so-called honour of yours when your subjects were dying? Where was your honour when you burned my brother at the stake?" You pinned the words with your blood singing in fury. "But do not worry my prince I would make sure that you would at least see an honourable death."

You gritted out with all bared teeth and venom before shaking your fingers out of his grip and making your escape towards the castle.

Your furious words and the resentment in your eyes woke him up as if he was slapped in the face and made him remember how you were the last two individuals that would find comfort with each other.

Because the blood on his hands had never birthed something as remarkable and pure as love.

Despite your mother having declared herself the sole decision maker on matters regarding your nuptials, you were not spared from the tediousness of it all.

Every day, tailors from all over Pyrthian come and go to have you try out their designs. It was the same with Eris but you believed it was more nerve-wracking on your end .After all he was the beloved prince of Autumn .He did not have to cater to anyone else's wishes. Which you could definitely see him having a hard time with.

The present day was no different than the last others as you were ushered out of your chambers into the parlors where you pushed into multiple dresses, having to hold your breath and arms up for long hours.

Upon your arrival, you were greeted by a bustling room with multiple seamstresses biting needles and toiling away at their tables .But the moment you entered the room they all turned to greet you. Flustered at the sudden attention you took some time before nodding your head at them.

And it began: the unending fitting and picking at you.The seamstresses tried their best to be delicate with you but sometimes they pricked you by mistake having been pressed for time.

"Your grace." Everyone greeted in unison.

You inhaled sharply before turning to face the least appealing person at the moment for you.

Unlike from your last encounter, there was not a trace of emotions on his face. Although when his eyes locked with you something unnamed stirred underneath it.

He studied you head to toe. You were wrapped up in the finest white silks with your house's cloak cascading from your shoulders.

You only inclined your head in greeting deliberately trying to avoid any kind of conversation with him but it would seem everyone else in the room was awaiting with scrutinizing eyes for your interaction with the prince.

With a forced smile Eris strutted his way towards you and the faes helping you took a few steps back to give you some privacy.

You studied your intended as he stopped in front of you. He was in his usual court garbs with his cropped red hair slicked back to reveal a little of his forehead. But it would seem on the way here he had managed to undo a few of the top buttons of his shirt revealing some of his defined tanned chest to the room.

He captured your cheek in his hands and pressed his lips firmly on your forehead.

"How are you this fine day, princess?"

The nearby faes swooning as though Eris was declaring his eternal love for you.

"Better now that I have seen your beautiful face my sunshine." You replied with the fakest smile adorning your face as you gripped his hand.

"That endearment is surely a choice."

The familiar weight of his gaze settled on you as the seamstresses finally excused themselves from near you.

At that you dropped his hand immediately."Which is why we must stop calling each other these vain nicknames."

"Never." He grinned as if you served him his favourite food on a platter.

"Surely you could keep all that limited between you and your paramour." You continued with all the disgust you could muster coating your voice.

Eris Vanserra's face turned grim at that and he answered with a question.

"You would know all about that wouldn't you?"

" Know all about what ?"

The words caused both of your spines to snap straight as you turned to face the Lady Aelia of Autumn. When did she arrive? Surely you would have noticed the sound of her footsteps before she entered the room?

"Mother I didn't expect to see you here." Eris stammered out the words.

"Know all about what?" She pinned, perfect brow lifted while studying you and Eris.

Lady Aelia remained clueless to the rift between you and Eris pertaining to the matters of your respective secret lovers. And you would like her to continue remaining unaware of it.

Though how Eris had managed to keep Lady Alena Velon and his relation a secret under his mother’s watchful eyes was certainly impressive. What would happen if you’d reveal it to the Lady of Autumn? Not only would you have her on your side, Eris’s action would be reprimanded. But what is the surety of Eris not doing the same with you? It was too great of a risk and it would certainly destroy you -a female much more than it would destroy him.

You were to be husband and wife now. There was no need to drag Lady Aelia to your arguments. You shall hold this secret close to you and use it to your benefit in the future.

"It was of no importance mother." You jumped to save both of you. Eris pivoting to look at you with shock having heard the way you addressed his mother.

"We were merely talking about each other's interests." You finished.

At your words Lady Aelia's eyes softened on your face as though she knew of something you didn't but had spared you of it.

"That gives me comfort my dear ."she answered before taking a seat near the refreshments table and declaring to the room.

"Let us proceed with the fitting ."

As you walked away from him, Eris was left puzzled as to why you did not expose him to his mother. Eris watched your back as you walked away towards the waiting seamstresses. You always carried that ruthlessness in your stride— spine straight, chest pushed out, eyes straightforward.

A shudder snaked down his spine and in between his legs, where it had no right going to.

You glimpsed at Lyna through the gilded mirror as she finishes lacing up your dress.

It has been quite a few days since your last dispute with Eris. You remained in the Forest House restless and short tempered most of the time and your concerns regarding the lack of contact between you and Senkas surely did not help with matters.

"My lady let us go for a walk." Lyna suggested as if she could see the war inside your head. She was lovely. She had been your closest female companion since your childhood. Growing up there were not many people who you could call your friends and the bad name to your family certainly didn't help. Therefore Lyna was someone you cherished with all your heart.

So when she asked for your company you agreed immediately. Moreover being confined in your chambers and worrying yourself to death surely aren't going to help with your uneasiness.

On your way to the open courtyard, servants and sentries alike greeted you here and there. Everyone working in the palace had some kind of chore to do. Whether it be buying ingredients for the grand feast for royal wedding that had been promised to the members of the court or be it decorating every nook and corner.

Even with magic it was a tedious job due to which even Lyna was pulled from your side.

In the golden hour The Forest House was truly a sight to behold. The red splashed leaves created a picturesque beauty all around. You allowed yourself to bask in the tranquility of it but like always the cauldron's fate was never on your side.

"Lady Tarsa. Join us." Someone bellowed from the open courtyard.

Right there, smack dab in the middle of it stood the Autumn princes beckoning you towards them.

You looked at them through narrowed eyes before schooling your features into an amiable expression and walking towards them.

You gathered that they were about to set off for hunting in the forest from their bows and arrows.

"Am I to still call you that or something better? Like sister? Or perhaps Princess." It was Prince Blaze ,the second youngest and definitely the most disgusting son of Beron Vanserra. Rumours of him being a sadistic bastard were not uncommon in court. Thus the grin on his face certainly did its job of making you feel uneasy.

"Don't be an ass Blaze." Surprisingly it was Drystan, the second eldest who came to your defence and you found yourself gravitating closer to him.

"Come on brother surely she can take the heat. I just assumed hailing from the traitor's family should have made her thick skinned."

Your nails tattooed crescent shaped marks onto your palms as rage and bloodlust rushed through your veins. Don't kill him.

Do not kill him.

Just then Eris stepped away from his horse and strutted closer to you.

Eris stared at you blankly."What are you doing here ?"

You exclaimed with your hand on your chest. "It is a beautiful day is it not your grace. I am not a prisoner am I? Surely I am allowed to roam the palace grounds to my heart's content."

"You know that is not what I meant."He pushed closer to you instinctively.

A saccharine smile was what he received as you snaked your arms around his neck. "I know darling."

"Whatever you are planning y/n you better stop." He whispered so low that only you could hear his warning.

"You wound me my love. I would never."

Eris narrowed his eyes at that.

As you felt everyone's eyes on you, you leaned in and kissed his cheek fondly.

You could hear his bastard brothers laughing themselves to the ground at the action.

" Have a safe hunt."you smiled up at Eris.

Eris stared at you stunned by your open affections ,no matter how fake they were.

"Or not" you continued only for him to hear before stepping out of his embrace.

56 notes · View notes

darthnell · 3 months

Text

Chapter 69: Where I End and Begin

The Victor returns home. It's not how she left it, but then again, neither is she.

#penultimate chapter....#true vengeance 151 #hunger games #hunger games fanfiction #hunger games oc #the hunger games #venatrix #hunger games fanfic #venatrix pyke #my writing

3 notes · View notes

higuchimon · 2 years

Text

[fanfic] Hunger For Vengeance: Chapter 1

Sora wrapped his hands around the pole just slightly above his head and pulled himself upward, gritting his teeth. He wanted this to look easy, no matter how difficult it was. He could feel the eyes of his fellow students on him, but ignored them as much as he could, focusing more on getting higher and higher.

I can do this. He had almost done it the last time they’d done the wall-climbing. He’d missed it only by a few moments then, and his blood boiled at the thought of how…

But he refused to let it happen again. He’d worked on this every night since then and now he scampered up the wall, flipping off of ledges and scrambling up poles as quickly as he could. Being small helped, and he heard the other students muttering as he flew up higher and higher.

I’m going to do it! He had only a short distance left to go. He reached upward that little bit more; if he could make it up there, then he’d won!

Gasps came from the other students, and Sora had time only for a flash of a thought, to be thrilled that he’d done it, that he’d succeeded – before a burst of violet flew past him, and when he looked up again, someone looked back at him.

“Hi there,” Yuuri, the dreaded champion of Academia, greeted him, bright purple eyes full of amusement. “I believe that I win.”

Sora stopped where he was, staring, his mind more or less stuttering to a halt. He’d been so close! How could that have happened?

The teacher clapped his hands to signal the end of the trial. “We have an unexpected victor! Yuuri-sama has won!”

Sora bit his lip hard, then pulled himself up the rest of the way. Yuuri, a definite air of mockery in the tilt of his head, shifted to give him room. Sora glared at him, not caring a bit about Yuuri’s reputation.

“What are you doing here?” He tried hard not to spit the words out, if only because he knew the teacher wouldn’t appreciate it.

Yuuri tossed his head casually. “I wanted to.”

Of course. What other reason would Yuuri have for even doing anything?

The teacher moved a bit closer. “Congratulations, Yuuri-sama.” No one knew if Yuuri had a family name. He’d been at the Academia since he was a little child, and if he’d had one, he’d never revealed what it might be.

Yuuri shrugged. “I wanted to make sure your students are in good enough shape.” His gaze flicked by Sora and then down to the others, none of which met his eyes. “I think most of them need to be pushed harder.”

“You’re quite right, Yuuri-sama,” the teacher agreed. Sora suspected the teacher would have agreed if Yuuri suggested that the students needed to be cut up and spread on toast. “I’ll push them even harder.”

Yuuri chuckled before he stood up, dusted himself off, glanced around just long enough to meet Sora’s eyes again, then leaped away, hopping over the school rooftops until he was completely out of sight.

As soon as he was, the remaining students burst into excited babbles, mostly circling around how amazing Yuuri was, as well as how terrifying, at least from what Sora could hear. He snorted under his breath before he jumped down.

“That was nicely done,” the teacher praised him, but there was an almost absent tone to his voice. “But you’re going to have to do much better. All of you are. I don’t expect you to be as good as he is, but you are going to be much better, before this is over with.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and regarded them all. “Go on. Get started, get up to the top as fast as you can.”

Sora didn’t waste another moment, but started climbing back up. He wasn’t going to let Yuuri, or anyone else, beat him yet again. He strained every ounce of himself trying to get to the top, ignoring how much he already ached from his previous efforts.

If I were in a battle, it wouldn’t matter how much I hurt.

He wasn’t sure of how many times he made the climb. He dodged some of the hazards easily from experience – the clashing walls weren’t much of a problem and leaping the water trap was something he’d been able to do in a single bound for months now. He scrambled across the staggered poles and wove his way among moving spheres, avoiding them without a single miss.

The next level up from this was an area of holograms, meant to replicate Heartland City and some of the duelists there. No one knew their names, nor did they care a great deal. But for those who were going to be involved in the upcoming invasion, it would give them a good idea of what awaited them.

This part was always the most difficult, since it changed every time. Some duelists didn’t appear and some didn’t. Sometimes they showed up in pairs or teams. Sora wasn’t sure of which of these holograms were based off real people or just what their teachers thought might be there. Nor did he care. As soon as he landed in that area, he had his duel disk out and ready.

“Do you really think you’re going to be able to beat this faster than he can?”

Sora didn’t look up. He knew that voice, far too well. “Do you, Kaneko?”

Kaneko Takaro chuckled, smoothing back his coal-black hair. “I won’t have any problems at all.” He strolled forward, as alert as any proper soldier. As far as Sora was concerned, he wasn’t really one. Kaneko was from one of those families who had more money than sense and the only reason he was here in the first place was because everyone had to be. If he’d been born in some other world, he probably would have been a rich layabout, doing nothing to advance any cause but his own pleasure.

Sora didn’t even remember if he had parents. He certainly didn’t remember living with them. The Academia was all that he knew, and he would support it to the day he fell in battle.

From the shadows there stepped two holographic duelists. They didn’t say anything, but raised their duel disks in response to the two who approached them. Sora hated the thought of teaming up with Kaneko, but he reminded himself that he didn’t have to like it. He just had to win.

And maybe if I get lucky, one of them will take him out. Losing in this wouldn’t end with anyone carded, but it counted on one’s record and ended up lowering one’s final score, not just in this test, but in the overall scores that determined one’s placement in the army or in the support staff.

Or, if one were truly spectacular, as a member of Obelisk Force.

Kaneko ran a basic Fusion deck, and word around class had it that it was one that he’d bought with his family money, not built himself. Sora remained contemptuous of the very thought. Most Academia students who didn’t have their own decks built by blood, sweat, and tears were issued a standard Antique Gear deck and taught how to use it.

As far as Sora was concerned, Kaneko would probably work out better either sweeping floors, throwing away trash, or maybe making beds. He certainly wasn’t a soldier, and he could be called a duelist only by a very loose definition of the term.

But right now he was the only ally that Sora had, as the two of them shuffled their decks and got ready to combat their illusionary enemies.

Kaneko took the first turn, setting two spell or trap cards face down and putting out a defensive monster. Sora hadn’t ever seen him duel but the tactics were pretty basic. He went for a more aggressive approach himself, and his deck co-operated with him, providing him the materials to Fusion Summon Death-Toy Scissors Bear right off.

That got a bit of a sniff from Kaneko. “Showing your best talents early, aren’t you?”

“You’re not showing anything at all,” Sora snapped back. The rules of the challenge demanded that he couldn’t attack his erstwhile ally, no matter how tempting it was. But he had a few cards that could play some very nasty tricks once he drew them.

Now the hologram duelists – controlled by the master computer in the school – began their tactics. Sora had heard all kinds of stories about how the holograms were programmed, and he’d faced them many times before. Every time something was a bit different, perhaps a bit more skilled. That just made it all the more entertaining.

These duelists didn’t XYZ summon right away. Whether they supposedly had something else in mind or not, Sora couldn’t guess. If they’d been real duelists he could talk to, then maybe he could figure out their strategy. But the hologram duelists never said anything beyond the basic commands for summoning their monsters and attacking. They didn’t even use summon chants!

“I summon Verz Castor and activate it’s special effect to Special Summon Verz Salamandra. Then I XYZ Summon Verzbuth, the Excition-Glimmer Knight,” one of the holograms intoned, and as the first two monsters vanished into a swirl of shadows, before them there stepped forward a third creature, with spiked gloves, a long white cape, and a sharp sword in one hand. Sora glanced at his duel disk’s reading and frowned.

I don’t like that effect. The monster itself wasn’t that powerful – a mere one thousand nine hundred points – but it could clear the field in a heartbeat, if the opponent had a hand advantage. There wouldn’t be any damage done after that, so they’d have time to rebuild their defenses, but Sora still didn’t like it. Something just didn’t feel right about this. He wasn’t even certain if the rules would count his hand and Kaneko’s or just one of them. So, best to keep his hand as slim as he could, just in case.

Kaneko either didn’t check the information or didn’t care. He just rolled his eyes as the first hologram ended their turn with a set card and the second hologram started their turn.

“I summon Vampire Ghost, then use it’s effect to send Vampire Sorcerer from my hand to the graveyard, and add another card with Vampire in the name to my hand.” The hologram then slid a card from the deck. “In addition, Vampire Familiar goes from my deck to the graveyard.”

Vampire Ghost was about a medium strength card. Sora wasn’t sure what their tactics were, but he’d seen enough not to underestimate the trouble they could cause. He also remained confident that he could handle whatever was thrown at them.

But now it was his turn again, and he wanted to get that other monster out of the way before it became a real problem. He snapped out on order to Death-Toy Scissors Bear, looking forward to having his monster slice up this XYZ monster like it was nothing, then add those nineteen hundred points to its own. The rest of the battle would be easy to wipe up at that point.

“I activate Negate Attack,” the first XYZ hologram declared flatly, and Scissors Bear halted, backing upwards. Sora gritted his teeth together before he set one of his remaining cards face-down. He knew what the risks were, but they required being taken.

Kaneko started his turn as if Sora hadn’t done anything at all. “I Flip Summon Faith Bird, then ” He squared up his shoulders, struck what he probably thought was a terrifying pose, and declared, “From the heart of the sun I call forth the brightest of flames! Fusion Summon! Level Six, Crimson Sunbird!”

Together, Faith Bird and the Sky Hunter from Kaneko’s hand spun around one another, then merged into the fierce phoenix Crimson Sunbird, which sailed straight down to strike at Vampire Ghost. The hologram’s life points only dropped by eight hundred, but one would have thought Kaneko had finished off the entire duel by himself from the smirk on his face.

Sora tried not to roll his eyes. He was pretty sure he failed at that, as the duelist with the demon monsters started his second turn.

“I activate the special effect of Verzbuth, the Excition-Glimmer Knight. Because my opponent ” He indicated Kaneko – “has more cards in his hand than I do, I detach one XYZ material from my monster and by doing so I destroy all other cards on the field.”

Sora’s hand flew up to cover his eyes as each card, spells, traps, and monsters alike, exploded into dust, flying to the graveyard, with the exception of that Excition-Glimmer Knight.

“I banish Vampire Ghost from my cemetery,” the second hologram intoned, “and pay five hundred life points. When that resolves, I summon Vampire Red Baron from my cemetery.”

That must have been one of the cards he’d sent there when he’d summoned Vampire Ghost. If Vampire Red Baron wasn’t the ace of this deck, then it was very close to it. The first hologram indicated the end of his turn, and the second picked theirs up in a heartbeat.

“My Vampire Red Baron attacks you directly,” he stated, pointing at Kaneko. The Red Baron’s demonic steed neighed fiercely, then charged forward, the Baron pointing the tip of his weapon right at Sora’s fellow student. It pierced him – if the setting on the holograms had been but two degrees higher it would have drawn blood - and Kaneko staggered back, one hand rising to where the point entered him. He was left with only sixteen hundred life points. “Turn end.”

Now it was Sora’s turn once again. He’d considered his options since Death Toy Scissors Bear had been destroyed, and now with his new card for the turn, he made up his mind.

“I activate Death-Toy Re-Knight to return Death-Toy Scissors bear from the graveyard to my field! Next, I active De-Fusion, and return the Fusion Material monsters.”

Sora liked being careful with his monsters, especially his Fusion ones. He preferred not too many people know what he could do. But in testings like this, he didn’t have that many options. If he didn’t do his best, he would fail. He knew what happened to Academia students who failed and he wasn’t going to be one of them.

“Sharpest of demonic blades! Fanged beast of the forest! Become one and display a new power! Fusion Summon! Ruler of the oceans! Death-Toy Piton Kraken!”

First one tentacle, then another, and another, and another, emerged from the pool of light. Then the rest of the creature heaved itself out, two sharp blades being used for arms. Sora pointed quickly to Vampire Red Baron. “Kraken, I activate your effect! Destroy that monster!”

At once the Kraken wrapped all tentacles and blades and blade tentacles around the Red Baron and squeezed until it blew up in a spray of black sparkles and shadows. But Sora wasn’t done yet.

“My Kraken can’t attack directly after it uses that effect. But it can still attack!” He spun and pointed towards the other monster on the field. “Attack Verzbuth, the Excition-Glimmer Knight!”

The sad part about fighting holograms was that they didn’t scream the way real people did. Sora had always rather liked the way that his opponents howled when his monsters struck into them. But this time, the hologram merely stepped backwards as a few life points dripped away.

“Is that all you can do?” Kaneko asked, snorting. “Are you done yet? I want to finish this duel.”

Sora wiped his mouth a little, then set down one of his cards. Without that monster on the field, he didn’t need to keep his hand slim, but every little bit of preparation helped. “Go ahead.”

He didn’t expect Kaneko to win the duel. He hardly expected him to survive it. But he couldn’t say that out loud.

Kaneko shrugged his shoulders and drew a card. “I activate Ancient Rules and summon Crow Tengu! And because you don’t have any monsters to defend you, I’m going to attack you directly!”

His new monster spread great wings and shot towards the second duelist who used the vampire deck, crashing hard into them. Their life points dropped down to a mere eight hundred and fifty – that had been a lot of damage.

Kaneko ended his turn without setting any other cards, and the demon duelist took his next turn, summoning Verz Zahhak, equal in strength to Crow Tengu. The black dragon charged, tail wrapping quickly around Crow Tengu, and squeezed until they both exploded.

Now it was the other duelist’s turn. They set out cards quickly and without emotion, summoning Vampire Retainer, a great wolf that had half white fur and half black. It wasn’t that powerful; anything Sora had could take it out, and he suspected that Kaneko could even summon something strong enough on his next turn. At best it might do some damage to Kaneko, but that was it.

“I activate Vampire’s Desire,” the hologram spoke hollowly, and a translucent image appeared next to the duel disk. “By targeting one Vampire monster in my graveyard, and then sending one monster I control to the graveyard, I can Special Summon the targeted monster. Vampire Red Baron!”

Of course that would be the one. In a heartbeat, Sora realized what was going to happen next. Vampire Red Baron shot forward once more, trampling over Kaneko and throwing him backwards, slicing the rest of his life-points to shreds.

That left only Sora to finish this, against two powerful monsters. He grinned to himself. This was going to be good.

He regarded the two cards in his hand – the last two that he’d have in this duel, and exactly what he needed to win this duel.

“I summon Edge Imp DT Modoki!” This could be one of his strongest cards, depending on what else he had on the field. Then he activated the face-down card he’d set the previous turn. “Death-Toy Mad Parade! When I activate an effect that destroys a card my opponent controls and I control a Death-Toy monster at the same time, I can destroy as many cards my opponent controls as possible.” He grinned one of his best savage grins. “And you take five hundred damage for each one of those.”

He did rather miss the looks of fear that most of his opponents had at this point, as both Vampire Red Baron and Verz Zahhak exploded. Now the vampire duelist vanished, having been defeated, and only one more remained, with a simple two thousand seven hundred points left. He wasn’t done yet.

“I activate Death-Toy Factory! By banishing a Fusion card from my cemetery, I can Fusion Summon a Death-Toy monster, using the cards I have as material. Blades of the demon, monster from the sea, unite as one and become something more horrid than ever! Rise, Death-Toy Sabre Tooth!”

As the creature spun into existence, Sora added the final and best part of the effect. “All Death-Toy monsters I control gain an extra four hundred attack. So that’s twenty-eight hundred attack.”

And the hologram duelist only had twenty-seven hundred.

Death-Toy Sabre-Tooth flew forward, teeth biting into empty air, and Sora grinned as the sound of victory rang out. He couldn’t stay here forever soaking in it, however. Kaneko was already back on his feet, and he glowered a little before turning to the nearest exit.

“We’re not done yet!” He darted on out, longer legs allowing him to cover more distance, and Sora bit off a few words he’d heard some of the teachers use when they thought he wasn’t listening.

Then he raced off as well, forging ahead, finding all those places that he could get into that Kaneko couldn’t, being too big. It took him some effort, but he managed to get ahead, finally reaching the final obstacle, the climbing wall that Yuuri had beaten him up the last time.

So far he didn’t see any sign of Yuuri at all, but he hadn’t the last time either. His rage at that defeat still simmered and he wanted to do something about it. Running the obstacle course wasn’t doing nearly enough to thin the fury.

He’d figure out something. For now, he plowed ahead, keeping ahead of Kaneko by the thinnest of margins, crawling up to the top of the wall, ignoring how the spikes hidden within slipped in and out. They were never on a regular schedule, but he braced himself, raced upwards, and reached the top of the wall.

“Very good,” the teacher praised him. “You improved your score by five seconds. That was excellent dueling as well. But you do need to improve your teamwork. You might be sent into the field with a partner of some kind.”

Sora groaned; he didn’t want to but he couldn’t stop it. The teacher either didn’t notice or was too busy with grading the others to care. Sora leaned against the nearest wall not likely to pierce him with a spike and considered what he might do next. By now the sun had just begun to dip to the horizon and that meant it was just about dinner time.

“All of you are dismissed for dinner,” the teacher finally told them. “I’ll see you all back here tomorrow morning.”

From here there was a short cut back to the main building and Sora headed that way. No one talked to him and he didn’t talk to anyone. There were a few who chatted among one another as they walked; Kaneko had a couple of friends, or people he talked to anyway. Exactly what they talked about Sora wasn’t sure, but he had too much on his own mind to worry about it.

Meals at Duel Academia tended to be works of art. Not only was the place packed full of people from loosely the age of seven on upwards, the vast majority of them were teenagers, which meant the appetite than being a teenager caused. Some of the students ate in their own quarters, either making their own food or having it brought from the cafeteria itself. There were tables set a bit higher up that had some of the higher ranking students there. Sora recognized Edo Phoenix; school rumor said that he would be leading the invasion once it began. There were others as well, very few of which he knew the names of.

Yuuri wasn’t there. School rumor said that he only ate in his quarters, but no one knew why. Sora tried not to think about that as he went for his own food, thinking longingly of the sweets available in his rooms that he’d enjoy after dinner.

And he couldn’t help but think what he might do to get some revenge on Yuuri.

To Be Continued

Notes: Because this was also written for the YGO Big Bang, the story is complete and will be updated on a daily basis for the next few days.

#fanfic #higuchimon writes #ygo arc v #chapters: hunger for vengeance #bad things happen bingo #ygo big bang 2022 #shiunin sora #yuuri (arc v)#dennis macfield

3 notes · View notes

zeciex · 6 days

Text

A Vow of Blood - 79

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

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

Chapter 79: Vengeance Hungers

AO3 - Masterlist

The sky was a brooding tapestry of heavy clouds as Aemond descended upon Storm’s End on the massive back of Vhagar. The dragon landed precariously close to the cliff’s edge just as the storm above Shipbreaker Bay began its ominous approach, blotting out the setting sun as it should make its descended below the horizon. The vast courtyard within the walls was too constrained for the dragon, compelling them to choose this exposed perch.

The evening air was brisk and unforgiving, slicing through Aemond as he dismounted from Vhagar. He peeled off his riding gloves–sturdy black leather that had offered some warmth during their flight from King’s Landing–and tucked them into his belt. Rubbing his hands together for warmth, he moved through the rocky cliffs that loomed ominously beside Storm’s End, their jagged surfaces sharp against the backdrop of the turbulent sea. The incessant roar of waves crashing against the cliffs mingled with the howling wind, a prelude to the impending storm that carried the sharp, salty scent of rain on its breath.

Aemond made his way towards the gate set within the massive curtain wall, guided by the glow of torches held by guards. Their flickering light served as a beacon for the men assembled to receive him. Together, they ushered him through the shadowed tunnel within the inner wall and into the base of the drum tower, his boots echoing on the ancient stone with each determined step.

His presence was immediately imposing as he entered the drum tower, flanked by stern-faced guards. They paced through the shadowed corridors, their footsteps echoing until they reached the central chamber. This grand hall, round and stark, was lit by the flickering glow of braziers and torches that threw dancing shadows on the stone walls.

There, Lord Borros Baratheon awaited, seated upon the austere stone char that served as the throne of House Baratheon. It was unadorned as Daenera had told him–hard, cold, with sharp edges and devoid of any attempt at comfort. Lord Borros himself seemed an extension of the chair, his demeanor as hard and unyielding as the seat he occupied.

As Aemond approached, Lord Borros Baratheon adjusted his position on the stone chair, a deep scowl furrowing his brow. His greeting was terse, imbued with a subtle undercurrent of impatience.

“Prince Aemond,” he began, his voice clipped. “I hear condolences are in order…”

Aemond met Lord Borros’s gaze squarely, his expression unmarred by sorrow. Instead, a sharp, unforgiving smirk played at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, Lord Borros.”

Borros narrowed his eyes, which mirrored the stormy blue of the tumultuous sea churning outside the castle walls. He leaned forwards slightly, cutting into the conversation with a pointed tone.

“But…” he interjected, his gaze piercing, “Such news is usually not delivered by a prince…” His words hung in the air. “What brings you here, Princeling?”

“As you’ve been made aware,” Aemond began, clasping his hands behind his back to adopt a posture of formal authority. “My father, the King, has passed, and his firstborn son has ascended to the throne. My brother, Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name, has been crowned in the sight of gods and men…”

At this revelation, a ripple of murmurs spread through the gathered nobility flanking Lord Borros, their expressions a blend of surprise and suspicion. His gaze intensified, a spark of keen interest igniting within–more intelligent than any spark with his brother’s eyes, Aemond thought.

“A King,” Borros mused aloud, the word echoing slightly in the cavernous hall. “Yet there seems to be some confusion within the house of the dragon. I was under the impression our next sovereign would be a Queen.” He leaned forwards slightly, his tone both inquisitive and challenging. “Forgive my bluntness, young prince, but did not your father choose your elder half-sister as his heir? I recall that my father was compelled to swear fealty to Princess Rhaenyra…”

“Indeed, oaths were sworn during a time when the realm’s stability hung in the balance,” Aemond replied coolly, his smirk growing more pronounced, a thrill of challenge quickening his pulse. His fingers drummed restlessly behind his back, the only manifestation of turmoil breaking through his composure. “However, the King rectified his earlier decision prior to his demise, decreeing that his firstborn son should inherit the crown.”

Lord Borros made a thoughtful noise and leaned back, his large hand brushing through his thick, black beard contemplatively. “It appears to me that there’s a succession crisis within House Targaryen. On one hand, a King; on the other, a Queen.”

“There is no crisis,” Aemond countered firmly. “Aegon is the King–”

“If there truly were no crisis, you would not find yourself here, young prince,” Lord Borros interrupted sharply, his voice booming slightly in the cavernous hall as his hand trumped against the smooth stone of his chair’s arm. “You arrive as an envoy of your brother, and while I accept your presence here graciously, understand that I am reluctant to entangle myself in the internal strife of House Targaryen. House Baratheon does not break oaths once made.”

“It was your father’s oath, not yours,” Aemond answered. “It was an oath sworn out of necessity, for a King without a son… House Baratheon may understand this decision, and understand that once the King had his son, the succession changed.”

Lord Borros tilted his head slightly, his stormy blue eyes narrowing.

Aemond continued, his voice steady and persuasive. “It was your father’s oath, not yours. An oath made out of necessity, for a King who at the time had no son. Surely House Baratheon can appreciate that once the King sired a son, the line of succession naturally altered.”

Lord Borros furrowed his brow, his deep voice resolute as he countered, “My father swore an oath to the Princess, an oath that I cannot simply cast aside without appropriate compensation.”

Aemond listened, his expression controlled yet his eye betrayed the calculation behind it. Drawing in a measured breath, he felt a surge of satisfaction ripple through him as the Lord of Storm’s End revealed his ambition. “Of course, my lord. The King would not send me here with empty hands.”

Reaching into his coat, Aemond produced a small piece of parchment and handed it to a nearby guard for delivery. Lord Borros snatched the letter briskly, his eyes staring pointedly at the rolled document as though it would read itself aloud to him before shifting his gaze back to Aemond with renewed scrutiny.

“Which of my daughters will you marry then?” Borros inquired as he waved the letter towards his daughters, who stood in a silent, expectant line to the left of his throne.

Aemond’s gaze swept over the young women, each poised and dignified, yet he barely allowed his eye to linger, feeling a twist of discomfort at the suggestion. Returning his focus to Borros, he chose his words with care. “As honored as I would be, Lord Borros, I must decline. I am already betrothed.”

In Lord Borros’s stormy blue eyes, a tempest seemed to swirl, his dark eyebrows drawing together into a scowl of deep displeasure. Aemond carried the pointed look with a spine straight as the sword at his hip, refusing to cower beneath the lord's scornful glare.

“Ah, yes, my brother’s widow…” He began, his voice dripping with a mix of resentment and suspicion. “Tell me, One-eye,”–Aemond’s expression tightened subtly at the nickname, his jaw clenching though he maintained his composure–“how long after my brother’s untimely demise did you decide to claim her for yourself? It has not been more than four months since his passing!” His voice boomed across the hall, each word sharp and heavy with accusation. “She could very well be carrying his child!”

The allegation hung in the air, echoing off the stone walls, challenging Aemond not just politically, but personally, testing his diplomatic acumen under the weight of moral scrutiny.

Aemond felt a surge of agitation twist in his stomach at the thought of Daenera bearing Boris Baratheon’s child–and he had to anchor himself before responding to the Lord of Storm’s End, the very man he had been sent to broker an alliance with. His hands balled into fists behind his back, and he gritted his teeth, striving to maintain his composure even as anger flared within him.

“Lord Borros,” Aemond began, his voice steady despite the tempest brewing within him, “I understand your concerns, truly. The decision to honor the betrothal was made with the deepest respect for your brother’s memory and for the delicate position of his widow–”

“Do not attempt to placate me with empty words,” Borros interrupted sharply, his cheeks flushing a vivid red with his rising temper. “I am well aware of the political machinations at play, but that does not mitigate the affront of how hastily this union was formed. My brother has scarcely been laid to rest, and yet you are poised to marry his widow! Would it not be more fitting to choose a bride who is yet untouched? One whose child you could be certain would be yours?”

As Borros Baratheon hurled his veiled insults and threw his daughters at him, Aemond’s thoughts darkened–his disdain for the man Daenera had been forced to marry simmering just beneath the surface. He imagined the man suffering the torments of the seven hells for the wounds he had inflicted on Daenera–scars she still carried. Aemond’s eye flared with suppressed fury, his fingers twitching with the urge to draw his sword and exact retribution upon the man before him–he envisioned himself presenting Borros’s severed head to Daenera as a grim trophy. She would love it, solely because it would cost them Storm’s End.

Such thoughts were quickly stifled; the necessity of the alliance holding him back.

And Borros, keenly aware of this leverage, pressed his advantage.

“I haven’t come to discuss my betrothal to the princess,” Aemond stated firmly, a clear intention to redirect their discourse. “I am here to propose a different betrothal. Prince Daeron Targaryen, my younger brother, is prepared to offer his hand in marriage to one of your daughters.”

“Prince Daeron?” Borros raised an eyebrow, his skepticism thinly veiled.

“Indeed,” Aemond replied smoothly, his tone infused with a hint of pride. “The Prince is not only a dragonrider but is also currently studying at the Citadel, while being squire for Lord Ormund Hightower. He is growing into a handsome and intelligent young man.”

“How old is he?” Borros inquired, his interest piqued.

“Five and ten.”

“And he’s a dragonrider?” The lord pressed, needed to confirm this fact once more.

“He is,” Aemond confirmed, observing with satisfaction as Borros’s interest transformed into a sharp gleam of intrigue and ambition. The prospect of aligning with a dragonrider–and the potential for future dragons being bound to House Baratheon through the union between Prince Daeron and one of his daughters–promised not just an infusion of royal blood but also a formidable increase in House Baratheon’s influence over the throne. Aemond knew these were advantages a prideful man like Borros Baratheon could hardly ignore.

“Very well,” Lord Borros finally conceded, his gaze drifting towards his daughters. “Which of my daughters will it be?”

Aemond advanced, his hands clasped behind his back, his solitary eye moving methodically to the first daughter in line. Each step resonated in the hushed chamber, his gaze sharp and assessing as it lingered on each young woman.

“My oldest, Cassandra,” Lord Borros introduced, his voice carrying a note of pride. “She was the first to flower, and is sure to be able to be with child soon after the marriage.”

Cassandra stepped forward gracefully, her curtsy slow and respectful. As she straightened, her eyes, deep and dark as a stormy sea, met Aemond’s. Her features were set in a stern expression, mirroring the unyielding stone of the castle itself. Her build was robust, with broad shoulders and hips, her presence as stern as her demeanor. To Aemond, she seemed too stern, too immovable, a reflection of her father. And she was much older than Daeron.

His scrutiny shifted to the next daughter as Borros continued, “Maris. The cleverest of my four girls.”

Aemond’s interest was piqued slightly as he turned his attention to Maris, intrigued by the promise of intellect that her father’s words suggested, wondering if her demeanor might offer a more pliable counterpart to her sister’s stoic fortitude.

Maris, the second daughter, offered Aemond a clever smile as she bowed, much like her sister had done. Her eyes, a deep, murky shade reminiscent of the sky just before a storm, contrasted sharply with her dark, ink-black hair, which was pulled tightly back, accentuating her angular features. Unlike her robust sister, Maris was slimmer, with narrow hips. Her small lips and absence of pronounced cheekbones lent her a somewhat gaunt, melancholic appearance. Yet, there was an unmistakable spark of intelligence as her gaze swept over Aemond, briefly pausing on his scar. A slight curl of her lip betrayed her disgust, and Aemond felt the sting of it. He gritted his teeth, and swallowed his spiteful words.

Lord Borros then directed attention to another daughter, “My Floris. The most comely of them all.”

His words seemed to wash over his older daughters, who appeared unfazed by the repeated compliment, indicating it was a familiar refrain.

Floris stepped forward, her bright smile lighting up her features, her eyes reflecting the same stormy hue as her father and eldest sister’s. She executed a flawless curtsy, her presence radiating grace. Her dark hair was styled into an intricate arrangement, and her figure was willowy, dressed in a fine gown adorned with gold threads and small stones that accentuated her chest. To Aemond, she appeared overly delicate, perhaps even frivolous–sweet and appealing, yet lacking the formidable qualities of her siblings.

Finally, Borros introduced his youngest. “And Ellyn Baratheon, my youngest, quite adept with a bow, though she has yet to flower.”

Ellyn, the youngest of Lord Borros’s daughters, moved forward, mirroring her sisters with a respectful, though clumsy, curtsy. She was already tall, her frame stretched and lanky, hinting at further growth, her hips promising a difficulty in childbirth. Her hair was dark as coal, and her eyes, a deep blue so intense they nearly appeared black, were set a touch too wide on her face.

As Aemond watched her, a poignant thought struck him: in another life, he might be choosing a bride for himself rather than acting on his brother’s behalf. This realization twisted something deep within him. Each girl, though of good stock, painfully reminded him that they lacked the specific qualities he had found so bewitching in another–the cornflower blue eyes tinged with violet, capable of reflection both the tempest of the seas and the serenity of a clear sky, the slight pout of her lips, both sweet and deceptively alluring. None possessed the gentle yet commanding curves that haunted his memories–the breasts that fit perfectly within the palm of his hand, soft and pliable, the hips that were made to be gripped, the soft curve of her stomach, or the supple flesh of her ass and thighs. They did not have the touch that could mend as much as it could ruin– and for that, he felt an unexpected relief.

They were not her.

And he did not want any of them.

Aemond’s fingers absentmindedly played with the golden ring that encircled his finger, the motion hidden behind his back. His thumb grazed the band, latching on the subtle lever hidden within its design. For a fleeting moment, he felt the needle mechanism flick up under his touch, a small but lethal secret embedded in the ornate jewelry. With a subtle movement, he pressed it back down, securing the mechanism closed once more, all the while maintaining an outward composure that belied the calculating thoughts whirling through his mind.

“You have fine daughters,” he acknowledged respectfully, addressing Lord Borros with practiced diplomacy. “I believe your second youngest, Floris, would be particularly well-suited for my brother. They are of a similar age and her demeanor suggests a kindness that Prince Daeron would find most agreeable.”

“Well chosen,” Borros responded, his features softening as he smiled at Floris. The girl’s cheeks coloured with a deep blush, while a flicker of envy passed briefly over her sisters’ faces.

Lord Borros then leaned forward, eager to move on to the practicalities of the alliance. “Now, shall we discuss the dowry?”

“The hour grows late, my lord,” Lady Elenda interjected softly, her hand resting gently on her husband’s shoulder in a comforting gesture. “The prince has had a long day, and I am sure he’s in need of rest. Might we continue this in the morning?”

Aemond would have preferred to conclude the discussions and return to King’s Landing, but he couldn’t deny that the prospect of a meal, a hot bath, and a comfortable bed was appealing. His body ached from the long flight, and he realized he hadn’t eaten much since the morning. Weighing his fatigue against his desire to proceed, he reluctantly agreed–after all, he had to be sharp for the discussion of dowries.

Clean and well-fed, Aemond found himself in bed, absentmindedly rubbing the persistent ache gnawing at the inside of his skull. As he settled into the unfamiliar yet plush surroundings, he couldn’t help but wonder if these were the same chambers Daenera had occupied during her visit to Storm’s End after her husband’s death. The thought prickled at his fingertips, stirring a familiar longing within him to wrap his arms around her and find solace in her presence–a need that had haunted him ever since that woeful night. He had confessed then, realizing it was neither mere attraction nor simple affection, nor was it lust, but something far more profound and devastating. His father had taken that confession to his grave.

Despite the comfort of the bed and the quiet of the night, Aemond’s sleep was restless, his mind swirling with memories and unspoken words.

After breaking his fast, Aemond returned to the Round Hall with Floris at his side, who peppered him with questions about Daeron as her sisters looked on, their glares tinged with envy. They had just begun discussing dowries and arrangements when the sudden echo of a guard’s voice broke through the room, abruptly halting the negotiations. “A dragon has just landed in the courtyard…”

Aemond turned sharply towards the guard, his hands clasped behind his back as he moved to the edge of the room. His heart quickened with a blend of curiosity and annoyance at the interruption. It seemed his half-sister had decided to make her own move, dispatching one of her sons in an attempt to sway the Lord of Storm’s End. Aemond mused over the naivety of their belief that Lord Borros would maintain his allegiance to their faction, especially when the alliance that had bound them had been severed by death. He half-expected to see Jace stride through the door, but to his surprise, it was Lucerys who entered, flanked by guards.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon,” declared one of the guards, his voice booming through the grand hall, heralding the boy’s approach. “Son of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

Aemond turned towards Lucerys with a slow, deliberate motion that carried the weight and precision of drawing a sword from its sheath. As his gaze finally settled on the boy, a sharp, malicious smirk twisted Aemond’s lips. Lucerys, in response, seemed to momentarily falter under the intensity of Aemond’s stare. His eyes widened, his complexion paled, and a look of palpable fear etched itself across his boyish features. It was as if Aemond could visibly see the boy’s heart drop to the pit of his stomach–a sight that stirred a dark, twisted sort of satisfaction within him.

That cruel part of Aemond reveled in the dread that unfolded across Lucerys’s face–seemed to hunger for it. It was as though this beast that resided within him was bearing its teeth, craving more, thriving on the fear it elicited. It was something sinister and remorseless that stirred, enjoying the unease he instilled in his young rival.

Good, Aemond thought, I want him afraid.

As lightning crackled outside, its sound snapped sharply against the walls of the drum tower, its energy seeming etching itself into the very stone. The storm that had been brewing finally unleashed its full fury upon Storm’s End, with the wind howling menacingly around the structure’s round walls.

Underneath Aemond’s relentless, steely gaze, the brown-haired boy shifted uneasily, his movements betraying a nervous attempt to muster his courage. His eyes darted from Aemond to Lord Borros Baratheon, flickering nervously before finally resting on the Lord of Storm’s End seated upon the stony throne. Gathering what composure he could, he managed to put on a brave face, though it appeared rather feeble against the crack of thunder.

“Lord Borros…” he began, his voice barely rising above a murmur when a sudden clap of thunder interrupted him, thrashing through the room like a whip. Regaining his shaken resolve, he continued, “I have brought you a message from my mother… the Queen.”

The certainty with which he referred to his mother as ‘the Queen’ almost coaxed a chuckle from Aemond. He felt the rumble of amusement within his chest but managed to restrain it, opting instead to observe silently, intrigued.

“Yet, earlier this day, I received an envoy from the King,” Lord Borros interjected dryly, his tone as unyielding as the stone he sat upon–and cut with a certain edge of mockery. “Which is it to be? King or Queen?”

If Lucerys had been the first to arrive, perhaps he might have stood a better chance. But he hadn’t, and Aemond couldn’t help but relish in this advantage, his smugness evident as he allowed his amusement to play across his features while he fixed his gaze on the boy. His stare was cold and unyielding, aking to the chilling touch of a blade poised menacingly at the throat, intended to unnerve and unsettle.

“The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it,” Lord Borros jeered at the unfolding drama with a scoff, his laughter echoing through the chamber, devoid of any real humor, as it rolled over the tense atmosphere. “What is your mother’s message?”

Despite the intensity of Aemond’s glare, Lucerys held his ground, seeming to find some courage. With a defiant look still aimed at the Lord of Storm’s End, he extended a rolled piece of parchment towards one of the guards. The guard approached, the sound of his footsteps resonating through the sudden silence, only to be swallowed up by another menacing crack of thunder. He took the message and walked across the room, finally placing it into his lord’s expectant hands.

Aemond’s focus was unrelenting, almost entirely fixed on Lucerys. Despite the ongoing interactions around them, his eye remained sharply trained on the boy. A newfound streak of resolve seemed to fortify Lucerys’ composure, embolden him to meet Aemond’s piercing stare. The boy’s eyes, defiant and steady, refused to cower under the intense scrutiny, and it only served to deepen Aemond’s desire to see him squirm.

Lord Borros Baratheon’s patience had seemingly worn thin amidst the charged atmosphere. His voice broke through the tension, rough and tinged with irritation as he grumbled, “Where’s the bloody Maester?”

The silence in the Round Hall stretched taut, its intensity rivaling the sporadic thunderclaps from the storm outside and the wind’s relentless whirring around the sleek stones of the keep. The charged atmosphere inside mirrored the tumultuous weather, fostering a palpable unease that seemed to seep into every corner of the room–if there had been any corners.

Aemond, ever observant, noted the subtle shift in Lucerys’ stance–a slight unease that betrayed him. This small gesture did not escape Aemond’s notice and only served to deepen his amusement. The thought flickered through his mind–did Lucerys actually believe he could best him?

The echoing footsteps of the approaching maester sliced through the heavy air, his chains jingling softly, announcing his arrival. Aemond kept his gaze fixed on Lucerys, choosing not to turn towards the maester or Lord Borros but remaining acutely aware of every movement. Even without seeing, he could feel the tension in the room rise as the master delivered the message to Borros.

Finally breaking his steady gaze, Lucerys looked towards Lord Borros, just as the lord spoke out, his voice heavy with indignation, booming through the room.

“‘Remind’ me of my father’s oath,” Lord Borros repeated the words from the letter, his tone darkening with fury. “King Aegon at least came with an offer: My swords and banners for a marriage pact!”

Aemond’s smirk sharpened, his amusement and confidence rising as the tension in the room did the same.

Lucerys, maintaining his composure, held his head high, seemingly undeterred by the force of Lord Borros’s words. His eyes stayed locked on the lord, defiantly ignoring Aemond as he began to speak. “My mother, the Queen, hopes that our houses’ marriage alliance remains intact. My sister–”

“‘Hope’?! ‘Hope’?!” Lord Borros erupted, cutting the young prince off mid-sentence. His voice boomed through the hall, laden with frustration and disbelief. “The alliance between our houses died along with my brother, and unless your sister is with child, I see no reason that the alliance should continue. I cannot stake the future of my house on mere ‘hope.’”

As Borros’s fury washed over him, Lucerys visibly tensed, his discomfort apparent. Aemond, ever watchful, noted the slight tightening of Lucerys’s grip on his sword hilt, his eyes briefly widening in response. He imagined that this wasn’t the welcome the boy had thought he’d receive.

“Your sister, commendable as she might have been, pledged to remain a widow to sustain this tedious alliance,” Borros continued, his voice tinged with scorn. “However, I’ve come to understand that she has reneged on her word by accepting a betrothal to Prince Aemond here.”

Aemond felt the piercing gaze of Lord Borros on him, implicating him directly in unraveling the prior commitments between House Baratheon and Rhaenyra. The irony wasn’t lost on Aemond; Lord Borros was closer to the truth than he realized–closer than he would ever know.

As Lucerys’s gaze shifted to him, Aemond tilted his head slightly, a smug smirk playing at the corners of his mouth–a challenge, daring him to voice his thoughts. He reveled in the clear signs of worry, unease, and fury that danced in the bastard’s eyes–a tumult of emotions that Aemond found almost palpable. Lucerys gnawed slightly at his lip and swallowed thickly, seemingly struggling to maintain his composure before reluctantly pulling his eyes away from Aemond.

“My sister is held as a hostage in King’s Landing. Any decision to marry would not be her own,” Lucerys countered, his voice carrying a steely determination tinged with an unmistakable quiver of worry.

“I assure you, Lord Strong,” Aemond interjected smoothly, his voice sharp as a blade, his one eye gleaming with sardonic amusement. The thrill of the exchange quickened his pulse, a flutter of amusement paired with a twist of glee in his stomach. “The decision was entirely voluntary. Perhaps if your mother cedes her ambition for the throne, you’ll be able to attend the wedding and see for yourself how willing your sister truly is.”

Aemond’s words hung in the air, a challenge laden with irony and provocation, skillfully weaving a narrative of consent and volition that masked the complexities and pressure of royal alliances and captivities.

He held the secret of his marriage to Daenera close to his chest–one that could unravel the tension in the room with a single revelation. He could have disclosed that he and Daenera were already married, could have shown the proof etched into the skin of his palm, and could have taunted Lucerys for his ignorance of his sister’s true feelings. Yet, he refrained. Part of his hesitation might have been pragmatic, aiming not to provoke Lord Borros Baratheon’s anger, especially since he was there to secure an alliance with House Baratheon. But another, more personal part of him wanted to keep this knowledge private, to preserve a last remnant of what they shared, to protect Daenera from the harsh scrutiny such revelation would invite. Why reveal their marriage now, when the realm would witness their union all the same?

Luke’s glare narrowed as he retorted, “Or perhaps, Prince Aemond, you confuse coercion for consent as easily as you confuse treachery for honor. It seems the only way you can secure a bride is by trapping her in circumstances she cannot escape from. My sister would never willingly marry you.”

Aemond gritted his teeth, his tongue pressing against them as venomous words threatened to spill forth. Insult after insult simmered within him, pushing him dangerously close to losing his composure.

“Be that as it may,” Lord Borros interjected, his tone brimming with impatience, “House Baratheon had honored its commitments to your sister and your house. The alliance now lies buried with my brother. If you seek a new alliance, then tell me, which one of my daughters will you wed, boy?”

Lucerys gathered himself, his posture stiffening as he prepared to respond, his voice firm with a shaken resolve. “My lord, I am not free to marry. I am already betrothed.”

Lord Borros’s reaction was swift and biting, each word infused with a mix of mockery and disdain. He scoffed dismissively, “So you come here with empty hands.” His voice carried a derisive edge as he continued, “Go home, pup. And tell your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog she can whistle up at need to set against her foes.”

Despite the harsh dismissal, Lucerys maintained his dignity. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw, meeting Lord Borros’s gaze with unyielding eyes. “I shall take your answer to the Queen, my lord.”

Aemond, watching the exchange, felt a surge of exhilaration. His heart thrummed with the thrill of the apparent victory, and as Lucerys turned to leave, a part of him relished the upper hand they had gained. Yet, something within him stirred–a desire to further assert his dominance, to ensure Lucerys did not depart without fully understanding the depths of their enmity. He wanted him to run back home with the tail tucked between his legs.

Floris gracefully moved from Aemond’s side to join her sisters. Maris welcomed her with a comforting touch, placing a hand on her younger sister’s arm. Her voice, just loud enough for Aemond to overhear, carried a thinly veiled jab. “You should feel fortunate, sweet sister, to wed a prince with all his appendages. Spare a thought for the princess…”

The remark struck Aemond like a barb, twisting in his stomach–an unpleasant reminder of the countless similar insults he had endured since losing his eye. He clenched his teeth, the words resonating in his ears, reverberating within his mind. What had felt like a victory moment’s earlier now soured into something bitter and resentful, coloring his triumph with the dark hues of indignation and anger.

“Wait,” Aemond called out sharply, his voice cutting through the tension, commanding Lucerys to halt. “My Lord Strong.”

The boy halted, a moment of stillness enveloping him. Then, with measured steps he moved back to the spot he had previously occupied before being dismissed. As he faced Aemond again, the visible signs of his trepidation were unmistakable. His complexion had paled, draining of color, and his lips parted slightly, revealing a flicker of fear. Lucerys seemed to forcibly swallow his apprehension, his jaw clenching tightly. He subtly shifted his grip on the hilt of his sword, his body tensing as if bracing for the confrontation.

“Did you really think you could just fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” Aemond challenged, taking a measured step closer to the young prince. His hands remained clasped behind his back, maintaining a casual yet commanding presence. He was undeterred by the prospect of Lucerys drawing his sword, confident that he could take him easily.

“I will not fight you,” Lucerys declared with resolve, his voice steady and clear–dismissive almost. “I came here as a messenger, not a warrior.”

Aemond’s voice was chillingly calm as he drawled, “A fight would be little challenge.”

He knew that should it come to blows, he would easily overpower the boy. But a fight was not what he sought; Aemond craved a different kind of retribution, something that would settle a deeper score.

“No,” he continued, his tone darkening with a grim intent, “I want you to put out your eye…”

The demand hung in the air, heavy with the gravity of his desire for vengeance, seeking not just defeat but to debilitate and humiliate–as he had been debilitated and humiliated. It was only fair.

Aemond felt it then–a sharp, familiar pain jabbing at the hollow where his eye once was. It started as a mere pinprick but soon swelled into a forceful throb that made his teeth feel loose, pulsating in tandem with his heartbeat. The scar burned intensely, the ache splitting his skull, a constant reminder of his loss. This pain was an old companion, lingering just beneath the surface, ever ready to surge forth and engulf him, forcing him to relive the moment of loss again and again and again.

He gritted his teeth against the pain, vividly recalling the initial sting when the injury occurred, a pain that quickly rose into a searing, white-hot agony as though he had been branded. He supposed in a way he had been. His blood had spilled thick and warm, clinging to his skin. He could still feel the horrifying sensation of his eye rupturing, the blade slicing through flesh, tissue, muscle, and bone, as his vision dissolved into a haze of black and red.

The memory of the aftermath was just as vivid–the tearing pain as the maester removed the remnants of his eye from its socket, the burning agony as the wound had been cleansed, the sharp bite of the needle as it stitched the inflamed skin closed.

What had made the ordeal even more unbearable was the injustice of it all. He had been mained for claiming a dragon that was free to claim, yet he was the one who bore the blame of his injury. The perpetrators went unpunished, no retribution for the wrongs done to him.

The injury had implanted a deep-seated resentment within Aemond, a smoldering rage that clung to him persistently. Upon his return to King’s landing, the wound had become inflamed, necessitating it to be reopened and cleansed thoroughly. During this procedure, he lost his eyelid, the tissue having turned black.

After the wound had somewhat healed, Aemond made the decision to have it reopened to embed a sapphire in the socket–an attempt to reclaim some semblance of dignity and to avoid the pitying stares that had become all too common. He had read tales of warriors replacing lost eyes with precious stones, and he sought to emulate them. However, it had brought him little solace, and he had taken to wearing an eyepatch instead.

For years, Aemond had carried the weight of this injustice, living with both the physical pain and the humiliation it brought. Now, he felt the time had come to have the debt settled, to demand what was owed to him–a chance to balance the scales that had been so unfairly tipped against him.

Aemond lifted his hand deliberately, his fingers grasping the edge of the leather patch that concealed his disfigurement. With a calculated movement, he pulled it away, exposing the harsh reality of his injury and the gleaming sapphire that sat within the hollow of his socket. “As a payment for mine…”

He stood defiantly before the boy who had caused him irreparable harm–the one responsible for his maiming and disfigurement, the one who had escaped punishment. This boy, who seemed to know nothing of fear, pain, or suffering, who displayed no remorse for his actions, who had never felt the biting sting of injustice–a poison that had seeped into his very core.

Aemond took a dark pleasure in observing the change in Lucerys’s expression–the visible drop of his heart as he confronted the extent of the damage he had caused and the creeping fear that began to shadow his features. Witnessing the realization in Lucerys eyes was not sufficient, he sought more than just a momentary flicker of fear; he demanded a deeper acknowledgement of the pain and consequences his actions had wrought.

“One will serve,” Aemond stated, his voice slicing through the tension, cold and unforgiving. With a deliberate motion, he flicked his coat aside, his lithe fingers finding the familiar hilt of his dagger. He drew the blade with a steely sing, its sound a clear, ominous echo in the chamber.

“I would not blind you.” His words were laden with a chilling mercy–an eye for an eye, indeed, but he offered leniency where none was owed. It was a debt of blood that had to be settled, a recompense for his own loss, dictated by ancient laws of justice.

With a flick of his wrist, Aemond tossed the dagger. It spun through the air, landing with a clatter to skitter over the floor and stop at Lucerys’s feet, the sound of steel on cold stone resonating more profoundly than the thunder outside. This gesture, laying the instrument of retribution before Lucerys, was both a challenge and a test, a cruel kindness that spoke of the harsh balance Aemond sought to enforce.

“Mm,” Aemond hummed, the sound almost a purr. “I plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”

The utter horror that briefly flickered across Lucerys’s face brought Aemond a grim kind of satisfaction. He felt it uncoil within his chest like a viper poised to strike, the beast within him baring its teeth. He believed it was only fair that the bastard should suffer as he had–Aemond wanted him afraid, wanted him humiliated. Yet instead of the outright fear he sought, a defiant spark–spiteful, even–flared in Lucerys’s eyes. His jaw set firmly, he held his head high, though in Aemond’s eye, he had no grounds for such pride.

“No,” Lucerys answered firmly, and his response ignited an uncontrollable rage within Aemond. To be denied justice, to be refused retribution a second time–it was more than he could bear.

A cold, dreadful sensation crept over Aemond as he stared at Lucerys, feeling the pain in the hollow were his eye once was–a chilling, maddening discomfort that seemed to curl within his eye socket, spreading like ice through his skull and scratching at the edges of his consciousness. The words that escaped him were delivered in a cold, drawling tone, laden with accusation. “Then you are craven as well as a traitor.”

Lucerys’s response was defiant; his jaw clenched tightly, his body tensing as he shifted on his feet. “I will not surrender my eye to you. I owe you noth–”

Aemond’s already frayed composure snapped completely at Lucerys’s budding refusal. Rage exploded within him, an inferno as vivid and all-consuming as dragonfire. It obliterated all rational thought, unleashing the beast that lurked within, its fangs bared, thirsting for retribution.

“Give me your eye, or I will take it, bastard!” Aemond’s voice boomed as he advanced towards the visibly frightened boy. In a swift motion, he scooped up the discarded dagger, its metal scraping loudly against the stone floor, the sound magnified in the tense silence. The blade caught the light from the lightning flashing outside, making it seem as though the storm itself had invaded the Round Hall. Aemond could almost taste the bastard boy’s fear, and it only fueled his desire for retribution–he imagined carving out the boy’s eye, making him endure every excruciating moment just as he had, wanted him to feel the blood as it poured–

“Not in my hall!” Lord Borros Baratheon’s commanding voice cut through the tension as he rose from his throne.

Aemond’s fury was momentarily bridled by the authoritative intervention–remembering that he was here out of duty to his family and house, to secure an alliance. He halted his advance, though his gaze remained fiercely locked on Lucerys. The guards quickly stepped between them, forming a protective barrier. Behind them, the boy stood with his sword drawn, the tip of his blade quivering slightly, and Aemond couldn’t help but think him pathetic.

“The boy came as an envoy,” Lord Borros continued, his tone firm and authoritative, “I’ll not have bloodshed beneath my roof. Take Prince Lucerys back to his dragon. Now.”

Aemond, momentarily stalled by the command, stood his ground but slowly rose to his full height. With practiced ease, he spun the dagger within his grip, letting it twirl elegantly before sheathing it at his hip–unbloodied. He thought Lucerys should be grateful for Lord Borros’s intervention; he should consider himself fortunate that Aemond had enough control to hold back. He envisioned Lucerys retreating to his mother, tail tucked between his legs, humiliated and defeated. This image, though not as satisfying as exacting his revenge, managed to soothe the aggressive itch at his fingertips.

As Lucerys sheathed his sword and took a few shaky steps towards the doors, he paused and turned back to face Aemond once more. His expression was unusual, marked by a mix of determination and sympathy–almost pitibal in its sincerity. “I am sorry that it has come to this…”

The boy’s words carried an unexpected earnestness that only served to set his teeth on edge. The words slithered under Aemond’s skin, twisting into his bones, igniting something dangerous within him. He fixed his gaze on the bastard, fighting to contain the surge of rage that flared anew in his chest. The pain that normally lurked at the edges of his mind, though palpable, had been somewhat bearable until now. But at Lucerys’s apology, it began to unravel, the icy grip of it clawing into his consciousness with talons that tore through his restraint.

“I am sorry,” Lucerys continued, his tone almost mocking in its sincerity. “I regret that my actions resulted in the loss of your eye but I will not apologize for protecting my brother…”

These words, meant to convey regret, instead felt like a provocation to Aemond, challenging the very control he struggled to maintain. His body tensed, frozen in place yet poised to strike. The words tore through Aemond with blinding ferocity. He was sorry? He was sorry?! The way Lucerys spoke, as if the incident had been a mere mishap, belittled the true extent of Aemond’s suffering. It wasn’t just the loss of an eye–it was the years of excruciating pain that left him writing in bed at times, the endless, agonizing months it took to heal fully. It was the grueling process of relearning basic tasks that once came effortlessly, the way the injury had mutilated and disfigured him, not just physically but in the eyes of those he met.

Lucerys’s apology failed to capture the humiliation and torment Aemond had endured, how his father would never look at him without seeing the scar first and foremost, how his mother would look at him as though she had failed him, how that scar became the defining feature people noticed. It ignored how deep the scars ran, how the incident twisted him, hardened him into something brutal and cruel–a beast in the form of a man.

A fierce, almost primal urge surged through him–he imagined drawing his sword, effortlessly slipping past the guards, plunging the blade into that bastard’s eye, then severing his head to let the sword be anointed in the traitor’s blood. He imagined sending what was left of Lucerys back to his mother in grim retribution.

Yet, as much as he yearned to unleash his fury on Lucerys, a whisper of restraint echoed in the back of his mind, a tenuous thread of self-control keeping him from shattering entirely. The sliver of rationality held him back, a reminder of the consequences that would inevitably follow.

Lucerys continued, his voice steady yet each word, seemingly dismissive and mockingly sympathetic, shredded the last vestiges of restraint Aemond clung to. The small, rational voice in his head was drowned out by the throbbing rage that consumed him. “I hope for your understanding, and perhaps forgiveness one day, but until then, you have my apology for the suffering caused by my hand,”

Aemond’s glare intensified, his eyes burning into Lucerys with such fury that it visibly shook the young bastard. The intensity of Aemond’s rage was enough to send Lucerys quickly turning to exit the hall, eager to escape the palpable hostility.

As Lucerys left, Aemond felt the rage continue to sear through him, gnawing at his fingertips insistently, engulfing his mind. He turned to Lord Borros, his voice icy, colder than the harshest winters of the North. “I thank you for your hospitality, my lord, and I will have the hand of the King finalize our arrangement, but if you excuse me, I must go.”

His words were formal, yet the undercurrent of his tone conveyed a chilling resolve, as if the coldness of his voice could mask the storm of fury within him. With that, Aemond prepared to leave, his every move reflecting the tumultuous emotions he struggled to contain.

Aemond didn’t wait for an answer, or perhaps he simply didn’t hear it; he spun on his heel and swiftly exited the Round Hall. The moment he stepped into the corridor, his heart pounded in his ears, drowning out all other sounds. Driven by a storm of rage, he sprinted down the hallways and darted through the tunnel, navigating the winding paths of the curtain wall before bursting into the tempest outside.

Rain lashed at his face as thunder roared overhead, the elements mirroring his inner turmoil. The rocky terrain threatened to trip him, but his fury propelled him forward unscathed. He reached Vhagar, his hands finding the wet, slick rope that wrapped around the dragon.

“Hēnkirī kesi urnēptre bona Ilībōños bona ziry zūgagon īlva,” Aemond sneered, his voice cutting through the relentless downpour that threatened to drown out his words. Despite the roar of the rain, Vhagar responded to her rider’s command, a low rumbling emanating from deep within her chest, signaling her readiness. Aemond ascended the ladder with a fervor fueled by his smoldering rage, each step taken with urgent determination as he planned to chase the little bastard through the storm.

Together we will show that bastard that he should fear us.

By the time he mounted the saddle, he was thoroughly drenched, his hair plastered to his skin, the chill of the rain seeping deep into his bones. Yet, he scarcely noticed the cold; his mind was singularly focused on the objective–to find the boy who had inflicted so much pain upon him and ensure he experienced just a fraction of the fear and helplessness Aemond had endured.

He wanted Lucerys terrified, utterly humiliated–his rage demanded no less. As he prepared to take flight, every fiber of his being was set on this relentless pursuit, the fury within him as relentless as the storm that raged around him.

“Ryptēs! Rȳbās!” Aemond commanded, his hands tightening on the leather reins. “Sōvegon!”

Listen. Obey. Fly!

As thunder roared above, Vhagar responded with a low rumble, shaking her massive head as a sign of readiness. She then unfurled her enormous wings, striding towards the cliff’s edge, and with a powerful leap, she allowed herself to drop slightly, the fierce wind quickly catching her wings and lifting them into flight.

Rain lashed at Aemond’s face like a barrage of tiny icicles, each droplet pricking against his skin with icy sharpness, though he barely registered the discomfort, or that the sapphire within his socket were steadily turning to ice as the wind whipped at it. His heart pounded in his ears, nearly drowning out the howling wind and the continuous thunder that cracked through the sky. Lightning streaked across the dense clouds, briefly illuminating the darkened heavens, as they soared into the storm, bound by a mission fueled by vengeance and fury.

A crude smile stretched across Aemond’s lips, savoring the taste of rain mixed with the wild fury of the storm. They were in close pursuit of the small shadow darting ahead of them, the smaller dragon’s wings flapping frantically against the relentless wind. Aemond cleverly used the cloud cover to cloak their approach, weaving through the dense clouds, allowing them to stealthily stalk their prey from above.

As they drew into the clouds in front of the smaller dragon, they executed a swift, tight turn before emerging from the thick cloud cover. Aemond and Vhagar burst forth, their sudden presence in front of the smaller dragon meant to be an imposing and terrifying spectacle, amplified by the thick cover of clouds that wrapped around them. Aemond caught a brief glimpse of Lucerys’s red-cheeked, fear-stricken face as they swooped over them, allowing Vhagar to menacingly snap her claws close to them, a clear threat.

A menacing, maniacal laugh erupted from Aemond’s chest, a sound that bubbled up and spilled from his lips, fueled by the palpable terror emanating from the boy and his dragon. Vhagar joined in with a sound akin to a crackle, a low, reverberating growl that might have been a purr under less ominous circumstances. It was a foreboding sound, promising the unleashing of fiery breath and teeth sharp enough to rend flesh.

Together, they were the embodiment of true power.

This was a dance of fury and fear, where his shadows cavorted with the gales, their whispers echoing in the thunder, rejoicing in the terror they instilled in the target of his ire. The storm, like a malevolent spectator, seemed to mimic the tempest within Aemond, its rage a mirror to his own, its chaos a reflection of his soul.

As Arrax darted ahead, Vhagar surged forward with a predatory swiftness, her massive maw snapping at the air, her gleaming teeth tearing menacingly close to the smaller dragon. Arrax fluttered about uneasily, trying to evade the larger dragon’s threatening advances.

Aemond harbored a cold hope that when Lucerys looked back, the sapphire replacing his eye would catch the lightning’s flash, its cruel gleam filling the boy with utter dread. He wanted to haunt Lucerys, to be etched into his mind–it was only fair, as the cruel edge of the blade had been etched into his face.

Aemond delighted in the chase–delighted in the terror he elicited as they toyed with the smaller dragon. He let Vhagar snap her jaws at the dragon, threatening to tear off its wings or bite into its body. Through the roaring storm, they pursued them relentlessly, refusing to let up. Aemond’s intent was clear: he wanted the boy to experience the same helplessness and humiliation he had endured years ago.

“I see you! Ilībōños!” Aemond bellowed, his voice clawing its way through the tumult, ensuring it reached Lucerys amidst the chaos of the storm. His shout was a declaration of his presence, a warning that he was unavoidable and ever-present, like the storm itself.

As Arrax seemed to sense the imminent danger, the small dragon instinctively pulled its wings closer to its body, executing a sharp drive in an attempt to escape. Aemond, relentless, spurred Vhagar to follow. The massive dragon pursued her formidable form cutting swiftly through the air towards the churning sea below. The wind lashed against Aemond’s face with such a ferocity that, had he been wearing his eyepatch, it surely would have been torn off.

With his voice raw from shouting, Aemond bellowed again. He was uncertain if his words could pierce through the howling wind and the roaring sea as they rapidly descended, but he shouted regardless, his voice echoing with command and threat: “Ozdakōs, mittys!”

Run, fool!

His shout was taut, a challenge thrown into the face of the storm, as much a part of the tempest as the thunder and lightning themselves, all converging to overwhelm the fleeing dragon and its rider.

Lucerys and his dragon quickly turned and leveled out above the narrow sea, maneuvering sharply to steer towards the cliffs. Aemond and Vhagar were in close pursuit, her immense wings masterfully catching the wind to prevent a perilous descent into the sea.

Another cruel, discordant crackle escaped Aemond, a sound not entirely human, as if the beast within him had broken through. The rush of their rapid descent invigorated him, his blood singing through his veins with a hot, thrilling pulse. He felt the familiar swoop in his stomach, reminiscent of the exhilaration he felt during his first ascent on Vhagar, when he had claimed the dragon as his own.

As Arrax deftly turned towards the cliffs, Vhagar followed, intent on catching up–a shadow of death closely trailing the boy and his dragon. The smaller dragon managed to slip through the narrow crevice between the cliffs, disappearing like a bug through a crack in the wall. Aemond, reacting swiftly, yanked at the reins, steering Vhagar sharply upwards over the cliffs, temporarily losing sight of their quarry among the rocky outcrops and the relentless downpour.

Vhagar expressed her frustration with an aggravated roar that mirrored Aemond’s own sneer of irritation. They continued to fly above the cliffs, scouring the landscape below. The sea thrashed violently against the cliffs, its hunger palpable in the storm’s fury. Aemond’s heart thundered in his chest, the pounding rhythm nearly drowning out the storm’s howl, fueling the thrill of the chase that tingled beneath his skin, itching at his fingertips and fluttering in his stomach. He laughed, cruelly so, reveling in the feeling of power.

“Jemēla gēlȳni enkā!” Aemond called out, his voice a menacing drawl meant to instill fear and provoke a mistake. “Taobus!”

You owe a debt! Boy!

His words cut through the tumult, meant to echo ominously around Lucerys, a constant reminder of who it was that pursued him. Aemond’s command was not just a call–it was a dark promise, woven into the winds of the storm, haunting the fleeing boy with the weight of his impending reckoning.

Aemond fervently hoped that Lucerys was consumed by fear, that he felt utterly powerless–just as powerless as Aemond had been when the dagger had sliced through flesh and muscle, as hopeless as when he had the remnants of his eye brutally torn from his socket, and as forsaken as he had felt when he had been denied justice, when he had been denied the retribution he deserved. He wished for Lucerys to feel the same crippling fear Aemond had endured when they had turned against him, when they had attacked him for claiming something which was free to claim.

Most of all, he wanted Lucerys to feel the crippling shame and humiliation he had felt, bearing the scar of injustice.

The clouds around them were oppressive, heavy and dense, closing in as they navigated the endless gray expanse. Aemond blinked rapidly against the onslaught of rain and wind, and suddenly, a torrent of fire burst from a gray cloud, followed swiftly by a sweeping shadow that darted past them–trailed by a voice whose words were drowned by the wind. The fire curled around Vhagar’s head, hot and searing. Aemond felt the intense heat graze his skin, wrapping them momentarily in a billow of smoke. The heat was fleeting, replaced almost instantly by an icy chill as the warmth dissipated into the stormy air, leaving a lingering cold in its absence.

Vhagar reared her head in anger, a reaction that Aemond felt deeply within his own chest. The dragon’s fury mingled seamlessly with his own, fueling his emotions as his stomach churned with cold dread. Vhagar plunged through the clouds after Arrax with forceful determination, almost as if personally affronted by the young dragon’s slight.

A thunderous roar shattered the sky, reverberating so powerfully that Aemond felt it within his chest, louder than the thunder itself as lightning streaked across the heavens. He felt control slipping from his grasp, like wisps of smoke escaping through his fingers.

“No, no, no, no! No! Serve me, Vhagar!” Aemond commanded desperately, his voice rising over the storm as the dragon thrashed beneath him, snapping its teeth in wild fury. The low rumble of Vhagar’s rage seemed to vibrate through its massive body and into Aemond’s, amplifying his own distress. “Vagus, daor! Dohaerās!”

Vhagar, no! Obey me!

But like any creature pushed to its limits, Vhagar continued her relentless pursuit, utterly indifferent to her rider’s commands–but the will men wield over dragons was finite, and Aemond was rendered a mere spectator as they pierced through the clouds into the brightness of day, leaving behind the swirling tempest below. His heart sank as Vhagar opened her massive jaws, and with a force that seemed to resonate through the very air around them, she snapped them shut around the boy and his dragon. With a single devastating bite, she sheared off Arrax’s head, wing, and tail.

Lucerys’s shrieks of pain and terror were abruptly silenced as he disappeared into Vhagar’s vast gullet, consumed–a grim meal as Lucerys vanished from the world, swallowed whole by Vhagar.

As Vhagar clamped her jaws around the dragon for a second time, Aemond felt the visceral echo of bones and flesh crunching–a sensation that resonated within his own body so vividly he could almost taste the blood that Vhagar had spilled in pursuit of retribution–vengeance. This second, ferocious bite, severed her prey completely, her head twisting with the violent finality of a hound shaking its catch. Droplets of blood splattered across Aemond’s face, a grim rain marking his countenance despite the clarity of the sky above them.

Vhagar’s victorious roar thundered through the sky, resonating not just externally but deep within the hollow of Aemond’s chest, its echoes reverberating in the chambers of his heart.

His eye widened as he watched the descent of the mangled remains, following their plummet towards the insatiable sea below. He watched, almost in a trance, as the fragments of what once had been a boy and his dragon disappeared into the cloud-laden abyss, vanishing from sight forever.

In that moment, Aemond’s heart thundered in his chest–a relentless drumbeat that marked the end of the chase, the culmination of his vengeance, and the ominous onset of war.

Aemond drew his hand down his face, staring at it as smears of blood marked his pale skin, intermingling with the droplets of rain that still clung to him. He released a breath, which morphed into a cold, humorless laugh as his thoughts remained muddled, as wild and tempestuous as the storm still raging below them.

For years, he had harbored wishes–longings–for retribution, for vengeance. He had fantasized about carving out Lucerys eye as a replacement for his own, desperate to share his own pain and humiliation with the one who forced it upon him–seeking some semblance of the justice that had been denied him. An eye for an eye, blood for blood, a debt that had to be repaid.

It would have been a fair exchange, a way to set the world right–a means to possibly reclaim what he had lost, to somehow piece himself back together and feel whole once more. Aemond mulled over this thought, the notion of justice as an equalizer resonating deeply within him, as if such an act could balance the scales and mend what had been lost.

Deep within him, there had been a childish flicker of hope that by killing Lucerys might somehow fill the void left by the blade, would somehow miraculously restore his eye–but as he sat upon Vhagar now, he could feel the coldness of the sapphire within his eye socket, and the bitter truth struck him–that the blood he had sought did not, and could not, restore his eye. It did nothing to heal the scar or mend the mangled skin, nor did it address the deeper, more enduring wounds within him.

Deep within him, there had been a childish flicker of hope that killing Lucerys might somehow fill the void left by the blade and would, somehow, miraculously restore his eye. But as he sat atop Vhagar now, soaring above the sea of a storm, feeling the cold touch of the sapphire within his eye socket, a bitter truth settled over him–the blood he had sought did not, and could not, restore his eye. It did nothing to heal the scar or mend the mangled skin, nor did it soothe the deeper, more enduring wounds within him left by the injustice–and far from making him feel whole, the act of vengeance only deepened his sense of incompleteness, leaving him feeling more hollow and wrong than ever before.

Instead of filling the void within him, it seemed to have expanded, leaving Aemond grappling with the haunting emptiness of a victory that felt ominously akin to defeat. As he sat there, the consequences of his actions set in–this was not merely the ignition of war, but a sacrifice of what he held dear. His honor and reputation were now irreversibly stained–he had made himself a kinslayer, the worst thing a man could be–but what weighed more heavily on his heart was the realization that he had lost the very thing he loved the most; Daenera, the one who had brought warmth into his cold world, the sweet poison whose intoxication he had come to depend upon.

As he settled back into the saddle, Aemond felt that cherished warmth slipping away, evaporating like mist through his desperate, futile grasp. The loss left a chill in its wake, a cold reminder of what his vengeance had truly cost him.

And the thought that made his blood turn into ice, was the thought that Daenera would turn away from him–that she would no longer see him.

The beast that resided beside his heart, held at bay by chains of self-control, transformed into something far more vicious and cruel–a monster in its purest form, completely unrestrained. And what else could he become but a monster, if that was all anyone ever saw when looking upon him?

His heart, if it could still be called that, had turned into something far darker and more malevolent. It became like Valyrian steel–cold, unyielding, and thirsting for blood. It embodied the destructive path of fire, monstrous in its desires, armed with teeth and claws, ready to consume anything in its path.

And this heart.

This twisted, blackened heart, it had become hers–surrendered to the one he feared losing the most. Would she recognize it? Would she recognize him?

Aemond refused to succumb to the pain that threatened to overtake him, the kind that could fill him with fear. Instead, he swallowed his feelings, feeling them fester and burn within the pit of his stomach. He let the monstrous darkness within him take a hold of him, finding it preferable to fear, to regret, to any other feeling. This darkness offered a twisted solace, a shield against vulnerability, ensuring that he felt nothing but a cold, numbing embrace.

Aemond had always harbored a deep-seated desire for Lucerys’s death–he thirsted for vengeance against the boy who had stolen his eye and sown a seed of darkness in its place. And resonating with his dark wish, Vhagar had executed this desire–sought the revenge he had denied himself. Although Aemond hadn’t set out to kill, it seemed as though the very forces of nature, or perhaps even fate itself, had aligned to bring about this outcome.

And what can a dragon do but obey its nature?

Vhagar, driven by instinct, acted as dragons wont to do. And Aemond came to understand that he, too, was bought by an inescapable nature, one that was deeply entwined with his desires, his pain, and the justice he had been denied.

And he found that vengeance truly did hunger–that it was an insatiable force that once awakened, demanded to be satisfied.

#a vow of blood #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond x oc #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen x oc

23 notes · View notes

girly-blogging · 2 years

Text

“Aemma holds the dragonglass necklace and wishes to throw it from her window. It is an ugly thing, sharp and black.

Aemond’s kindness is foreign. She doesn’t know what to make of it. Is it a fraud to get into her bed? Is it a ploy to get her to do their bidding? She doesn’t know.

His desire was not just desire, that she is sure. His heart is made of vengeance and fury, his blood burns hot with his hunger for blood. Aemond Targaryen may be only capable of feeling anger and pain, but what little humanity still resides in him belongs to Aemma Velaryon.

Take my sword. Take my heart. Take it all.

He promised her the world not so long ago and after weeks spent rotting away in the capital, Aemma is intent on holding him to his promise.

Arrax may be dead, but I can control another dragon.

Helaena’s words echo in her mind.

Men with desires start wars. They can them end them, too.”

— our violent delights by bikadoo, chapter seven

#house of the dragon #house targaryen #game of thrones #team black #our violent delights #bruna marquezine #aemond x lucerys #fem lucerys #aemma velaryon #aemma targaryen #lucerys velaryon #westeros #lucerys genderbend #genderbend

331 notes · View notes

roonotrue · 1 month

Text

Cult of the Lamb: Redemption Chapter #2

(((TW: TW: Uh... I don't think there's anything worth putting a warning on?? Let me know in the comments if there is, and I'll update this.)))

Guilt - Narinder

Perhaps it was naive of him to think he could tolerate the pain.

Turning over onto his back is a motion that now that he's done, he thought he knew what to expect. But instead, the pain is just as piercing as before.

Still, he's able to push through it.

The idea of using his arms to push himself up, however?

He's tried twice now, and each time, his arms have cramped up, shaking violently as he falls back into place. His wrists are the worst, and he doesn't need to open his eyes to know there's scaring marring the fur around them.

He's sure it looks as awful as it feels.

No. Perhaps it feels worse. He can get over what it looks like, but this pain... He's not sure when it's going to stop. If it ever will.

What he is sure of is that he isn't letting it beat him. He tolerated the pain of his chains and being trapped in place for long enough. He will no longer let the phantoms of his torment hold him down.

Even if it means suffering with every movement he makes.

And damn, does he suffer.

He tries to use his legs, to push himself up and take some weight off his arms, but much to his dismay, his legs are in no better condition. Still, he persists.

His whole body is shaking by the time he shoves himself back up against the wall, in some semblance of a sitting position. He is damn near breathless and wants nothing more than to go back to sleep again and deal with his hunger later.

But he's worked too hard to give up now. Opening his eyes, it is dark in the room, the only light coming from the window to his right. It's just enough sunlight to make his eyes water, so he turns his head to the left.

The mixed meal is on the nightstand just next to the bed, and easily within arm's reach. He takes a long moment to relax before attempting to grab the food.

He's dizzy from his efforts.

He should try to organize his thoughts, but the task seems even more impossible than moving.

He was chained for centuries. Found a Lamb to kill the Bishops- his siblings, and free him. The Lamb kills the Bishops. The Lamb proceeds not tofree him but defeats him instead and steals his crown. They spare his life rather than kill him. Then force him to join their cult as a mere follower.

There is... A lot to unpack there.

Thinking about it all still brings forth an overwhelming surge of emotions that he's still not ready to face.

But what other option does he have? When he was chained, all he could do was boil and fester with rage. Plotting his vengeance, waiting.

Waiting.

Always. Fucking. Waiting.

For something to change. For a loyal vessel to appear. He got his vessel, but the loyal part...

He takes a sharp breath, straightening himself out more, and tragically finding that by resting, he's allowed the pain time to worsen.

Still, he pushes through, because as painful as it is, thinking about the Lamb is even worse than their piercing cramping along his spine. Twice as confusing too.

He takes the risk to grab the bowl and just narrowly misses knocking the bowl onto the ground with his shaking. He does spill some of it when he moves it into his lap, but it's the last of his concerns.

With the food right in front of him, he's suddenly contemplating how to eat. Just chew and swallow right? But how much does he have to chew? Does it need to be completely mush? That would be gross, but will he choke otherwise?

What will it taste like? He has only a vague memory of what fish tastes like, but he can't recall what other kinds of meat or beetroots taste like... He settles for starting with the fish steak, the most familiar of the foods, and ignores the uncomfortable dryness of his mouth in hopes the food will help.

It does not. The explosion of taste is nothing like he remembers. He can feel every speck of seasoning burning his tongue and a wave of nausea overtakes him. Chokes it out, spitting it back into the bowl, but the dryness of his mouth causes chunks to get stuck on his tongue and inside his cheeks.

He gags and coughs trying to get it all out of his mouth.

And like a lightning strike, because as he now knows the universe hates him, there is banging on the dresser.

"Narinder! I'm here to start working on your shelter upgrades! I also brought- Narinder!? Are you okay!?" The sentence is cut off when the Lamb realizes something is wrong.

"F-ack! I'm-" He tries to respond but is still choking on the taste of the food.

"Okay! I'm respecting your privacy by knocking but asserting my authority as your cult leader by coming in anyway!" And like that the dresser was shoved aside, teetering for a moment before falling over onto the ground with a loud crash.

The Lamb was by his side in an instant.

"Whoa, whoa! Take it easy, uh, wait here, I'll grab some water!" They bound away, leaving him with tears stinging the corners of his eyes, and hacking like he has a hairball in his throat.

It doesn't take them long though, and they're back beside him with a wooden cup of water trying to hand it to him. He makes a feeble attempt to grab it but his arms cramp up when he tries to close his fists around it, and they jerk back toward him.

He can feel splashes of water as they fall onto his lap and the Lamb catches the cup before it falls and spills completely.

"Careful, Narinder... Are you- never mind, dumb question, you're not okay. Here, let me see." They hesitate only a moment before reangling the cup and bringing it up to his mouth for him.

He's not in the condition or mood to argue, and just leans forward and accepts the water. It's only slightly cool, borderline room temperature, but it tastes holy. He uses the first swig to swirl around his mouth and get rid of as much dryness as he can before swallowing and then chugs the rest.

"Slow down, you'll choke! Again!" The lamb pulls away, and Narinder follows, ignoring the spike of pain it causes.

He needs more. He knew he was thirsty, but this... He feels like he could drink dry a whole lake.

"Please..." He begs, and a part of him wants to hiss and recoil away from the word, but another part just wants more water.

A part of him wants to scream, and claw at the Lamb, and wrestle his crown off their head, but another part just wants to cry and beg for help. For water, and food, and for them, hell anyone, to take the pain away.

The Lamb is silent before he caves, and brings the water back to him, and he returns to chugging it. He can feel trickles of water dripping out of his mouth and down his chin, but he doesn't care.

"I'll have to get more..." They murmur, and he thinks it's probably more to themselves than to him.

When the cup runs dry, he's left gasping for air, falling back against the wall, and flinching when it sends waves of aching through him.

"Feel better? Do you need more? Narinder, is this why you've stayed locked up in here? Why didn't you say anything!?" The Lamb waits a long moment before speaking, but when they do the questions come in waves.

"For ten... Seconds... Can you just... Shut. It." He openly glares at them as he gasps out the words- undermining their harshness.

They slam their mouth shut and chew at their bottom lip as they look at him. They clearly want to say more, but ultimately decide against it for the moment. Opting to instead busy themselves with grabbing the food still on his lap and setting it aside, and then going to pick the dresser up.

It doesn't take him long to catch his breath, and when he does, he's left watching the lamb as they start moving around the room, placing the dresser back into its rightful spot with ease. He only has a vague memory of having pushed the dresser in front of the door to begin with but he knows it wasn't- probably still isn't light.

How strong are they? How much of it is the crown's power? His power.

Not anymore.

"Yes. I want more water. And partially, yes, this is why I've stayed in here. That's all you're getting until I get more to drink." He sighs, turning his gaze away from the lamb, closing it just before it collides with a ray of sunlight rudely glaring through the window.

But the painful sunlight is better than the Lamb's wide-eyed gaze pinpointed on him as they contemplate what they said.

"I suppose I've already gotten my 'please' for the day?" They ask, and he snorts.

Almost laughs. Almost.

"Try for the month- year even." He sighs, and as much as he hates doing it, he relaxes.

The water had helped, and he does feel better. A lot better.

"Right, well... I'll be back... We need to talk, Narinder. About everything. Maybe not today, but eventually, and hiding in here isn't going to make that fact go away... So just... Think about it."

And they're gone before he can give some hissed insult or aggressive remark.

He's tired, but his body has been sleeping for too long, and he's restless. Mentally, and physically. So he waits.

Again. Always waiting.

He's thankful he's not left with that thought for long as the Lamb returns just as it starts to form. The cup is full once more.

"Do you still-" Need my help?

"Yes." Narinder interrupts them before they can finish the sentence, as if not hearing the end of it will somehow nullify the effect it has on his pride to say yes.

The Lamb doesn't push the subject, and just mimics their earlier motion, aiding him in drinking the second cup. He takes it slower this time, letting himself enjoy how it soothes his throat and eases his nausea.

When they pull away again, he's more confident in his ability to meet their eye, and he's haunted by the venomous amount of sympathy he finds in them. Pity.

"So, do you want to explain why your arms are no longer working? Or do you want me to speed run some guesses and you can tell me when I hit the mark?" They offer a gentle smile and he hates it.

He hates how sincere it looks, and he wants to claw it off his face.

He settles for closing his eyes again.

"I've been chained for so long... I could tolerate the pain when I was a god, but now... This mortal body is weak, and suffering the phantom aches of my imprisonment." He confesses.

And everything hurts so bad.

His mind screams.

He flinches when he feels the bed shift, and his eyes shoot open to see the Lamb sitting down on the corner of the bed. They sit a... Safe distance away.

"I... Didn't realize... I knew you'd need to rest after the whole fight, but I guess centuries in chains, unmoving probably hasn't left you feeling great either..." They recap as if that's supposed to make it better.

"Obviously not. While I'm complaining, can you close the window better? Even as a god, my eyes were light-sensitive, hence the veil." He peeks an eye open to observe them as they stand and do what he asks.

"Oh, sure. I had a hunch that was the case, but I also kind of thought it was just for aesthetics... You looked pretty cool in it." They chuckle as they fix the window, and he opens his eyes as the harsh light is subdued.

"Of course I did." He scoffs but makes no further comment on it.

He never thought much about the veil. It was a necessity, to protect his eyes. Kallamar thought it was creepy. Leshy and Heket used to tease him, calling him edgy and that he should just 'deal with the pain'. Shamura was the only one to understand that god or not, the pain was intolerable.

They had even made him a rather nice spider web veil once- that he wore for special events as it was a bit too elegant for everyday occasions. He doesn't know where it is nowadays, most likely lost to time.

"Well, I can see if I can get something like it from Berith. For now, though, I think working on fixing your movement issue takes priority. I've never seen anything like it, so I'll have to ask around. Maybe Noon will know..." He's not sure who the hell Noon is, but that's less important.

"I don't need your-"

"I don't care. I was trying to respect your boundaries, Narinder; I thought 'he needs time to work through his thoughts right now.' and if I pushed you, I'd just make it worse, but this isn't about pushing. You're in pain, and you can't move. That's too big of a problem to just leave you alone to work it out by yourself!" They interrupt and hold out an empty palm, a silent question.

Every inch of him screams not to trust this. His fur raised, and pupils dilated- they probably have been since the moment the Lamb entered the room.

Yet, every other part of him is screaming in pain.

The real answer to the Lambs question is dependent on which instinct screams louder. Distrust or pain?

The pain, the pain, the pain, the pain.

He stretches out his arm. It's shaking less than before at least.

The Lamb is slow and cautious as they reach out and with a feather-light touch, cradling his arm in their hold.

Looking at it now himself, he realizes he was right about the scarring. The embedded chain-like scaring in his bare skin, fur marred and no longer growing there- like some kind of mange. There is still dried blood surrounding the scabbed wounds- deep from what he can feel and tell.

He doesn't doubt that if he moved his wrist around too much they would re-open and start bleeding profusely once again. The same with his ankles, and around his torso.

One glance down confirms it. It's not as bad around his torso, and the wounds are not as deep or as ugly. His fur being an oily, ungroomed wreck doesn't help make it look better though.

He's a mess. A disgusting, wounded mess. It's humiliating.

He can feel his ears pressed to the back of his head in shame as the lamb carefully runs their hand over the wound. He flinches when they run over a particularly deep scab, and they jump back, pulling the offending hand away.

"Sorry! I didn't... This should have been taken care of the moment you arrived, I'm sorry I didn't see to it." They close their eyes for a moment, and when they open them again, there is a fire in them that Narinder nearly flinches again at the sight of.

"Yeah, well... I didn't exactly tell anyone so what could you have done?" He gives a dry laugh, to settle his nerves, and starts to pull his arm back to himself.

"That's no excuse. I'm a leader, and my job's most important part is ensuring my followers are safe and well. I should have known you wouldn't be perfectly fine physically after the fight, I should have... I should have checked on you sooner, even if you clawed my throat out when I tried." They leaned forward to catch his arm gently, examining it once more.

They are silent again, and Narinder watches them carefully as they follow the scarring with their eyes. Up his forearms, upper arms, shoulder, chest, and neck.

All a mess. Like a mangled stray, he both looks and feels like he's gotten into a fistfight with a thorn bush.

And lost.

Eventually, their eyes meet, and the spell of... Whatever is happening, is broken.

He yanks his arm back with a painful hiss, leaning away from the Lamb's suddenly overwhelming amount of attention.

They hold their hands up as they stand, unbothered by the sudden aggression.

"Right. Well, I need to go get a lot of supplies, and then, unless you want me to get someone else to do it, we need to get you cleaned up. You're only going to get worse if we don't." They pause as they're walking away, and turn to him, waiting for his response.

"Like I want any of those mindless mortal morons anywhere near me..." He growls, sinking further into himself.

He's enraged by the Lamb's care and wants to rip them apart.

He's still hungry, but he'd rather die than put more food in his mouth after his first experience.

He's restless, and he wants to be able to move again.

And yet he's so fucking tired at the same time. He's tired of being angry, hungry, and restless. He's tired of fighting against chains they aren't even there anymore. He's tired of waiting.

Always waiting.

But the Lamb doesn't make him wait long.

They're bounding through the curtains- he notices that it's turned gloomy outside- with an armload of bandages, rags, and wooden jars of something.

"I have to run outside again, Theo's holding the water, but I figured you wouldn't want anyone coming in." They toss all of the supplies at the end of the bed, near his feet, and he peers at them, trying to figure out what the jars are.

He hardly notices they left again they're back so quickly, with a large wooden basin of water, that they sit on the ground next to the bed as they sit down next to them.

They sit closer this time, and he bites back a hiss as their leg brushes against his.

They pause when they see the clear cringe adorning his features.

"... I know this isn't the best-case scenario for you, but you have to know that I'm just trying to make things easier for you, so please, just let me help..." They sigh and lean away to give him space to adjust.

Easier for him?

How is their help meant to make anything easier? Even if they could snap their fingers and erase all the pain in his body, there is nothing they can do to rid him of... Of this.

This embarrassment and humiliation of needing the very person who put him in this position to help him out of it.

To put bandages on his wounds, a roof over his head, and act like everything is perfectly fine now.

Like he can just move on, and forgive and forget? Become another happy, brainless little follower in their cult, doing whatever they ask and worshipping the ground they walk on?

No. He can never do that. Not when he knows what the Lamb truly is.

Just a pathetic mortal made god via deceit and betrayal. The last of their kind, and a heretic no better than the ones they go about massacring on their crusades.

And this guilt, and pity that he sees in their eyes as they watch him think?

A confirmation. They're doing this to make themselves feel better. Not to help. But to ease their guilt, to try and absolve themselves of their crimes.

He hates them.

He does not doubt it, and no amount of their help will ever change that fact. None of their help will ever make this burning anger in his chest cool, or the venom lacing his tongue evaporate.

None of it will take away the heavy grief that presses on his lungs, making it hard to breathe. Grief that everything he did, everything that he had the Lamb do, was for nothing.

He's still trapped. This time with the very being meant to have freed him.

"I will let you help me. I will let you treat my wounds, bring me food, and upgrade my home all you want, but make no mistake, Lamb. I hate you. I will always hate you. No matter how desperately you try to prove yourself to me, I have nothing left in my heart but resentment, and anger when I see you. You, from this moment on, will be nothing but the bane of my fucking immortal existence." He hisses, with so much poison in his voice, he's sure even Heket would be impressed if she could hear him now.

He watches as the Lamb's eyes widen, and his face contorts with a mix of emotion. Confusion. Anger. Hurt.

He watches as they open and close their mouth, clearly too shocked to string a proper sentence together.

He watches as water begins to well in their eyes, tears prickling the corners.

He watches as they swiftly stand and move away towards the door and out of the shelter.

And in the end, his fists clench. The pain shooting through his arms is ignored as another, overwhelming emotion, that simply must be this mortal body's fault clouds his mind and weighs heavy on his shoulders, sinking him further into himself.

Guilt.

~~~

Brownie points to anyone who caught the Fairly Odd Parents joke.

Anyway, I feel like I should preface things for the next chapter by saying Narilamb is currently VERY one-sided. The Lamb has feelings for Narinder that you'll see in the future, but Narinder truly never picked up on them, and his anger and hate are very much the only things he feels toward the Lamb. FOR NOW. Eventually, he'll have some more existential crisis about it. But not now Kitten Whiskers, Daddy will discuss it later. (Ya'll better get that. If you don't, I can't help you.)

#cotl #cotl fanfic #cotl narinder #cult of the lamb #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #cotl lamb #cotl the one who waits #fanfic #fanfic writing #cult of the lamb narinder #cotl fandom #ao3

18 notes · View notes