#court of harvesters

[late-to-the-fandom]

Renathal was determined not to let anyone or anything - even the Sire - ruin the happiness he had only begun to savour. Read on Ao3 here.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, what is all that?” Elisewin asked, pointing down at the Ember Ward’s ruins above which the guest room’s balcony hung, the gesture requiring her to unwind her hand from Renathal’s hair. He growled his displeasure at this before dipping his face into the hollow of her throat and answering against her skin: “Nothing.”

Elisewin managed a simultaneous sigh of breathy pleasure and an exasperated tongue click.

“It can’t be nothing. There are ruins and buildings and a tower. You can see them from here.”

Renathal’s own noise was more pettish than aroused; he did hate to be interrupted at his work. He lifted his head one reluctant inch.

“That is the Ember Ward,” he explained. “And the tower you see is called Sinfall. It was where the Sire once conducted the business of creation. Where I myself was born as a matter of fact,” he added on a whim, and instantly regretted it as a dozen new and distracting questions lit up behind Elisewin’s eyes.

“What? Really?” She shifted in his lap, craning her neck to get a better view of the distant tower. “Do you remember it? Your birth, I mean?”

“Very little,” said Renathal briskly. “Which, coincidentally, is precisely how much interest I have in the subject at present.”

Stroking her hip through her silks with one hand, guiding her face back to his with the other, Renathal succeeded in recalling Elisewin’s focus to himself for several satisfactory minutes before she broke for air, and used the brief respite to ask, “So what is the Ember Ward used for now?”

“Nothing,” Renathal repeated, and, when Elisewin only looked at him, sighed like a martyr. If answers were the swiftest path to her undivided attention, he would give them, but he set himself to undoing the front of her loosely tied purple dressing gown as he did so - a reward for his long-suffering. “Venthyr are sentenced there, on occasion, but only as a punishment of the most extreme sort. They go mad, or are destroyed. It is all Light-cursed ruins. Unfit for habitation.”

“Wh-why?” The word wavered as Renathal’s long nails traced a teasing pattern across Elisewin’s exposed chest, but she managed to continue undaunted. “What happened to it?”

“Not all the Master’s creations were appropriate. The Light retaliated.”

“What did he create?”

Renathal shivered, his pleasant arousal flagging despite the warm curve cupped in his hand.

“Really, my dear, this is hardly breakfast conversation.”

“Well, this is hardly breakfast decorum,” Elisewin retorted, a sweeping hand and a raised eyebrow indicating her half-dressed state.

Renathal’s expression was unrepentant.

“This is exactly what I crave for my morning repast,” he replied, and dipped his head a second time, wet lips and eager fangs closing around-

“Your H’ighness.”

The muddy clearing of a throat made Elisewin gasp and Renathal groan. Neither with pleasure. Breakfist was waiting in the balcony doorway, weighed down with an oversized tray. His well-trained eyes were fixed on the distant horizon as he announced, “Breakfast for the Prince and… his Lady,” with only the briefest hesitation; no one in Darkwall Tower was certain what their master’s mortal was now to be called.

Including Renathal himself. He had skirted the issue thus far by simply allowing whatever title his servants chose to go unchallenged. He nodded at Breakfist to approach, keeping his arms wrapped decorously around Elisewin, who twisted in his lap to do up the laces of her robe as the dredger shuffled forward. Once the butler’s burden of various fruits, breads, spreads, anima-infused tea, and Elisewin’s request of dark, bitter coffee was deposited on the iron table, he beat a tactful retreat, closing the balcony door behind him, and Elisewin, disappointingly decent once more, slid off Renathal’s legs to prepare his cup.

Renathal watched her pour his tea, add his customary number of sugars, pluck up a crescent of warm, flaky bread she knew him to be fond of and set it on his saucer, and wondered if any being on any realm, mortal or immortal, had ever been as flawlessly happy as he.

They had breakfasted here on the guest room’s inexplicable balcony every day of the last month - without question the most blissful of his whole existence. Elisewin had a penchant for open air and unobstructed views and Renathal for winning her smile, so long nights spent in his rooms that ended in mornings adjourning to hers had become an essential part of their newly instituted and highly agreeable domestic routine.

Setting his tea down in front of him, Elisewin began sifting through the post Breakfist had left on the tray while Renathal drank. Another morning staple. With her new, as-yet-undefined status had come a renegotiation of her atonement-related tasks. Her work was now closer to that of a private secretary than a housemaid.

Moving up in the world, mused Renathal as Elisewin pried open a wax-sealed envelope and slid out a thick fold of yellowing parchment, and his lips twitched around his teacup at the thought.

“The Harvester of Envy is reporting certain Venthyr in Darkhaven he believes are instigating unrest,” Elisewin summarised, then shuffled through the remaining sheaf of pages. “Rather a lot, apparently. He’s included their names and purported crimes.”

“Leave it,” said Renathal. He was far too content to concern himself with work just now. “I will look over it when I am more... refreshed.”

He threw a meaningful gaze at his lover, which, engrossed as she was in her task, she did not notice.

“And… this one is an appeal from Mistress Mihaela in Darkhaven. Apparently, the Harvester of Envy has again increased his required tithes.”

The anima-infused tea soured slightly in Renathal’s stomach. He replaced his cup in its saucer.

“Let me see that.”

He scanned the letter Elisewin passed him, insides twitching in a resurgence of familiar worry. None of the districts could afford to increase their tithes of anima. How could the Tithelord believe such amounts still existed anywhere in Revendreth? And where was it all going? Certainly not to the Tithelord’s own estate. Only yesterday, Tenaval’s second request for aid in as many weeks had attested to that fact. Was the Master not supposed to be -

Renathal stopped this treasonous train of thought forcibly in its tracks. Refolding the letter back along its sharp creases, he slid it across the tabletop and reoccupied his hands with his tea.

“Seal it back and have it sent to Nathria,” he instructed Elisewin. “That is the Master’s purview, not mine. All anima related inquiries should be re-directed to him.”

Elisewin obeyed without comment, tucking the folded letter back into its envelope and pressing a thumb to the seal, but Renathal thought her lips had tightened, as if holding in words she wanted to say. And the quiet that lingered was stiffer, broken only by the wuthering of the wind and the rustling of paper as she continued to slit envelopes and scan their contents. Renathal was just contemplating whether to offer some tactful reminder - that Denathrius was sorting out the anima situation, that he was unquestionably fair, and that they, especially, owed him an unswerving loyalty - when a sudden, “Oh!” of surprise from Elisewin made him jump. Tepid tea sloshed across his hands.

“The Countess has invited you to a party!” she announced with a little humourless laugh.

“Oh, is that all?” Renathal replied, his ruffled nerves slowly relaxing. “Yes, it is her turn to host the Harvester’s Court next.”

With a pointed glance at Elisewin, he reached across the tray to retrieve a linen napkin. Elisewin, eyes still fixed to the curling, red-inked script, again failed to register his movement or his mood.

“It says Harvester and Guest. Does she expect you to bring someone?”

“You, of course. Whom else?”

“Me?”

Elisewin looked up, blinked at Renathal, glanced at his hands, and blinked again in what for her was an almost comic surprise. Abandoning her work at last, she leaned over and plucked the napkin from his unprotesting fingers.

"You're not serious," she said weakly, dabbing at the damp velvet sleeves of his dressing gown. “I can't possibly attend a Harvester's court. Not as a guest.”

Renathal, amused at her protest and warmed by her resumed attentions, asked playfully, "Why ever not?"

“Because I am not a Harvester? Or a noble. Or even a proper Venthyr, for that matter. I’m -” Elisewin paused, folding the wet napkin into absent squares, then finished quietly, “I don’t really know what I am.”

A twilit breeze caught the loose strands of her blue-black hair and whipped them across her face, suddenly lifeless and lost-looking, as she replaced the folded napkin on the tray. Before she could return to her work, Renathal reached up and caught her chin, tugging her lips to his.

“You are mine,” he declared with such unbroachable authority even Elisewin could not argue, only shiver into his kiss, hot and possessive as a brand.

“So,” she asked, noticeably less forlorn when Renathal, at last, released her, “you think the Countess has invited me out of courtesy? Her way of putting things right for what happened at your court?”

"Oh, certainly not." Renathal chuckled darkly at the thought. “I managed to defy her wishes and circumvent her approval. I expect she is beside herself with fury. No, she means trouble with that invitation. And I mean to give it to her.”

It was Elisewin's turn to laugh. Anima tingled through Renathal’s veins at the sound. Snaking his arms around her waist, he dragged her back into his lap, inspiring more laughter that faded into low muffled moans as he refastened his lips to hers and slid a hand up her silks to part her soft, bare thighs. Elisewin shifted at once, allowing him easier access. The spindly-legged chair underneath them, far too decorous and staid for such antics, wobbled alarmingly. Renathal ignored it. He fully intended to be doing this for the rest of eternity. The furniture, like everything else in the realm, would simply have to get used to the idea.

Once a bit of careful manoeuvring and the joint lascivious efforts of both their hands, and the services of the now-ruined napkin, saw them temporarily spent of physical desire, Renathal murmured thoughtfully into Elisewin’s hair: “It is time we made a public debut.”

Taking her breathless hmm? as confusion, he elaborated, “At the Countess’ court. It would be the perfect place to declare our new status, and introduce you to Revendreth society. The Countess’ soirées are by far the most talked-of in Revendreth. The news will begin to circulate before the court is over and have made it through the whole realm by the following day.”

The idea was so thoroughly delightful to Renathal it took him a moment to notice Elisewin stiffen against him, and not in the same delicious way she had a minute before.

“What is it, dearest?" He coaxed her face towards his, but it was blank, as it always was when she was thinking, beads of sweat still glistening across her smooth lavender brow. “If you are worried about the Countess,” he said at a guess, “do not be. You will be by my side at all times. Neither she nor anyone else will be permitted to lay the lightest finger on you." He stroked the back of one of his own along the path of her jaw.

“I honestly hadn’t even considered that," said Elisewin with a smile, albeit a weaker, more wobbly example of the one she usually wore when recently sated. “I was just worried - I mean, not worried, of course, but… wondering what I - or whether we might…”

She bit her lip over her babble, glancing away towards Sinfall’s shadowy spire, and Renathal endured half a minute of increasingly anxious tension before Elisewin finally voiced her hidden dread: “What am I going to wear?”

“Oh, I have a world of ideas for you to choose from!” gushed Theotar from across the long, low table in his parlour a mere three days after the Dark Prince had assigned him this most essential task. “When I had Bogdan put out word that the realm’s first and only mortal required a sartorial commission, clothiers from every district in Revendreth were at my door with proposals within the hour. Go on, have a look, have a look!”

The Duke gestured excitedly at the table, swept clean of its typical high tea tableau and decorated instead with a flurry of fashion croquis, each depicting a highly stylised and anatomically nebulous mortal female modelling a different example of Venthyr court dress. Renathal leaned forward on the settee to peruse the offerings: a bombardment of flounces and bustles and sweeping trains that made Elisewin, seated beside him, wince. He hid his smirk behind a faux-thoughtful hand and laid the other on his lover’s tensed thigh.

“Quite an illustrious sampling,” he assured Theotar whose eyes flicked between his two guests, positively vibrating with excitement as he awaited their verdict. “Have you a recommendation? Or a particular favourite?” Renathal asked, more to buy Elisewin time to find her tongue than because he expected any overlap in her taste and the Duke’s.

Sure enough- "I am rather partial to this one," said Theotar, sifting through the sketches and producing one with a flourish. “Lady Rovinette's contribution. A marvellous piece of construction! Collarets are all the rage at present, and a royal bustle is always so dignified.”

“Oh, quite,” agreed Renathal, casting a subtle glance at Elisewin and biting back a spasm of laughter at her sudden sickly pink pallor. “And… quite a bit more dignified than I,” was her tactful dissent. “I really prefer less restrictive and… um… voluminous attire.”

Searching through the tidy stacks, she retrieved from near the bottom a slightly smudged and rough-edged piece of parchment.

“This one looks promising.”

She glanced up hopefully at the Duke, who looked as if he had swallowed some scalding and flavourless tea, then Renathal, who gave the unadorned skirt and sleeveless bodice a dubious sniff.

“It is far too plain,” he pronounced decisively.

“Most excessively so,” the Duke chimed in with a ferocious nod. “Not at all worthy of a Prince's consort.”

Elisewin blinked, then raised an eyebrow, expression flat as the paper she laid absently back on the table.

“Is that what I am?”

“I believe that is the appropriate title, yes,” the Duke said loftily, “according to the Venthyr treatise on etiquette which I myself had the pleasure of penning.” He began to sort through the drawings once more, and Renathal had only a few seconds to watch and wonder whether Elisewin’s inscrutability disguised pleasure or displeasure before he exclaimed, “Ah ha! What of this one?”

He brandished the heavy drawing paper across the table, and his guests leaned in, heads together, to inspect the sketched ensemble.

“A bit old-fashioned,” the Duke conceded, “incorporating armour into formal wear, but the effect is undeniably impressive. And the palette is quite a match for your own armour, my Prince. Not to mention, the amethyst accents would certainly bring out our dear mortal’s skin.”

“It is... beautiful,” Elisewin admitted, fingers brushing the intricately inked pauldrons hesitantly, as if she feared to smudge them. “Although… I’ve never worn so much gold. And the circlet might be a bit presumptuous…  what do you think?”

She tilted her head towards Renathal, and blinked again at the sudden bright fire glowing anima-red behind his eyes. 

“It is perfect,” he crowed, his enthusiasm earning an exultant exclamation from Theotar and a reflexive giggle from his lover, as well as her ultimate assent to the proposed gown.

Which was how Elisewin came to sit opposite Renathal in his carriage, six weeks later, arrayed in skirts of just visible crimson under armoured bustier and overdress of onyx and gold. More gold glinted at her forehead, neck, and wrists; the purple of the regal jewel at her waist a match for the skin of her long, bared arms. The smooth surface of the various shining metals caught the twilight peeking through the slits in the carriage doors and lit the dark interior in sparkling shadows that flickered as the carriage bounced along the Chalice District's twisting, turning roads.

A bit like being inside a candle flame, Renathal mused whimsically; an impression heightened by the warm glow of merry anticipation simmering within him. He had not looked forward to a court like this in a very, very long time.

His companion, on the other hand, appeared uncharacteristically agitated. The smooth plane of Elisewin’s forehead crinkled into nervous lavender lines as the carriage jolted into the Redelav District, and her face twisted in an open grimace when she caught Renathal’s rhapsodic gaze for the third time.

“Do you plan to stare at me like that throughout the court?” she asked, her tone unduly waspish, but Renathal, ensconced as he was in such supreme good spirits, was incapable of being goaded.

“Quite possibly,” he replied.

“And what will the other Harvesters and nobles think of you?”

“That could not matter less.”

He had hoped for one of those involuntary little laughs he could often draw from her fits of moroseness, or at the very least a blush and an appreciative smile. But none appeared. Elisewin's lips twitched once in what might have been amusement or distress, and her fingers, denied a convenient outlet by the structured material of her gown, worried themselves together in her lap with such violence Renathal was obliged to lean across the carriage aisle and trap them in his.

“Elisewin,” and he pronounced her name with enough reminder of dominion to make her hands fall abruptly limp. “You are an invited guest at a prestigious event, the established consort of the Prince of the realm, and you look absolutely divine. What could possibly make you so anxious?”

“I’m not anxious,” she protested; but at Renathal’s quirked eyebrow, she sighed - a ragged, messy exhalation of air. “I just… don't think I’m prepared.”

“You are perfectly prepared,” Renathal reassured her, but Elisewin shook her head at him, long, blue-black hair obscuring the amethyst in her circlet as words suddenly poured from her in a breathless rush:

“I’m not. Not only am I not nobility, I’m not a Venthyr. Or even a usual penitent soul. I don’t even know where I am in my atonement! I don’t belong at a Harvester's Court, and everyone knows it. Including you.” Her hands spasmed as if they would have illustrated her passion if not imprisoned in Renathal’s. “You said it yourself, the Countess isn’t doing this for benevolent reasons. I was only invited to be a - a -a curiosity or a source of outrage!”

“An astute and not incorrect observation,” Renathal agreed calmly.

“And you think that’s not worthy of anxiety?”

“Hardly.” At Elisewin’s open-mouthed gape, Renathal chuckled lightly. “Dearest, this is Revendreth. All of us come and go from fashion. From the crudest of dredgers to the Dark Prince himself." He unclasped a hand from hers and laid it deprecatingly across his chest. "You think I have never spent time as a - how did you put it? - a curiosity or a source of outrage? I have enjoyed both. Sometimes for centuries. But one cannot worry over such things. They are temporal. You will come into your own in time. And,” - he tilted her chin to meet his smouldering eyes - “you are forgetting. You have one distinct advantage.”

“What is that?” Elisewin breathed up at him.

“You are mine,” he reminded her, pleasure in every proud syllable. “It does not matter what anyone else considers you. You belong to me, and they cannot touch you lest they incur my wrath.”

The final word was a snarl. It rang low and menacing through the carriage. Elisewin shuddered, the rise and fall of her chest captured artfully by the fitted metal, and for the first time since seeing her in it Renathal experienced a pang of regret at the elaborate and decorous ensemble which meant he could not gather her onto his lap as he would have preferred. As if to knock the impractical idea from his head, the carriage swung dangerously around a sharp bend, slinging them both against the black upholstered side, then juddered to a stop. They had reached the lift to the Eternal Terrace.

“Relax, dearest,” Renathal instructed, sitting straighter on the bench, shaking back his hair and adjusting his coat, and was pleased to watch Elisewin re-settle in her own seat, cheekbones flushed, but shoulders less rigid. “The Countess’ court is, of course, a stronghold of intrigue and scheming, but once one becomes accustomed to the constant plots, they are easily navigated. Even enjoyable.”

“Yes, I suppose, if one has been doing it for eternity,” she retorted, though her tone was less caustic than before, and Renathal leaned forward again, trapping her wandering eyes in his abruptly serious gaze.

“I have never done this with anyone I loved at my side,” he confessed, the raw sentiment stopping Elisewin’s breath with an audible hitch. “So, in some respects, this will be a new experience for us both.”

The carriage door swung open, the sounds of tittering laughter and tinkling glasses and the sickly sweet smell of the Countess’ terrace garden wafting in from nearby. Renathal rose, or attempted to rise. He was halfway off the bench when Elisewin flung herself at him, clapped her hands to either side of his face, and dragged him into a kiss soaked in need and adoration. The clash of metal on metal as their armor collided rose over the noises of the waiting court and the phlegmy coughing of the dredger shuffling awkwardly by the open carriage door, and Renathal was perfectly content to ignore them all. He let his lover harvest whatever it was she needed from his willing lips and tongue until, at last, she pulled away, breathing harsh, but pale eyes glittering.

“Of course,” he murmured through lips still glistening wetly, “we could skip court altogether and simply return home?”

Elisewin smiled - the first time she had done so throughout their entire journey.

“And let this gown go to waste? The Duke would never let us hear the end of it.”

And, glowing at Renathal’s low rumble of laughter, she threaded one black and gold glove through his elbow and let him escort her from the carriage.

For all his personal animosity towards the Harvester of Desire, Renathal could not deny she was unparalleled in her expertise at choreographing an event. The groups of guests, whether posing together or perambulating across the immaculately manicured garden of the Eternal Terrace, looked placed, and likely were; as much a part of the decor as the polished sinstones or the topiaries. There were precious few stoneborn or dredgers to be found, except in the roles of guards or servants. The Countess extended invitations only to Venthyr aristocracy, each one a study in the finest luxury goods Revendreth had to offer. Deep crimson velvets, vibrant vermillion silks, stark and stately black leathers all dripping with silver and jingling gems dotted the garden like ornate, expensive flowers.

And the Dark Prince and his consort, cutting through the courtyard in their bright outborn gold, outshone them all.

Heads turned as they passed. A ripple of whispers - these underpinned with a much more tangible respect than the ones at Renathal’s own court - followed his and Elisewin’s steps as they made their dutiful rounds. Renathal revelled in them. The freedom to wrap an entitled arm around his lover’s waist in plain view of his peers was a luxury the likes of which he had scarcely ever allowed himself to dream. He caught the beady eyes of the Countess watching them from her segregated platform, and her expression, thorny and twisted as a widowbloom, only enhanced his joy. If Elisewin was the prize jewel in the crown of his happiness, then upstaging the Countess at her own event was the bit of delicate filigree woven into the band.

And if Elisewin’s elation was not quite as lofty and unassailable as Renathal’s, she had regained enough of her signature impassivity to mask it - to the curious crowd, at least. Her blank expression, the quiet nods with which she accepted introductions, praises, and impertinent questions alike, gave an appearance of general boredom Renathal was sure only he could see through. No one else would note the significance of her sudden blink when he left her briefly to purloin them drinks, or the abnormally tight grip she kept on his elbow once he returned, or her preoccupied sips of the fragrant tea with barely a visible grimace.

A different creature entirely from the easy, confident penitent who had served these same Venthyr at his own court, Renathal mused; but, it seemed, without the safety of a concrete task, Elisewin found the center of attention an uncomfortable mantle to wear.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, she was not required to wear it long.

“Sire Denathrius!”

The whispers and gasps swelled to a susurrating sea that echoed the name to every corner of the terrace, heads whipping in the same direction like one opulent and awe-struck wave. Elisewin was among them. She craned her neck to peer over her shoulder, and Renathal knew by the sudden clench of her gloved fingers against his arm who she was staring at and where he must be headed. The echo of heavy bootfalls behind him confirmed his suspicions, and he turned in time to see his Master, bedecked in full glittering regalia, pace purposeful and smile pristine as he marched towards them. He paused briefly to collect a proffered glass of anima wine - more like a beaker in his enormous hand - down the contents in one elegant gulp, and replace it on the tray, before approaching the Prince and his guest.

“Renathal!” Denathrius’ voice and visage proclaimed a pleasure as precisely manicured as the garden around them. “How wonderful to see you out and about! You have been so cloistered of late. But I suppose,” he turned the blinding beam of his smile towards Elisewin, “you have been busy preparing your mortal for her Revendreth debut. And I see she has turned out quite charming." An eloquent wave indicated the commissioned gown. Renathal thought he could feel Elisewin stiffen beside him. If the Sire sensed it, however, he ignored it and swept on. "Well done. To you both! It is no mean feat dressing up for a Harvester's court."

A subtle note of needling sarcasm undermined the Sire's ostensible praise. And something in his exorbitant cheer, not to mention his unexpected presence - he had been too busy for Renathal's own court, yet could make time to attend the Countess'? - put Renathal on edge, and dimmed the glow of his own effervescent spirits. For the first time in months, he recalled a flicker of that same unease with which he had been afflicted upon Elisewin’s arrival in the realm.

But, aware of the avid eyes of the watching nobles and courtiers, he had no choice but to disentangle his arm from his consort's and hinge at the waist in the appropriate bow.

“Thank you, Sire,” he said stiffly as he straightened. "It is a privilege to see you here, as well. I was under the impression your work was consuming all your time."

Whether reading Renathal's thoughts or interpreting his stilted formality, Denathrius stepped closer, close enough for his pale, shining hair to brush Elisewin’s decorative pauldrons as he bent his head to murmur in a conspiratorial undertone, “I hope you don’t think I am playing favourites, Renathal, or avoiding your court on purpose. I am here on business, rather than pleasure. To ensure the forward trajectory of my plans - plans for anima conversation, that is,” he added hastily, and punctuated the admission with a musical sigh. “Certain... important elements are taking longer than expected. I am here to... nudge them along. Not you, of course, Renathal. Your participation has been flawless. Others…” his red eyes flicked to the side then back before Renathal could tell where he had glanced, “less so.”

“I quite understand, Sire” said Renathal, which was not remotely true. But the gist of the explanation was obvious, sensible, and benefited him to believe. "I imagine all the various demands on your attention must have even your limitless patience stretched thin."

“You have no idea."

It was almost a growl. And it came with a shadow of some odd, sinister expression; something Renathal was sure the Master had not intended anyone to see. It was gone in an instant, replaced by his charming, slightly condescending smile.

"But, look at me!" he said, putting on a higher pitched voice of mock distress. "Taking up all your leisure time with work! I will disturb your night no longer. After all, you have waited a long time for this, and you so sorely deserve it."

This time, the sarcasm was too heavy-handed. It dripped from Denathrius' saccharine praise, impossible to ignore. Renathal's mouth opened to respond, but Denathrius was already striding past him, cape billowing in the cloying breeze, heavy with the scent of flowers and wine. He half-turned, staring after the Master's retreating back. He considered calling after him, but had not the first idea what he would say. The sparse sips of anima tea were curdling in his stomach as he tried to grasp at the unpleasant threads the Sire's words had left behind, but he could not plait them into anything cohesive. He did not understand what his Master's strange mood meant.

It unsettled the Dark Prince on a base, instinctual level not to know where he stood with his Creator. But the warm lips that brushed his jaw on their way to his ear where they whispered, "Do you want to follow him?", worked like a balm on his nettled nerves. And the Master's parting comment, however intentioned, was certainly true.

He had waited for this for a very long time. Whole eons, in fact. And Renathal was determined not to let anyone or anything - even the Sire - ruin the triumph he had only begun to savour.

"No," he replied; and, turning his face and mind from Denathrius, hailed a passing dredger toting a tray of drinks, deposited his and Elisewin's teacups - hers plucked abruptly from her hand - and replaced them with two fluted ebony glasses trailing tendrils of red vapourous anima. "We are here to enjoy ourselves," he said with forceful cheer, and tilted his glass towards Elisewin's.

Elisewin regarded the red liquid blandly, then lifted her eyes to Renathal's expectant expression. She gave the garden path the Sire had taken one last inscrutable glance, before turning back to Renathal and obediently clinking her glass to his.

"He is right about one thing," she muttered, bringing the glass to her lips. "You do deserve this."

She took one experimental sip, blinked, then tilted her head back and downed the rest in three almost greedy gulps. Renathal doubled over in genuine, jubilant laughter; then, not to be outdone, drained his own glass in one steady draught.

"Another?" he asked brightly, the strong fermented anima burning down his throat and through his veins, and Elisewin nodded vigorously, brushing drops of wine from the upturned corners of her lips.

It was the closest thing to a smile she had managed at court so far, and the sight of it sealed Renathal's determination to think of his Master's mysteries no more.

A resolution which lasted three glasses.

Not an inordinate amount, compared to what many Venthyr nobles regularly imbibed, but Renathal did not often indulge in anima wine. Usually, he preferred a firm control of his will and wits, both of which he could feel slipping by the beginning of his third drink. By its completion, a fog had settled comfortably over all of his senses and he found himself propped against an overlarge sinstone listening to Theotar ramble, and allowing his old friend's voice and the alcohol bubbling through his veins to lull him into a pleasant, thoughtless stupour.

The Duke's babble ran an endless, aimless path. It began with effusive praise over the final outcome of Elisewin's gown - "Will you give a little spin for me, my friend, I must see the full effect!" - then wandered into warnings about the grumbling of the clothiers whose proposals had been declined - "So many enemies so early in our mortal's societal career!" From there, it meandered into general gossip about notably absent nobles, a topic Renathal found only marginally engaging. And it was not until he leaned down to ask an equally silent Elisewin how she felt about the prospects of a fourth glass of wine that he realised with a sickening drop in his stomach his lover was no longer beside him.

He straightened instantly, pushing off the hard sinstone and almost snapping his neck in his haste to look every direction at once. His dark coat caught on his armored tassets as he whipped in a circle, inspecting the courtyard. It was a bit blurrier at the edges than it had been when he first arrived, but, even in a wine-drunk haze, Renathal knew for certain his distinctive mortal was nowhere to be seen.

"... and this is the second Harvester's court in a row she has missed! I know she has never seen eye to eye with the Countess, but-"

"Where is Elisewin?" interjected Renathal loudly.

Sensing the Prince's alarm, the Duke broke off mid-word to answer, "Why... over there, somewhere, I believe," and point towards the distant ramparts, half hidden by decorative shrubs. "Didn't she say something a few minutes ago about needing a breath of fresh air?"

Renathal had absolutely no memory of this, though it was a very Elisewin thing to say. And to desire, despite the fact the whole court was already out of doors. But it was not at all in keeping with his lover's current cautious demeanor to wander away from him in the middle of what was fast devolving into a suitably salacious example of the Harvester of Desire’s preferred court. As he sped in the direction the Duke had indicated - after mumbling some half-intelligible excuse to his friend for his sudden leave - Renathal caught snatches of the other guests' interactions, many of which included shedding some or all of their fine garments the better to indulge in various debaucheries. Ignoring the prurient giggles, the scattered moans of pleasure or pain, he scanned the groups for a flash of lavender or brazen gold, but none of the activities, lascivious or otherwise, appeared to include his lost consort.

An ominous presentiment crawled across Renathal's skin. Somehow he knew, even before he rounded the last of the garden's privacy bushes, what he was going to find when he reached the far side. So, while his heart convulsed at the sight of his lover in her onyx and gold dress standing in the shadow of his Master's equally resplendent gold and red, notably absent from the myriad emotions that assailed Renathal was surprise.

Their backs were to the courtyard, and to Renathal; both apparently staring out across Revendreth's mist-shrouded eastern expanse. A hint of whispers carried across the breeze to the edge of the garden, too quiet for individual words to be discerned, but Renathal was suddenly ablaze with a reckless, alcohol-fuelled daring. He picked up his feet, wrapping anima magic about him, and glided noiselessly forward to the nearest dark brick stall. Most likely used as an outpost for guards, the small shelter was currently empty, and Renathal tucked himself behind it, cheek scraping the rough brick as he craned his neck to hear around the side. He could no longer see the secretive pair at the ramparts edge, but if he strained his ears he could just pick out their hushed words from the backdrop of court chatter.

“… fail to see the problem,” Denathrius was saying. “You no longer need to worry over atonements. Just continue to do what you do best.”

“And what is that?”

Even in a shrunken murmur, Elisewin's tone was bland as ever.

“Distract.” Denathrius’ by contrast, thrummed with malicious humour. “You are a distraction, my dear. And I must say I could not have asked for a better one.”

There was silence on the ramparts. For a tense moment, Renathal worried Elisewin's reply was so soft he did not catch it, but then her voice emerged, louder and audibly shaking, as though tossed by the wind.

"I - I don't ... understand what you mean."

A small commotion of delightedly scandalised laughter issued from the garden behind, obscuring the voices Renathal was fighting to hear. Throwing caution to the chill breeze, he wrapped his coat around himself and sank to the ground, edging around the building and willing himself not to be seen. But the two beings on the ramparts were far too busy staring at each other, and the playful party at the edge of the terrace was traipsing away, their voices blending back into the rest of the chaotic throng. Just in time for Renathal to hear Elisewin say in a voice uncharacteristically moved by indignation.

“And why would you want the Prince distracted?”

“That,” said Denathrius, also louder and more brisk, “is neither your concern nor his. Consider it your purpose, since that is what you're after. And if you were to fail at it..." He shifted casually, booted hooves shuffling against the stone as he allowed his pause to prolong the tension. "Then your presence in my realm would no longer be... necessary.”

Another silence. This one seemed to stretch on without hope of end. The two figures, mortal and Master, stood still as stoneborn, watching each other, Renathal too far away to glean anything from their shadowed silhouettes. Finally, Elisewin asked, quiet and wary once more:

“Why are you telling me this? You can’t really expect me not to tell the Prince everything you’ve just said?”

“Oh, I expect you will,” said Denathrius in a voice wholly unconcerned, even bored. “But I do not expect him to believe you. He is quite enjoying his role and his newfound privileges in my superior reality. I do not think he will be quick to throw those away. But...” He shrugged; an exaggerated gesture even Renathal could see from his half-hidden crouch. “You are more than welcome to try.”

Then, without farewell or a backward glance, Denathrius was sauntering away across the ramparts; not towards the terrace garden, but the direction of the distant lift. And the only coherent thought Renathal’s reeling brain could muster was a mild wondering at whether the Master planned to walk all the way back to Castle Nathria.

He did not feel fear, nor take any trouble to hide himself more securely - he almost wished to be caught, but the Master did not glance his way. Nor did he feel any trace of outrage or humiliation, though he imagined these would come later. Later. When the effects of the anima and alcohol had worn off and he was forced to admit his own failings to his friends, his allies, his lover, the Accuser - everyone who had always suspected what he had steadfastly refused to see.

For now, however, all Renathal was aware of was a profound, overwhelming sense of loss. And all he could bring himself to do was slump against the unforgiving brick of the rampart's shelter and, like Elisewin still standing frozen only a dozen paces away, stare into the unfathomable distance, mourning the loss of the perfect, glorious happiness they had so briefly enjoyed.

Read Chapter 11: An Invitation to Treachery | Visit the Masterpost

If you enjoyed this story, I would love to hear it 💜

[blightedspire]

i believe in both the countess and the fearstalker supremacy🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

[transgendz]

Emergency Commissions

One of my checks was a couple of days late last week, and the more lucrative of my 2 proper jobs has given me only one day of work this week (seems to be system issue?? I'm waiting for a reply from my higher up, there seems to be a queue of sorts) I have no idea when I'm going to get my check this week, either. Although it's supposed to come in on Tuesdays, I have heard from coworkers it is likely to be delayed again. On top of all of this, I have had wifi issues for a week, and I work from home.

I was already going to have to do some commissions to make rent this month before the reduced work hours and wifi issues. I have to pay rent on Saturday, and I do not get a grace period. I cannot emphasize how screwed me, and both of my disabled roommates are if my check doesn't come in on time, which is apparently not likely to happen.

I am setting this goal for $600 which is how much I am going to need for rent if my check does not go through in time. I will update this post accordingly, and turn off rbs if I get my check before rent is due, but tbh if i thought that was happening I wouldn't be making this post.

Anyone who help with this can contact me at my art blog @theartistrans for art like you see above. There may be a bit of a wait because I have 2 jobs and this, but I will mail you the piece if you pay the shipping also.

Dm me for proof or more details. More details are also in my tags.

$C V PP Kofi

[jekyll-doodles]

ABCs of OCs 💚My Tip Jar (Ko-fi)/Commission Info💚 Do not remove source, edit, trace, or repost!

All my ocs/fan ocs/shared ocs, some newly redesigned. Not including original designs of canon characters (like my batim employees),one-off original designs, or designs I made for someone else's character.

The Court Of The Good King characters shared with @ambassador-blip

[auutumn]

autumn court inspired by germanic folklore & fairytales, my beloved

[xtruss]

Sharecropping: Slavery Rerouted

Though slavery was abolished in 1865, sharecropping would keep most Black Southerners impoverished and immobile for decades to come.

— Published: August 16, 2023 | By Jared Tetreau | The Harvest: Integrating Mississippi's Schools | Article | Sunday August 20, 2023

Sharecropper's children. Montgomery County, Alabama, 1937, photographer Arthur Rothstein, Library of Congress

“The White Folks had all the Courts, all the Guns, all the Hounds, all the Railroads, all the Telegraph Wires, all the Newspapers, all the Money and nearly all the Land – and we had only our Ignorance, our Poverty and our Empty Hands.” — an anonymous Sharecropper, Elbert County, Georgia, ca. 1900

On January 1, 1867 in Marshall County, Mississippi, Cooper Hughes and Charles Roberts entered into an agreement. In their contract with landowner I.G. Bailey, Hughes and Roberts, both formerly enslaved men, agreed to work 40 acres of corn and 20 acres of cotton on Bailey’s land, along with “all other work…necessary to be done to keep [the farm] in good order,” for the duration of 1867. In exchange for their labor, Hughes, Roberts and their families would be “furnished” with stipends of meat, a mule for plowing, a plot of land to grow a garden, separate cabins and one-third and one-half of the corn and cotton crops respectively.

On that first day of 1867, Hughes and Roberts joined a growing number of newly freed African Americans turning toward a new agricultural arrangement in the South. It would come to be called “sharecropping.” In the decades that followed, sharecropping would grow into what scholar Wesley Allen Riddle called the “predominant capital-labor arrangement” in the region, defining how hundreds of thousands of Black Southerners made a living and supported their families. But once up and running, sharecropping itself would deny the formerly enslaved their rights and liberties as free American citizens for nearly one hundred years.

Sharecropper "Mother Lane" Pulaski County, Arkansas,1937, United States Resettlement Administration, photographer Ben by Shahn, Library of Congress

What is Sharecropping?

Sharecropping is a system by which a tenant farmer agrees to work an owner’s land in exchange for living accommodations and a share of the profits from the sale of the crop at the end of the harvest.

The system emerged after the Civil War, when the southern economy lay in ruins. With the Confederate monetary system wiped out, farm land decimated, and slavery abolished under the 13th Amendment, access to labor and capital was extremely limited among Southern landowners. For former slaves, federal proposals to redistribute land fell apart in the 1860s, leaving millions without the promises of full citizenship guaranteed to them by the 13th, 14th and 15th Amendments.

Pitched as a solution for both groups, sharecropping was presented to the formerly enslaved as land ownership by proxy. It put an end to work in “gangs” under an overseer, while keeping Black workers within the agricultural sector, preferably on the same land where they had been held captive, and incentivizing high crop yields, benefitting landowners. But even though the old plantation system had changed and some day-to-day activities were delegated to sharecroppers, sharecropping proved a fundamentally unequal arrangement, organized to keep Black farmers from ever achieving economic or social mobility.

As writer Doug Blackmon notes, many white southerners after Emancipation were determined not to pay for something they had once had for free—Black labor.

Many landowners at the end of the Civil War were furious at the idea of paying Black workers whom they’d owned only months before. As a result, landowners developed systems adjacent to slavery. On the plantations, this took the form of sharecropping, though the transformation did not happen overnight.

Black Americans in the South were eager to exercise their newfound freedoms after the war. As historian Wesley Allen Riddle writes, “the most basic and symbolic” of these freedoms was “mobility” itself. The formerly enslaved left their plantations in droves, some looking for work in the South’s devastated cities, while others looked for—and were given by the Union Army—vacant land on which to raise a farm. But work in cities was hard to come by. Only about 4 percent of Freedmen were able to find work in southern cities after the war, and many who came there were relegated to shantytowns of the formerly enslaved. As for those that were given vacant lands by the army, they were forced out when President Andrew Johnson canceled Field Order No. 15 in the fall of 1865, returning these properties to their white owners.

While many formerly enslaved did leave the plantations after the war, many others could not. Those trying to leave faced horrific violence and intimidation from their former owners. As Union General Carl Schurz reported in his testimony to Congress in 1865, “In many instances, negroes who walked away from plantations, or were found upon the road, were shot or otherwise severely punished.”

With land ownership all but closed to them, and urban service work extremely limited, many Freedmen had little choice but to return to the plantations by the end of the 1860s. Their motives for this were mixed. Though economic pressures were strong, many wanted to reunite with loved ones who had been sold during slavery, and saw some appeal in working in an agricultural sector that they were familiar with.

Twenty to 50 acre plots, a cabin to live in and farming supplies were promised to them, all in exchange for about 50 percent of their harvest. Freedmen envisioned a self-sustained life working a plot of land, raising a garden, and providing for their families as they wanted. But these hopes were dashed as the pitfalls of sharecropping quickly became clear.

Sharecroppers, Pulaski County, Arkansas. 1937, photographer Ben by Shahn, United States Resettlement Administration, Library of Congress

Life as a Sharecropper

By design, sharecropping deprived Black farmers of economic agency or mobility. Although they were no longer legally enslaved, sharecroppers were kept in place by debt. As their income was dependent on both the profits from the sale of the crop and the whims of the landowners, sharecroppers had to find means to sustain themselves during the rest of the year. They were forced to purchase food, seed, clothing and other goods on credit, typically from a plantation “commissary” owned by the landlord.

At the end of the harvest, when revenue from the crop was “settled up,” the sharecroppers’ portion of the profits was calculated against their debts. As a result, sharecroppers often ended the year owing their landlords money. What could not be paid off was carried into the next year, creating a cycle of indebtedness that was often impossible to break.

Sharecroppers in debt to their landlord were subject to laws that tied them to the land. If they attempted to move, any new tenancy contracts they signed with other landlords could be voided by their existing ones. If they ran away, they could be brought back to their landlord in chains, and made to work as a prisoner for no pay at all.

Even if sharecroppers did not try to leave, they still faced massive obstacles in achieving any kind of solvency. For instance, many Southern states limited how and to whom sharecroppers could sell their part of the crop. In Alabama, cotton had to be sold and transported during the day, and could only be purchased by a state-defined “legitimate” merchant. As sharecroppers couldn’t afford to lose a day’s work to take their crop to market, these laws curtailed their ability to sell their product at the best possible price.

In addition, individual freedoms were crushed by tenancy contracts, many of which included arbitrary clauses forbidding alcohol consumption, speaking to other sharecroppers in the fields or allowing visitors on rented land.

Black sharecroppers could not seek redress through the political system either. Despite the ratification of the 14th and 15th Amendments, the southern “Redemption” that followed the withdrawal of Union troops from the South in 1876-7 ensured that the federal government would not enforce Black voting rights. Black elected officials disappeared from Congress and state legislatures, and attempts at organizing Black voters were brutally suppressed, as in New Orleans in July of 1866, where a convention of Black voters was attacked by a white mob under police protection that killed an estimated 200 people.

Educational opportunities were also sparse. In 1872, white Southerners pressured Congress to abolish the Freedmen's Bureau, a federal agency designed to provide food, shelter, clothing, medical services and land to newly freed African Americans. With the dissolution of the Bureau, few resources remained for the approximately 80 percent of Black people who were illiterate.

Sharecropping, with its prohibitive restrictions on physical and economic mobility, its use of violence and intimidation and its emphasis on maximum production, denied Black Southerners the ability to gain wealth, to exercise the freedom granted them by Emancipation and to gain the education they were deprived of during enslavement. The system existed, in conjunction with other institutions, to exploit Black labor at a minimum “relative loss” to white landowners while keeping the Black population underfoot.

As Black sharecropper Ed Brown said of his experience, “hard work didn’t get me nowhere.”

Sharecropper's cabin, Southeast Missouri Farms. 1938, photographer Russell Lee, Library of Congress

Sharecropping’s Decline and Legacy

After dominating the southern agricultural economy for decades, sharecropping was, like most other farming practices, upended by the rise of new technologies. While these changes were delayed by the Great Depression, sharecropping had become obsolete in many areas of the South by the mid-twentieth century. With increased mechanization, white planters’ demand for Black labor dried up.

Also during this time, Jim Crow obstructions to Black enfranchisement, as well as state-sanctioned violence against Black people, were directly challenged by the Civil Rights Movement and the landmark legislation it helped enact. The Civil Rights Acts of 1964 and 1968 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 deconstructed de jure segregation across the South in housing and public accommodation, while empowering the federal government to secure the right to vote for Black Southerners.

As scholars Paru Shah and Robert S. Smith note, enfranchisement, desegregation and the decline of sharecropping weakened “the broader agenda of White Supremacy to crush African American socioeconomic mobility,” but did not destroy it. The effects of centuries of Black economic and social oppression, represented in part by sharecropping, are still felt today. Limited access to capital, to mobility, and to representation during Jim Crow and before it denied Black Americans the ability to save, invest or accumulate wealth, concentrating inherited fortunes in the hands of white families and shaping the present class makeup.

For nearly a century, sharecropping defined Southern agriculture and hindered Black economic advancement. The system reflected a multidude of attempts by the white power structure to keep Black workers stagnant, achieving this through intimidation, physical violence and exploitation. Ultimately, aided by organized action, shifting technological and economic conditions and the determination of sharecroppers themselves, the oppressive reality of sharecropping ended. But in the endemic inequities of American political and economic life, its legacy persists.

[iamthescalesofjustice]

it will never stop delighting me that ive somehow and without intent or action on my part gone from my high school days of carrying both a real permit and fake license not for the usual fake id purposes (was not driving, going to clubs, buying alcohol, going to R movies, etc) but for the purpose of provoking questions about and contemplation of the nature of identity, the role and impact of government and official documentation on the concept of identity, and for the lolz (wouldnt it be funny if i died and they harvested my organs bc the fake id said i was an organ doner but the real one doesnt? yeah it doesnt really work that way but the very concept amused my friend group), to having a singular fake/not fake license which was officially issued to me from the actual dmv by mistake and contains a legal name, sex marker, and picture which bear no resemblance to anything ive been known by in over a decade (and even then were not accurate hence the interrogation of identity as a concept), which i did not pass or even attempt any driving test (practical or otherwise) to obtain. is this a fake id? does this count as real? real in what sense? is this more real or more fake than either my permit or my high school fake id?

[late-to-the-fandom]

Discipline bid him go no further. Renathal swept it ruthlessly aside. There was no reason not to take what he wanted now. Elisewin would soon be gone. The least they both deserved was to enjoy themselves before the end. Read on Ao3 here. Warning: M-Rated smut.

Renathal sat in his trousers and shirtsleeves in one of the little-used chairs by the unlit fireplace in his bedroom, waiting for Breakfist to arrive and turning his medallion over in his hands, wondering if there was any point in wearing the useless thing to court at all.

He liked to think he controlled the other Harvesters as much through his own abilities as his Master’s imparted magic, but he could not deny the Medallion of Dominion had always helped keep the more unruly Venthyr in line. A slight lean into its irresistibly imperious power could stop the Fearstalker and the Stonewright coming to blows; the Countess circulating some vindicative rumour; the Tithelord pocketing unattended anima rubies. The ethics of this might unsettle the likes of the Accuser, but Renathal slept just fine. It was his job, after all, and, unlike many Harvesters over the eons, he had never used his powers for personal gain.

Although...

He toyed idly with the fine, filigreed gold and imagined how different things might be with Elisewin if this were a rule he was willing and able to bend. He did not think it was coincidence keeping her from him the last few days. Since her nightmare, she had refused to remain long in any room Renathal entered and always had a ready reason to excuse herself from conversations he attempted to engage. Embarrassed at her display of weakness, or the unintended misconduct it had birthed, Renathal supposed; and with court preparations the top priority of all Darkwall Tower, he had permitted her behaviour to pass without comment. But it rankled him, nonetheless.

Might a gentle pressure from the medallion - so light in his hands now its reservoir was depleted - have persuaded her back to his side? Allowed them to resume that comfortable companionship he relied on to stave off his more dangerous cravings? Perhaps not. Perhaps the mortal flesh preventing her soul from being harvested also possessed the ability to resist even the Master's dominating power.

Hypnotised by his own aimless train of thought and the glint of the dull purple jewel in his room’s dim candlelight, Renathal heard the soft, tentative knock only distantly, and called “Enter, Breakfist,” without registering its implications. The click of unfamiliar shoes jerked him from his reverie. He twisted in his seat, caught sight of the figure in the open doorway, then shot up with an alacrity that sent the chair tumbling backward onto the hearth.

“Breakfist is busy, Your Highness,” said Elisewin, closing the door behind her and politely failing to notice the clatter of wood on brick or Renathal’s muttered oath as he hastily righted the chair. “There is some sort of last-minute disaster in the kitchens. He was quite frantic about it, and since I am little use with food, I volunteered to come and… assist you in his stead.”

There was a stilted, formal note to her usual impassivity, and she stood awkwardly just inside the room, the door at her back, as if reluctant to venture any deeper inside. But Renathal barely noticed her nuances of demeanour. His eyes were busy adjusting to the sight of her new and entirely unexpected attire.

"Where did you get that dress?" he asked, the question staggering between astonishment and awe.

Elisewin blinked, then looked down at herself.

"The wardrobe," she said simply. "It's quite lovely, thank you." Her fingers traced the corset's bronze buckles and trailed into the swell of red satin skirts beneath. "Mind you, it did take two dredgers to help fasten me into it, but it’s surprisingly easy to move about in once it's on, and" - she glanced up at Renathal, violet pinpricks glowing on her cheekbones - "it's a perfect fit."

That was obvious. From the hem that fell just above the top of her brocade boots to the graceful, gold, winged shoulder ornaments positioned precisely not to scrape her pointed ears, every inch of the ensemble looked as if it had been tailored to Elisewin's exact mortal specifications. Which made it all the more perplexing.

"You say you found this in the guest room wardrobe?" asked Renathal, his words as uncertain as his steps as he made his way towards Elisewin, dropping his medallion carelessly onto the chiffonier as he passed.

"Yes," she replied, warily watching his approach. "I... assumed you left it for me to wear?"

"Ah."

It was not really an answer. But Renathal had no answer. He had not left her a dress, specifically commissioned or otherwise, and he could not think why one should be there. He could barely think at all. He reached Elisewin before he realised, standing far too close than strictly proper, but reluctant to retreat and unable to tear his eyes from the entrancing sights: her dark hair in its elegantly arranged high pile, the little red jewel set against black lace fastened around the exposed skin of her throat, the plunging neckline that clung to the swell of her breasts as if painted on...

…until Elisewin coughed, a little pointedly, and waved a dubious hand at the dress form on which Renathal’s armour waited.

“Shall I help you into your armour, your Highness?" she asked. “I... would not want to make you late for your own court.”

Renathal closed his eyes briefly and wrestled his thoughts, a tangled knot of confusion and desire, back to firmer, safer ground. Court was the top priority now. All other mysteries could be dealt with later.

“Of course,” he conceded. "Come. I will... guide you through the process," and, with the faintest of audible sighs, Renathal braced himself for what he was sure would be a most exquisite torture.

He was not disappointed.

Besides the anticipated cruelties of long, warm fingers pressed firmly to various parts of him - his back, his chest, his upper arms, his lower stomach where fiery anima pooled and every fibre of Renathal's being was required to keep his body's natural responses in check - there was something highly sensual about watching Elisewin handle his armor. Her hands moved across each green and gold piece of plate with easy grace, positioning them precisely, and almost before he had issued instructions - exactly as they did not when wielding a duelling rapier. Half in curiosity and half to distract himself from the sight of her sinking to her knees to affix his tassets, Renathal remarked:

"This is not your first time working with plate, I see."

“It is that I recall,” Elisewin contradicted absently. "But I suppose I may have done it before and just cannot remember."

There was none of the morose frustration that usually accompanied such admissions. She lapsed back into studious silence, wholly focused on his legs, and Renathal searched frantically for another distraction. His eyes fell on his medallion, abandoned atop the chiffonier. Moving carefully so as not to upset her work, he reached for the simple silver chain and slipped it over his head. Light though it now was, something about its familiar feel against his chest plate strengthened Renathal’s sagging self-control.

"What is that?" asked Elisewin, rising and straightening her rumpled skirts.

“The Medallion of Dominion,” he answered, pleased to hear his voice resonate with well-composed pride. “My allotted portion of the Sire’s power. Each Harvester is given one to assist in the execution of their duties.”

Elisewin eyed the unassuming purple gem.

“It has powers?”

“Well. Usually,” Renathal admitted. “But the drought has required sacrifices from us all. I am afraid the medallions’ powers are… not what they once were. But I have never attended court without wearing it before. I should feel quite naked without it.”

Elisewin ducked her head abruptly, ostensibly adjusting the drape of her skirts, but with her hair pulled back off her face she could not hide her creeping violet blush. Renathal turned tactfully away, allowing her time to recover, and inspected the reflection of his irrepressibly smug smile in the mirror of the chiffonier.

This was no expertly crafted, anima-imbued Venthyr creation, but a slightly warped mortal looking-glass, acquired from the Night Market epochs ago and chosen specifically for the way it lent Renathal’s torso a slightly more generous breadth. He admired it for a few satisfied seconds, then flicked his gaze to the image of Elisewin straightening up behind him, and wondered if the dark, almost hungry glint in her blue-white eyes as she appraised him was simply another trick of the imperfect glass.

Immoderately pleased regardless, he gestured towards the door and announced, "Shall we?" at the same time Elisewin blurted, "Shall I do your hair, Your Highness?"

For a few frozen heart beats, each stared at the other through the safe medium of the wobbly glass. All Renathal's smugness had evaporated. Even Elisewin's impassivity seemed to waver at the edges. In the end, it was Renathal who found his tongue first.

“What would you do to it?”

“Oh...” Elisewin blinked. Apparently, she had not expected this response. “I... don't know.” The red jewel in the hollow of her throat quivered as she swallowed, then reached up to run a cautious hand through the long, loose strands of pale hair cascading down Renathal's back. “Is there anything you would prefer? Something... elegant? Impressive?”

She pronounced the words like questions, as if the Dark Prince might be above such frivolous concepts. He was not. But Renathal knew he would have agreed to almost anything to keep her touching him just like that.

"Surprise me," he heard himself say, and allowed Elisewin to lead him to his vacated chair by the fireplace and ease him gently down.

And if having her dress him had been torture, this was a punishment worthy of the Sire himself. And one Renathal knew he deserved, for how easily it could - and should, he berated himself - have been avoided. But once Elisewin sank warm fingers into the mass of hair across his scalp, stroking gently as she parted and gathered, all thought of courts and resolutions and time itself drifted away, and it was all Renathal could do to keep himself from moaning aloud.

When was the last time anyone had touched him like this? Soft and sweet and unassuming, entirely free of hostile machination or unpleasant ulterior motive? He let his eyes flutter closed, forgetting to affect even the slightest breath as he tilted his neck, offering himself up to un-self-conscious pleasure, until - far too quickly - the fingers ceased their work, and a throaty voice murmured in his ear, "There. See what you think, Your Highness."

Renathal rose and followed Elisewin to the chiffonier, his movements steady but perception hazy, as if he had stepped into the realm of dream. A sensation compounded by the unusual reflection staring back at him from the mortal mirror: his yellow eyes gone anima-red with heat, his pinched features relaxed and cast slightly into shadow by the raised and intricate braid adorning the top of his head like a crown, the rest of his hair falling gracefully about his noticeably less-tense shoulders. It was almost, realised Renathal, the reverse of the Master's signature hairstyle. He wondered if Elisewin had done that on purpose. He wondered many things about her as he caught the eyes of her reflection again, even darker than before.

“Do you like it?”

"I..." In his dream-like state, it took Renathal a minute to sift through his store of words and find an appropriate sentiment. "I am... immensely pleased. Thank you… Elisewin." The little compulsive blush at his use of her name made Renathal's lips twitch. "Perhaps, we ought to make this one of your regular tasks."

The mirror caught a brief glitter of blue-white fire as Elisewin's eyes glowed at his reflection, then paled just as quickly. Renathal wondered if she, too, battled a set of conflicting emotions at the thought of repeating this scene every day.

But her response - "As you command, Your Highness," - was demure and devoid of undercurrent. And with a short dip of her head, Elisewin stepped backwards, redrawing inscrutability around herself like a cloak. “I should check in with Breakfist, now. Guests will be arriving shortly. I will see you in the courtyard, Your Highness.” 

Renathal waited until the door clicked closed behind her, then counted to ten - then ten again, when his simmering anima had not quite settled - before following her out the door and down the passage at a more dignified pace.

As he walked, he made a concerted effort to corral his wildly racing thoughts about his mortal: her unexpected talents, the mysteries that seemed to spring up in her tread, her recent reticence to be alone with him compared with her surprising eagerness to serve. These were all intriguing topics due long and serious contemplations, but they would keep until later. Renathal could not afford to be distracted.

He had a court to host.

Harvester's Courts were a time-honoured Revendreth tradition, a chance for the busiest and most heavily burdened of the Venthyr to relax, mingle, and entertain - or impress - their peers. Court offerings differed depending on the unique style of the hosting Harvester: the Fearstalker's, a hunt; the Stonewright's, feats of martial strength; the Countess', a generous sampling of lascivious activities; and the Accuser's, some staid, formal, and traditional - in other words, dull - display. 

The Dark Prince had developed a reputation for offering a court that catered to every taste. The atmosphere was lively, but refreshing, the provided entertainments interactive and accessible. Guests were handpicked by the Prince and chosen for their expertise, conversation, or charm - the Sire himself could often be seen in attendance. There was music and dancing in the Tower's modest ballroom; fencing demonstrations and occasional duelling tournaments, outside. Food was a quaint addition at which the other Harvesters initially sneered, but which had become quite the trend in the last few centuries, even the Countess forced to capitulate to its utilitarian decadence.

It was an exquisite event, always months in the planning, and Renathal might not have bothered with any of it. For this particular court, at least. Each guest who ascended the stairs or stepped from the lift or emerged from the shadows through which they had wended ignored the fastidious finery - the shadow of a thousand flickering candle flames dancing across the spotless terrace, the heavy, ornate tables laden with anima-infused food and drink - and spared only the briefest of required greetings for their host before taking up strategically placed positions around the courtyard, the better to watch the work of the realm’s newest and most noteworthy resident.

But if Elisewin felt the weight of the hundred odd eyes, she gave no indication. She flitted between clusters of guests in time to the distant strains of sweeping music with barely a wobble on her high-heeled boots, offering trays of drinks and foodstuffs, allowing herself to be gaped at and even, occasionally, touched.

Renathal, monitoring her carefully from his own post by the courtyard's central anima font, wrinkled his nose in disapproval as one brazen noble traced the length of her exposed lavender neck with a curious, gloved hand. Renathal's own tightened on his glass of anima wine; an uncommon indulgence, but necessary for settling his still-electric nerves. Elisewin's, however, remained perfectly steady. Her tray did not even rattle as she curtsied and extricated herself from the Venthyr's attentions. Her implacable demeanour was, Renathal conceded, particularly well-suited for a formal court. And, making a note to find some sin with which to condemn the noble in question to an especially dank crypt for a fortnight at least, he tore his gaze reluctantly from Elisewin's competent perambulations and turned his focus to the rest of the terrace and its sea of rustling, muttering guests.

"Everything seems to be going smoothly," remarked a gravelly voice from over the Dark Prince’s shoulder.

"Yes, it certainly does," Renathal agreed without turning. He knew the General's voice, and the hulking, winged shadow he cast across the square, paved stones, by heart. "I expected a few squabbles over anima conservation, allotments, and the like, but… nothing so far. No fights, no rumours, no plots. It would appear the other Harvesters are on their best behaviour."

He sipped idly at his drink while the General digested this observation.

"They are up to something, then," Draven concluded.

"My thoughts precisely."

Renathal’s expression was half grin, half grimace as he made a subtle survey of the four Harvesters currently in attendance over the rim of his glass.

The power struggle for control of the most medallions had been a favourite pastime of his for many an age. Everything from securing loyalties and wielding their powers by proxy to outright theft of the coveted gold-bound gems, the Dark Prince had done it all. And better than most. But even before the mortal’s arrival, he had felt the game’s appeal beginning to wane. And now, where once he enjoyed, even encouraged, instances of in-fighting for a bit of fun, Renathal’s foremost concern was ensuring court ran as smoothly as possible, without any - his eyes flicked to the circulating Elisewin and her easily-marked mortal skin - collateral damage.

Shifting slightly, so he might face Draven and still keep an eye on the courtyard at large, Renathal cleared his throat and began with a show of polite hesitation.

“My friend… you are here as my guest, and I would hate to put you to any undue trouble. However-”

"Which one should I keep my eye on?" the General interrupted decisively.

"The Stonewright," replied Renathal at once. "I do not think the Accuser or the Curator will deign to attend. And Chelra is keeping watch on the Fearstalker and the Tithelord."

Both Venthyr and Stoneborn shot identical glances at the shadowy corner of the terrace where the latter two Harvesters stood together, side by side in awkward, silent companionship, noticeably unattended by their usual requisite bands of hovering sycophants.

“It is strange to see them so… friendly with each other,” said Draven, voicing Renathal’s thoughts.

“Yes, and both have been ominously quiet of late. If those two particular harvesters have formed an alliance, it can be for nothing good. Which is why I have assigned Chelra to keep an eye.” Renathal flicked a finger at the sky above where a lone Stoneborn figure glided in low, eerie circles. “Of all quarters, theirs is the one from which I most suspect potential attack. As Princeguard, monitoring their activities has become part of Chelra’s duties.”

Draven nodded briskly, noting, “That still leaves one major player,” and Renathal did not need the Stoneborn’s rough jerk of the head towards the courtyard’s most fashionably dressed contingent and the Harvester holding court in its center to know to whom he referred. “She is still seething that you managed to capture the mortal for yourself. She will want to interfere.”

As if guided by some supernatural sense, the Harvester in question lifted her beady eyes to where the Dark Prince and the General stood. And, whether informed by the same uncanny power or simply guessing at the nature of their private conversation and taking it as her cue, she leaned languidly across the table to murmur something in the ear of a nearby noble who jumped from their chair in a rattle of gold bangles and scanned the surrounding terrace for something or someone.

Renathal, eyes narrowed, guessed who.

“Leave her to me.”

He downed the rest of his wine but held tight to the glass as he descended the anima font’s high platform. Gliding sedately across the terrace, formal coat billowing dramatically behind him, Renathal rearranged his features to reflect an equal degree of regal composure. He anticipated battle. And a cool head and cooler demeanour were the greatest weapons he could wield against his epochs-old nemesis: the Harvester of Desire.

Historically the least among the seven harvesters, this particular incarnation - the Countess - had elevated the position to one of fear and grudging renown. She oversaw festivities, entertainments, and carnal privileges; approved - or disapproved - relationships of all sorts and reported illicit examples to the Master. She had spies in every corner of the realm - including, Renathal was certain, his own estate - and an appetite for new and interesting experiences to rival even his.

The skin on the back of Renathal’s armoured neck prickled as he watched the Countess stand in a swish of narrow hips and dark skirts to greet his mortal charge. Hunger gleamed in her black, beady eyes, and a snap of her fingers had some socialite whisking Elisewin's tray from her hands, leaving her open and unprotected from the Countess' salacious inspection. She looked the mortal up and down with undisguised greed, ran a wanton hand across the fine material of her skirts, her sleeves, her corset; reached up - Elisewin was several inches taller than most Venthyr - to adjust the red jewel sparkling in the hollow of her throat. Catching sight of the Prince’s approach, the Countess smiled - wet and predatory - and locked a proprietary arm around Elisewin’s waist to prevent her escape.

"Well, well, Renathal," the Countess gushed in her languorous alto. "Just look at the delicious prize you have tucked away up here. I was just saying to the Duke, you must lend her to us for one of my own little parties. It has been such a long time since any of us laid hands on a living mortal."

From further down the table, Renathal could hear Theotar's attempts at jovial protest sliding in and out of the hearty agreements and lascivious catcalls from the rest of the Countess' coterie.

"A charming idea," said Renathal, and the table was suddenly struck with an expectant hush. Leaning casually against the nearby candle-covered archway, he lifted his empty glass to his lips for a moment before continuing, "But... I fear the mortal is still pursuing her atonement. Such decadent pleasures are beyond the privilege, and, indeed, the appreciation, of new, unrepentant souls."

"Oh, I offer as many punishments as pleasures," purred the Countess. "If it is suffering she deserves, that can most certainly be arranged." 

Her crimson-painted, claw-like nails closed tighter around Elisewin's waist, digging into the bodice just above the protective corset. Elisewin hissed with the unexpected pain, and Renathal's carefully modulated control abruptly snapped.

"No."

It was too blunt, too brusque. It went against all Venthyr tact. The nobles at the table looked scandalised, the socialities tittered, and even the Countess had to work hard to conceal her offended shock.

"Tut, tut, Renathal," she chided, tossing back her corkscrew curls. “Such rudeness unbecomes a gracious host.”

"And openly purloining a host's staff unbecomes a gracious guest."

The Countess laughed; a lusty, practiced sound.

“Share and share alike, Renathal. Or have you not yet learned your lesson?” She retracted her claws from the flesh of Elisewin’s waist in favour of stroking her delicate cheek as she mused “Such warmth. I can certainly see the appeal. Perhaps I should apply to the Master for my own turn with the mortal. Where is he?” She made a show of peering around the courtyard. “Oh, that's right. He did not come! What a monstrous slight. Although...”

The Countess' small eyes flicked from a nearby band of roving dredgers to the candle wax dripping down the brick of the archway beside Renathal's rigid form. She gave a small sniff of distaste.

“This is hardly your best work, Renathal. Spending a little too much time on unsanctioned distractions, are we? I doubt the Master will be pleased. But his methods of correction have proved painfully effective in the past, have they not?” The implications of her threat uncoiled horribly between them like some enormous serpent rearing its restless, hungry head. “Or…”

The Countess caught Elisewin’s chin in her crimson claws, tilting her head down to breathe her words obscenely into the fixed and unblinking lavender face.

“I suppose I could take the mortal off your hands myself. We need not involve the Master at all. And, of course, you would be welcome to pay a visit. When you are not busy attending to your own, far more important duties, of course.” She cocked her head at Renathal, black eyes glinting in triumph. “What say you, Prince of Revendreth?”

Unbroken silence reigned through the courtyard. No dredgers moved, no guests dared speak, even the distant music from the ballroom had ceased. The only sound was the dull thump of the motionless mortal’s hammering heartbeat as every living and unliving thing in Darkwall held its breath, waiting for the Harvester of Dominion to pronounce his judgment.

Renathal did not notice. Heedless of anything but the two females watching him in wildly different examples of tense expectation, he pushed off from the candle-lit archway. All his writhing knot of repressed concerns and confusions were stilled as he stalked toward the Countess. There was room for only one thing within him. He set his glass on the table, prised the Countess’ fingers from Elisewin’s chin and tightened his hand around them, enjoying the feel of bone splintering under the force of his fury.

"If you touch her again..." intoned Renathal, and the dread and dominion in his voice made the very air across the courtyard shudder. "You will find yourself Countess of the Ember Ward, your greatest indulgence licking scraps of anima off burning glass."

This time, the Countess' laugh was bitter and brittle, her face contorted in an attempt to conceal her fear and pain.

"So possessive, Renathal. Such an unappealing trait. I never did enjoy it." With an unglamorous spasm, she ripped her hand from his and stumbled back, bumping into the chair behind her and tucking her broken fingers into some hidden fold of her gown. "I would reign that in before it gets you into trouble. Yet again. Come."

She spat the last at the breathlessly waiting table. There was a sudden flurry of capes and gowns and a clatter of scraping and sliding chair legs as the nobles and socialites stood and hastened to follow their Harvester's instructions. The surrounding courtyard, too, sprang back to frenetic life. Summoned servants rushed hastily past, dredgers scurried underfoot, fetching coats and sinrunners and carriages. Renathal grabbed Elisewin's waist and hauled her back toward the brick archway, safely out of the fray. 

But not out of danger.

In the clamour and chaos, no one could hope to prove for certain whether the Countess' elbow jostled the tower of red tapers off the arch by accident or with deliberate intent. But Renathal, whose coat the candles just happened to land on, had his suspicions.

"Whoops," she said as she passed, swelling fingers pressed to her cheek in entirely unconvincing chagrin. "How clumsy of me."

Renathal had no time to retort, or to hurl the Countess off the edge of Darkwall. The hem of his coat had ignited, flames creeping toward his hair at an alarming speed. Dredgers were yelling, socialites were screaming, and Elisewin was twisting in his arms, crying something he could not understand. Hands working in tandem, they managed to extricate Renathal from the burning garment, with many indecorous contortions on his part and more than one rude and raucous laugh from the gawping crowd.

Finally free of the threat of flames, Elisewin's warm hands found Renathal’s face. He could hear her this time as she asked, “Are you alright?” in a low, strained hush, but he did not answer. His attention was gripped by the figure in the distance, watching the coveted mortal stroke back his wayward hair with beady, vindictive eyes. Renathal read their intent. And, as she was ushered into her carriage, he knew exactly where the Countess was going and what she going to do.

It was, unquestionably, the worst court the Dark Prince had ever hosted.

The best that could be said was that the fire did not spread to any of the guests. And a combination of mud and liberal stamping eventually extinguished the flames. Renathal’s coat was a filthy, smoking ruin, of course, and he had been forced to forgo it as he bid his guests early and unceremonious farewells. The ones who bothered to give him notice of their leave, that was. The Stonewright took flight with her Stoneborn attendants after throwing a cursory look of disgust the Prince’s way. The Fearstalker and the Tithelord had simply disappeared, and the Accuser and the Curator - as well as the Master himself - had never bothered to arrive.

Which was lucky, even if it was a glaring slight, Renathal considered, as he dragged himself up the staircase to the quiet sanctuary of his bedchamber. Unkind of him, perhaps, to leave the mess of the courtyard to the dredgers and Elisewin, but what was the point of having servants if one could not assign them such tedious chores? Especially when one was weighed down with other, heavier burdens, and Renathal’s back was practically bent under the day’s frustrations and confusions and… other things.

The memory of the Countess' fingers on Elisewin's skin….

A bolt of vicious jealousy like a red-hot brand seared through Renathal’s chest, sending him sprinting up the last flight of stairs and down the hall as if it were an enemy he could outrun. Reaching the safety of his rooms, he ripped the useless medallion from his neck and threw it against its velvet stand. Even a fraction of its usual power would have had the Countess as far from Elisewin as the terrace allowed with a single, murmured word and no unnecessary fuss, sparing Renathal a mortifying scene, and him and Elisewin both its inevitable repercussions. Even now, the Countess would be reporting their visible attachment to Denathrius, the essence of which was true even if the salacious details she inevitably imagined and would relay as fact were not.

He would lose her. He had failed, in spite of all his efforts. If he was lucky, all the Master would do to them both was take her away. And if he was not-

A knock at his door interrupted Renathal’s miserable spiral. This time he recognised the quiet, cautious rhythm, and his anima vibrated in simultaneous excitement and dread. He should send her away. He was in too dangerous a state for this. He did not have the proper mental equilibrium necessary to resist what he wanted.

Although… a new and intriguing thought wormed its way to the front of Renathal's mind... did he really have to, anymore? Now that punishment loomed regardless...

“Enter, Elisewin,” he heard himself call.

The door creaked open, then closed with a gentle snap. Heeled shoes clicked nervously across the wood floor to the Tazavesh rug.

“I… came to see if you needed any help. With your armour. Your Highness."

Elisewin's voice was oddly jumpy; her breathing, slightly uneven. Renathal fancied he could hear the rapid fluttering of her mortal heart, and the pitch and toss of conflicting emotion within him coalesced into something clear and urgent.

“Yes, thank you.”

His own voice was steady, his face calm and collected when he turned to face her. He even managed to conjure up a small, encouraging smile. Nevertheless, Elisewin approached with more trepidation than was her usual idiom, and kept her eyes fixed on each piece of soot-stained armour as she unfastened them from his body and replaced them fastidiously on their stand. This time, Renathal did not shy away from watching her, even when she dropped to her knees in front of him to remove his dusty tassets. The visual was stirring, and he let himself be stirred; the anima-rousing sensation a welcome distraction from impending dread.

“I’m sorry, for… everything. With the Countess,” said Elisewin quietly to his knees. “I didn’t know what to - I mean, I didn’t mean to-”

“Do not apologise. You were exemplary,” said Renathal with genuine earnest. “The Countess was always going to make trouble, one way or the other. There was nothing more you could have done.”

His reassurance seemed to hearten Elisewin enough to lift her gaze as she worked.

“I do hope an… an imperfect court won’t hurt your reputation with the other Harvesters. I know this was important, and they did seem… displeased.”

Renathal laughed at that. Elisewin blinked, and fumbled the final buckle.

“Oh, please, think nothing of my reputation. It will not suffer. This was a very minor setback. One loss in a long-standing game. There will be an eternity more, and I have the advantage.”

“I see,” she said in a tone that belied her words. “I was only worried because… well, the Countess mentioned the Sire. I hope you won't suffer any… repercussions?”

Renathal swallowed hard, his brief surge of humour drained.

"None to which I am not well accustomed."

Rising awkwardly, arms laden with green and gold plate, Elisewin cocked her head at Renathal as she brushed past him to replace the rest of his armor. But Renathal could bring himself to confess no more. He wondered if he ought to warn her what was happening, what consequences awaited them both. But perhaps she might not mind them. Certainly, the other souls the Sire claimed never had. During the act, anyway, and what became of them after Renathal had never permitted himself to discover.

The memories twisted his face into a ghastly grimace, one look at which made Elisewin swallow any further questions. Averting her eyes, she ducked quickly around him and reached up to undo his braid, the rhythmic caress of her fingers a pleasant balm against the upswell of agonising despair.

When she finished - again, too quickly for Renathal’s liking - she inhaled raggedly and met his gaze in the chiffonier’s warped mirror.

“Is there… anything else I can do?”

Renathal turned slowly. He wanted to be sure the darkening tint in Elisewin’s blue-white eyes as they wandered over his loose linen shirt was no trick of the glass or the light. But the glitter in them lingered even as he faced her, worrying at the buckles of her corset, waiting breathless for his invitation.

“No,” said Renathal, and the disappointment that danced briefly across her impassive features decided him. “But perhaps I may do something for you, since the dredgers are occupied. Let me help you out of your dress.”

Without waiting for her response, he spun his finger in a circle, indicating she should turn. Elisewin, eyes wide, did so, tripping on her heels; a clumsiness she had shown no sign of during court. Renathal closed the distance between them in a single step, his trousers brushing against her skirts as he leaned in to undo the overdress’s many fastenings and tiny clasps. “Lift your arms,” he murmured in her ear, and reached around her waist to unbuckle the complicated corset. It fell to the floor with a muted thud, followed by the rustle of satin as the overdress slid from her arms. All that remained was her thin, vermillion shift. Elisewin shivered where she stood in her pool of shed garments, but did not otherwise move.

Discipline bid him go no further. Renathal swept it ruthlessly aside. There was no reason not to take what he wanted now. Elisewin would soon be gone. The least they both deserved was to enjoy themselves before the end.

On a sensual whim, he unlocked the clasp of her lacey necklace, then slid his fingers up her newly bared neck and unfastened her hair from its high-piled knot. Dark silky waves fell across Elisewin's exposed back. Renathal brushed them over one shoulder, leaving the other entirely bare. He traced long, sharp fingernails delicately across its inviting dips and planes, drinking in her sharp gasp like a redolent wine and catching her waist with the other hand as her back arched against him. The feel of her body pressed instinctively to his with so little left to separate them evaporated whatever inhabitations he might still have maintained.

Dipping his head without thought, anticipating without regret, Renathal let his lips find the madly beating pulse beneath the mortal flesh of Elisewin’s throat.

It was warm. A living heat radiated through her Renathal would happily, gratefully burn in. He opened his mouth wider, trailing wet, sharp-edged kisses up the lavender skin he had dreamed of since the first time he saw it. Elisewin’s legs shook like willowy tree limbs beneath him, his arm around her waist surely all that kept her from collapse. And the cry that escaped her - “Your Highness!” - seemed excessive for how little Renathal was really doing. He could not tell if it begged for more or begged for him to stop.

Drawing his lips reluctantly from her skin, he spoke against her ear.

“What do you want, Elisewin?”

There was a delightful, full-body shudder at her name, then the briefest hesitation, before Elisewin craned her neck to find Renathal's anima-hot eyes and whisper raggedly, “Don’t stop, please.”

Such short, small words to shatter the Dark Prince’s epochs-old resolve. But his body took her request as a new and truer law. He pressed more firmly against her as his mouth resumed its work, tasting every inch of skin it could reach while his hands wandered the quivering curves of her body through her shift. And that had to go. It all had to go. He would permit nothing to keep her from him any longer. Undoing the laces of her underdress with frantic speed, Renathal kept his lips on Elisewin’s jawline, lapping up each breathy sigh and needy whimper, every high-pitched sound she made for him sending anima singing to his core.

When the last of her layers hit the floor, he spun her to face him, dragging her mouth to his, and giving their lips the relief they both sought. Her taste was refreshing, the blunt edges of her teeth and the heat of her mouth, a strange blend of exotic and somehow familiar, like coming home after eons away. Too soon, Elisewin was tugging her head to the side, gasping for the air Renathal had forgotten was not an affectation for mortals. As she panted, her lust-clouded eyes met his, then fell to his chest where her hands waited, trembling, and he knew exactly what she wanted. He tugged his shirt over his head, saving them seconds of undoing buttons, and reveled in Elisewin's open-mouthed stare of longing as she traced his cold flesh, entranced.

But there was no time for long, exquisite explorations. Any moment could bring the Master to his door. Renathal claimed her lips again, and Elisewin eagerly complied, though now she was sure she had permission, her hands continued their journey, mapping the harsh angles of his torso and arms. Nor could his own stay idle for long.

“Your Highness,” called Elisewin hoarsely as his fingers kneaded and dimpled her warm, naked flesh. And Renathal paused, one hand cupping her chin, tilting her gaze to his and reclaiming the skin from the memory of the Countess.

“Say my name."

It was as much plea as command.  Renathal had longed to hear the distinct way Elisewin said his name since crying it after her nightmare, and -

“Renathal…”

- he could not suppress his moan of satisfaction. It was every bit as delicious from her now as it had been then.

“Again," he growled.

“Renathal,” Elisewin gasped, as Renathal lifted her into his arms, wrapped her bare thighs around his trousers, and stumbled with her to his bed. He set her down as gently as his desperation allowed him, divesting himself of the last of his clothes, and “Renathal,” she moaned again as she drank in the sight of him ready for her.

Her mouth hung slightly open and Renathal gave himself up to pride. What was one more sin?

“That’s right,” he murmured, his voice a low, guttural purr. “Call for me.”

And, attentive to his needs as ever, Elisewin obeyed. For hours. Long into Revendreth’s socially constructed night. There were wards on Darkwall Tower preventing even the Master’s eavesdropping, but, even so, there were points where Renathal was certain her cries must be heard across the district. Not that he minded. Elisewin’s encouragements only spurred him to greater, deeper, harder heights. He wanted to discover every sound he could draw from her, every beautiful way she could say his name.

Renathal’s stamina surprised him. After all, he had been sadly out of practice for thousands of years. But even he had a limit, and, at last, he could do no more than collapse back, panting, against his silk pillows, holding Elisewin to his sweat-slicked chest and running his fingers like a ritual over and over through her own damp hair. He knew he was spent, but he wanted more. Mere hours of pleasure were not enough. The despair Elisewin had held at bay crept back up Renathal's ribcage, and he clutched her tighter to him.

Where was Denathrius? Surely, he was on his way. The Countess had plenty of time to relay the story of his court by now.

In the distance, the grandfather clock's deep chime reverberated through the Tower, and Renathal strained his ears to catch its sounding time. A quick calculation informed him nearly all of Revendreth’s resting hours were gone. And there had been no interruptions. No Breakfist knocking to inform him the Sire was waiting, no messengers with summons. A tiny flicker of hope, deadly as Light, licked at Renathal’s resignation. If he had miscalculated the Countess… if the Master had not spared the time to see her… if he had not believed her...

“Come here,” Renathal rumbled, beckoning Elisewin to his lips. She complied, slowly, meeting him in a kiss clumsy and weary from their hours of satisfying exercise. “Stay here tonight,” he murmured into her mouth. He could taste her teasing smile as she breathed, "Is that a command, Your Highness?" in reply.

“Yes," said Renathal with equal jest, but even as he said it, he thought better of the joke. “No.”

Elisewin's lips froze against his, then pulled away. She blinked down at him as Renathal struggled to find words for concepts he had never in all his countless years had occasion to explain.

“This is… not a command," he said. “This…" He let a sweep of fingers toward both their naked bodies illustrate the indirect article, "is not part of your atonement. If anything, it may take you further from it. This - us - together - it is... ill-advised,” stuttered Renathal, choosing a word at random. “If the Master discovers us, there will be consequences for us both."

"What sort of consequences?" 

But even admissive as the mortal inspired him to be, Renathal could not bring himself to put those memories into words.

"The Sire possesses a wide selection of lessons," he said cryptically. "Most of which are unpleasant. And all of which will certainly set your atonement back. Any intimacy is... dangerous. I cannot command it - or, even, in good conscience, ask it of you..."

Renathal's voice trailed away as Elisewin peered down at him through her reaffixed inscrutable mask. He fought to keep his eyes on hers, watching what little could be gleaned of her thought process, but her parted lips were an unfair distraction. It was a struggle to keep himself from leaning up to capture them again, to lose himself in more of her warm, elysian pleasure, to forget what was coming just a little while longer...

“Do you want this?" asked Elisewin, interrupting his wayward thoughts. "Do you want... me? I mean... us?" she fumbled the word as if unsure of its correct pronunciation.

“Yes,” said Renathal, infusing his agreement with every ounce of his endless, sinfully possessive longing.

“Then it’s worth the risk,” she decided, placing a kiss on his forehead before drawing back to observe her handiwork - Renathal's dazed, slightly punchdrunk face. “You are worth the risk, Renathal. As long as I’m here, as long as you want me, I’m yours."

With a sigh, Elisewin let herself fall back, exhausted, against his pillows, and Renathal, her words igniting some hidden reserve of anima within him, followed her down. She was wrong, of course. Everything in the realm belonged to the Master. Her included. But for here, for now, for the moments he still had her, it was the thought that counted.

Read Chapter 8: Safe in the Shadows | Visit the Masterpost

If you enjoyed this story, I would love to hear it 💜

[minisculegemstone]

4, 17, 25?

4. What's an inside joke you have with your family or friends?

You know when you forget literally everything that's ever happened to you the moment someone asks you a question? Yeah that's me rn. I guess my picky eating has sort of become a little joke with my family (in the Wow Your Tastebuds Are Ridiculous, Anyway I Mad Two Types Of Rice To Accommodate That way rather than the dick way)

17. Name three things that make you happy

The moon, my cat, and creme eggs

25. Fave season and why

Winter! I love cold and wet and dark <3 I was actually talking a bit about winter with my dad earlier for minorly complicated reasons, but it's such a like...misrepresented season. There's this impression of winter as a barren and freezing nothingness, but it's a season of bundling up warm with your loved ones and indulgence. There are trees whose branches streak across the sky and there are trees of the deepest green that keep tiny creatures safe within their embrace. There are bright red berries nestled in green holly that sustain robin redbreast as he stays by our side through the darkest nights. Mother bears nurse their newborn cubs through hibernation so that they can run in spring. I find comfort in the sharp edges and quiet darkness of winter, but that is far from the totality of the season

[antihibikase-archive]

happy birthday, reese!! i hope you're having a good one!! 🥳🎉

( speaking of underfity friends, did you see that a new episode dropped? 👀 )

HELLO MJ!! THANK YOU SO MUCH AND THANK YOU FOR DOING THE BINGO!! My current mutuals who were into Osomatsu-san before. Godspeed to us all </3

AND I HAVE NOT YET. I HAVEN'T UPDATED MYSELF IN RECENT UNDERFITY FRIENDS EPISODES BUT I SHOULD. I'M HAPPY TO KNOW SOMEONE ELSE KNOWS UNDERFITY FRIENDS!! <333

[transxfiles]

lost phineas and ferb episode where perry is called to investigate what dr doofenshmirtz is up to because carl the intern got ahold of some intel that doof has been seen speaking to lawyers and looking up the endangered species act at internet cafes and as major monogram says, "something fishy is going on"

meanwhile phineas and ferb's subplot of "i know what we're gonna do today!" is that isabella needs her environmentalist fireside girls badge so they start researching which species are in urgent need of help in the tri-state area so that they can use new cloning and gene therapy technologies to bring at-risk animals back from extinction

(yes there is a c-plot where buford and baljeet argue the ethics of this idea, i don't have time to explain it all for you rn)

we cut back to🎵doofenshmirtz evil incorporated🎵where we see perry carefully maneuvering around doofenshmirtz's lab scared he might fall into a trap but he hasn't set off a single booby trap and it's clear something is off

he runs into doofenshmirtz and goes to kick him in the gut action movie style but doof steps back one overly confident and says, "nuh uh uh, you see perry the platypus, you are TRAPPED! by the danville section of the endangered species act of 1973!"

doof goes on to explain his tragic backstory: "you see, perry the platypus, when i was a child my parents did not show up for my own birth! but you know that already, yadda yadda yadda they did not love me and then they loved roger more, ANYways i was raised by ocelots! i had a lovely foster mother who took me in and made me one of the pride, and so you see, perry the platypus, i am still legally considered an ocelot. did you know that there are only 50 recorded ocelots still alive in the continental united states? very sad for me as a member of a near-extinct species. it would be immoral for you to hurt someone critically endangered... in fact, you have made many attempts on my life this summer"

[montage of doof's security camera footage of their battles]

"which is why i have decided to bring you... TO COURT!" we cut back to phineas and ferb's back yard where they've decided to start cloning ocelots in their kiddie pool

candace storms outside enraged and says, "phineas and ferb are you cloning ocelots in my duckie momo kiddie pool!?"

ferb's one line of the episode is "well, i guess it's more of a kitty pool, now"

candace storms away saying, "i'm going to tell mom!" and isabella turns to phineas and says, "oh, does your mom have experience in wildlife conservation?"

we cut back to the doof and perry plotline where the two are now in the danville hall of justice and we learn that doof has spent his monthly alimony check on a defense lawyer and perry turns and sees the lawyer and then vanessa helping her organize her briefcase and perry chitters at her and vanessa shrugs and says, "i'm thinking about going into legal defense. sorry perry."

the rest of the doof and perry b-plot is spent in court and perry is about to ask for a public defense lawyer when carl runs into the room and explains that he's owca's official legal defense and perry looks at him like, "uhhh is that even allowed?"

it doesn't matter because apparently the judge is out sick today but because it's danville roger's the judge now because he's the mayor and everyone loves him.

the court case continues.

meanwhile phineas and ferb have successfully cloned multiple ocelots from the original ocelot dna they had on hand and isabella asks phineas if these clones will experience health problems like premature aging, phineas casually explains that ferb figured out the problem while they were experimenting with stem cell harvesting.

back in the courtroom, doof's ocelot foster mother has been brought to the stand along with an ocelot to english translator. doof gets emotional seeing her after so long. she says that he was one of her favorite child and he was as strong a hunter as anyone else in the family. it's incredibly sweet. the jury's in tears.

meanwhile, isabella has established connections with a group in texas who are going to release the ocelots back into their natural habitat and, using the cloned ocelots to prevent inbreeding, help establish an ocelot breeding program. the group explains that they are going to send a helicopter to retrieve the cloned ocelots from danville and bring them to texas soon.

isabella gets her fireside girls badge.

candace manages to get mom to see the backyard only after the ocelots have been helicoptered off to coastal texas, their primary habitat.

mom makes it into the backyard as phineas stares wistfully over the fence and says, "if you love something, you have to let it go." candace goes, "look mom look look look!" and points at the ducky momo kiddie pool, devoid of cloned ocelots, where baljeet and buford are now chilling out, having settled their philosophical debate about the ethics of animal cloning.

back in the courtroom drama, doof looks like he's about to win when an attendant walks into the courtroom and whispers something in roger's ear.

roger looks up, grinning, and says, "good news, everyone! my attendant here has just enlightened me that ocelots are no longer considered critically endangered!"

this settles the case, with perry being decreed not guilty and the entire affair being called off. the courtroom cheers, roger walks over to doof and personally congratulates him on his species' return from the brink of extinction.

doof shouts, "curse you endangered species classification system!" at the ceiling of the danville hall of justice.

perry arrives back home just in time for mom to say, "who wants pie?"

the end.

[rxmye]

" 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐎𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 "

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 — pristine and perfect, filled with grace and elegance, yet tainted with greed . . greed for you . .

gender neutral reader / yandere oc x reader / slight religious themes?, I suppose it's a fictional religion, I'm still world-building / pathetic and submissive yandere / suggestive content? / he paints the reader as a source of comfort / stalking, which is conveniently described as 'adorable' and 'innocent' behavior /

masterlist | requesting rules | character info . . . a/n: ok so the person mentioned is supposed to be the God of this world, their introduction will also be out soon enough . . currently dropping hints here because world-building fun!!

Takamoto was an Arch-angel, one of the highest ranked angels in heaven—he was pure and truly the definition of elegance, he was never greedy, and he was almost always seen smiling or happy. For he, was truly contempt with his life, and position.

Takamoto was always someone who had truly been satisfied with all that he was given, he never craved more—he always thought and frankly believed, that he had received all that he deserved and that he should be contempt with what he has. He never really had any passion or desire for anything more—he was grateful with everything—he believed all his hardships had reasoning behind it, and that it will all eventually be solved. In fact a part of him believed he deserved any hardship he came by.

Many would believe he was naive for that sort of mindset, and many angels did truly believe him to be just that, yet against all odds he rose up the ranks fairly quickly for this sort of mindset, and of course his loyalty to his beliefs. Takamoto was sweet, he'd help everyone out, and would introduce new souls, and angels throughout the lands of heaven on his free time, he'd help guide souls and his fellow angels everywhere he could . . yet things slowly changed when he first met you . .

Takamoto was visiting, what could only be described as the countryside of heaven, with vast green fields, cozy homes, acres of farmland, etc . . He was checking in for this years harvest, as per high courts orders . . when he saw you, you were so graceful, your wings sparkled in the light, you were radiant, you're eyes glimmered as both of your eyes met for a brief moment . . he felt his heart skip a beat. . his face was heating up slightly, his face dusted with shades of bright pink.

His mouth hung slightly open, as his gaze lingered on you figure, taking in the sight—your wings were lovely, much smaller than his . . were you a new soul? Perhaps you were a lower ranked angel and hence why you both never quite met . . He wanted to know more about you—he need to know more about you—where were you going? . . . and before he knew it, he found himself following you, trailing behind you silently.

He found himself frequenting areas he last saw you, it was all so innocent at first, many of his fellow coworkers described him as a young schoolboy in love, teasing him for his oh so adorable behavior . .

Takamoto didn't notice how much you were invading his life, he hadn't even been able to hold a proper sentence with you yet . . . but even then his thoughts consumed of you, whenever he did paperwork, he'd doodle your face, his room was filled with various portraits of you . .

He found himself overtime growing desperate, impure thoughts flooding his mind, greed sinking its claws into his sensitive and naive hurt—he was the utter picture of perfection, just look at him, he was everything an angel . . a human, anyone should be!?!? Why aren't you looking his way!— . . he took deep breaths, his own fingers digging into his skin, as he tried calming himself.

Gold drips from his arm, the bruise left from his fingers still fresh—golden blood stained his pretty pale fingers—pupils dilating as he took deep breaths, a ruined portrait of your face on the aisle, paint splatters surrounded him, tainting his legs, as a mirror lay broken on the floor.

"Fuck", he cussed softly, tears threatening to spill, his usually well-kept hair was a mess . . "why can't I draw them . . ?", he asked, his voice hoarse, as he tried his best to contain the anger he felt at that moment, "why can't I fucking draw them??", his nails dig into the floor, as the door creaked open.

You need to love him, you need to see him. He had never craved someone's validation, he deserved this, he deserved you! He could offer you everything, he was perfect! Everyone he knows, envied that about him . . surely you'd notice, you have too . .

He turned to face the person at the door, tears now dripping down his cheek, he mumbled something under his breath, before he started begging, "Please, please, help me . . my lord"

@ rxmye , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and or confirmation.

[ozzgin]

I live your human streamer x monsters! Imagine them doing unboxing videos and gifts from fans. Of course you get sweet ans who send really nice gifts. Then you get the fans who might send a bit more suggestive gifts. I think it would be pretty funny off some monsters sending yn "courting gifts". Poor gullible yn who is too nice to say know. Plus they don't exactly know its that type of gift

[Referring to this story] Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance, NSFW under the cut!

You didn’t think much of it. One day, one of your monster viewers had asked if they might send you a gift in the mail. You cheerfully agreed to it and continued eating your food, moving on from the topic.

Then you found your entrance door blocked by dozens of packages.

As it turns out, a lot of your monstrous fans had the same intention. You decided to start doing unboxing videos, clearing out your ever-flowing queue of gifts.

Some are innocently sweet. The plant creatures prefer surprising you with fresh bouquets of flowers or harvests. The bird hybrids usually go for shiny, eye-catching jewelry. You’ve received a cursed locket from a deep-sea kraken, and a haunted doll from one of your cheeky ghost followers.

Other packages are bolder in their intention.

“Is this a promise ring?” you wondered out loud, fumbling to comment on the unexpectedly romantic gesture and trying to hide the deep blush.

The worst part about these particular offerings is that they always seem to trigger a certain jealousy within the other viewers; it results in some increasingly ridiculous attempts to one-up the previous. You had to threaten to stop doing these videos once you found a wedding gown in one of the boxes.

If you've decided to delve into adult content for your monster fans, the variety of presents expands even further.

At first, you mostly received additional props for your content. Maybe a revealing outfit, or a pair of handcuffs. It didn't take long for your patrons to gain more confidence in their choices. You've hesitantly unboxed different kinds of sex toys, with little handwritten notes begging asking you to use them in your upcoming livestreams.

The turning point was when you revealed a custom-made dildo, bearing the shape of your viewer's own appendage. The chat had briefly gone silent while you gawked at the bizarre toy. Of course, they thought begrudgingly, what better gift than a way to fuck you from a distance?

Needles to say, you woke up to piles upon piles of similar "donations". You wondered if there's some erotic shop out there confused at its sudden spike in sales.

"Are you guys serious?" you whined, pulling out a large, silicone tentacle the size of your torso. "At this point I think I've collected all of your genitals."

"Mine hasn't shipped yet", a viewer comments.

[More Monsters]

[mayullla]

Title: There is no love here.

Character(s): Neuvillette (Genshin Impact)

Summary: It was an arranged marriage between you and Neuvillette and you promised him the day before the wedding that you would not cause trouble for him nor be disloyal however you would also never love him. Warnings/tags: Yandere themes, fem!reader, arrange marriage, one-sided love, unrequited love, lil angsty, 2.6k words Part 2 here! But he didn't want to let go.

He was your husband for a very long time, long before a child's grandfather was born into the world. Yet you and he never had that loving relationship that humans have between a husband and wife. He was too busy and lacked the emotional care you needed when you were given to him as a bride by your parents who thought this was for the best.

You age slowly compared to humans, you have the luxury to take your time as you watch humans try their best to live the most with what they have. It was a kind of beauty in your eyes, the determination in those of shorter life spans than yours. And it was a fear that your parents harvested in their hearts.

For they wanted you happy and satisfied as time slowly passed by. They didn't want you to face the pain of losing someone you loved so much all because you fell in love with someone who didn't have a long life span, that while you looked young and loveable your lover would become old and tired. 

That was something that Neuvillette knew when your father worked right alongside him. Your father told him about you, and about his worries. All he wished was for you to be with someone who could care for you for as long as you lived.

It was Neuvillette who offered this arrangement something that delighted your parents. That you and he would marry and in return he would make sure that you would never have your needs and wants unfulfilled, instead as long as it was not impossible nor illegal in the eyes of the law you would have everything you want in your hands.

You were shocked when you heard you have been engaged to someone who you barely even know. You struggled but in the end, you relented when so much was stacked against you.

You asked Neuvillette the day before the wedding why he chose to marry you. Hopefully with a reason it could make it easier for you to love him but when you saw his face bare without emotions you knew it was not love.

You could not help but flinch when you heard his reason, the reasons why he chose to marry you all for the sake of your parents' worries. Loyal and trusted subordinates of his, he wanted to give them something, to rest their anxious minds when they had supported him many times in the past. You understood that it was never between you and him, you understood that there could be no love in this relationship.

Calmly you told him that you would marry him, that you would not cause trouble at the wedding in front of many nor would you trouble him after marriage. You told him that after the wedding you would never cheat on him nor would you even be disloyal. However, you also told him that you would never look at him as a lover. You would respect him for who he was but you would never love him. 

Neuvillette was silent as he watched you leave through the doors after respectfully saying your goodbye and leaving his office.

The wedding had gone without a hitch, and the people clapped in congratulations. The man that they respected, Chief Justice Neuvillette, had finally gotten married. It was on the front covers of newspapers and articles for weeks. It was rowdy in the Court of Fontaine, many women cried their tears out that it wasn't them who walked down the wedding aisle while others talked about how beautiful the couple was together, or how the news said that the hydro archon had given them her blessings.

Yet while the city was bustling about the news of the newlywed couple, the house where the lived couple was silent as stone. Neuvillette had granted your request that you and he would have separate living quarters. Your own bed and your own room, your privacy away from the man you wed a mere few days ago. The honeymoon was decidedly skipped, as Neuvillette was a busy man too busy at court to even have time for something like that. It was preferable that way, you thought to yourself rarely did you have to meet him apart from breakfast and dinner. 

Furina commented about it as she looked at Neuvillette but closed her mouth when he explained the reason that he could not rest when justice needed to be served. He didn't explain anything more than that for that was between you and him.

And it was like that for years, Neuvillette had given you everything you supposedly want. From luxuries and delicious food to dresses and pieces of jewelry and tickets to events and more. You always thanked him for his thoughts yet when you looked at his gift it was obvious in his eyes that this was not what you wanted nor did you ever think that this was something that he himself picked.

It was simply something he got, thinking that it was expected for a husband to shower his wife with presents whenever he got the chance.

Still, you wore the dresses and accessories and attended the VIP shows and exclusive events with the pass and tickets he gave you. You smiled when reporters and curious people approached you. When they asked about you and your relationship with Neuvillette you would coat the truth with syrup and sugar. It was still the truth that he got you the hat that you wore or the front-row seat ticket to that popular theater show but they need not need to know what it was like within the house, aside from the presents that he gave you, aside that you would rather prefer it that way when they comment of his lack romance as you go alone to such events without him by your side.

It was rare after all that more often than not whatever plans he made would be canceled due to his busy schedule.

You prefer to keep it this way, that you would be satisfied enough with this much already having thrown all fantasies and daydreams of this loving relationship ever since that day before the wedding. Neuvillette though... for him it was different.

He lacked an understanding of human emotions so these feelings within his chest as he looked at you slowly unknowingly creeped up to him seeping within his body as his veins absorbed these feelings. It wasn't a sudden realization nor a surprise bomb bursting in his chest. Neuvillette would say it was akin to something like an empty lake barren and dry suddenly had a small stream slowly start to fill it up again yet was never noticed.

You kept your promise that you made a long time ago, that you would never cheat on him, and that you would not cause trouble. You were respectful, as you sat beside him at the dining table eating quietly. If he had awkwardly tried to open up a conversation with you, you would take the reins for him and start a small conversation between the two of you. He was always left with regret after those conversations when it was quickly cut short due to an empty plate or when one side had plans or trials they had to attend to.

Sometimes you would visit his office, staying there for a while as you made him tea, also plating the sweets that you have bought before coming here, and then sitting quietly on a sofa in the office reading a book with your own plate of desserts and tea. He had become rather comfortable by your presence near him in those days, finding it sometimes much easier to concentrate when you were there. He was mildly disappointed when you would leave when a garde would come rushing in with something of an emergency or when an important matter needed to be discussed between him and someone else. He would watch you leave, your back facing him not once did he ever see you look back.

It hurt him more than he himself knew.

When did it start to feel like waves crashing in his stomach, a whirlpool that was pulling his organs and lungs? As he arrived home late only to see you waiting for him in the living room, sometimes reading or other hobbies that you had in your personal time. Looking up you heard the front door open and heavy steps, you greeted him casually with a yawn. The first time you did this surprised Neuvillette, as he asked you why you didn't go to sleep when it was so late at night. It was a half heart answer, stating that you were his wife asking if he ate. If he did eat then you would head to your room after asking him about his day and if he didn't, you would head to the kitchen making sure there was food on the table before leaving again.

Leaving him in the middle of the hallway or kitchen late at night alone. He wasn't sure if he would be better off if you didn't do this then maybe the feeling would feel as hollow, as lonely in his heart.

Sometimes he caught himself staring at the picture frame of you and him that was placed on his office table. It was something that many humans did and something he decided to follow. The smile on your face as you looked at the Kamera while holding his arm. You looked happy here most would say, yet Neuvillette could see how empty your eyes were.

The same eyes that he saw every day even after years flew nothing has changed at all, not once. They were empty, hollow, lacking that spark that he saw many couples have, that shine that many older married couples have toward each other. That love and affection that showed brightly in their eyes was empty in yours. Instead, you looked happier, more at peace, and relaxed when he wasn't there. The shine in your eyes brightened as you read an interesting book or found something that interested you. 

He saw the yearning in your eyes as you watched others express their affections to one another, their plans and hopes that were made together in front of the fountain. Only for your eyes to dull again when he called out your name. 

When did it start to drive him insane...

When did he start to have this frustrated feeling in his chest? Never once did you look at him with distaste or hatred. You always put an effort to follow him, his plans, and his beliefs. Conversation wise you were also patient with him, teaching him sometimes when he doesn't understand something. Not once did you or him ever fight the many years you were together, unlike the many trials he watched between angry lovers.

There was no love, no affection. Like you promised you told him that you would respect him you would also never love him. In front of others, you would link hands and arms with him, as was expected from most couples in the eyes of the public, especially when they were as mainstream as the two of you. But it was never more than that.

Neuvillette was curious as to what it was like when he saw the "lovey-dovey" couples, and what it would be like if you loved him like that. Some would wrap their arms around their love, some stealing kisses when they thought no one was looking. He would watch the husband's protective hold over his wife's waist, or how they would softly smile at each other when their eyes met.

But that wasn't meant for him.

You knew of his tears, the rain that fell from the sky. You were a being with a long life while younger than him you knew who he was. Those days when the dark clouds stayed in the sky a little longer than usual you become more caring as you stayed by his side speaking finally when he spoke. Sometimes you wouldn't ask him what was the matter instead changing the topic to something more light-hearted, to keep his mind off it sometimes you would ask him which were most of the time few.

But in the end, after a while… you would always leave him. Problem solved, for the most part it was true yet Neuvillette wished you would stay a little longer.

He watched you, as you spoke and he could not help but wonder if it was only him who started to love you. Neuvillette thought that maybe after all this time maybe, just maybe there would be something, he had heard of how some people could develop feelings towards someone they once disliked after seeing them often.

Yet when he looked at your eyes there was kindness, but rather than love, there was pity, a sense of responsibility.

He must have been a fool to think that.

He must be insane to become like this, as the rain continued to fall from the sky he stared at his home where he saw you by the window. The curtains were closed but he could see the silhouette of your figure looking down at a book as you drank your tea. From here, you looked peaceful, from here he could see that you were satisfied with what you had.

However, he was not.

His heart was shaken, as silent words whispered in his ears in his mind. That you would never love him, that the only reason why you were here was because you were forced to. You didn't choose to be with him but instead chose to accept the fact that you were forced to marry him. Neuvillette felt as if the floor could crumble any moment, that any moment whatever you and he had would crumble into nothing. That one day you could fall in love with another man, and look at him with not only respect but love and adoration that he never had.

It made his heart bitter and hurt as anxiety consumed him. He didn't want you to leave. He didn't want you to leave his side. He ignored your surprised look when he held your hand tightly when you looked away from him in your walk. For a moment you looked away from the front and looked at the couples and people that he unconsciously tightened his grip on your arm. For a moment you thought you saw his face hurt, as anxiety swirled in his eyes.

He loved you so much. He loved you so much that he was scared.

As you sleep so peacefully in your bed, deep in your slumber you didn't hear the sound of steps that walked towards your bed. Sharp blue eyes that you once called beautiful, much to his surprise in the past, looked at your sleeping frame as his fingers pushed the strands of hair that covered your face.

Neuvillete watched you sleep, in your world that didn't have him in it. He wished that he could follow you, he desperately wished that he was within your beautiful eyes. That you would love him just as much as he loved you. He didn't want you to leave him, even if you wanted he didn't think he would be able to let you go. It would be impossible to let you go unless you wanted the world to rain till the whole of Fontaine to become nothing more than a lifeless sea.

Neuvillette could not let you go, even when guilt would be the one who kills him he would never let you go.

[ask-the-calendar]

Under the cut you'll find a list of characters available for asks.

Winter Kingdom:

Father Winter, king of Winter. He/him. A warm but calm soul, Father Christmas rules his kingdom fairly and with great care. Drives a sleigh pulled by eight reindeer and has a court of elves.

Christmas, crown princess of Winter. She/her. Bright and cheerful, Christmas loves games and decorations, and is always happy to make new friends and see the best in people. Gets along well with the animals in the Winter kingdom. Twin sister to Eve.

Christmas Eve, prince of Winter. He/him. Eve is calm, polite, and non-confrontational, but that won't stop him from doing what he can to take care of his family and friends. Often accompanied by his steed, a white deer called Tapper.

New Year's Eve. He/they. A young but curious child who often tags along when any of the royal family goes out.

New Year's Day. She/they. Sibling to New Year's Eve, also quite curious and enjoys learning magic. Knows a few disguise spells and uses that to her advantage at times.

Valentine's Day. She/they/he depending on the day. Local shapeshifting matchmaker and tease.

Spring Kingdom:

Easter, regent of Spring. He/they/bun intermixedly. A very sweet bunnyboy who enjoys painting and, well, bunnies. Close childhood friends with Christmas and Eve.

April Fool's Day, court jester of Spring. They/he/it or any. A mischievous fool who'll probably prank you if you aren't careful. Edit: since yellow text was removed, Fool will now answer in purple italics.

Summer Kingdom:

Fourth of July, "president" of Summer. He/him. Loud lover of explosives and surfing. Has a loyal dog named Spot who, despite her name, is a golden retriever with no Spots.

Fall Kingdom:

Halloween, czar of Fall. He/him. Dramatic self-proclaimed villain who's constantly scheming but cares greatly for his family and royal court. Can transform into a small painted bat, and is usually accompanied by his black cat Sabrina.

National Day of Mourning, czarina of Fall. She/her. Mourning, formerly Thanksgiving, is a great cook and a very caring person with an unfortunate amount of insecurities. Married to Halloween. Edit: since yellow text was removed, Mourning will now speak in bold orange.

Dia de los Muertos. He/him. Advisor to Halloween, Muertos is intimidating at first glance, but super friendly, doting, and artistic when you get to know him. Commonly mistaken for the Grim Reaper.

Black Friday. He/she/they intermixedly. Con artist and sleazy salesperson who charges for everything.

Fall Harvest, farmer and sheriff of Fall. He/him, but doesn't mind any. Sort of a lone ranger, Harvest is a relaxed and polite fellow with a charming smile and tired eyes. Known for his black cowboy hat and customized sheriff badge.

Equinoxes to be added soon...

[synchodai]

I get this impression that House of the Dragon doesn't get that "named" heirs aren't really the norm in Westeros. If it were that easy for someone to just give everything to their favorite child, Randall Tarly wouldn't have needed to force Sam to go to the Wall and Tywin could have simply chosen Cersei over Tyrion as heir of Casterly Rock.

If we look at the history Westeros borrows from, the concept of "naming" heirs wasn't really a thing in medieval England. Landed gentry didn't have direct say over the order of succession until the Statute of Wills in 1540. Before then, land and subsequent titles could only be inherited through agnatic primogeniture.

Agnatic primogeniture prioritized the living, eldest, trueborn son. Claims can only be passed on patrilineally. This means that a grandaughter can inherit a claim of her grandfather's titles through her father, but a grandson cannot be given the same through his mother. However, if his mother finally does have land and titles under her own name (not under her father's), only then does her son and other children enter the line of succession.

The reason it was like this was because it kept land and titles under one family. Daughters are less preferred because when they are married, they become part of their husband's family — meaning that any titles they receive will be inherited through a new line. This wouldn't be an ideal situation because it gives two families claims to the titles. The more claimants there are, the more unstable the hold the owner has.

In other words, agnatic primogeniture was practiced for stability. Because back in the day, titles weren't just property or land. They came with governorship over a people, so a stable and predictable transfer of titles was necessary to avoid civil conflicts and questions of legitimacy.

A landed lord or lady wasn't given the right to designate heirs for a few reasons:

Most of them were vassals who oversaw the land in the name of someone higher up. It technically isn't even theirs to give away (see: feudal land tenure).

The wishes of a human being are less predictable than having a determined line of succession based on birth order. What if he becomes incapable of declaring an heir either through illness or disability? What if he's captured and a bad actor forces him to name this person heir under threat of violence?

People died unexpectedly all time. This was before germ theory and modern medicine — child mortality was extremely high. With no refrigeration technology, a single poor harvest could mean dying from starvation. Bandits, cutthroats, and raiders were a constant threat. They could not afford to rely on a person choosing a different heir every time the old heir drops dead, because the landed lord/lady could die just as suddenly.

Even 21st century families stab each other in the back over who gets grandma's house — so imagine having an uncertain line of succession in the middle ages over a life-defining lordship and without a modern-day court system to mediate.

Going back to HotD, whenever Targaryens did go against the established line of succession, they could only have done it by consolidating the support of their vassals. Only royalty seemed to have the power to bend agnatic primogeniture, but even then they were beholden to it.

When Jaehaerys I ascended the throne over Aerea, it was mainly because there were those who saw Maegor the Cruel's act of disinheriting Jaehaerys as null and void. This restored Jaehaerys place in the line of succession above Aerea.

And when Rhaenys was passed over for Baelon, Jaehaerys had to convene his lords and offer compelling reasons as to why — her young age, her lack of an heir, her Velaryon last name, etc. It wasn't a given that just because she was a woman that she was ineligible. If he was doing it purely out of misogyny, he still had to legally justify his misogyny in order to strip away her rights.

Even after consolidating support, the book mentions Jaehaerys I and Viserys I's respective hold on the crown was still weakened. Even though their claims were backed by reasons cosigned by a powerful majority, they still had to ensure the security of their rule through other means. There were people who doubted their right to rule, and those people had to be placated with gifts (by Viserys) or intimidated into submission (by Jaehaerys).

So we come to Viserys I who never gave his vassals a reason why Rhaenyra should supercede his three sons other than, "I said so." Had he convened with his lords and maybe made the argument that a first marriage takes precendence over a second one, then maybe he could have set a new precedent and gathered support.

But no, he didn't. He relied on the power of his own words and the lords' personal oaths — oaths that he didn't exactly plan how he would enforce posthumously.

And the Realm did not choose to adopt a different succession law after Jaehaerys's designation of Baelon in 92 AC or the Council of Harrenhal choosing Viserys on 101 AC. If those two events did change anything, it was that now women were exempt from the line of succession for the crown and only the crown. It did not set the precedence that monarchs could freely choose heirs. It did not upend the whole system; it only made a tweak, as most lawful policy-changes do, by carving out at an exception. It was a committee, not a revolution.

Before and after the Dance, no other monarch, lord, or lady "declared" an heir that went against agnatic primogeniture, save for Dornish who have cognatic (equal-gender) primogeniture instead. Ramsay had to get rid of Roose Bolton's living trueborn son AND be legitimized by the crown in order to be recognized as heir (only a crowned monarch can legitimize baseborn children which is another world-building pillar a lot of people miss). Randall basically had to force Sam to abdicate because he wanted his younger brother to inherit instead. And of course, Tywin despite his intense hatred of Tyrion is forced to acknowledge him as his heir.

The rigidity of the line of succession is a major and constant source of conflict in the series, so it baffles me that people really thought that characters could just freely choose their heirs. That's why we have a civil war. It wasn't a misunderstanding. It's the expected consequences of someone carelessly going against a foundational tenent of the society they inhabit.