#drown in your creek weirdo

[bfrogsbagg]

it’s 2022, and there are still d*wson leery stans 💀

[maximumwrites]

before i begin, i would just like to say THE IDEA FOR THIS STORY IS NOT MINE!!! I GOT THE MAIN IDEA FOR THE PLOTLINE FROM @aressss1 (if you would like for me to take this down, please dm, and i’d be glad to!)

now, let’s get into it!

summary; you go on a journey through the nether for the purpose of reaching a fortress, but in the end earn something more valuable then anything that may have been in the fortress.

The heat was excruciating. Sweat soaked through your clothes in the most uncomfortable way possible. The mugginest made it almost impossible for you to breathe had it not been for your avian lungs, specialized for high altitudes and heightened canine senses.

You wiped your brow once more letting out a sigh. How exactly did anything live in this hell hole of a realm? There were so many creatures that lived here similar to a hybrid like yourself, piglins, striders, ghasts….piglins.. Regardless, there were too many.

Living in the overworld as a hybrid must be a lot easier, you thought. Fellow humans to walk amongst, and half-family to learn from, while hybrids here in the Nether had to suffer with their animalistic brethren, leaving their human roots behind. In the overworld you learned how to read, how to write, how to locate your way home through the stars. But learning amongst your other roots, you learned what plants to eat, when meat is rotten. Different howls at night, and what they mean. And your avian routes, what winds are best for flight, meaning of clouds, and how to navigate the world through the heavens.

After hours of wandering, frequently checking your map of the fortress you bought, or more so bribed from local villagers, you took a break on a netherrack, double checking that it wasn't a magma rock that would leave you icing your butt for days. What to do, what to do… Opening up the small side bag you carried with you everywhere, you dug around for your canteen. Praise the lords there- it's empty. “Shit…” you muttered to yourself, already standing up and summoning obsidian from your inventory.

After 5 minutes of mumbling curses under your breath and struggling with your flint and steel, you finally managed to light the portal. Gingerly putting the tip of your wing through, watching it disappear was still such a weird concept to you.

This was your first Nether trip, alone that is. Raised out of pity by villagers when you were dumped in the town square, you would take frequent commissions in order to pay your rent. Some of which included venturing to the Nether, accompanied that is. This, however was your first time unaccompanied, deemed the right age to be on your own. Just thinking about it made you roll your eyes.

Fully stepping through the portal, you fell out, stomach a mess from the swirling particles. After taking a few seconds to ensure your lunch wasn’t lost to the violent swirling behind you, you took an assessment of the sweet smelling forest. That is, compared to the soot covered hell you just left.

You couldn't help but take a deep breath of the fresh oxygen, followed by smaller sniffs, testing the forest for any predators that may leap on you at any moment. The fur covering your tail and feather coated wings stood up to intimidate anyone; or anything nearby, but you sensed nothing. However, there was a sooty smell still lingering, which you shrugged off, blaming it on the residue from the sooty hell you had just left. Just thinking about it made you shiver, urging you to get far away from the portal, and search out fresh water.

Now, this is when your avian roots come in handy. Taking in a quick breath, you spurred your wings out and lifted off. The feeling was still foregin, the lightness in your lungs, and the weightlessness of your bones. Your human instincts screamed in your ears to get back on the ground, but as usual, you let the wind drown out their familiar cries. The air here was different from back home, you thought. Traveling in the Nether really is worth it. You can't help but chuckle and shake your head at these thoughts. Realizing nobody is around, you feel a sense of embarrassment, what a weirdo chuckling to yourself midair.

The air cooled down your skin, and removed the soot still clinging onto your sweat drenched clothes. Ensuring you didn't stray too far from the portal, you finally came across a small creek, running quick enough to get water without dangers of bacteria (something you learned from your fleet-footed furry friends.)

Scooping up water into your canteen and even more to drink at the present time, you sure did spend some time there, just resting. Maybe I should set up camp here… you slowly began to drift off, mind slowing down and muscles relaxing in the more familiar environment. But right as you finally closed your eyes, your ears twitched. Humming in response, too out of it to think straight, you merely rolled over, not even thinking of what may have caused it. Not until the crinkle of leaves just nearby, too loud to be a mere rodent. This time, you fully sat up, a low growl in the back of your throat, fur & feathers standing up on high ends. You scrambled to your feet, summoning your bow swiftly in one hand, and your dull yet much needed dagger in the other. Tucking the latter into your belt and the former notched with a poison arrow, your arms shuddered with nerves. Of course, you thought, the first time I'm on my own I get killed.

Breathing as softly as possible, you survey the area, sniffing to see if you can smell anyone nearby. Perhaps the dusty, sour scent of an enderman, or the rotting of a zombie's flesh. Instead, all you can smell is a faint whiff of that damn hellscape. You thought you lost the scent in your high speed flight, or even in the quick bath you took in the stream. Yet, it still lingered. This time, it had the faint scent of rotting, and the sickly sweet smell of gold.

Your brain, now fully awake, searched through all the possibilities. There's no way that any mob would have followed me, only humans and endermen can cross in between realms. And even if it was an enderman, it would still smell of the end- before your brain could continue its ramble, it was interrupted by yet another shuffle in the brush nearby. Followed by a soft; squeal? It sounded like a pig to a slaughter, only much softer and lower of pitch. Could it be a child? Maybe another human?

Shaking yourself out of your thoughts, you re-aimed your faintly shimmering bow, now towards the brush that seemed to be making noises. Slowly approaching, walking so softly that even your heightened senses couldn't hear your advances, you opted to use one hand and push away the brush.

What you found did nothing but leave you dazed and confused, unaware of what you were getting yourself into.

thank you for reading all the way through! i intend to post the next part within the next 2 days, as i already have it finished. if you have any tips for me, please feel free to share!

~max

[shortnotsweet]

Ooh, have you possibly entertained the idea of Prince(ss)/Knight AU with Fiveya? I think either in the roles would be very cute and the whole situation thinking they both have unrequited loves on each other due to their own duties/honor really tugs on the heartstrings!!

A Witch, a Prince and a Princess

Even as a child, Vanya yearns downwards, down the spiralling view from the castle she would have long since abandoned had she any choice in the matter. It’s tall and grand, the grandest in the kingdom, but it’s become shriveled, an empty shell, like a ghost that has not lost its bones. Up in the turrets, the clouds are gritty and stifling, and the ground below and the land beyond are much more appealing, so much so that she dreams of riding a white horse past the borders of the kingdom and into the line where the sky sinks to meet the earth.

For a steed like that, she’d have to be a knight, or something of the sort. Higher nobility owns the best horses, ones that aren’t thin and sickly, or packing mules, but Vanya’s no princess, and she’s certainly no knight. She’s just a servant, one who was born just outside the borders of the kingdom, within the green outskirts of the King Reginald’s reign.

Even as a child, Vanya knows not to speak of her origin of birth - sorcerers haunt those woods, or so the whispers say. Demons lurk within the trees, and when night falls, it brings with it magic, and naked women dancing under the full moon, casting spells and disturbing all that is holy, sacred, and good. Besides, magic is outlawed in Reginald’s kingdom, and exists freely only outside its borders - after a ten-year long campaign to purge his lands of witchcraft, the filthy stuff, (and a decade of rolling heads, fresh from the executioner's block, of limp bodies swaying under mottled necks, feet drifting above the ground, of the night air saturated with broken shrieks as the flames of the pyre grew taller and hotter) Reginald had finally established prosperity and unquestioned political strength amongst the Five Kingdoms, cementing his place at negotiation tables.

No one dares speak of the Sixth Kingdom, lost to the world, its remains scattered throughout the rest of land.

Vanya is a mere twelve when she meets him first - she’s mimicking the knights dueling on the training grounds, wielding a stick that’s not too thick, not too short, and imagining rows and rows of opponents being felled. They’re not too far from the crops, effectively dwarfed by the field of tall dry grass and hidden from sight. She sees only the sky above her, gaping and huge, until she notices him crouched close to the ground, eyes bright with something she can’t place.

“Who goes there?” she shouts, whipping around, still in character, and he emerges good naturedly from the grasses. He’s a boy around her height with dark hair dark eyes, not unlike herself, but when he grins, dimpled and slightly lopsided, Vanya notices his teeth, white pearls against his gums.

He has good teeth, she thinks, numbly.

“Just watching,” he says, cocky and charming in a way that only twelve-year-old boys can be.

“Well - do you want to play?” she asks, because Pogo may be her uncle and not her real father, but he raised her right.

“What’s the game?”

“I’m a knight,” she says, “and you can be the damsel, if you want.”

The boy frowns. “I’m not a damsel. I’ll be the knight - I can rescue you, then. It’s less work,” he adds, as if to entice her. Vanya wrinkles her nose. “You’re the girl, anyway, don’t you know how it works?”

“That’s stupid,” she says truthfully, because she was playing first, he only just showed up, so of course she would know how to play. His face twists in clear annoyance.

“Do you know who I am?” The boy advances, petulant, and Vanya’s makeshift sword shoots out to rap him across his skinny chest, preventing him from coming any closer. Instinctively, his hand comes up to catch the tip, and he glares at her from the other end.

“You’re a stupid boy,” she snaps. “What do you know?”

He bares his white teeth at her. “I know you’re just a servant waving a stick around,” he snarls. “What would you know about being a knight?” When you’re just a serving girl, and always will be goes unsaid, but it’s the smug gleam in his eye that Vanya clenches her fists around, knuckles whitening in her anger.

“More than you!” Vanya shouts, vision blurred by hot tears that roll steadily down her cheeks. Her throat feels tight, uncomfortably so, and her head is light and ringing - it’s as if she’s fevered, not thinking straight.

“I’ve been training to be a knight my whole life!”

“Oh? And how long have you been training to be a prat?”

Outraged, the boy’s face begins to turn a curious shade of red as he sputters, “I’d watch my mouth, you dimwit, I’m the crown prince!”

Without thinking, Vanya gives a loud, unladylike scoff and leans forward to poke him hard in the chest. “My mistake. How long have you been training to be a royal prat, my lord?”

It slips out quick, too fast for her to anticipate, too angry for her to snatch back. The second the words escape her, Vanya stops dead, heart in her mouth and eyes wide on her face. She can see him better now: he’s well-groomed, with a clean face and dark hair, with fine clothes that can’t belong to a stableboy - stableboys don’t wear silk. With blood rushing in her ears and pounding in her head to the drumbeat of a death march, she instinctively backs away, feeling both incredibly small and suddenly enormous, like a target.

The crown prince moves toward her, reaching out a hand, a small gesture that’s hardly threatening, but Vanya reacts anyway, winding back her fist and sending it as hard as she can into his nose.

She doesn’t stay to inspect the damage. Instead, she runs.

He’s left staring after her, blood streaming down his face and onto the collar of his shirt. Five, twelve years old and set to inherit one of the greatest kingdoms in the land, falls in love for the first time of his life. He doesn’t know, not yet.

It’s been two weeks she’s spent sulking around the castle. Her Uncle Pogo is an advisor to the King and the castle’s appointed medic, and it’s a wonder she’s never seen the prince in person before - it is, Vanya reasons, a big castle, but she should have known better. No issues for her arrest and execution have reached her ears, or her Uncles, so perhaps the prince had forgotten about the event (or he was biding his time, waiting to strike).

It’s the latter, but she doesn’t know that, not yet.

The evening is setting into the sky, and her uncle has already retired to his chambers, leaving Vanya to her own devices.

Vanya ducks into the armory, looking both ways before dashing in and between the rows of gleaming metal shapes that she can barely make out in the dark but could attach a name to in a heartbeat. She reaches a tentative hand out to touch a spare breastplate hung on the wall, eyes wide, when someone clears their throat behind her.

Vanya turns, and dark eyes bore through the darkness. A white smirk flashes down at her, and she backs slowly toward the door.

“I’m sorry, your highness, I was just - looking.”

“Wait!” the prince calls out quickly, a hand outstretched. “Don’t go - I’m not - I’m not upset.” She hesitates, wary, and he steps closer. “What were you looking at? The armor?”

Vanya nods. “That’s - that’s good. Knowledge of weaponry.” The prince scratches the back of his head, eyes shifting around. “That's useful. For a knight.”

“Right,” she agrees, and he smiles, oddly gentle, as if he’s afraid she’ll shy away and bolt. “Was your nose alright?” she asks after a moment, inspecting what she can make of his face. It looks alright, with no bruising or deformations, and his grin only grows sharper.

“It was fine.”

“That’s good, your Highness.”

“Five.”

“What?”

“It’s Five,” he says. “Only the servants and visiting nobles call me your Highness, and it gets awfully formal after a while.” Vanya cocks her head.

“I am a servant.” After another significant pause, “your Highness.” She gives him a short courtesy, eyes on the ground, and hurries past him and out of the armory.

From then on, it seems that she can’t get rid of him. He doesn’t catch her in the courtroom, but everywhere else, from the stables to the kitchens, she thinks she catches him lingering in her peripheral, ducking out of sight before he becomes tangible. It’s his castle, so he can go wherever he wishes, but Vanya would really appreciate it if he’d only leave her alone and put her out of her misery - she hasn’t been sent to the stocks, but when his face lights up after running into her on the stairs, she hurries away anyway.

Five finally catches her climbing an apple tree near the woods, and she knows that he had to have ventured out on his own - he has no escort, not even a manservant with him, and from the way he was craning his head, it was clear that he was looking for something. Seeing as he’s the crown prince, Vanya thinks, it probably wasn’t apples.

“I can see up your skirts,” he calls up to her in that unabashed way of his, demonstrating a devastatingly poor choice of wording that he won’t grow out of for a long while. “You should be careful, you never know who could be walking by,” Five tells her helpfully.

“It’s a tall tree,” she says defensively, readjusting her footing. Five only regards her skeptically.

“Rapists can climb,” is his response, and she can only gape down at him, bemused and startled by his impropriety. What a weirdo, Vanya thinks.

He finds her again by the creek, and she ends up pushing him in. After he doesn’t resurface for a good minute, Vanya jumps in herself, horrified, wading through murky water and shouting his name.

It’s a mistake, and she finds herself wishing that she’d killed the crown prince after all, when he only grabs her wrist and pulls her further into the water, laughing all the while.

They return to the castle covered in mud, half-drowned and extremely pleased with themselves.

King Reginald was not pleased, and the rest of the servants weren’t either, due to the tracks of mud painting the corridors.

He’s started training with the actual knights, and the next day, Vanya pulls him into the grasses and demands that Five show her everything he learned.

Five gives her an empty scabbard, promises he’ll get a sword next time, and she hands him fresh bread swiped from the kitchens. She’s good at sneaking around unnoticed, particularly at night - recently, she’s noticed a change. Vanya has more energy at night, like the moon gleams brighter, like the sounds of the dry grass dancing under the sky get louder, like the wind turns sweet and speaks to her.

It feels like magic, sometimes, but she doesn’t mention this to Five. Magic is outlawed, anyway, and Five may be Five, but she’s still a servant, and magic is still punishable by death.

The next week passes, and her thirteenth birthday passes along with it.

He finds her on the surface of the lake, drifting along on her back. The pale veneer of her small clothes cling to her like a second skin, and she looks nearly drowned, with her eyes closed, a white body against the dark of the lake. She’s a lovely, half-dead creature, and he doesn’t want to pull his eyes away from her, but he does, if only for propriety’s sake.

“What are you doing, swimming alone at an hour like this?” he calls down instead, and her eyes snap open, startled. Vanya twists around, losing her careful buoyancy and slipping below the surface for just a second - when she comes back up, spluttering, he’s laughing at her.

“It’s one of the Seven Points of Agilities!” Vanya coughs out. “I thought you, of all people, would know about knighthood.” He sobers, for just a moment. Vanya’s dark hair is plastered to her face, and his mouth twitches.

“Women aren’t supposed to know how to swim,” he tells her carefully, rolling his sleeves up to his forearms, looking torn: should he wade in to help her out, or wait for her to clamber up herself? “It’s a sign of witchcraft.”

“Witchcraft!” Vanya exclaims, amazed, but Five only shakes his head.

“If you’re a witch, they’ll have you burned, you know.”

“I’m not a witch,” Vanya hisses. You prat, she nearly adds, but he is the crown prince, so instead she resigns herself to half-heartedly splashing lake water at him.

On Five’s fourteenth birthday, Queen Grace convinces his father to throw a grand celebration. The feast is full of things he loves to eat: game, beef, and pork sit in steaming piles down the tables, and slabs of venison are stacked next to sweet wine. The hall is singing, glowing warm against its stone walls, and Five looks utterly miserable seated at the high table. He catches her by the eye, pouring drinks for the knights, and beckons her over with a finger. Vanya looks both ways and makes her way towards him through the throng of people, hesitant, but just before she reaches him, a voice stops her in her tricks.

“More wine, girl,” one burly knight barks out at her, and she freezes, apologetic. Vanya averts her gaze and turns away. Five frowns.

“It - it felt wrong.” he confesses later.

“What does?” Were my clothes too drab, too plain, even for a serving girl? You’ve already seen me covered in mud, it shouldn’t matter to you, Vanya thinks.

Five’s brow wrinkles, and he speaks slowly, as if he’s working something and his mind is moving faster than his mouth. “Seeing you.” Her heart stutters, then plummets, but he plows on. “You’re all - docile, and quiet, and -” and you won’t look at me, not in the eyes, he doesn’t say, but he means it.

“That’s how I am, Five.” Vanya feels more exposed than she was that day at the lake, smallclothes dripping wet and clinging to her skin, and she cringes at the feeling, gluing her eyes to the floor. “You’re just a servant waving a stick around,” he’d said all those years ago, and even when she’d punched him in the nose and run away, she knew even then, deep down, that he was right. “That’s what I am,” Vanya finishes in a whisper. Except when I’m with you.

Five doesn’t look like a boy anymore, he looks like he’s going to become a man.

“Maybe someday a frog will kiss you, and you’ll turn into a handsome prince,” Vanya deadpans one afternoon. He’s escaped his guard, again, and they’re perched on boughs of the apple tree again, passing one red fruit back and forth between them.

“You think?” Five asks, chagrined. Vanya smiles and nudges his shoulder.

“Seeing as magic’s outlawed, that’ll probably never happen,” Vanya says carefully, and feels a rush of relief when he only tips his head back and laughs. He doesn’t look like a boy anymore, he looks like a prince, and the other servant girls giggle about his crown and the broadness of his shoulders and the way he’s shot up like a vine these past few summers, a head above Vanya herself, but her eyes linger on his jaw and his eyes and she marvels at how he’s changed so much and he’ll keep changing, but some things, she prays, will stay the same.

She doesn’t know what he sees when he looks at her, but a part of her hopes that will stay the same, too.

Vanya spends her fourteenth birthday alone and terrified, huddled against the wall of her bedroom.

From the forest, the druids watch.

Aelwen is rising.

On Five’s fifteenth birthday, he participates in his first tournament, armor and everything. He meets her eyes from across the grounds as servants secure his helmet, and even after the visor flips to obscure his face, she can still feel his gaze.

Vanya watches him from the stands and ignores the way her heart rises in her chest when one knight gets in a lucky hit, sending a mace crashing into Five’s chest. Five hits the ground and Vanya screams, and the crowd shouts with her, outraged, but he’s back on his feet in a second despite his smashed breastplate.

“I never got a favor,” he tells her later, after he’s subdued his opponent and rests in his tent, waiting for the next round and sweating like a dog in his armor. Vanya’s just a servant tasked with bringing the crown prince water, but he looks up to her anyway, reaching up for the pitcher.

Vanya hands it to him, watches as he drinks straight from the rim, water dripping over the sides of the pitcher, down his jaw, and into the neck of his armor.

“Just for luck, then,” Vanya murmurs, pressing her plain white handkerchief into the hand of his gauntlet.

He smiles.

“You’re getting betrothed?”

“Not yet. It’s...in the works. Her name is Dolores - oh, don’t give me that look. She’s well-read, respectful, and an incredible dancer. She also comes with a large plot of land and wealth, and Father - what?”

“What else do you know about her?”

“I just gave you a list, Vanya.”

“She’s an asset to the court. Beyond that, you make it sound like she’s a doll, like she comes with - with benefits, instead of character traits. Does she have a personality? Dreams? Hopes? Fears?”

“I - well, I don’t suppose I've ever asked,” he says, taken aback.

“She’s been staying here for three months.”

“I’m busy.” Five says with a shrug. Busy with you, he doesn’t say. Vanya plucks at the strings of his latest gift: a violin made of pale wood, a foreign gift he’d never himself had use for but kept because he could appreciate the music it made - he’d just never had time to learn it.

“Too busy to spend time with a potential queen?”

Prince Five doesn’t marry Princess Dolores. Dolores, having her own hopes, dreams, and fears, doesn’t mind all that much, and the next week passes easily.

“It’s the last of the agilities,” he murmurs against her ear. Vanya pulls back from his grasp to look at him, puzzled.

“What?” It’s well into the evening, and Five doesn’t usually stop making sense to Vanya until mid-morning, at least.

“Dancing.”

Oh Vanya, asks the moon, since when are you a romantic?

Since always, she replies.

Vanya’s gathering roots when she meets someone in the forest that isn’t Five.

“There a prophecy, you know. A lot of them, actually,” the boy tells her. His eyes are lined with kohl, and his hair is a mess, but his solemn face is both dignified and kind. The boy is skinny and covered in a black cloak made of gleaming feathers. His name is Klaus, and he speaks of the future. He speaks of death.

“Death?” she whispers.

“I see it. I know it.” Klaus taps his temple, and smiles at her. “You can, too.”

“I don’t understand,” Vanya pleads. It’s a lie, but the dread in her voice isn’t, and Klaus only kindly shakes his head at her.

“The moon is rising, and so is Aelwen, the White Witch prophesied to free the druids from their exile and lead the Six Kingdoms into its Golden Age.”

“I’m just an ordinary servant.” Vanya insists, but Klaus only takes her by the hand and gestures upwards toward the gleaming moon and back to her hand, which is white in the dark, ethereal against his own flesh. Her eyes widen; she’s seen opals and diamonds and all sorts of finery, but she’s glowing.

“Aelwen, you’re extraordinary,” Klaus says, and for one moment, Vanya believes him. It’s fleeting, but it’s enough.

“Five!” she calls, and it travels through the courtyard as if carried by the wind itself. From the distance, Five whips around and looks up, craning his neck to squint at her in the heat. I’m going to miss you, she says with her eyes, but she only smiles and waves.

He waves back.

Hope, Vanya knows, lives on the same road as Despair.

On Vanya’s fifteenth birthday, someone tries to kill the king, and Vanya hones in on the sound of the dagger whipping through the air to send it right back at the assassin, embedding it in their chest. King Reginald is alive, but his glass monocle cracks down the middle, a result of the blast of energy Vanya releases into the air, built purely from sound.

The monarchy is saved, and a witch is set to burn at dawn.

“You lied to me.”

Silence.

“How long, witch?”

“Not for long.” I promise.

“‘Not for long’?” The words are spat through the bars of her prison with a broken kind of fury, and she flinches. “What does that even mean? Why wouldn’t you - was any of that real? The entire time, were you - did you -”

“I saved his life!”

“You lied to me!”

“Of course I lied, you prat! You were my best friend, and you were perfectly content with me as a servant, but suddenly I’m not, and now - now you’re going to kill me.” She glares up defiantly at him in the darkness, face lit by the torches.

The flames burn smoothly, warping the line of her jaw and illuminating the gleam of her eyes, which are glinting - not supernaturally, he realizes, but with tears. He looks back at her through the bars of the cell from where he’s sunk against the floor again, looks at her free anger, sees her finally set ablaze, and wonders who’s truly imprisoned.

Five closes his eyes for a moment, imagines dawn breaking the sky, Vanya’s head rolling across the courtyard, eyes unblinking. He envisions her waterlogged corpse, waxy and painted with veins that creep up her face like vines, drowned by a barrel. He sees her engulfed on a pyre, her screams rising into the sky like the shriek of birds fleeing to the west.

The Prince will pursue her on horseback - she is an escaped prisoner, after all and a dangerous witch to boot. He’ll take some of his best men, from Sir Luther with his legendary strength, to Sir Diego, one of the most skilled knights in the land. He’ll search for weeks, because a witch hunt doesn’t end easily. She must’ve used witchcraft, the sorceress, because there was no open window for her to escape from, not unless someone handed her the keys to her cell door and ushered her through the hidden tunnels of the castle and away to freedom.

You told me once that I was just a servant girl, and I would always be just a servant girl, she thinks, and waits for some vindictive pleasure to surge up inside her (because he was wrong, and all she’s ever wanted to do was to prove him wrong, just once, and there’s no moment more opportune than this). It doesn’t come.

(It was a long time ago.)

Klaus takes her hand, firm but not unkind, and gently pulls her away, until they’re running, tearing through the long grasses and towards the woods, and they begin to recede into the darkness of the trees, and the castle becomes but a shape in the distance. Before the forest closes its arms and takes her, though, Vanya tugs from Klaus’s grasp and whips around for one last look - this glimpse, of the kingdom where she fought and nearly burned (and very nearly, very possibly fell in love), will have to last her.

She turns to take the plunge, a white shadow against the trees.

It will be a long three years.

King Reginald dies quietly, without a fuss, an incredible feat for a man so cruel. He’d be rolling in his grave, though, if he knew of the prophecies that were whispered throughout the kingdom, of the Druid uprising, led by their own prophesied princess, Aelwen, the White Witch. The ban against magic was lifted within the second year after King Reginald’s death, and ever since, signs of magic and its people have evaded the borders of the kingdom. She’s coming for the kingdom, whisperers the baker. She’s not here to attack, says the midwife. She comes to avenge, the blacksmith suggests. No, confides the wise man, she comes to unite.

They meet just outside the borders of the kingdom, within the green outskirts of the King Five’s reign. The tall dry grasses sing and dance around them, and he takes in her proud, dark eyes, small mouth, heavy, dark hair, and white cloak draped over her small shoulders. He drinks it up like a dying man.

“I request an audience,” the Sorceress says, “with the king of these lands.”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” the King says, and leads them to his horse.

“At night,” the King says slowly, “I dream. I dream about the future. Do you know what I see?”

“No.”

“The sun hasn’t set yet, you know. I could still have you burned.” Five suggests.

Vanya tilts her head, considering, then nods solemnly. “You could,” she concedes.

“But…?”

“But I am extremely powerful. I could kill your kingsguard and set your entire kingdom ablaze before you even had the chance to gather wood for the pyre,” Vanya confesses, and Five crosses his arms.

“Ah.”

“And, of course, burning me would nullify any impending treaty. My people are rather averse to witch burnings.”

“Are they, now?”

“We’re very progressive these days.”

“It’s a good thing, then, that I am too.”

“It’d also look rather bad on your part, having been crowned merely days ago, pledging to start a reign of peace and tolerance, to immediately start another decade-long war.”

“Indeed, it would. I am so fully committed to decades of peace, in fact, that I am appalled that you would even suggest such a thing.”

Vanya turns to the window, to the courtyard below. The sun washes the pavement yellow, illuminating the bustling crowd like an open field of dry grass. “Anything else?”

“I’ve also been told that I’m a huge prat,” Five says mildly, and leans down to press his mouth to hers.

She kisses him back soundly, as if in agreement.

end

Seven Points of Agilities” – riding, swimming and diving, shooting different types of weapons, climbing, participation in tournaments, wrestling and fencing, long jumping and dancing – the prerequisite skills for knighthood

I know nothing about medieval times. This was strongly inspired by Merlin and The Swan Princess, so historical accuracy? Who is she?

Aelwen, “fair browed” in Welsh

@maradeur thanks for the ask, and sorry for taking literally a month to respond. I have a few more prompts and I do intend to get to all of them, I just want to explore them properly, and I’d feel bad giving some prompts 2k words and background research and other ones like, half a paragraph, but I do read all of them and love everyone who asks so keep it up y’all

[creepypasta-fandom-is-trash]

what is your origin story for EJ

Well…it was something like this….

Warm sun glows and glitters down onto the small boy’s head. His little knees tucked up close to his stomach, leaving only enough room for the comically large book resting in his lap. A tiny pair of glasses slip slowly down the child’s nose as his blue orbs race across the page.  Small black frames contrasting wildly against his ivory colored skin and glassy eyes. Little brown curls dance down Jack’s forehead as the wind brushes softly against his frame. The scent of grass and wildflowers engulfing the boy as he frantically consumes the contents of the book under his hands.

“ In summary, the cornea is the clear, transparent front covering which admits light and begins the refractive process. It also keeps foreign particles from entering the eye,” Jack mumbles as he reads, the medical textbook weighing down his miniscule body as he squirms in place. The bark of an old oak tree scratches at the boy’s back through his red t-shirt, but that hardly bothers the freckly kid.

“Jack???” A deep, soft voice calls out from a distance “Jack, where are you??” Upon hearing his father’s voice, the boy curls up tighter in his spot, and tries to hide between the covers of the book. Heavy footsteps approach rapidly from behind him, soft worried huffing following. The sight of his father’s blue jeans out the corner of his eyes causes Jacky to shrink up further.

“I’m not here,” He whispers feebly, trying with all his 7-year-old might to hide from his father.

“Jack, what on earth have I told you about taking my textbooks?” his father crouches down besides him.

“That these are very expensive,” Jack mumbles.

“And?

"And you don’t want to lose me….” A shameful flush crosses the boy’s cheeks. “That’s right Jay,” the father scoops him up effortlessly. Naturally, Jack grumbles and squirms, trying to protest the affection from his father. Because, as all humans know, being loved by your parent is sooooo uncool when you’re in third grade.  

“Dad stop,” the boy growls softly, trying to crawl out of his parent’s arms. A heavy sigh leaves the older man.

“One day you'lml wish you had a dad around,” he hums

“Never!” the midget whines.

“Wanna bet?”

“yeah, five bucks!”

Apparently to Jack, five dollars is prime real estate.

“Alright kid. I’ll take you up on your offer….”

A soft gasp escapes Jack’s soft pale being as he jerks up in bed. Papers fall from his messy covers and scatter onto the floor with a dramatic flutter. Panting, Jack runs his hands through his wild mane of near-black hair, trying to will away the cold sweat running down his back. Despite his thin t-shirt, the poor man feels both ridiculously hot and frighteningly cold at the same time.

A sense of throbbing loneliness crosses over Jack as he turns his gaze over to the dark nightstand to his left. A series of small knick knacks lay scattered about. A half-solved rubik’s cube, some broken pens, a picture of mom and dad…A small alarm clock on the desk reads off five-o-clock a.m. The red glow of the little numbers hardly registers in the mind of the man as he sleepily tries to gather himself together.

“Ugh,” Jack grumbles, slipping out of the bed and searching meekly for his clothes. A huff comes from his bunkmate, the weed-scented teen rolling over in his fitful sleep.  Cringing, the spindly man slips into his clothes and snatches his backpack off the floor.

“Keep it down,” groans his buzzed roommate. his gastly complexion obvious as he grabs his blanket and drowns his himself in it.

“Shut up grassyass,” retorts the scholar as he angrily storms from the tiny dorm. The halls glow dimly with lights plugged into the wall,  just enough lighting to allow those drunk and late-working students to return to their dorms with semi-accuracy. Jack’s time-worn shoes thump against the floor clumsily as  he traverses this strange area. Of course the day wont be of any particular excitement. And Jack is very much aware of this trivial fact. And it is in his mind something else to not care about. His mind is on the schedule.

“Advanced Anatomy, Chemistry 104, Med lab no. 2….” Mumbling is what brings Jack comfort as he walks down the many flight of stairs to his earliest classes. Though mumbling is probably an issue when it comes to paying attention to the hallways.

“fuck,” grunts a random student walking down the halls, his shoulders slumped and head cast downward.

“pardon?” Jack hums, turning back to the stranger to see if he is okay.

“You should have bumped into me,” the freak grunts “It would have been a life saver.” And with that, the stranger rushes off, his face pointed to the end of the hallway as if it were an angel sent from heaven. Confusion fills the poor college student as he watches the freakish man stand at the end of the hall.

“what?…” Jack mumbles, slowly turning and rushing away from the teen.

Despite not seeing the strange student again for the rest of the morning, Jack can’t help but feel watched, The burning gaze of unseen eyes trailing along his shoulders and head as he walks briskly around campus.

The warm spring air felt suffocating against his neck as he meandered among the lazy old spruce trees and mildly exhausted students. Nothing felt better than a blast of cool air inside the main recreation center attached to the cafeteria. Sitting inside, the young man munches disdainfully on a sub sandwich, his back hurting from hours of hunching over papers. Softly, as if it were merely from a dream, a soft song begins to play from Jack’s backpack. It’s an old jingle on the piano, one that his mother used to play when he wouldn’t go to bed at night. Quickly snatching his phone from the bag, he answers.

“Hello?” grumbles the student, “who is this?

”“who is this?” Jests a familiar deep voice “Jeez kid I didn’t think you’d forget me like this.” A soft rush of shame crosses Jack’s body as he wiggles awkwardly in his spot.

“Sorry dad,” he hums “I guess I’ve just been on edge all day…”

“I should expect so,” His father replies with pride “My boy is getting his PhD in neurosurgery next month! At the age of twenty-hecking-four!” A blush covers Jack’s freckly face as he looks away from  his fellow students.

“Dad…” He grumbles “C'mon it’s no that big of a deal” A scoff comes from the speaker.

“Not that big of a deal my ass, your mother and I are counting down the days until we get to be there for your graduation!!” Warmth blossoms in Jack’s chest as he listens to his father blabber on about his accomplishments.  The other students cast him strange looks as they pass by, his awkward form curled up on the floor blushing and listening to his phone. Sadly checking the time, Jack reluctantly clears his throat.

“Dad, I need to go to my next lab,” Jack interrupts, awkwardly packing his things together.

“Okay kiddo,” his father chuckles in return

“We love you, kid.”

“love you too dad.”

Worrying is never a good idea, when it comes to issues it is best to merely assess your options and acquire the tools necessary to fix it. The solution to many problems is just a walk in the park. Or in this case, a walk in the forest. Soft moist earth is crushed easily under Jacks worn red sneakers as the tired boy meanders through the hiking trails by the campus. Old birch and oak trees sway and dance in the light wind. Jack’s favorite thing about being in the woods is the seclusion.

Cool breezes rush over his head and tousle his hair as he meanders down the trail. Finally, after a day of racing around and avoiding the eyes of unseen watchers, it’s nice to relax. With each step Jack finds himself more relaxed, more relieved from his fears.   The sun creeps down behind the distant hills, the crickets calling out to each other as the world around them darkens. Owls hoot and holler from their perches on the treetops, breaking the peaceful silence. Soft bubbling of a nearby creek bringing a small smile to Jack’s face. Turning his head, the exhausted college students note several people in a clearing surrounded by heavy bags and random items.

"Campers?” Jack mumbles “on a Tuesday??” confusion fills the man’s chest as he slowly meanders away from the rapidly darkening clearing. Probably just a bunch of stoners, its not uncommon for kids like that to hide out in the forest to hide the smell of their smoke. Nonetheless, the sapphire-eyed man shuffles further into the forest.

Eventually, the sun does set, and the night takes hold of the forest. And, being a man with poor directional skill, Jack finds himself hopelessly lost. Confusion absolutely consumes the tall sleepy man as he paces confusedly in a small clear patch within the forest.

“Hey man, what are you doing here?” A voice cuts into Jack’s worried meandering. Looking up, Jack’s eyes meet dirty blue ones. A dark-haired guy a few years younger than him with bushy sideburns on his cheeks and a tattered old jacket covering his frame.

 "I’m lost,“ Jack replies, nervously rubbing the back of his head "Could you point me back towards my college? Faraday University?” The strange, tired-looking man points down a random trail.

“That way…” He grumbles “It’s best not to come to these parts right now, kid.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m older than you, bub,” Jack chuckles, shoving his hands into his pockets “But thanks!” the man adjusts his tan jacket and huffs, shaking his head.

“Jeez,” the stranger mumbles “Richard would love you.” Confused, Jack casts the strange man a soft scowl before racing off down the trail.

“weirdo…” Jack grumbles as he stumbles head first into a projectile rock.

Thunk

Pain thumps through Jack’s head as he wriggles on the ground. A soft trickle of blood racing down his forehead as he squirms. The sensation of rough rope around his ankles and wrists squeezes and tugs at his soft pale skin. Slowly, Jack opens his eyes, the blaring light from flashlights surrounding him.

“He is awake” hums one of the hooded people standing to his right “Prepare the tools.” reality comes crashing back down onto Jack as he looks around. The rope bites down into his skin and causes his wrists to bleed, panic fills his chest like ice water and sweat races down his neck. Arms and legs held apart by rope, Jack yanks and struggles violently against his bindings. A choked sob escapes his throat as two cloaked individuals kneel by his head.

“Hush now,” whispers a soft, feminine voice “This is for the good of the world.” Pure excitement shakes in the young woman’s voice as she places her hands on Jack’s forehead, coating her delicate fingers in crimson as she forces him to lay flat on the ground. A second person pries open Jack’s mouth and jaws with their fingers, not minding the harsh bites they received from the pale kidnappee. Forcing a strange metal contraption into Jack’s mouth, the hooded freak forces the young man’s jaws to be held in place by the mechanism. Soft fearful wails escaped Jack’s maw as he tries to struggle. “Help…” He thinks desperately, his throat growing hoarse from yelling. A third person approaches, sitting on his chest and preparing a metal spike in their hands. Pressing the tip of the spike onto Jack’s front teeth, the stranger pulls a mallet from their cloak. Fear-laced tears bubble out of Jack’s eyes as he wails helplessly.

CRACK

A pain-filled scream escapes the poor college student as the spike snaps his front teeth. Blood fills Jack’s mouth as he gurgles and writhes in place. The spike is placed close to his molars.

CRACK

CRACK

CRACK

Horrible screams leave Jack’s mouth, the urge to vomit rising as his tongue is coated in his mutilated teeth shards and blood. Quickly, the metal bit is moved from his jaws and the hooded figures back off. As soon as they do so, Jack heaves and vomits onto the ground beside his head.

“Help me!” He screams “Please! Someone! Anyone!” Slowly, the cult around him begin to dig, burying their hands into the earth and flinging clods of muck everywhere. A large circular moat forms around Jack, his body sore and filthy form. Blood trickles down from Jack’s mouth as he heaves and sobs softly. With some hesitation, Jack closes his eyes to shield himself from the scene. “Mom…Dad…” Jack’s mind wanders in a pain-induced stupor “I’m so sorry…” Hands grab and tug at his shoes and arms, the stranger tugging at his fingers and yanking off his socks.  

“I love you both so much”

A metal piece is shoved under his right thumbnail, prying up his nail and yanking it off.

“I wish I could have made you proud of me”

Pliers meticulously remove his toenails, the sickening cracking and snapping of his skin and nails ringing out like gong strikes.

“I wish I could come home”

Soon, his fingernails are gone, the pain pulsing up his arms and legs as blood gushes wildly from his hands.

"I wish I could be there…”

With all of his nails removed, Jack opens his eyes feebly, noting the hot ring of soon-to-be fire in the trench. But this discovery is hardly  important as Jack’s head is forced to face the sky. Soft chanting emits from the strangers around him, soft rhythmic chanting from a language that Jack has never really heard like this.

“Thank you,” Whispers a soft, delicate voice from his right “You will make a mighty fine vessel for our lord.” faint confusion fills Jack’s body as he stares up into the starless, moonless night sky.

Suddenly, the metal spike returns, pushing in between his eyelid and eye and digging into the socket. A fresh volley of pained screams escape from Jack’s mouth as the eyelid is stretched wider. A scoop-shaped something pushes up underneath his eyeball, forcing the delicate skin to the sides of his eye to rip open and bleed profusely. Pain pulses through his skin and bones as a wild, animal-like wail fills the air. Soon, with another sharp burst of pain, all sight fades away from Jack’s right eye. A soft, disgusting slurping sound can be heard over the ringing in Jack’s ears. With his one working eye, Jack sees the beautiful blue form of his right eye being dropped into a small jar.

The chanting grows ever louder as a final hooded figure stands over Jack’s legs, straddling his thighs and forcing him to be immobile.  With his attention focused on the new hooded cultist, Jack hardly notices the tugging of his left eyelid until the bloody spike is shoved into it. A pained wail is all that Jack can manage as the man standing above him readies what looks to be a large sledgehammer. The scoop comes under his left eye and the familiar sensation of skin tearing by his eyes comes again.  

Just as the scoop tears out Jack’s left eye, the man swings the sledgehammer down into his right hip like a wrecking ball.

C R A C K

A violent scream of pain fills the air as Jack’s tailbone snaps, his body flooding with intense pain. The urge to vomit rises up again, yet Jack can’t gather the strength to move, his body broken by the horrible things that have happened. Footsteps indicate that the cult is stepping back.

“ пожалуйста, ребенок, открой себя нашему хозяину” someone in the group grumbles, stepping closer and kneeling down by Jack’s head. Slowly, the group begins to chant softly.

“ восхвалять повелителя , восхвалять повелителя , восхвалять повелителя ,восхвалять повелителя  ,восхвалять повелителя….”

And with the finality of a mother whispering softly to their baby, the woman kneeling by Jack’s head murmurs into his ear.

“Chernobog.”

Confusion was short-lived with Jack as his eyelids are pried open and scalding hot liquid is poured inside. The smell of singed flesh and hair filling the air along with the foul stench of tar and brimstone as the liquid in his eye sockets pool down and out from between his eyelids.  Pain, anguish, fear,  no longer is Jack able to comprehend the world around him as the shock sets in. And the world goes black…