#elen’s garden

[elen-aranel]

i saw a mouse in the garden this afternoon. i told it if I were a cat it would be toast

[greenwitchcrafts]

May 2024 witch guide

Full moon: May 23rd

New moon: May 7th

Sabbats: Beltane-May1st

May Flower Moon

Known as: Bright Moon, Budding Moon, Dyad Moon, Egg Laying Moon, Frog Moon, Hare Moon, Leaf Budding Moon, Merry Moon, Moon of the Shedding Ponies, Planting Moon, Sproutkale, Thrimilcmonath & Winnemanoth

Element: Fire

Zodiac: Taurus & Gemini

Nature spirits: Elves & Faeries

Deities: Aphrodite, Artemis, Bast, Cernunnos, Diana, Frigga, Flora, Horned God, Kali, Maia, Pan, Priapus & Venus

Animals: Cat, leopard & lynx

Birds: Dove, Swallow & Swan

Trees: Hawthorne & rowan

Herbs: Cinnamon, dittany of Crete, Elder, mint, mugwort & thyme

Flowers: Foxglove, lily of the valley & rose

Scents: Rose & sandalwood

Stones: Amber, Apache tear, carnelian, emerald, garnet, malachite, rose quartz, ruby, tourmaline & tsavorite

Colors: Brown, green, orange, pink & yellow

Energy:  Abundance, creative energy, faerie & spirit contact, fertility, intuition, love, marriage, material gains, money, propagation, prosperity, real-estate dealings, relationships & tenacity

May’s Flower Moon name should be no surprise; flowers spring forth across North America in abundance this month!

• “Flower Moon” has been attributed to Algonquin peoples, as confirmed by Christina Ruddy of The Algonquin Way Cultural Centre in Pikwakanagan, Ontario.

May’s Moon was also referred to as the “Month of Flowers” by Jonathan Carver in his 1798 publication, Travels Through the Interior Parts of North America: 1766, 1767, 1768 (pp. 250-252), as a likely Dakota name. Carver stayed with the Naudowessie (Dakota) over a period of time; his expedition covered the Great Lakes region, including the Wisconsin and Minnesota areas.

Beltane

Known as: Beltaine, May day, Roodmas & Cethsamhain

Season: Spring

Symbols: Eggs, faeries, fire, flowers & maypoles

Colors: Blue, dark yellow, green, light pink, orange, red, white yellow & rainbow spectrum

Oils/Incense: Frankincense, lilac, passion flower, rose, tuberose & vanilla

Animals: Bee, cattle, goat & rabbit

Mythical: Faeries

Stones: Bloodstone, emerald, lapis lazuli, orange carnelian, rose quartz & sapphire

Food: Beltane cakes, cherries, dairy foods, farls, green herbal salads, honey, meade, nuts, oat cakes, oats, strawberries & sweets

Herbs/Plants: Almond, ash tree, birch, bramble, cinquefoil, damiana, frankincense, hawthorn, ivy, meadowsweet, mushroom, rosemary, saffron, satyrion root, St.John's wort & woodruff

Flowers: Angelica, bluebell, daisy, hibiscus, honeysuckle, lilac, marigold, primrose, rose, rose hips & yellow cowslips

Trees: Ash, cedar, elder, fir, hawthorn, juniper, linden, mesquite, oak, pine, poplar, rowan & willow

Goddesses: Aphrodite, Areil, Artemis, Cybele, Danu, Diana, Dôn, Eiru, Elen, Eostre, Fand, Flidais, Flora, Freya, Frigga, Maia, Niwalen, Rhea, Rhiannon, Var, Venus & Xochiquetzal

Gods: Baal, Bacchnalia, Balder, Belanos, Belenus, Beli, Beltene, Cernunnos, Cupid, Faunus, Freyr, Grannus, The Green Man, Lares, Lugh, Manawyddan, Odin, Pan, Puck & Taranis

Issues, Intentions & Powers: Agriculture, creativity, fertility, lust, marriage, the otherworld/Underworld, pleasure, psychic ability, purification, sensuality, sex/uality, visions, warmth & youth

Spellwork: Birth, Earth magick, healing, health & pregnancy

Activities:

• Create a daisy chain or floral decorations

• Decorate & dance around a Maypole

• Set up an outdoor altar & leave offerings to faeries

• Prepare a ritual bath with fresh flowers

• Light a bonfire or candles & dance around them

• Set aside time for self care

• Gather flowers & use them to decorate your home or altar

• Prepare a feast to celebrate with friends/family

• Make flower crowns

• Bake bannocks, oat cakes or cookies

• Hang wreaths decorated with ribbons & flowers

• Plant flowers in your garden

• Start a wish book/box/journal

• Go on a walk & gice thanks to nature⁸

• Cast fertility or a bunch spells

• Fill small baskets of flowers & small goodies, then leave them on your friends/neighbors doorstep as a gesture of goodwill & friendship

Beltane is mentioned in the earliest Irish literature and is associated with important events in Irish mythology. Also known as Cétshamhain ('first of summer'), it marked the beginning of summer & was when cattle were driven out to the summer pastures. Rituals were performed to protect cattle, people & crops, and to encourage growth. (Today, Witches who observe the Wheel of the Year celebrate Beltane as the height of Spring.)

Special bonfires were kindled, whose flames, smoke & ashes were deemed to have protective powers. The people and their cattle would walk around or between bonfires & sometimes leap over the flames or embers. All household fires would be doused & then re-lit from the Beltane bonfire.

These gatherings would be accompanied by a feast, and some of the food and drink would be offered to the aos sí. Doors, windows, byres and livestock would be decorated with yellow May flowers, perhaps because they evoked fire.

In parts of Ireland, people would make a May Bush: typically a thorn bush or branch decorated with flowers, ribbons, bright shells & rushlights. Holy wells were also visited, while Beltane dew was thought to bring beauty & maintain youthfulness.

• The aos sí (often referred to as spirits or fairies) were thought to be especially active at Beltane. Like Samhain, which lies directly opposite from Beltane on the Wheel of the Year, this was seen as a time when the veil between worlds was at its thinnest. At Samhain the veil between the worlds of the living & the dead is thin enough that we can connect & convene with our beloved dead, here at Beltane it’s the veil between the human world, and the world of faeries & nature spirits that has grown thin. Offerings would be left at the ancient faerie forts, the wells and in other sacred places in an effort to appease these nature spirits to ensure a successful growing season.

Some believe this is when The Goddess is now the Mother & the God is seen as the Green Man or the wild stag. It celebrates the symbolic union, mating or marriage of the Goddess & God & heralds in the coming summer months. It represents life rather than Samhain on the opposite side of the Wheel of the Year.

Other Celebrations:

• Rosealia- May 23rd

Rosalia or Rosaria was a festival of roses celebrated on various dates, primarily in May, but scattered through mid-July. The observance is sometimes called a rosatio ("rose-adornment") or the dies rosationis, "day of rose-adornment," & could be celebrated also with violets. As a commemoration of the dead, the rosatio developed from the custom of placing flowers at burial sites. It was among the extensive private religious practices by means of which the Romans cared for their dead, reflecting the value placed on tradition (mos maiorum, "the way of the ancestors"), family lineage & memorials ranging from simple inscriptions to grand public works. Several dates on the Roman calendar were set aside as public holidays or memorial days devoted to the dead.

Roses had funerary significance in Greece, but were particularly associated with death & entombment among the Romans. In Greece, roses appear on funerary steles  & in epitaphs most often of girls. Flowers were traditional symbols of rejuvenation, rebirth &memory, with the red & purple of roses & violets felt to evoke the color of blood as a form of propitiation

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

Wikipedia

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

Encyclopedia britannica

Llewellyn 2024 magical almanac Practical magic for everyday living

[doodle-pops]

Hate You, Love You, It's The Same Thing

Curufin x reader

Warnings: none

Words: 1.3k

Synopsis: Curufin can't tell if he hated or loved you, but all he knew was that he felt some attraction towards you.

[Q]: Nai elen siluva omentielva — may the stars shine upon our meeting.

Curufin can’t stand you at all.

The way you smile, or how your eyes crinkle at the corners to produce an extra sparkle in your eyes, the little dimple at the corner of your lips or the way you toss your head back when the joke escalates, or how you would cover your mouth with your right hand—always your right—to hide your smile you once admitted to being embarrassed about; he couldn’t stand you. The longer he looked on, the more agitated he grew—it was the growth in the audience you attracted. Every time you stepped out into public, there was always a crowd, you simply couldn’t have attention on you at all times.

He rolled his eyes when you grew flustered at his older brother's jokes. Maedhros and Maglor, the famously attractive Noldorin Princes. To think that Curufin, after being labelled as a replica of his father would also be considered one of the most handsome elves, was a laughable joke.

Atarinkë. Call me mini father and I don’t even sport a single portion of his looks. If I did, you’d think I would have also attracted many people like him.

He continued to look on as you lifted the wine glass to your lips and took in a deep swig before sighing at the relief you must have felt from suffering a dry throat. All that laughter you had engaged in during the festival, and it wasn’t even nightfall yet. Teleperion was now coming into full bloom, overshadowing Laurelin. He scoffed again. Even Caranthir approached to offer you another glass of miruvórё when he noticed yours reducing; you had all his brothers wrapped around your fingers, and what did you do, flash a smile. Curufin knew that you knew what you were doing, and he hated it.

In fact, it’s not that he couldn’t stand you, he loathed you. Yes, he did.

Huffing and puffing in the deepest corner of the garden, he observed couples stumbling about the ground with unkept clothes, rumpled in areas that spoke of their activities or attempts. Intoxicated he could tell, others merely frivolous, and in his heart, it stung him. It pained him to know that everyone else, even the ones he mocked and considered unappealing and unapproachable were busy being swooned and courted while he remained untouched and unsuited.

Humiliation was not a pleasant and welcoming emotion in the House of Feanor, his father would be quick to inform him to dismiss such feelings. But as much as Curufin attempted to cast it aside, it came crawling back to him like a leach. The sluggish sensation creeping through his veins and pumping its deprivation through his bloodstream forced him to empty his glass and reach for another as a worker made a quick pass through the layout of the grounds.

“Oi, háno! What are you doing sulking all by yourself in a corner? It’s most certainly not like you!” Tyelko’s booming traversed the area, sending shockwaves from his volume of speech. Only Tyelko would ignore his volume and manners, and annoyingly call out his favourite brother without the thought of being counselled.

If Curufin was aggravated, he became infuriated when not only the rest of his brothers cast their eyes upon his shadowed figure, but you. Your kind, sympathetic eyes held his in an unbreakable trance. He felt himself slowly slipping on the ice, but landing on green, luscious grass. He felt himself being transported into a windy field with small rolling hills in the distance, short-kept grass, flowers in their full bloom and radiant abundance and you standing there with the wind in your hair and a gorgeous smile. He could feel how cool the summer breeze was, dancing across his skin and planting kisses as their travel. It was years since the wind had ever felt so divine. As you smiled, there was nectar pouring into his mouth. He couldn't spit it out, even if he wanted to; he didn't want to, he enjoyed the succulent richness of its taste.

He definitely hated you.

“I think he’s broken.”

“I haven’t seen him this lost since we left him in the forest that one time.”

“Think he’s probably drunk?”

“Have you ever seen him drunk?”

Gapping at you the longer your eyes held each other’s gaze, he silently grounded his teeth. He hated you, he chanted, but the butterflies in his stomach and the warmth spread through his skin, starting from his heart sang a different tale. Sharp silver-grey eyes continued to stare, and even you were sucked in the longer your heart swelled. Curufin didn’t know how long he stood there in silence gawking at you, but it was enough to become unconscious to your figure approaching his. The crowded silence had died in the background and his brother’s voices had been shut out the moment you left their company to join his.

You stood before him, shorter than most but tall enough to equate his height. His eyes were still locked onto your figure, not realising that you had already crossed the grounds and stood before him, a foot apart. Curufin was still lost in your world, your paradise, refusing to believe that you truly possessed what he already knew you did. He didn’t want to leave, but he also wanted to upkeep his notorious attitude of being unbothered and disinterested. That thread was growing thinner by the second and his patience becoming precarious the longer he spent time in your presence.

But it took a smile from you and a simple greeting to make him shut down.

“Hello, my prince. Nai elen siluva omentielva.” You greeted politely with a curt bow of your head and your hand extending outwards. The same smile he claimed to hate was accompanied by the greeting. You were angelic, or some deity that did not exist in his world or any other realm; too perfect for him to reach out and embrace.

While he thought of himself as high and mighty for bearing his father’s name and the status of a prince, he felt humbled. The genuineness you held in your eyes stripped him bare of all fear and worries that you would judge his character; the one he fought to uphold in honour of another and not himself. You deserved to be treated with the utmost care.

“G-Greetings,” he stuttered with a slight crack in his voice. His eyes made a rough dart behind you and noticed his brothers all gathered to observe. If you weren’t present, he’d toss his glass of wine on them, but then it would be a waste of good mead.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you…looked lonely and I wanted to ask if you would like a stroll in the garden or nearby the lake?” Why didn’t you say he was staring? He was most obviously staring at you; anyone on the premises could see that he was in fact gawking at you.

His palms grew sweaty, and his throat tightened. He hated you, so why would you with your beautiful wine-stained lips and starry eyes ask to spend time in his company? There was a thump in his heart. His tongue grew slack and spoke what he refused to acknowledge sincerely. “…Yes,” he curtly replied. A rosy blush had spread across his cheeks, and it was not from the wine. The unversed unorthodox feeling flowing through his veins was unlike any other he’d experienced. A whisper or two may have slipped into his ear growing up, but never detailed or spoken about on universal levels such as currently.

Uncoordinated body and trembling limbs reached out for you to take—tales of being a courteous gentleman—and almost accidentally spilling your wine. It was a first step into making a move and rewiring the oxymoron his brain and heart were performing, getting them to be on the same level. But even the prince knew that it was a challenge to accept when he detested and craved you at the same time, and a challenge he adored. You gave him a breath of fresh air and something to look forward to, a love unlike any other he would ever experience.

To hate is to love, they are two sides of the same coin. Ah, yes! He definitely hated you.

Masterlist | Underrated Character Event Masterlist |

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[tigerlyla-of-metinna]

Empress Ciri Visits Beauclair

Ciri: *childlike enthusiasm* Oooh they are so beautiful! *coos* Hey there little fellas!

Emhyr: *chuckles* Ciri, you need to get properly attired for an audience with Anna Henrietta. you can gawk at those fishes later.

Ciri: *whispers* I'm coming back and have you all swimming in my garden pond.

Emhyr: Duchess, I present to you my daughter and heir, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon- Emreis.

Anna Henrietta: Welcome to Toussaint, Your Imperial Majesties!

Ciri: Thank you for your hospitality, Your Grace.

Anna Henrietta: It is an honor to have you visit my kingdom, Princess. I hope that one day we can dispense with the formalities as we are a family. Now, is there anything I can do to make your stay more pleasant?

Ciri: Well, it would be discourteous of me to refuse such an offer-

Emhyr: *internally sighing* Cirilla.

Emhyr: Daughter, you do realize you can just buy the same fishes in the capital.

Ciri: I know, Papa. But I like these better! And I don't have to justify their purchase from the treasurer when I can acquire them for free, and with the Duchess's blessing.

Emhyr: Very cunning of you, daughter. *beaming with pride*

Ciri: These beauties will keep that pretentious carp in the pond company, and if he eats any of them, I'll have that fish served to the city's soup kitchen and they can keep its' medal!

-The End!

A little AU, ficlet (or whatever it's called) for fun. SBUI shots by ning, my captions and edits in PS

[hiddenqveendom]

✎ character profile : PETRONELLA OF CINTRA

❝ petronella elen adalia calanthe, best know as petra of cintra, is the fraternal twin sister of cirilla of cintra. as the mirror of her father, she was often cast out and disfavored in place of her sister. due to this, she became filled with spite and was easily manipulated into joining the cause of the white flame by her friend the court mage, vincen, despite not knowing it’s true meaning. petra is used by emhyr to help track down, ciri...❞

tag list :@erraticrandomficwriter , @jewishbarbies , @sgtbuckyybarnes ,  @decennia , @veetlegeuse, @arrthurpendragon , @raith-way , @scootermcooter , @stanshollaand , @chrissymunson , @foxesandmagic , @eddiemunscns ,  @waterloou , @endless-oc-creations, @kingsmakers, @https-svnshine, @starlit-epiphany, @dyhlanobrien, @fragilestorm , @nolanhollogay , @carmens-garden , @impales , @emilykaldwen, @darkwolf76, @princessmadelines, @iloveocs, @nectarines-rule , @nyra-fireheart , @rebloggingocs , @conaionaru , @eddysocs , @xoteajays

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[fernthewhimsical]

Original Content Masterpost

A masterpost for all original content (I could find) here on this blog. Some of it is old and doesn't really apply to my path anymore, so please be aware of the dates. In no particular order.

Magic and Spells: Enchanted Spoon rack Burnable Spellboxes Spell Sugars How I made Spellcandles LED Spellcandles I LED Spellcandles II Full Moon Powder See the Truth Poppet Spell Binding and Banishing Jar Pride Witchcraft WarWitch Spellbottle Pendant Imbolc Creativity Spell Litha Spell Samhain Remembrance Sigil Samhain Remembrance Spell Stones for the Cosmic Witch Elemental Bottles Reclaiming Sigil Strength Bindrunes Daily Practice with Sigils

Text Posts: Gender in Witchcraft, pt. 1 Gender in Witchcraft, pt. 2 Write your Witchcraft WYW original questions Travel Altar Challenge MTG cards as oracle deck Birthday Magic Fiction as Shadow work The magic of fabrics

Witch Tips: You’re allowed to have pretty things House Candle Holders Enchant your Keys Snow Globe Home Cleansing Spell Recipe Cards Moonwater Washi Tape Candles Baby Blessing (reply) Save your Apple Seeds

Poetry: Stars Moon phases Nehalennia Find Me, Sister (Baduhenna) Wings

Art Grimoire: Moon phases Moons of the Year Star Stuff Perpetual Wheel of the Year the Festivals Elements Make your Mark Altered Cover My Grimoires

Art: Queer Witch Witchy Self Portrait Botanical BOS cover Travel altar miniature Travel altar miniature 2 Altar Hearth Prayer Beads Sleep Spelljar Magic Mirrors Mini Moonstone Runes Imbolc Greeting Card Autumn and Pronoun Pins Galaxy Drum Labyrinth Travel Altar

Deity: Sources of Dutch deities masterpost Fern’s Introduction to Nehalennia Fern’s Introduction to Cernunnos Fern’s Introduction to Baduhenna Fern’s Introduction to Liyesa Deity Bindrunes Nehalennia Candle Shrine Nehalennia Wood Statue Nehalennia Mood Board Baduhenna: Valkyrie or Dutch Morrigan? Offering Bowl Restoration Baduhenna Mood Board Baduhenna Drawing Cernuna? Liyesa Mood Board Stardew Valley Shrines Cozy Grove Nehalennia Shrine Nemetona and Sacred Space Nemetona Mood Board Elen of the Ways Art Page Arcanua, Dutch deity of magic and the dawn? Journey through the Gods (personal) Dutch Deity Oracle Cards

Personal Practice: (mostly photos) Temple Room (wip) Bedside Altar Spooky Story Time! 2019 Wicker Wolf Shell Collection Litha Altar Self Care Altar Ancestor Altar (reply) Old Altar pic Old Altar tour Leiden Botanical Gardens

[Updated Feb 11th 2023)]

[justpostsyeet]

Tindómë ch2

F.A. Year 490

The story of Beren and Lúthien's daring escapade to steal the Silmaril and their encounter with Námo had spread far and wide across Arda. Erestor, however, found it hard to believe that someone like Lúthien could have the audacity to bend the will of Namó. He had never heard his uncle, speak highly of her. Perhaps, he speculated, Lúthien might have bargained Beren's life with the Silmaril, leading Námo to concede. But right now she wear the jewel as necklace as if its some cheap trinket not something that should be worshipped at the altar of Vana herself. That must be the reason behind it all, Erestor thought to himself as he walked towards the library.

Upon his arrival at the library, Erestor noticed his father and his uncle, Curufin along with his other family members having a heated discussion about something related to sneaking into the Girdle of Melian and attacking Doriath. Erestor wished he could be part of the conversation, but he was stopped by herald who politely told him that at the age of 130 he was too young to be in such meeting. He knew he wasn't welcome in such meetings yet. His father just glanced at him giving him a nod and a smile asking him what he wants and helps in finding him the desired book. He shushes him away while continuing their discussion.He bowed to him ans went away with his book. He felt anger that despite his extensive practice with the sword until his hands ached, his knowledge of about everything from medicines to war tactics, he's still made to feel like an outsider among his family.

As Erestor immersed himself in the books, his cousin interrupted him with a mocking remark. "Hey bookworm, don't you have anything else to do than to loiter around the garden?"

Ignoring his cousin, Erestor continued to read, which only seemed to fuel his cousin's taunts. "You know what happened today?" his cousin jeered. "We are getting married."

Erestor looked up, perplexed and disgusted by his cousin's words. "Not both of us to each other, we're marrying females," his cousin clarified, bursting into laughter.

Erestor was annoyed and confused by the conversation. "Can't you say that properly?" he retorted.

"Hah! Watch your tongue," his cousin warned before continuing, "Anyway, there's an alliance to take over Doriath and secure our borders, so we're probably getting married. Unfortunately, we have to marry some Avari princesses, those savage folks. But they do look pretty, don't you agree, Erestor?"

Erestor's confusion deepened, and he didn't want to hear any more of his cousin's nonsensical ramblings, so he walked away, leaving his cousin behind.

Later that night, Erestor was summoned into his father's chamber. He entered, bowing respectfully.

"Good evening, Father," Erestor greeted him.

"Good evening, son," Caranthir replied, looking outside and closing the doors to his chamber. "Listen, I need to talk to you."

Erestor became alert, sensing the gravity of the conversation ahead. "What is it, Father?" he asked.

"I need you to marry this princess," Caranthir said firmly. "I won't let Curufin's son marry her. It would ruin your position if you don't marry."

Erestor's eyes widened in confusion. "But Father, why can't my elder brother marry her?"

Caranthir raised his voice, "He'll marry someone on his level, not some Avarin princess. If I have two sons, I need to put them on two different fronts, don't you think?"

Erestor nodded hesitantly, understanding his father's reasoning.

Caranthir's expression softens "My son i feel the end is near but i refuse to perish . When I took the oath, i promised myself be alive no matter what happens because i love life and i shall have my victory and my life. I'll have what was taken away from and My family will return to peace in a place where always harmony resides and nothing seems out of order." Erestor could feel his father eyes tearing up. Caranthirturned his back to him rubbing his face. He turned again and said to him

"Listen my elen, we need to survive and learn to love and respect others but not trust them completely;these are treachous time you can't trust your shadows enough here." As night went along his father told him many ways of how he could win the heart of avarin royals to win hands of their daughter marriage along with some diplomatic strategies. When Erestor walked out of his father's chamber he realised that his father has never told him the princess name.

The next morning. In the grand hall of their elven stronghold, courtiers from various houses had gathered to discuss the impending political marriage between their people and the Avari. There was heated discussion on who should marry who.

As the discussion veered towards potential candidates for the marriage, Curufin slyly brought up the topic of Erestor. With a subtle smile, he addressed the assembled courtiers, "My lords and ladies, while it is undoubtedly true that we must forge alliances and secure our borders, we must also be cautious about the people we involve in such important matters."

All eyes turned to Curufin, curious to know whom he was referring to. He continued with a hint of malice in his voice, "I speak of my dear brother's son, Erestor. You see, he is not of noble lineage like the rest of us. His birth is... less than honorable, being the offspring of a union between our esteemed brother Caranthir and a mere human concubine."

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the gathering, and Erestor felt his heart sink. The familiar pang of shame and insecurity he had carried for so long resurfaced. He glanced at his father, Caranthir, who appeared visibly distressed at the turn of events.

Curufin pressed on, taking advantage of the moment, "Can we truly trust someone of such dubious background to be part of such a crucial political marriage? Surely, the Avari will not look upon him with respect or regard him as an equal."

As the courtiers nodded in agreement, Erestor felt a weight in his chest. He wanted to defend himself, to speak up and prove that he was more than just the circumstances of his birth. But the words got stuck in his throat, and he remained silent, struggling with a sense of helplessness.

Seeing the doubt in the courtiers' eyes, Caranthir tried to interject, "My brother, Erestor is a loyal and capable young elf. He has proven his worth in various matters and has a keen intellect. I believe he can-"

Curufin cut him off, "Brother, I mean no disrespect, but we must be pragmatic in our approach. It is not about Erestor's abilities; it is about perceptions and the delicate balance of power."

Caranthir's shoulders slumped, and Erestor could see the frustration in his father's eyes. He felt a deep sense of guilt, blaming himself for causing distress to his father and complicating matters.

As the discussion continued, Erestor excused himself from the gathering, feeling a mix of anger and sadness. Caranthir's stoic face soften when he saw exited himself, his father gave him a sympathetic look and a small nod then retirn to his stoic demeanour. He wandered to a secluded corner of the stronghold, feeling overwhelmed by emotions. He knew that his father's love and support were there, but the weight of being seen as an outcast was a burden he couldn't easily shake off.

S.A. 1040

He corrected the error of scribe who thought he can sneak in his opinions on a historical scroll. He had met a lot of them and suffered in hands of lot of them as they dragged his family name down with their imaginary stories written down as historical records. He closes his eyes his brain supplying a fond memories of his father.What is life if not Kaleidoscope of memories that comes to haunt you when you least expect it. Erestor signed, these lore masters don't his father as well as Erestor do. He was a good man under very bad circumstances. There are people who have committed far worse atrocities than him yet either their deeds are forgot or repressed into oblivion. They have made his family monsters on whom they blame all their miseries. He can't fight all of them, he had tried to fight them in the end decided that it's all futile. So, he focused his thoughts on the fond memory rather than painful one. In it his father was not some warrior or a maniac some people saw him but he was a tall protective figure holding his hands and jumping into rain puddle together.

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[shy-blue-blossom]

Protect

Galadriel/Celeborn

Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn were expecting their first child and couldn't wait to hold them. While they were thinking of names, a close friend of theirs had a little boy of their own.

A couple of months later Galadriel had given birth to their little bundle of joy. A nurse came in holding a small bundle of blankets. The nurse went up to Galadriel and placed the bundle into her arms.

"Congratulations, m'lord and m'lady, you have a daughter." The nurse told them.

They looked at the little girl in Galadriel's arms and a smile graced their faces as they saw her sleeping.

Time skip

It had been over two thousand years since then and the little elfling is now a beautiful h/c hair and e/c eyed she-elf. Her name, y/n princess of Lothlórien.

She was reading a book when she heard a song being played for a dear friend of her mother and father.

Gandalf.

Gandalf the grey.

She stood up and made her way down to her parents and saw them talking to Haldir, their friend's son.

"Nana, Ada?" She called to them and they turned to her.

"What's the matter the Iellig?" Celeborn asked her as he walked to her. (My daughter.)

"Why are you playing a song for Gandalf?" She asked them.

Before they could answer an elf came and asked for her and she left with them, but not before kissing her parent's cheeks. As she was following the elf they showed her the gardens, as they needed her help. She thanked the elf and they left her to think of a solution. She didn't notice the elf watching her as she thought of what to do.

"It's been awhile Lady y/n." The elf spoke.

She turned around to see the prince of Mirkwood standing behind her wearing a silver tunic. A smile made its way onto her as she stood up and ran to him. He caught her and hold her tightly s he smiled.

"Meleth nin, how I have longed to see you." The elf told her while pulling back to look at her face. (My love.)

"Me too, a'maelamin Legolas." She said while smiling up at him, her eyes tearing up. (My beloved.)

When they started to fall he kissed them away with gentle pecks. They talked about what they have been doing while apart.

"Meleth nin." Legolas suddenly spoke in the silent gardens. (My love.)

"Yes?" She questioned as she looked at him.

"I am to carry on my journey and before I do, I want to marry you." Legolas started. "I have already got your parents permission, but would you spend the rest of entirety with me? Would you marry me tonight?" Legolas finished as he looked into her eyes.

All that y/n could do was nod her head as tears began to stream down her cheeks as she jumped onto his lap to hug him. Legolas wiped them away as a light voice congratulated them. When y/n turned, she saw her mother and father.

"Ada, Nana, thank you." She thanked them, as they hugged her after she had stood up to hug them.

Galadriel and Celeborn watched them get married. Once they were, they spent the night together and woke up in each other's arms.

"Be careful on the journey and come back to me." Y/n said to Legolas as she helped him get ready to leave.

"I could never leave my one on middle-earth without me next to her." He explained with her face gently in his hands.

She nodded her head as she learned into his touch, with her eyes closed. When she opened them to look up at him, he was watching her with love and admiration. He put his forehead against hers and whispered...

"Gi melin. Uuma dela, av-'Osto. Elen sila lumenn omentilmo. Na lû e-govaned vîn." Legolas told her, which made a small smile make it's way onto her face. (I love you. Don’t worry, don’t fear. A star shell shine on our next hour of meeting. Until next we meet.)

"Gi melin. Aa'menealle nauva calen ar' malta. Tenna' ento lye omenta!" She whispered back. (I love you. May your ways be green and golden. Until next we meet!)

Legolas closed the space between them and gave her a passionate kiss before leaving. When she was left alone, she nearly broke down into tears. But she did not.

Y/n didn't realise someone was knocking at her door as she was to busy inside her head. She only noticed when her father stepped into the room.

"Ada?" She looked at him confused, as he looked at her with concern. "What is the matter?" She asked.

He explained to her that she had been in her room all morning and she had missed breakfast and it was time for lunch. Before he let her leave, he asked her if there was anything wrong. She explained to him that there was nothing wrong and that she had just been thinking about what has happened over the years and yet to come. Celeborn chuckled at that and led her to her mother.

The mother and father protected their daughter and they would kept doing so until their very last breath, they set sail to the undying lands, or she was reunited with her husband.

That is what they did.

When the one ring was destroyed, they took her to Aragorn's coronation to be with her husband. Once Legolas seen her, he had ran up to her and tightly hugged her. Aragorn was introduced to her.

Galadriel, Celeborn and y/n were then told of Haldir fall in battle. Y/n had cried, since she has seen him as an older brother. Galadriel had to take her somewhere else to calm her down,

"Iellig, why are you crying? Do you think your older brother would like that?" Galadriel tried to calm her told and y/n smiled when Galadriel had said Haldir was her brother. (My daughter.)

She shook her head no, then hugged her mother.

"Gi melin, Nana." Y/n whispers to Gardens as she was hugged back. (I love you, mother.)

Soon Celeborn came and found them hugging. He hugged both of them as he kissed their heads.

"Gi melin, Ada." Y/n whispers to Celeborn. (I love you, father.)

"Gi melin, Iellig." Both Galadriel and Celeborn whispers at the same time. (I love you, my daughter.)

The end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Masterlist

[fullfiresiren]

unconquered // 5

[5; iron and blood] [read on ao3]

The morning comes bright and early, breakfast has been plated, and Elen busies herself with tasks to prepare you for the day.

Although your slumber was not free from hauntings of the past, when you awoke from a twisted vision, sheets wrapped around you and forehead damp, you squeeze your eyes shut, and utter the first three things that come to mind – heeding prince Aemond’s advice.

“My dragons,” you whisper. “My parents, my home.”

My dragons.

My parents.

My home.

Dreamless slumber comes quickly after.

“Ah, your grace,” Elen greets, once she notices you’re awake and blinking slowly. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” you mumble, sitting when she brings your food to you.

“Today’s outfit has been laid out for you, your grace,” she explains, fixing your sheets slightly from where your restless slumber has left them twisted. “I thought you would look fine in a soft mauve gown – but if you wish to wear another, I am happy to find one of your--”

“Mauve sounds lovely,” you hum, todays breakfast of finely chopped fruit staring plainly back at you.

Elen takes great care in preparing you in the mornings. Once breakfast is over, she stands by the chair by your vanity – a silent invitation for you to sit – and begins her dutiful work. Combing your hair, braiding your strands, applying creams, makeup, jewellery, lifting you from tired slumber to a royal of the court. She holds your dress for you to step into, ties your corset, fixes minor details, and will not cease her work until she is satisfied that the job has been carried out to the best of her ability.

“There,” she nods, patting out the folds of your gown, “you look wondrous, your grace.”

She is always so kind, you think, smiling, but do not check yourself in the mirror. Something about having to look yourself in the eye feels too much like a betrayal.

“Thank you, Elen.”

The day is young, and you have no prior commitments. Should you visit Archeon? A rebellion if there ever was one – leaving the Red Keep looking an ethereal spirit, returning a ruined spectre. You smirk, thinking of Elen’s thunderous reaction to your messy hair from the skies above, cheeks wind chafed, dress tattered and carrying the strong scent of dragon that won't wash out for weeks. Perhaps you should commission the creation of an outfit solely for dragon riding? Black leather to match your dragon, silver embellishments to guild. Not unlike another in your life.

You smile to yourself as you sit upon the large fabric sofa in your living quarters, thoughts drifting to the one-eyed prince. You wonder what he is doing right this moment, what his thoughts are, if he... thinks of you as you do him.

“The weather today is far too nice for you to spend your time indoors, your grace,” Elen notes, stripping your bed of its sheets to be washed, no doubt. You wonder if she can sense when you have a nightmare by the look in your eyes. You wonder further if she’s trying to get your mind off its thoughts by sending you outside of the confined castle walls. “The sun would do you some good.”

“I suppose you’re right,” you huff, mocking lethargy, and giggling when she gives you a look. “I will away, I will away,” you say promptly, making for the door of your apartments, turning to joke, “least I forget what the outside world looks like!”

Elen’s laughter follows you out, and you greet Ser Erryk politely as you pass.

“You needn't stay here always, ser,” you remind. “I am on my way to the gardens. Please use this time for your own.”

“I am your sworn sword, my lady,” he bows, reminding, “It is my duty to protect and watch over you. May I accompany you there?”

You sigh, his words are not wrong. “You may. I fear Elen will grow worried over our lack of hours spent outdoors.”

“Of course, my lady,” he smiles, and it borders on a smirk.

His presence by your side is a constant companion as you meander through the halls of the Keep towards the gardens, his steps in time with yours. When you reach the boundaries, you stop him.

“Here is fine, ser Erryk,” you utter, glancing up at him. “I’d like to have time alone with my thoughts in the gardens. Perhaps I can even persuade one of the attendants to gift me a flower? It might brighten up my room...”

You’re voicing your thoughts moreso than asking for an answer, and Ser Erryk seems to understand. He gives you a soft look, biding you good day, and returns to the Keep, leaving you standing in the shades of the tall willows.

Despite the early hour, when most of the castle’s residents have only just begun to stir, the workers are already busy tending to their duties, passing you with polite greetings and bows. The morning sun is bright and already arching high, your dress skims the pebbled pathways as you meander at a leisurely pace, hands clasped behind your back, breeze soft, and relaxing.

You realise Elen was right. Being outdoors is very agreeable.

Hidden at the far end of the gardens, secluded from the open, and sheltered behind tall shrubs and flower bushes, is a particularly old tree. The red canopy of its leaves that peak out behind other greenery has caught your eye before – on walks with the prince – and curiosity has gripped you ever since. Now that you are alone, and free to wander where you choose, you cut a path directly towards it.

It sits ancient when you approach, far larger than you initially thought, blood red leaves and pale bark. You halt suddenly in your tracks when you notice a face carved into the trunk, black sap weeping from its eyes like tears. It’s a Weirwood tree, and it makes you uneasy. You don’t understand why.

Shuffling feet and a sweet scent lulls on the breeze, and you realise you are no longer alone, turning your head to see the Princess Helaena making her way towards you. She stops when she sees you, offering up a meek smile, and a small wave.

“Good morning, princess,” you greet, only slightly wary. Your last interaction with her was not the most pleasant for you.

“Good morning, High Lady (y/n),” she returns, and then, the atmosphere grows uncomfortable.

You notice what looks like a book tucked under her arm, and nod to it. “Are you here to read?”

“Ah,” she pulls it out, displaying it for you, “no, it’s a sketchpad. I like to come here to draw... sometimes... when I have the time to...”

There is a beat of silence, and then, you suggest, “would you like to sit with me?”

She seems taken aback, awkward and wobbily, smiling shyly at your offer. You feel a sense of kinship with her – the aloof princess without friends, whom everyone seems to avoid, and yet, there is an air of innocence and purity to her. Like this world is far too cruel and unjust for someone as kind as her.

“I don’t have much company, you see,” you continue, “but I would like to spend time in yours... if it is not too much to ask--”

“Not at all!” she beams, eyes crinkling with happiness. “I have been wanting to talk with you, and grow closer – you are to be my sister soon... and I would love it if we were friends, too.”

Your heart leaps at the statement, and you cannot help but smile. “I would like that very much.”

The two of you sit at the base of the ancient Weirwood tree, shaded by the huge canopy, and the sunlight scatters through the leaves. Princess Helaena is every opposite of her family. Where the Targaryen's stand undefeated with monstrous dragons, she is quiet and shy. Fire and blood giving way to soft waters and rosy cheeks.

“Are you settling into your place at court well?” she asks, picking strands of grass.

“I believe I am. But I must admit, court politics do not agree with me,” you muse, and then, “it makes me feel frightfully out of place.”

She makes a noise, like laughter under her breath. “I agree. I try my best to avoid it whenever possible.”

“I’d much rather spend my time free,” you continue, “on my dragon, in the gardens. Despite wanting to read in my chambers or the library, I have a fear my handmaid would scold me for wasting the day indoors. She enjoys mothering me. I enjoy it, too.”

You laugh, and the princess joins you.

“I feel the same. It is much more liberating to be with the things one loves.”

“And yet, duty is born to be the death of love.”

You say it merely as an offhand comment, and yet, it is strikingly accurate – for both you, and her. She is silent then, her expression turning downcast. You feel it does not suit her.

“Do you spend your time here often?” you ask quickly, “In the gardens? Outside the walls of the Keep?”

She perks up, clasping her sketchpad close. “When I am able, I do. I like being able to see the sky.”

You’ve heard rumours in the passing – it's difficult in a castle this large to avoid them – of the princess Helaena’s quirky personality and odd eccentricities. Her love of the unusual, her great admiration for insects, her odd way of speaking. Snippets and broken pieces of conversations that quickly became hushed upon the notice of your presence foretold the princess being ever strange, and yet, all you are noticing is her gentle openness. She is simply sheltered, as are you.

“I also enjoy small insects,” she continues, holding up her gently clasped hand to reveal a black spider, delicate and thin. “I find them endearing.”

You watch the spider crawl about her palm, as she holds it with care, a small smile about her features.

“I agree,” you nod. Small insects do not phase you when your closest companion is a colossal dragon.

As if sensing your thoughts, she looks up. “Did you claim your dragon?”

“No,” you shake your head, “He was born when I was.”

She looks taken aback suddenly. “But he is so large! ...does he grow fast?”

“Ah, no... I would say he grows as they all do.”

She looks confused, and you take a leap of faith.

“He is as old as I,” you explain, “older than 200. He should be larger, but... the confinement slowed his growth.”

A spell of lilac to seal your fate.

“A spell of lilac to seal your fate,” she whispers, echoing your thoughts. “Hmm. I thought the talk of your age and circumstance were only rumours. I see now they are the truth.”

You look away. “Yes, they are the truth.”

It is her turn to fill the silence now. “I claimed my dragon. Dreamfyre, her name is. She is pale blue and silver – my beloved.”

“Were you as young as your brother when you claimed her...?” you whisper absentmindedly, and only to yourself. Images of a young prince calming the largest female dragon of war fills your vision.

“Not so young,” she murmurs. “Aemond claiming Vhagar was perhaps the proudest moment for my mother and grandfather. Although it came with a heavy price.”

You want to ask about it, press her further for information on the prince, but you feel you are overstepping the boundaries of your fresh friendship, and reserve the question for another day.

A comfortable silence settles, and princess Helaena opens her book to begin sketching, humming a tune to herself as you rest against the trunk of the Weirwood tree. You think about the prince then, and the price he had to pay for claiming Vhagar. Did it have anything to do with his scar, kept hidden beneath the dark leather eyepatch? You wonder if the day will ever come when he shows it to you. Or if it is a source of bitter regret and shame for him – one he hopes to hide away forever. You sigh without thought, and Helaena giggles.

“You sound like my brother.”

“I do?”

“He often makes that noise when he sighs,” she hums, “The two of you are more alike than you think.”

“Hmm.”

She gives you a look, and it’s your turn to laugh now. “I see what you mean.”

Your time spent with Helaena is carefree and light, while she sketches, she speaks about her family, her children, her day-to-day life, and whilst you notice she avoids speaking of her brother, she is not averse to answering questions about him.

“Is he kind?” you ask, fiddling with the details of your gown.

“Not to a great many,” she answers, “but to my mother and I he is,” and then, as an added thought with a poorly hidden smile, “and to you.”

“Does he speak of me?”

“Not often.”

“I see,” you mutter, unable to hide the rejection in your voice.

“It is only because you do not know each other well,” she says. “My brother has never been one to openly talk about his feelings or wishes, but I know he is not opposed to spending time with you. I think that is a good sign.”

You sigh. “Sometimes I feel the prince does not wish to know me... nor cares what I think. I do not resent him for it, though. I understand his situation. It must be terrible to be told who you are to marry, instead of marrying for love. For me, it is no consequence. I am without anyone, so any form of relationship is one I welcome.”

Your words seem to strike deep within her, enough so that she stops sketching for a moment to look up. “He writes you notes, though,” she hums, “Does he not?”

“Notes?” you question.

“Yes,” she continues, the charcoal she is using to draw turning the tips of her fingers a dusty black. “Asking you to meet?”

“Only once.”

“I was with him when he was summoned to walk in the gardens with you. He was belligerent. Refused adamantly until harshly pressed, under the orders of our father.”

The news comes like a harsh slap, and you feel terribly pained, your suspicions given truth.

“But when he returned, he was like a young boy who had tripped over himself. His face was flushed and his hair a mess, like he had been running his hand through it – or running away from something. I can only imagine he did something to embarrass himself. In which case, it seems to me that he cares very much what you think of him.”

You are silent, repeating her words in your mind. It is true that your walk in the gardens ended terribly, with the prince fleeing from your company without ever looking back, but you were not privy to the aftermath. Hearing his reaction now from his sister gives you an entirely different outlook on the situation.

Princess Helaena interrupts your thoughts when she presents her finished work to you with a small smile.

“You look very regal, sitting under the tree, and I couldn’t help myself,” she admits, showing her sketch. “Do you like it?”

You study her art with an air of amazement, looking down at yourself. It is very obviously you, and she has managed to capture your likeness incredibly well. You are gazing off into the distance, a profile shot, leaning back against the Weirwood tree. The light scatters about your dress, and you look heavenly – almost otherworldly.

“Princess, this...” you smile up at her, “is wonderful. You have a gift, it seems. Although, I am not sure I look quite this beautiful.”

“My brother seems to think so,” she mutters, and you almost fail to catch it.

“Your--”

“I think so,” she corrects, beaming at you. “But I’d like to keep this, if that is alright?”

You nod, “Of course! It is your work of art. I wouldn’t dream of parting you from it. I only wish I could sketch like that...”

“Would you like to try?” she offers, turning to a fresh page in her book and handing it to you, along with the stick of charcoal.

You blink down at the objects, and then back at her. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Oh,” she hums, “It is easy. Look, how about this flower?” She picks a small daisy in between you both and holds it up for you to study. “Just try sketching this.”

Not wanting to deny her, you do your best, studying the dainty flower and copying its likeness down onto the rough paper. Your concentration is broken only by another question.

“Do you enjoy sewing?” the princess asks.

You huff a laugh as you try to shade a petal. “Admittedly, I have never tried, princess.”

“Would you like to learn?”

“I would.”

“Then we should sew together, too,” she nods, decidedly.

“There,” you state, triumphant, “I am finished.”

She takes the pad from you and inspects the sketch. It’s nothing compared to hers, and yet, she lights up as if it were. “It is lovely!”

The morning sun has risen high, and despite being under the shade, the summer heat makes you sweat. Without a thought, you wipe your forehead gently, patting your face dry, and dust off your gown. When you look back at the princess, she laughs.

“Oh dear,” she giggles, “you’ve gotten charcoal everywhere!”

What little embarrassment you feel quickly gives way to laughter, when you realise how the simple mistake must make you look awfully dishevelled and silly. Both yourself and the princess are comfortable enough with one another to giggle like young girls at innocent things. You hope a part of you will always stay like this.

“Dear me,” you sigh, standing. “I should fix this mess with haste, less the nobles of court think I am some wayward rebel.”

Strangely, the thought of it does not frighten you.

“Indeed,” the princess giggles, with a bright air of happiness, joking, “you look positively medieval! Whatever can be done about it?!”

“If only I had a lovely handmaid to help me wash and dress,” you smirk, all the way to your eyes, and then, “I hope we will see one another again soon.”

“I’m sure we will,” she confirms, “please find me if you ever wish to spend time together.”

“I shall.”

And with that, you bid her a good morning, and begin your walk back through the gardens, along the corridors of the keep, up flights of stone stairs, until the familiarity of what is now your home becomes stronger, your apartment door revealing itself to you, Ser Erryk standing guard as dutifully as ever.

You notice Elen walking briskly along the hallway towards you, with fresh linens in her arms, and she catches sight of you. At first, she seems pleased to see you, greeting you warmly, but upon closer inspection, her eyes grow wide.

“It almost seems as if I cannot leave you alone for one minute, your grace,” she shakes her head in mock annoyance, smiling up at you. “Is that dirt that covers you, or some other unholy substance?”

“It is charcoal, Elen,” you explain, following her into your rooms, nodding to Ser Erryk as you pass. “From sketching with the princess Helaena.”

“The princess?” Elen queries, “It is nice to hear you spending time with one another. She is very kind and sweet.”

“I agree,” you smile fondly, taking a seat on your large sofa, whilst Elen sets the fresh linens on your bed, and remarks that she will return with a basin of water for your face, before taking her leave.

Once again alone, you sigh, eyes casting over your well-furnished room. Hints of black, hints of red, Targaryen colors through and through, the ever-watchful eye of the false monarchy. You scold yourself for being ungrateful. You have a place to stay because of them. You have comfort, a high position, rank, notoriety, because of them.

You lost everything because of them.

You scowl at yourself, unwilling to lose your mind to a battle of internal succession.

Do not deal with your anger like a Valyrian.

Instead, your fingers reach for the nearest novel about the small table in front of you; A Comprehensive History of the Targaryen Dynasty, the book black with gold embellishments. Light reading about the house you will soon be joining, bonded in friendship and love.

You refuse to give energy to the unspoken part of your soul that calls it research on your usurpers.

Hushed voices meander in from the outside of your apartment's wooden door, a few meters away, stealing your attention from the first paragraphs of the novel. They’re quiet – too quiet for you to truly make out the words, and you frown. It is not the conversation of passers-by, nor Ser Erryk mumbling to himself. There is a distinct set of two, a hushed back and forth, and you are nothing if not curious, standing from the sofa to investigate. You make your way over to the door, urging the murmurs to take form, urging the voices to lift in volume, but they stay quiet.

Your fingers clasp the handle, and you pull it open swiftly, the air from the movement billowing past, threading through your hair and breezing around your gown.

Prince Aemond stands before Ser Erryk, the two whipping towards the door the moment you pull it open. Both go horribly quiet, like they have been caught in the middle of something too embarrassing to name, blinking down at you like you’ve spontaneously combusted.

You are acutely aware of something in the prince’s outstretched hand that is quickly hidden behind his back. The courage to speak dies on his tongue, along with the will to look you in the eyes.

“Prince Aemond,” you greet, a little shocked to see him stood before you. “Good day.”

“Good day,” he replies, and then, as an added afterthought like he only suddenly remembered, “my lady.”

Ser Erryk makes a poignant move to step to the side, as if to urge Prince Aemond to enter, least he turn, and flee. You open your door wider, stepping off centre.

“Please come in,” you offer.

Prince Aemond gives Ser Erryk a look, one you catch only slightly, but you cannot place the emotion.

He sighs, defeated. “Hmm.”

After a hesitant look towards you, and then one down the hallway, he sets his face with resolve, and steps through the threshold. The door closes soundly after him, but not before you give your sworn sword a quizzical look – he returns it with a smile.

You watch Prince Aemond cast his gaze over the inside of your apartments – his first time being here. He looks over your fireplace, the opposing sofas, the large windows, the book you were reading before he entered. He casts his gaze towards the bedroom, and then turns sharply away.

“How are you, my prince?” you ask.

He nods his head, back toward you. “...Well.”

You wait for something more, and when nothing arrives, you smile down at the floor in a knowing sort of way. He is in one of those sweeping moods again, it seems. Shyness gripping him tightly. When he turns towards you, his expression changes swiftly, and he frowns a little.

“Is that...? O-on your face, my lady... is that... dirt?”

“Oh,” you laugh a little, “It is dust from a charcoal stick -- I was sketching with your sister, the princess, in the gardens.”

You say it like it is the most natural thing in the world; to be a high lady of court, a royal of the old dynasty, in the presence of another from the crown, whilst dishevelled – grime and dust smeared about your pretty face, with not a care in the world. Prince Aemond feels himself smiling subtly at your lack of concern for the pomp and circumstance of court; an indifference towards the rules and regulations those of your position must abide. You simply do not care at all.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

“I did,” you smile happily. “Your sister is wonderful.”

He nods. “I agree.”

“She draws splendidly.”

“Yes,” he hums, avoiding eye contact. “Quite well.”

You look around, mouth parted, and then close it, in favour of gesturing to your sofa. “Would you care to sit?”

“No,” he answers quickly, playing with whatever it is clutched in his hands, before abruptly stating, “This is a charming room.” A pause. “I believe my father did a great deal to it upon the knowledge of your arrival.”

You smile, a little confused by his unusual conversation. “I believe so. I am very grateful for everything that has been done for me.”

Prince Aemond casts his eye over you, pulling it sharply away, staring at the mounted wall-art instead, and swallowing hard. He looks extremely unsettled, uncomfortable in the way he is almost wringing his hands, posture rigid and unmoving, and yet, visibly restless.

“Shall I call for some tea?” you offer.

“No,” he shakes his head, “Thank you.”

The sudden arrival of Elen behind you with a washbowl seems to corner him, and he scatters. Bowing to you, sharply, he bids, “Good day, my lady. It has been a pleasure.” before bowling past you, the door slamming shut behind him.

“Good gracious!” Elen exclaims at the sharp noise. “I was not even able to greet the prince properly! What on earth have you done to him, your grace?”

You turn to stare at the wooden frame, perplexed. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

Only moments later, there is a knock on the door.

“Come,” you call, hoping it is the prince.

It opens at once to reveal Ser Erryk. Disappointment must be written clear across your face, enough so that it prompts your sworn sword to present something. In his hand, a note, golden ribbon keeping it rolled tight. You have come to learn what that combination means.

“From the prince,” Ser Erryk explains.

“Just now?” you press, walking forward to take the note from his outstretched hand.

“Well... I— yes,” he nods. You give him a look, a silent order to express what he is keeping hidden, and his expression softens. “Earlier the prince stopped by to deliver it... I told him you were currently in your apartments and suggested he might perhaps enjoy speaking to you in person. The prince, however, made it clear that he did not want to disturb you. Forgive me, my lady, but I made the assumption that his presence would not trouble you--”

“--a correct assumption, Ser Erryk,” you smile.

“But he... remained firm in his decision to voice his requests through a note... upon which time, you yourself intervened and opened the door.”

His startled expression makes perfect sense now. His shyness all encompassing.

“When the prince left moments ago, he gave me the note upon his exit.”

Your fingers deftly unwrap the scroll. Elen has paused in her duties, and Ser Erryk waits to take his leave, too.

My betrothed,

I am to spar at midday in the training yard.

If it is agreeable with you, would you care to join me, and watch?

I would enjoy your company very much.

Let us meet at the entrance of the Great Hall so we may walk together.

Prince Aemond.

You look up, catching Elen’s eye. “What time is it currently?”

“A few minutes after the eleventh hour, your grace,” she replies. “Why do you ask?”

“The prince wishes to meet at midday, and I look a dreadful state.”

“Gods be good, we must make haste!” she exclaims, rushing at Ser Erryk, shooing him with her hands, “Ser, please leave us be, I must make her grace presentable to the best of my abilities! We have so little time!”

He bows formally, and takes his leave, bidding you well.

Elen rushes, cleaning your face diligently, fixing your hair, rosing your cheeks. You think she sometimes takes too much care in your appearance, but ladies of the court often wish to look as ethereal as possible – a desire that seemingly escapes you. Your mauve dress is swept away for cleaning, and in its stead, a midnight blue gown laid out, laced up at your back, fitting perfectly.

The hour fast approaches, and you must calm a frazzled Elen, reassuring her that you look fine as you slip away to the door, out of reach of her fiddling hands.

“Have a wonderful time, your grace!” she wishes, smiling wide and waving you off.

Your walk to the Great Hall is accompanied by Ser Erryk, his metal armour tinkling by your side, your conversation light and airy. When the double doors to the Hall make their appearance, you are more than a little disheartened to see a tall prince with white hair absent. Waiting on you instead, is who you recognise as the Queen’s sworn sword; Ser Criston Cole.

You have only seen the man on several occasions, remarking him to be handsome and well poised, and yet, there is a lurking coldness there, foretelling a maelstrom of anger, resentment and bitterness. You have not the faintest clue why, but your uneasiness whispers for you to beware.

“High Lady (y/n),” he greets, bowing, hands clasped behind his back. “I am afraid the Prince is currently held up within his lessons. I assume he should be finished soon. In the meantime, I am happy to escort you to the courtyard.”

You nod, wary. Ser Erryk stays by your side.

“I will walk with High Lady (y/n) from here,” Ser Criston informs, voice cold. “You may relinquish her into my stead, Ser.”

For reasons unknown to you, Ser Erryk seems reluctant, but quickly bows to avoid confrontation, leaving you alone with Ser Criston. You hear his footsteps grow ever quiet, until they cannot be heard at all.

“This way, my lady,” Ser Criston instructs, and you set off towards the courtyard with him.

The air is thick, and you are acutely aware of his presence beside you. Where with Ser Erryk it is comfortable and content, Ser Criston makes you feel on-edge and, ultimately, unsafe.

You feel you are overthinking things.

“Which subjects are the prince schooled in?” you ask, filling the stifling silence with forced conversation.

“History, my lady,” he replies, “philosophy, religion, warfare, politics, swordsmanship.” He laughs, as if the list is unimaginable to you. “A great deal.”

“I see,” you answer, the prince growing ever more radiant in your eyes, the more you learn of him.

“None of which, I am sure, would interest a lady such as yourself.”

His quip comes out of turn, and from a place of scorn and derision. You cast him a sideways glance, full of the power of your position.

“As a lady born from history itself, perhaps I should be the one teaching it?”

Ser Criston laughs, but you were not joking.

“Ah,” you say, “perhaps you are not privy to that information.”

He gives you a pointed look, but you smirk to yourself, and avoid it.

The day is as splendid as it was this morn, bright sun and clear skies, and when you descend the stone steps to the training yard, there are already a few soldiers and guards sparring together. Dust from the ground below kicks up at their movements, and you grow excited to watch how legendary prince Aemond is said to be with a blade.

“This way, my lady,” Ser Criston calls, and you follow quickly, crossing the yard at length to come upon a table filled with an assortment of weapons.

Swords, spears, daggers, morning stars.

“Do you wish to hold one?” he asks, smirking slightly. “Although such things should be kept shielded from fair ladies, to protect them from the depravity of battle and war.”

You feel a natural gravity towards the dagger, picking it up slowly, the weight of it solid in your palm. Something echoes at the feeling, reverberates at the mention.

Black as night, to match the scales of your mount. Cold hilt weighing heavy against your palm, perfectly balanced for none else but you.

“Spell-forged by the elders,” the voice comes as if from the depths of your soul. “Only for royal use. Like your forbearers, this one is yours alone to wield. No common flame nor dragonflame will do damage. She is beautiful, is she not?”

Ser Criston’s voice snaps you back to the present day, heaving you from your memory. He is holding a morning star; ball and chain dangling from his grip, and you drop the dagger like it burns, stumbling backwards, skin peppered with goosebumps.

“Careful, my lady!” he fusses, dropping to pick the weapon up. “You may hurt yourself.”

You blink a few times to gather yourself, focusing on your surroundings.

“I shall wait for Prince Aemond at the edge of the yard, Ser Criston,” you nod, turning sharply to put as much distance between you as possible.

You head for the walls, thinking of them as safety, leaning back against the stone, cold seeping through your gown, grounding you sharply. You sigh out at the feeling, and no sooner have you reached sanctuary, than something urges you to pull your gaze upwards.

There, at the pinnacle of the steps, stands the white-haired prince, like a heavenly spectre. His gaze sweeps over the courtyard quickly, flicking back and forth, searching for you. Your chest blooms when your eyes meet, and he relaxes, smiling only slightly.

He is fast when he descends, quick to make his way to you.

He bows. “Good day, my lady.”

You smile. “Good day, my prince.”

The pause is filled with nothing but the sound of sharp metal, the two of you not close enough to greet one another in a more familiar way, and yet, no longer strangers who can ignore the other.

“In this light, your hair looks heavenly,” you compliment, gazing up at him.

He swallows audibly, mouth parting, closing, eye tearing away from you, nodding curtly at your words, willing his face to look not so terribly flustered.

Ser Criston appears by his side, and you deflate, annoyed suddenly at the interruption.

“My prince.” He is far livelier when speaking to prince Aemond, you note. “Are you ready to begin?”

The prince turns his attention away from you, composure regained, like there were never any cracks in it at all. “Yes, Ser Criston. I am.”

They leave you leaning against the stone wall, sheltered from the midday sun, and although you are waiting for the prince to cast a look towards you from over his shoulder, it never comes. You are left to stare after him, watching his white hair slide across his back from his movements.

No sooner left alone, than a lesser lord approaches you, the golden opportunity to finally meet the last daughter of Valyria arising. You see him coming from your peripheral, and steel yourself for the conversation.

“High Lady (y/n)!” the man greets, bowing to you. Round and stout, soft beard to match his eyes, he’s dressed in dark red, and you smile politely at him. “We have not formally met yet, but it is an honor and a pleasure!”

“My lord,” you nod.

“A royal of Valyria,” he hums, eyes crinkling with joy, “An honor – a true honor! Your people and the legacy of your dynasty lives on through you--” your smile becomes forced. “--of course, it is terrible what happened, but as long as there is but one that remains, all is truly not lost!”

“Yes,” you hum, “Indeed.”

“You are here, of course, to watch the prince spar?” he questions, but you can tell it is rhetorical.

“I am.”

“He is quite remarkable with a weapon,” he continues, “Easily the best in Kings Landing.”

You internally call out to the void to gift you with an opportunity to escape the conversation, threads of your composure pulling tightly, threatening to snap.

“My lady.”

You look up at the sound of the sudden and familiar voice. Prince Aemond stands before you, appearing like a saviour, his presence intimidating enough to have the lesser lord stumbling over his words, one-eyed stare like hot venom.

“A-ah, Prince Aemond!” he bows, “Forgive me, I was conversing with High Lady (y/n) about her Valyrian heritage--”

“I am sure my lady is here to observe the sparring, and not to discuss her past.”

“O-of course, your grace,” he bows, offers you an apology with a meek smile, and takes his quick leave.

You watch him go with relief, sighing out at the slowly returning air filling your lungs.

“I fear what happens when I leave you alone,” he mutters, smiling.

You cannot look fully at him. The sun is so high that when you try, you must squint, like he himself is something you cannot fully face, unable to look directly at his brilliance.

“It seems like I cannot escape the curiosity of the Keep for long,” you hum, squinting as the sun partially blinds you. “Thank you, my prince. I was hoping for someone to come along and rescue me.”

He becomes visibly shy at your choice of wording, nodding at the ground, before turning his body to gesture behind him.

“If you stand by the gathering crowds, you will be able to more clearly see the events,” he suggests. “I can walk with you, if you wish?”

“Thank you.”

It is like a ballroom dance; a slow waltz the two of you are performing, in the way you flit around one another, tracing the edges of etiquette and familiarity. You allow your body to carry you through the motions, following his lead, filling the space he gives with your own motions. Courtship is new for you, as it is with him, and although there is still much of the dance to perform, you are enjoying the rhythm as it is set now.

“Here, my lady,” he motions, as he parts the crowds by his height alone. “I believe this spot will prove to have the best view.”

You are positioned at the frontmost edge of the gathering crowds, and begin to feel very much out of place. Prince Aemond appears nervous as he directs you, one hand discretely wiping sweat from his palm against the leather of his pants, the other wobbles slightly as he directs you. A few older lords with long gray beards meander closer to you, whether to ask about your heritage or simply to view the training is unknown, and out of your line of sight, Prince Aemond gives them a sharp look. They freeze, and leave a larger space than necessary for you at his silent threat.

You pat down your dress, musing, “I am excited to watch you, my prince.”

He exhales with a little more force than necessary and opens his mouth to reply. Ser Criston’s voice calls out for him sharply, and prince Aemond thinks better of what he was to say, bows to you, and swiftly take his leave.

You watch on as he picks up a weapon from the table you were at previously, a steel sword, and his other arm hooks around a shield. Ser Criston opts for a morning star, daunting in the way he lugs it around, sharp spikes foretelling of grievous injury. You wonder for a moment if you should even be so close.

The training begins without word or hesitation, and the two men lunge into their fight with venom and speed.

Ser Criston, it seems, favors brute strength, swinging his morning star with reckless abandon, whilst Prince Aemond leans on technique and precision, deflecting the weapon with ease. You watch with intent, transfixed on the way the prince moves. How he twirls, dodges, steps, twists, bows and leans to avoid the weapon striking him. His foot placement is deliberate and well-balanced, and you find yourself realising that the extensive twisting and turning of his body is to overcompensate for his injury. He is desperately aware of how the lack of eyesight affects his ability to fight and does his utmost to rectify it. How incredible, then, that he fights so elegantly and ferociously, that he is the only one you wish to watch. You have not once looked at Ser Criston. Prince Aemond is a fearsome thing to behold, indeed.

“He is handsome, is he not?”

“In a ruggish, brooding sort of way, I suppose.”

“It is a shame about his scar, though.”

The three hushed voices come from somewhere behind you, filtering through the crowds like their sole purpose is to find you.

“Be quiet!” A giggle, and then, “That is his future lady wife,” you hear, whispered just below the clashing and clanging noise of your surroundings. “The one in the dark blue gown.”

“Prince Aemond’s future wife?” the voice is painted with disbelief. “Surely not.”

“I tell you it is!”

“The poor girl,” the voice comes with a giggle, “married off to the disfigured maelstrom of house Targaryen. With a face as beautiful as that, I’d have thought the king would take pity on her. Alas, someone must wed the one-eyed.”

You turn your head with a slow precision, deliberate in your movement, your eyes far more lethal than you planned for them to be, as you stare in the faces of those gossiping. The slew and force of your look elicits wide eyes and harsh swallows, stumbles over “forgive me, my lady”, “a thousand pardons” and “overlook our rudeness”. There must be something lurking behind your already venomous gaze – an omen of something unspeakable – that causes the three women to jerk back, and quickly take their exit.

You turn back just in time to watch the prince out-manoeuvre his opponent, Ser Criston having no other option but to yield. You are among the first to clap, and Prince Aemond’s gaze immediately finds you, eye softening slightly.

“Well done, my prince,” Ser Criston praises, clapping along with the crowd. “It seems you grow more skilled with each spar.”

Prince Aemond lowers his sword, sighing heavily, and wipes his brow. He discards his weapon and shield on the wooden table and takes a moment to collect himself, before making his way to you. You are standing by yourself when he arrives, and beam at him as he approaches.

“My prince!” you begin, “I did not think sword fighting could look so beautiful, nor so enthralling.”

“Ah,” he hums, “I was simply... it is only... sword skills are— what I mean is—”

“My prince!” Ser Criston interjects, once again interrupting. Prince Aemond’s brow furrows, like he’s annoyed, but Ser Criston continues, “you were excellent today--” he turns to you, “--was he not?”

“Ah, yes,” you agree, “wonderful--”

“You had some fine ladies of the court watching you today, too.”

You don’t miss the pointed glance Ser Criston gives you as he pats prince Aemond on the shoulder, the sly dig not unnoticed.

“I don’t give a shit about that,” comes his blunt reply.

He must forget himself and his company, and when he realises, both men turn their heads to you sharply, the weight of uttering foul language in the presence of a lady is almost unforgivable.

You laugh from your chest at the comment, quickly regaining composure over the unruly bark that slipped from your lips, trying miserably to disguise it as a cough.

“Ah... well. I shall leave the two of you to enjoy the rest of your day,” Ser Criston announces, bowing. “My prince. My lady.”

You dip your head politely, watching the queen’s sworn sword take his leave. His is attractive, of course, but all semblance of handsomeness is poisoned by the rage left festering beneath the surface of his composure. You notice the same feeling permeating from him as you did with prince Aegon. One that warns you to tread carefully.

“My lady,” Prince Aemond begins, and you refocus on him. “Would you perhaps like to take a walk together?”

“Very much,” you reply. “Through the gardens, then?”

He nods in agreement, and you set off together. It has been only days since your last walk through the grounds of the Red Keep with him, and yet, the feeling is completely different. Where before, he would hardly spare you a second glance, now, he is actively engaging in – albeit quiet – conversation with you.

The dance develops, and you are both keeping time.

Prince Aemond feels like an immovable force beside you, keeping pace perfectly, staying separated by an inch, and refusing to part any further. Respectful, and yet, somehow tremendously intimate. He is sweating, you realise, from the spar – small pebbles dotting his silver hairline, and he dabs them away with his fingertips, sighing softly to settle his breath. The courtyard of the Keep is attached to the gardens, the two separated only by a few minutes' walk and a large wooden door.

“Your technique in fighting is--”

“It was a pleasure to see you--”

You both speak at once, and stop short of finishing your respective sentences. There is a moment of pause, and then you laugh together, softly, and his eye crinkles with mirth as he looks down at you. The small detail sets your soul on fire.

“Please,” he offers.

“Ah,” you hum, remarking, “I noticed your sword fighting technique was very swift, and elegant. It looked as if you were performing a dance.”

He pauses. “Really?”

“Yes,” you confirm, “Although it was terrifyingly deadly. You must have trained for so long to reach such a standard.”

“Ever since I was a child,” he answers, “Although, I must admit, I never had that much interest in practising. I was always bested by my elder brother. Ser Criston oversaw our progress and was in charge of teaching us the necessary skills, but I suppose he took a particular interest in me.”

“The two of you were sparring with real weapons. Is it not terribly frightening? Ser Criston’s morning star looked dauting enough simply sitting on the table.”

He laughs at this. “Only a little. I enjoy the focus that comes with it, though. Allowing myself to immerse my body and mind completely builds character and skill,” he explains, adding hastily, “in my personal opinion.”

“Hmm,” you take a moment to think on it, and then, “I agree.”

He nods, like your opinion on his own was one of importance.

Before you notice, the gardens are upon you, and you sigh out at the smell of foliage and flowers. Small pebbles crunch under your shoes as the two of you walk, unencumbered by others.

“What were you uttering before, my prince?” you ask with curiosity. “Before I spoke over you?”

“Oh,” he hums, tucking his arms behind his back, smiling at the ground. “I wanted to say I was glad you came today.”

You are aware that he is visibly relaxing around you the more time you spend together. Posture that was like an intricate puzzle now solves itself within your mind, and you are learning to read him and his emotions clearer by how he presents himself. It is like an unspoken language, you think – one you are keen to translate.

You smile, all the way to your eyes. “You are?”

He breathes a laugh through his nose, like the question is one you needn't ask. “Of course. I was...” his voice dips quiet for a moment, “worried... that you would not. Ladies do not eagerly watch sword fighting, nor any kind of sparring. I would not have been offended had you rejected my offer, though, my lady. So, in the future... you may decline me if you wish.”

“I know, my prince,” you lie. You feel he would be deeply upset if you did. Prince Aemond seems like someone who feels emotions strongly, despite his best efforts to conceal them. “But I will not. I very much enjoyed watching you. Something in your air and manner makes all things enjoyable if they are with you.”

He says nothing in return, looking ahead, but you can see something threatening to reveal itself – an elated grin. He does a terrible job of concealing it.

You look ahead, and peeking out from tall shrubs and foliage, are the maroon leaves of the ancient tree – the same one from your earlier morning's activities.

“Oh!” you exclaim softly, and prince Aemond casts you a look. “The Wierwood tree!”

He follows your gaze, eye landing on the canopy of the deciduous tree. “Would you care to sit underneath it?”

Your face lights up. “Please! I sat there with your sister just this morning and it was wonderful!”

He laughs softly at your happiness, extending and arm for you to lead the way as he follows. The tree is more splendid than you imagine, and you wonder if it is because the company you keep now is different from that which you did earlier.

“Would you like my jacket, my lady?” he asks, as you approach the base.

You are a little confused, asking, “What for, my prince?”

“To... sit on. So the earth and soil does not mar your gown.”

“Oh, no, that is no worry of mine, my prince,” you reassure, plopping yourself down and leaning against the trunk. “I care not about dirt. But I thank you for your kind offer.”

This is the second time today you have taken him aback by your lack of concern for etiquette and rules, and he is not put off in the slightest. He finds your blasé attitude like a cold bath after a humid day.

Prince Aemond settles beside you, on your left, relaxing against the solid bark. The tree casts a shade over the two of you, and here, in this space, you are equals.

You turn to him. “Ser Criston told me you take an extensive set of lessons. Is this the unspoken duty of a prince?”

He gazes up at the canopy, side profile sharp and regal. You are enthralled.

“In some ways, yes,” he answers, watching the leaves dance along the breeze. “Male heirs should have a comprehensive knowledge on the history of the kingdom, the values and religion therein, and the politics of the court and how to navigate it.” He sighs, softly adding, “even if they are far down the line of succession.”

“Hmm,” you note, sounding very much like him.

“Second sons are more formally bestowed the burden of commander. Of the kingdom's army, navy... dragons...” he laughs under his breath at something that is lost to you. “I suppose that is why I train so hard with a sword.” He tilts his head ever so slightly, casting his good eye at you. “It is my duty.”

“Sometimes, I believe duty is the death of love. I told your sister as much this morning, sat exactly here.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, staring at you intently.

“Is it not better to do things that you have a true passion for? Things you deeply love?” you suggest. “It seems like such a terrible waste to be forced into something only for the sake of duty.”

His lip purses thin, and you realise you may have overstepped, free tongue carrying away with loose thoughts. You turn your head away, avoiding his eye.

“Those in high positions do not have the luxury to simply do as they please, nor should they,” he retorts, tone a little sharp like you’ve wounded him. “Any who do are not deserving of their rank in the first place.”

The air becomes incredibly awkward and stifled, and you fear you have ruined what was otherwise a pleasant day. Although you cannot stand the idea of foregoing what you love in place of duty – to act with all the grace and decorum someone of your notoriety should, forgetting who you are in the process – part of his words unfortunately ring true. Life cannot always be spent living for yourself.

“Forgive me, Prince Aemond,” you speak up. “I feel I have spoken too freely.”

He sighs, admitting, “Duty frustrates me, too. But I cannot overlook what is expected of me. I have been awarded a grandiose life, and I wish not to be remembered as one who whittled it away indulging in my own pleasures. As I am sure my brother will be.”

You think on your own situation. What are you hoping to achieve here, at the Red Keep? Will you forever spend your days flitting about the castle – passing time with your future husband and sister? Riding only Archeon and forsaking his siblings? Will you stroll about the gardens, eat imported pastries, drink fine wine, and stay ignorant to the rest of the new world? You were spared from death for a reason. Are you to throw it away for a life of meaningless comfort? You cannot turn away from the second chance you were given, last daughter.

“If I may,” you speak up, “and if you have time – will you... teach me of the histories of Westeros? From the time of the Doom to the present day?” Prince Aemond notes you do not recoil in the face of the word anymore. “I know you study history, so perhaps we may do so together? It should be my duty to learn about the new world.”

His gaze softens considerably upon hearing your request, and there is a part of him that regrets biting out his earlier words.

“Of course, my lady,” he answers. “I will do my best.”

You feel a sense of belonging at his words, no matter how small. Learning about events from the time where you were absent gives you something to strive towards – something to give you meaning. If you know more about what happened in that period, perhaps you can understand yourself and your place better.

“Would it be terribly improper of me to ask you to teach me to spar?” you blurt. Sadly, you know the answer. Ladies do not lift swords.

“Terribly improper does not always mean it is wrong,” he answers, smirking. “If you wish it, I am happy to oblige.”

“I would like that very much,” you beam, and he smiles right back.

You spend much time with Prince Aemond under the Wierwood tree, flitting from listening to him talk about history, and swordsmanship, to speaking of your time with his sister, and your hopes to grow closer to her. The two of you talk animatedly, laughter mixing, and when the afternoon wanes, he escorts you back to your room so that you may rest before your dinner.

When he returns to his own quarters, he exhales sharply through his nose, high strung and exhausted. The more time he spends with you, the more he finds himself becoming unfocused. He forgets himself. Forgets his purpose, his anger. He cannot begin to explain it, and does not wish to face it openly yet.

The toll from today's spar presents itself in the form of a blackening bruise across his upper arm. His fingers press into it absentmindedly, so he can feel the pain more.

He straightens up upon a knock at his door. A fleeting thought hopes it is you.

“Come,” he calls, stone voice and annoyed expression.

It softens when his mother hurries inside, and grows once again irritated as his grandfather trails behind her. He feels disappointed in your lack of presence.

“My son,” his mother greets warmly, hugging him close. “Are you well?”

“Mother,” he murmurs, smiling. “I am.”

His grandfather speaks up. “How was your day with your betrothed?”

He steels his expression. “Good.”

“Has your forwardness been received well by her?”

“I believe any form of kindness would be openly accepted by such a woman,” his mother replies curtly, disapproving. He thinks anger does not suit her. “She is completely alone, and any alliance is one she would welcome.”

Aemond feels his chest constrict at the position he is in.

“Mother,” he soothes, “All is well. Please do not fret.”

“How can I not?!” she grows emotional. “My beloved son offered up like some meagre tribute! How could your father?! How could the king--?!”

“It is my duty,” he replies, holding her shoulders softly. The word sits heavy on his tongue. “I am happy to do it.”

“What of her dragons?”

He casts his eye towards his grandfather, always one to gather information no matter the cost. He thinks briefly on what this will ultimately cost himself.

“She is being truthful.”

“Oh gods--!”

“Gods forbid,” Otto inhales sharply. “This cannot be. You are sure of this?”

“I am,” Aemond casts his eye elsewhere. Betrayal has a bitter taste that lingers on his tongue. “She spoke of them openly. Their details, names, appearances. I believe them all to be as large as the one she rides now.”

His mother clasps a hand over her mouth, stifling a guttural sob at the damming information. His grandfather has no color to his face. Aemond knows the weight of his words, and yet, does not feel fear from them in the same way his relatives do.

“If you were to see them in the wild,” his grandfather speaks quickly, “would you be able to correctly identify them? Do you trust yourself enough to discern which are hers, and which are not?”

Aemond does not like where this conversation is going. A large part of him hoped that nothing would ever come from his relaying information about you to his mother and grandfather. That is why he thought nothing of it; happy to do his part for the realm. Suddenly, he is reduced back to a boy of ten; anxious about the thoughts that go through another's mind when they listen to his words.

“Aemond,” his mother urges, unshed tears in her eyes weigh heavy on her lashes, “you must listen carefully to what we are about to tell you. You must think of our family when we ask this of you.”

He is clutching his mother's skirt, ten, eye weeping blood through the stitches, pain so unfathomable, he fears he might die. Only her, only his mother would protect him.

He swallows heavy.

His grandfather speaks first.

“According to the king, this is the woman you are soon to marry. We understand it is making you uncomfortable, but you are performing your duties far better than we could ever have hoped. Should all go to plan, you need not worry for long,” he pauses. “If she gathers all five of her dragons, based on what we know, and what history has taught us of these beasts, she’ll be able to conquer or burn her way through the entirety of Westeros in a month.”

Aemond must remind himself to breathe at the information, such is the staggering amount of power you could potentially hold.

His grandfather continues, “We are working to develop a weapon that could potentially destroy her dragons, but if they truly are at the size of the one she rides now, it would be incredibly difficult, and perhaps not even effective. The only true weapon... the only sure way we have is...” he takes a breath, before looking poignantly at his grandson. “Only a dragon can kill a dragon.”

“No.”

“Aemond, please listen--!”

“I will not,” he snaps, pulling away from his mothers clutching embrace. He is not a child of ten any longer.

“You must!” his mother sobs, “For our family, for our realm!”

“You must find her dragons, Aemond. Whether you want to or not, you cannot allow her to regain them! No matter what! The lives of everyone in the realm depend on it – not just the lives of your family, but the lives of every single person alive!”

He feels cornered, trapped, drowning under the weight of their expectant stares. He spoke of duty to you earlier, but this surely cannot be asked of him. This is not duty. This is only death.

“Have I not been the one to protect you?” his mother reasons. “Always? Was I not the only one to stand up for you? To keep you safe? Your father cares only for his sick obsession with Valyria, and this woman is an opportunity to fuel it. He is blind to the threat – blind to the danger!”

“The past is dead, Aemond. We live in the present, and can only control the future.”

He feels himself backing away from them – or is he backing away from the truth? He cannot tell.

“Think on it,” his grandfather tells him. “Think well. Your mother and I will be waiting for your answer, but we hope you choose the right path.

He casts his gaze to his mother, her eyes holding a thousand emotions, like she is begging him to reach out and be the one to save her this time.

But who will save you?

“Find us when you decide, my son,” his broken mother whispers.

They leave him to his thoughts, and he cannot stop thinking about you.

His gaze wanders, taking in his surroundings, his feelings.

There is something atop his desk that was not put there by him. He frowns, charging over to it. His sisters handwriting sprawls cursive over a note atop a folded piece of sketch paper

A present, brother, of your most beloved~

His fingers unfold the paper, and the air leaves his lungs.

It is a sketch of you, deep in thought, staring out across the gardens of the Keep, sitting under the same Weirwood tree you shared with him earlier. It is an almost perfect likeness, beautiful, breath-taking, and he cannot help but look at it fondly, with guilt.

Aemond folds it up and places it in his chest pocket, wordlessly.

[part 6]

[eucanthos]

eucanthos:

Golshifteh Farahani and Carmen Dell'Orefice

Jean-François Jonvelle: Nu à la salle de bain 1980

Horst P. Horst: Wendy Burden, Babe Paley, Mary Sinclair and Elene Isles, 1948

Laocoon, 1820. Collage posted Oct 25, 2022

Hand-colored lithographs by Nicolas Henri Jacob for 1830 Marc Bourgery‘s Atlas of Human Anatomy.

Georges Aubert: Mask 1906-1921. Photo: Pierre Bohrer,

Hands: Codie Young by Nicolas Valois [holding head]. Erik Almas Photo. Magnifying lens, hand and reflection from Horst’s photo

Apr 2 last modification

Adonis died in Aphrodite's arms. His blood mingled with her tears and became the Anemone flower. The Adonia  festival was already celebrated in Lesbos by Sappho's time in the 7th century BC,  became popular in Athens in mid-5th century  BC. Greek women, every year in midsummer, would plant  "gardens of Adonis", small pots containing fast-growing plants, which  they would set on top of their houses in the hot sun. The plants would  sprout, but soon wither and die. Then the women would mourn the death of  Adonis, tearing their clothes and beating their breasts in a public  display of grief. They would lay a statuette of Adonis out on a bier and then carry it to the sea along with all the withered plants as a funeral procession. The festival concluded with the women throwing the effigy of Adonis and the withered plants out to sea.... - wiki

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https://recherche.sik-isea.ch/fr/sik:work-15805057/in/sikart/actor/list

https://scientificillustration.tumblr.com/post/6247519949/tonguedepressors-nicolas-henri-jacob

https://eucanthos.tumblr.com/post/699112877225836544/eucanthos-alexis-fran%C3%A7ois-girard-1787-1870

https://soundcloud.com/z-e-t-tr/sets/golshifteh-farahani

https://eucanthos.tumblr.com/post/679811527826718720/erik-almas-no-us-nude-series-b-2023

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adonis

[elen-aranel]

Happy Friday Elen!! I hope the week has been kind :)

Happy Friday! It has, today especially. I got to sit in the garden in the sunshine and relax. I hope this weekend is kind to you love xx

[jentrevellan]

Hi! For the blossoming romance asks: picking a leaf/flower petal out of their hair, or brushing dirt off of their face?

(From this prompt list)

I had a lot of fun with this (it's also something that happened IRL with me and my now-husband before we were dating, hehe). Enjoy!

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After a delightful afternoon spent with Elen Ve’mal preparing the pots for seeding, the late afternoon bell of the chapel peeled away. Reluctantly, Elsie bade farewell to the elf and hurriedly left the garden; the warmth of the sun vanishing the instant she stepped inside the cool corridors of the castle. She pushed open the door to the main hall; whilst the door opposite the one she entered opened at the same time. She paused in her step as the figure looked up at her. All at once, her body flooded with heat, as if the sun had reappeared from behind her.

“Inquisitor,” Commander Cullen said, inclining his head. His voice was warm, but his face expressionless as he glanced at her clothes - no doubt spotting the mud on her breeches and the dirt caked on her boots.

They met in the centre of the room. “Cullen,” she said, a little breathless. She cleared her throat. “Shall we walk together?” 

“Of course,” he said politely, and she fell into step beside him. 

“Been busy this afternoon?” She enquired, hating the small talk, hating the way each silence felt strained, but wanting to hear him talk. 

“I won’t bore you with the details, Inquisitor, but yes. The barracks are almost complete although I fear we’re going to need more.”

Well, she had asked for small talk, and that is exactly what he delivered.

“I’m sure we’ll find a way,” she replied, and they fell into silence again. Maker, why was this so difficult? In Haven, she would’ve taken a jibe at his work, said something that would’ve made him roll his eyes or grumble under his breath, but now? Nothing came to mind. So they walked quietly down the main hall and into the corridor leading to the war room. 

He cleared his throat. “I assume you’ve been in the gardens?” he asked.

She threw him a smile and wiggled her fingers in front of her. “What gave it away? My green fingers? Or should I say brown…?”

His low chuckle made her stomach flip. “I was looking at the footprints your boots are leaving behind.”  

“Oh maker’s balls,” she swore, stopping in her tracks. He was right - there was soil all down the corridor, which had only just been cleaned. “Don’t tell anyone, will you?” 

Cullen stopped too, his eyes bright with amusement. “Who exactly would I tell? The Inquisitor…?” 

Elsie made a face and batted his arm gently. “Oh, very funny.”

But his hand reached out and grabbed her wrist. It was a gentle, yet firm touch that made her stop altogether, her smile fading. Before she could say anything, he let go and with the same hand, pulled off his glove with his teeth in one swift movement. There was a small smile on his lips, and Elsie couldn’t help but look as the glove hung between his teeth. That little scar on his upper lip was incredibly distracting, so her responses were slow when a moment later she realised that his now ungloved hand was just inches from her cheek. 

“I’m sorry, you have a.. May I?” he said, his other gloved hand now under her chin, tilting it upwards. 

She had no idea what he was asking permission for, but at this moment he could’ve asked for absolutely anything and she would’ve obliged. She was at his mercy, and he had no idea.

His thumb, thick and calloused, was surprisingly gentle as he rubbed at her cheek. “You have a bit of soil, just here,” he explained, his voice low. 

Elsie chuckled breathlessly, looking at his eyes, watching how the dark amber was zeroed in on its task until she was presentable. But then his gaze slid to hers, his thumb no longer prodding or wiping, and instead he hesitantly cupped her cheek. Her breath caught, and she heard him suck in a breath, as ever so gently she tilted into his touch. It was a fraction of a movement, but the heat that suddenly filled his gaze confirmed to her that he was feeling something too. Something between them that was beyond touch. 

She licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. A small thrill went down her spine as his eyes watched the subtle movement. She could smell elderberries and oakmoss. She could feel the warmth of his large hand on her cheek, the contrast of the cool leather under her chin with his other gloved hand. What would it be like, should their lips meet? Would it be soft, gentle, fleeting? Or rather bold, passionate and wanting? 

The door to the corridor opened and Cullen withdrew his hands, as if scalded by fire. He turned away, quickly putting his glove back on and greeted Leliana who was coming down the corridor. 

And just like that the spell had been broken, for that is what it had felt like. Time had almost stopped and in that moment it had just been them. Never before had every nerve ending, every wire in her body been so attuned to her senses. What was that? 

“Inquisitor? Are you alright?” Leliana asked, holding the door to the war room open. Cullen glanced at her before continuing into the war room, his face back to being an unreadable mask. She frowned at his shoulders and nodded.

“I’m fine, thank you Leliana. Just…just tired.”

[amieravenson]

Dedicating Daily Tasks to Deities

There's a little trick I like to play on myself. Any time I have something unpleasant to do, I try to imagine how I can make it spiritual. That way, I think of it less as daily drudgery, and more as a part of my daily practice. For example, I really hate housework. It's a drag. Especially when you have fibromyalgia and every movement hurts. So what do I do? I dedicate housework to Hestia, the Greek goddess of home and hearth. I'd like to think that she appreciates it when I try to make my house comfier, cozier, and cleaner. Do you have a ton of emails to get through? As you sit down to do them, take a moment to dedicate your work to Mercury, god of communication. Remember what a miracle it is that email even exists, and dedicate every single email to him. Do you hate daily tasks like taking a shower or brushing your teeth? Again, with fibro, showers are painful affairs. So I dedicate the daily shower to Aphrodite, and think of it as a way to make myself feel more beautiful. I also apply scented oils as I get out as another dedication to her. And as for workouts, they can be brutal. It's such a good idea to work out, but who actually WANTS to? Well, I do. And that's because I'm dedicating my workouts to Elen of the Ways. She controls roads and pathways, and I'd like to think that I'm walking the pathway to good health as I walk on the treadmill. I ask her to give me strength and move me along in my journey. Are you getting the idea? Gardening? Dedicate it to Gaia. Cleaning the litter box? Dedicate it to Bast. The list can go on and on. So what about you? What tasks will you be dedicating to deity from now on? Let me know in the comments, and blessed be! Read the full article

[amidst-snow-and-ice-moved]

For: Elen | @gezelligheiid

"Ada? You have some visitors- well two are. The other's more of a long lost family member, who's just returned home."

Elladan slipped into the garden, followed by Arwen. the latter of whom was trying and failing to stop herself from literally bouncing with excitement and happiness.

[cosmo-lexies]

Dylan Season 1 (5/7)

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8: Jumping into the lake is the only way to leave a party stylishly

The people were arriving, and I stayed in a corner near the lake. The lake view was beautiful, even at night.

The backyard filled up with people quickly, and it was not small. Even the pool was full. I guess half school was there. Although I imagine that not the half that is in love with me, that'd be weird. I'm not going to lie, my desire for teen dramas, is zero, but my ego got a boost from being so popular among my classmates.

Then I saw Elene and Victoria arriving. She was so pretty. But, it was the moment, I would speak with her. I was hella nervous. I went towards them. However, my attention was caught by a loud scream and a shiny blue light that appeared in the middle of the people. The crowd started to run away. My common sense told me that I must follow the rest of my classmates. I wish I paid more attention to it, it would made my life easier.

Jackson was covered in flames, mainly in his hands and arms. Percy was near but he couldn't get any closer because of the heat.

This was the first time that I saw a lack of control. It was weird in someone like Jackson, he had his power long ago. People usually lack control when their powers wake up but at that moment their powers are weak. This wasn't the case, his flames must have been hundreds of degrees.

"What you need Jackson? I'm here," Percy tried to calm his brother, but it didn't work.

"Percy, you have to get away. Don't worry, I take care of it," I said even though I didn't have any idea about what to do.

"Dylan, you're crazy. Out of here," Percy replied to me.

The heat was greater every second. Many people continued in the garden because the patio door was small and people were stuck. If the flames broke free, they wouldn't survive. I noticed that Percy's skin was red;  he was starting to burn. I didn't have options I needed to get him out of there quickly. But, he resisted bravely instead of running away like normal people.

"Percy, I need you to hold your breath."

"What?" He said.

At that moment, I throw Percy towards the pool hoping not to kill him. I got close to Jackson. I had an idea to not kill anyone. It was shit, but it was my unique idea.

"Jackson, if you can hear me I need you to throw flames at me. It's complicated to explain, but I'm a HEA, I can resist it," he seemed terrified "Please, I know that it's hard. But if you make how I say, all will be okay," I smiled at him, using all my acting skills to look confident.

Jackson screamed in pain, and the flames shot off toward me. I started to absorb them. I never had made something similar, absorbing thermal energy is hard, not it's like electricity. It's so wild and chaotic. Part of my clothes scorched in the process, but my body resisted. Jackson released all his flames and he passed out.

I kneeled down, I was exhausted but strangely well. Then I noticed the grass under my knee was roasting with my heat. If I was liberated so much energy uncontrolled that means that my body was overloaded, it had rarely happened to me and wasn't good.

Maybe if I had recharged the last day, I could have resisted all this power. I needed to discharge myself to a safe place where I was alone. I thought in the pool, but Percy was still trying to get out.

I only had an option; I jumped towards the lake. This was the time that higher I jumped. The sensations were incredible, I hadn't felt so strong in another moment of my fucking life. For a sec, I only can think about if could touch the moon. However, the descent was quick. I wasn't able to use my powers to fall slowly like usual. I fell a few meters from the shore of the lake, it was deep.

The water bubbled around me, and I felt as if the hot in my insides was liberated. I was absolutely motionless; I felt calm. After a few seconds, my body started to move unevenly. I needed oxygen desperately.

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9: Being an average teen is not my thing

I swam with difficulty to the shore. I tried to catch my breath; and finally, I spit out all the water all the water in my lungs. My body was hurting so badly, and I was feeling cold. Actually, I felt hella cold, and then I started to get scared. I hadn't felt cold for two years. Something was terribly wrong.

The noise of people at the party attracted my attention. I was in a place with difficult access; for this reason, some people took photos and videos of me from Lee's backyard wall. The sound and flashes of dozens of mobiles were stressful.

I tried to stand up, but my right foot was killing me. I was close to blacking out when I saw a tiny limb had hurt my foot. It was bleeding; I'm unsure if it was a lot or a little. That was the first time that I bled.

My breath became irregular. If a tiny limb hurt me, I could die easily. A tree could fall on my head, death due to craniocerebral trauma; a virus could infect my wound, death due to gangrene; water he had swallowed could hurt my lungs, death due to acute respiratory failure. I needed a safe place. 

I ran as fast as I could; outside was too dangerous. I was across the forest, which wasn't a secure place. But, the streets were a hot mess of drunk teens, or this was I guessed at that moment. I arrived at my aunt's house. The ride home was slow and weary. Three kilometers was a lot suddenly. I didn't remember that walking made me tired so much.

I searched for my key, and fortunately, it was intact. The heat hadn't melted it. I opened the door and went to my room. The house was empty; my aunt and my uncle had gone to the movie theater with Mary.

I was shivering from the cold, I didn't understand why I was so cold if the house had the heating on. I sat down in a corner of my room. I wasn't able to think clearly yet. I saw one of Andrew's cards on the table. This was my unique option. I didn't have my phone; maybe it was in the Lake or scorched in Lee's garden. I used an old-school phone.

"Bip. Bip. Hello, agent Andrew speaking."

"I have screwed up; I have screwed up so much."

"Dylan, are you?"

"I shouldn't have listened to you," I said between sobbing, I tried to explain what had happened, but I guess that I was so nervous that he didn't understand well. "And now, I'm home, I'm freezing, but I don't know why."

"Okay, breathe. Do you change clothes?"

I noticed I was still dressed in wet torn clothes "Damn, I'm such a stupid."

"Don't worry, It's normal. Put me in speaker."

"The clothes, the fucking clothes," I said frustrated.

I tried to remember the rules that my mom had taught me when I was a child. Most importantly, if I'm wet, I must change immediately. I don't know how I could forget it when it matters most.

"Are you ready? Tell me what happened,"

I tried to catch my breath and explain to him what happened.

"Dylan, you did nothing wrong. Everything gonna be okay."

"I'm done. It's recorded; besides I don't have my powers. What can I do now? "

"Your powers came back soon, but it's high time you speak with your family."

"I can't. They'll hate me. I screwed up too much. Please, I need you. I can't handle this anymore."

"I know. I'm on my way. You must be calm, maybe a police officer will go to the house, but I tried to speak with the agent in charge before."

"Please not. Someone with guns not."

"I tried to arrive as soon as possible. I have the medicine for the last time. Calm kid; I will be there right away. I have to hang up."

"Sorry."

"Sorry for what, this is not your fault."

"I mean, the last time I was a jerk. I'm really sorry."

"Everything will be fine. Biiiiiip"

The silence was deafening. Without my powers, I'm weak, and the world is so dangerous.

Suddenly I heard someone up the stairs.

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[hiddenqveendom]

qocc oc challenge - day one (aug 20): a brand new plot bunny for the witcher

Livitha Aep Dend — The Sworn Sword. The distant cousin of Emhyr var Emreis, she is a warrior by blood and serves as his sworn protector. Livitha played a pivotal role in the attack and eventual fall of Cintra alongside her lover, Cahir. Once, Petra is brought to their side, she becomes the young princess' defacto parental figure/mentor. She is blindly loyal to the cause of The White Flame. Petronella of Cintra — The Spare Cub. Petronella Elen Adalia Calanthe, best know as Petra of Cintra, is the fraternal twin sister of Cirilla of Cintra. As the mirror of her father, she was often cast out and disfavored in place of her sister. Due to this, she became filled with spite and was easily manipulated into joining the cause of The White Flame by her friend the court mage, Vincen, despite not knowing it's true meaning. Petra is used by Emhyr to help track down, Ciri. Vincen of Blaviken — The Mage. The formidable apprentice of Vilgefortz, Vincen was best known for offering his services to the court of Cintra. Unbeknownst to anyone, his true loyalties rested with Nilfgaard and its new Emperor. His task was to gain Princess Petra's trust enough to have her surrender to Emhyr, one that he easily succeeded in. He is not loyal entirely loyal to Nilfgaard or the cause of The White Flame. More so, he is merely enticed by the idea of power.

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