#ember rising draft 3

[usedtobe-elrallin]

Last sentence tag game

(Tagged by @catkin-morgs!)

Rules: Write the latest line from your wip (or post where you last left off in your art) and tag as many people as there are words in the line. Make a new post, don’t reblog.

She cleared her head when the drone wobbled in the air, and shifted her directions until she was once again hovering over them in the night.

This is where I left off in the draft. I haven't actually drafted ERD3 (Ember Rising draft 3) in a while, but am starting up again in February! Until then, I'm rereading ERD2 and fixing a few things on my outline.

Tagging: @taketwoinink, @quinnick, @winking-widow, @gryphonlover, @starsaroundsaturn, @sariah-smith, @catkin-morgs, @graycedelfin, @thistelltaleheart, @astral-strider, @maybe-it-will-rain, @chilikit, I can't find anymore so uh oops sorry

(26)

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 3: We Drown Traitors In Shallow Water]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, people being aware of Daeron's existence, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, Aemond having feelings (not good ones), references to sexual content (18+), an unexpected field trip.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Champagne for My Real Friends, Real Pain for My Sham Friends" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! 🥰💜

Aemond never tells you where you’re going.

You follow him—ivy-green velvet tunic, silver flood of hair like moonlight—to Grand Maester Orwyle’s chambers and up a narrow spiral staircase to the rookery of the Red Keep. Windows open out into all four cardinal directions: wests towards the Reach, south towards the Stormlands, north towards the Riverlands, east towards the Narrow Sea. Late-afternoon sunlight like the pulsing glow of embers paints you both in gold, in rust. As Aemond goes to the writing desk and begins drafting a letter—his penmanship is always slow and precise, painstakingly neat—you look at the ravens that tiptoe on talons like a dragon’s through the straw beds of their cages. Each enclosure is labeled with the castles that particular raven is trained to fly to. One raven knows the way to Lannisport, another to Riverrun, a third to Winterfell where Cregan Stark is gathering far-flung Northerner soldiers to help him march south and leave his mark on the world, something like a brand or a bloodstain or a bruise. You notice that a particularly clever raven—old, greying, fast asleep with his beak tucked into scruffy feathers—is assigned three separate strongholds, all in the Crownlands: Dragonstone, Driftmark, Claw Isle. It is not often that you see all the Valyrian houses of Westeros listed together; it is not often that House Celtigar is properly acknowledged. Generations of intermarrying with Westerosi bloodlines has camouflaged your Valyrian features, but still, the truth is inescapable. The fates of the Targaryens, Velaryons, and Celtigars are hopelessly intertwined. They always have been. You survived the Doom together; you are meant to prosper or burn together.

“Who are you writing to?” you ask Aemond.

He speaks without looking up from his letter, straight regimented lines and meticulous dots. “Eastbriar.”

The seat of House Thorne, your supposed kin. You choke down a dismayed mewing—it rises in your throat like stream from a kettle—and imagine the tone of your voice to be like a ship: vital to keep level and upright, even in the roughest of waves. “A summons for our soldiers?”

Aemond nods, his eye still on the parchment. “They have had ample time to mop up after Rook’s Rest. Those who have survived and are capable of battle will meet me and Criston as we lead our army north to the Riverlands.”

This is a compromise, you know. Aemond wanted to depart from the capital on Vhagar and pursue Daemon and Caraxes alone. Everyone was against it—Criston, Otto, Alicent, Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong, the entire Kingsguard, Aegon when he was roused enough to pry an answer out of—and so Aemond relented. But there is still a restlessness that lives in the icy blue cave of his remaining eye like a caged animal. “You’re doing the right thing.”

“This brings me great confidence, the endorsement of a woman with no tactical proficiency whatsoever.” And you think: I might know more of wartime strategy than your own advisors. I have heard what the Black Council discusses. I have stayed up with my father and brothers until the dark, lonely hours of the early morning as they plotted, Clement rabid to see combat, Everett assisting Father with calculations of cost and gain. Aemond smirks and beckons you closer to the desk. “I’ve finished. Go on, leave a note at the bottom.”

“What?” You stare at him, then down at the parchment. “Me?”

“I thought you might like to include a brief postscript for your family. I assume you have told them that you are here and safe. They would appreciate further report on occasion, I’m sure. To read that you are perfectly well in your own words.”

“Right,” you agree uncertainly.

Aemond crosses the rookery and turns his back to you. His hand slips into a pocket of his tunic and reemerges with small pieces of crumbly bread; he feeds them to the ravens, voracious black beaks jabbing out from between metal bars. “I will give you privacy to disparage me as much as you wish to,” he says, and you can hear the teasing smile in his voice.

He’s not suspicious, you realize. He means this as an act of kindness, of esteem. He trusts me.

And you have grown to understand Aemond well enough to know that this will only make things worse for you if your treason is discovered. It is not just the Greens’ security or strategy that is implicated here. It is Aemond’s pride. Sometimes, you think, it is his grudging affection as well.

 You pick up the quill and contemplate the letter to House Thorne. What do I write? What the hell do I write?

Then an idea occurs to you. You add to the bottom of the parchment, just below Aemond’s signature:

P.S. Please send any livestock that you can spare to help sustain Sunfyre at Rook’s Rest. His alertness and strength improve each day. The Greens cannot spare any of our dragons…and Sunfyre is beloved for his ferocity by all the loyal subjects of the realm.

You hesitate, then sign in a looping scrawl:

Aegon II, King of the Seven Kingdoms

This comes so easily, like breathing, like healing, a treachery as smooth and painless as milk of the poppy.

“Done?” Aemond asks.

“Yes.” You roll up the parchment and give it to Aemond. Without looking at what you’ve written—he trusts me, he trusts me, a chant that is in equal parts honored and horrified—he ties it with a green ribbon, attaches it to a twiglike ink-colored leg of the raven trained to fly to Eastbriar, and looses the bird out into the troubled world through the open window that faces Blackwater Bay.

The sunlight catches on something: gold wings, jade eyes. Aemond is wearing Aegon’s ring, the one you stripped him of at Rook’s Rest as he lingered at the gate between our world and the one beyond, above or below or wherever you believe it to be, ice or fire or clouds or void.

“You should give that back to Aegon,” you say. “His hands are no longer too swollen to wear it. And I think he has noticed it’s missing.”

Aemond watches you, twisting the ring where it remains on his finger. He is thoughtful in a way that you cannot decipher. “You have done your king a great service. I know you will be generously rewarded.”

“That’s not why I’m helping him.”

“Yes, I know that part too.”

A silence, deep and laden and uncomfortable. Then Aemond winces—a tiny gesture he is used to hiding—and touches his fingertips to his forehead just above the black leather of his eyepatch. You have never seen him without it. “Headache?” you say.

“Having pieces of your eye scooped out of its socket comes at a price. I’m still paying it, I’ll never stop.”

You see it clearly, the story you were told: Aemond climbing up the rope ladder into Vhagar’s saddle, his skull rattling with vengeful maroon glee, slate-grey storm winds in his rain-soaked hair. “Is that why you killed Luke?”

Aemond gazes out the open window over the frothing waves speckled with sunbeams, and there is something strange in his face: not gloating but a pensiveness that grows almost despondent. At last, he speaks. “Now he has his brother to keep him company in the afterlife.”

“Jace?” you say, shocked. “Jace is dead?”

“Larys just informed me. The rest of the city will know by nightfall.”

You remember Jace, self-assured and ambitious and looking nothing like a Velaryon. You’ve met him. You’ve met all of the Blacks, even if only fleetingly or from a distance. “How?”

“Corlys’ navy attacked the Triarchy’s fleet in the Gullet.” The Triarchy are Essosi allies of the Greens, won over by Otto’s diplomacy, notes and promises that Aegon was too impatient to wait for. At last, they have arrived. “Jace and Vermax were torching our ships. Vermax was struck by a crossbow bolt and crashed into the burning wreckage of a galley. He struggled for a while and then disappeared into the waves. Jace clung to a piece of debris but was shot by arrows until dead. His body could not be recovered before it sank.”

You don’t know what to say; it is a defeat for the Celtigars, it is a victory for Aegon, it is a tragedy for all humankind. Are we any closer to peace? Or is this a wound that rips apart its stitching again and again until infection turns all our blood to poison? “So Rhaenyra has two sons buried in the sea.”

“There is something else that Larys told me,” Aemond says. And he does not seem like a man just handed news of a triumph. “Vermax was not the only dragon at the Battle of the Gullet.”

Caraxes is with Daemon at Harrenhal, last you heard. “Syrax?”

“No. The bitch won’t fight.” He means Rhaenyra, not her dragon. Aemond looks at you with fear swimming in his river-blue eye, something he rarely lets others see. “Silverwing, Seasmoke, Vermithor, and one that was never ridden before. The Blacks call him Sheepstealer.”

“Four more dragons,” you exhale with terror. “Four battle-ready, full-grown dragons.”

“They can’t use them here,” Aemond says, like he’s comforting you. “Rhaenyra cannot sanction the burning of King’s Landing and keep the love of the people. The people’s fondness for her is halfhearted at best already.”

“But the Blacks can use their dragons against you and Criston when you march north.”

Aemond smirks, half-taunting and half-warm. “It almost sounds like you’re worried about me.”

You ignore this. You don’t know how to respond. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon. A week or two.” He swipes for your wrist. You pull it away just as his fingertips graze your skin. Aemond smiles. “I’ll leave it to you to inform Aegon of Jace’s demise. I’m sure it will cheer him.” Then he descends the narrow spiral staircase and abandons you in the rookery, surrounded by squawking, pacing ravens that claw at the walls of their cages.

You stop at Helaena’s bedchamber before going to Aegon’s; he drained his goblet of milk of the poppy an hour ago and is almost certainly still unconscious. He is trapped in a cycle of bitter disappointment. He has a day when he feels better, overexerts himself, and then spends the next three or four sleeping to escape the pain. It doesn’t matter how many times you tell him to be cautious, to be patient. You walk into his room and find him polishing his sword, trying to pull on his boots, crawling out onto the balcony after nightfall when the sun cannot burn his fragile skin.

The queen is sitting in a chair and staring at the wall. She is watching the shadows of birds flit across tapestries depicting the night sky, a flurry of butterflies, unicorns, ladybugs, Dreamfyre. Each day you bring her flowers from the gardens; they sit in vases all over the room gathering dust, lilies and irises and tulips and daisies, roses red like the crabs that scuttle across your true house’s sigil. “Your Grace? Are you alright?”

Helaena says nothing. When you move closer, you see that her ghost-pale eyes are wide and vacant.

“Helaena, come walk in the gardens with me.”

Her voice is quiet, as if from a great distance away. “Is Jaehaerys playing there?”

It takes you a moment to decide how to answer. There is no sense in upsetting Helaena; she has suffered so much already. You will not remind her that her firstborn son was beheaded in front of her. “We’ve sent him away to keep him safe. You will see him again when the war is over.”

“I’ll see many people again when the war is over. But not you.”

You hold out your hand to her. “Helaena, please. Let’s walk in the gardens before the sun sets.” Before the world ends, you think randomly, unwelcomely.

You do not expect Helaena to take your hand. She never has before, though you offer it frequently. But this time her delicate, feather-light palm finds yours. One of her children is dead, and she cannot bring herself to act as a mother to the two that remain. Her marriage never brought her happiness, her father never cherished her. You cannot change any of this. But you can remind her that she is not alone. When you have spent an hour strolling through lush greenery and past ponds that ripple with the splashing of fish, you bring Helaena to Otto—he has supper with her most nights—and then continue on alone to Aegon’s bedchamber.

You stand in the doorway watching him as he sleeps, this man that you as a Celtigar have no business touching, this man you cannot bring yourself to leave.

He is mending. He is past the worst of the danger. If I disappeared now, Grand Maester Orwyle would be more than capable of tending to him. And every second I spend in King’s Landing is another opportunity to be discovered, imprisoned, interrogated, punished, ransomed, killed.

So when will you go?

Today seems impossible. Tomorrow isn’t any better. A few days, a week, a month?

Never, you think, so abruptly and forcefully that it stuns you. I never want to be away from him.

Aegon stirs, his eyes opening in bleary slits. His mess of silvery hair cascades over his face; the scar on his right cheek spills across his skin like blood in snow. He spots you from across the room, smiles, reaches out to you with one seeking, unburned hand.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Aegon, you have to set it free.” It’s morning, days later. Outside the sun is bright and forbidden; in his bed across the room, draped in cool shadows, Aegon follows your eyeline to the glass jar on his bedside table, to the tiny creature Helaena gifted him. The once-caterpillar is now a captive butterfly with shimmering gold wings.

Aegon looks at it without much interest. “I’m terribly sorry. I was distracted by my many deformities.”

“Stop trying to lure me into complimenting you.” You remove the lid from the jar. The butterfly ascends through the opening, meanders around the room, and eventually finds its way through the window. “Besides, lots of women appreciate scars on a man.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Women in general, or one in particular…?”

“Quiet, miscreant.” You unwrap Aegon’s bandages and inspect the places you are most concerned with: the crooks of his elbows, the backs of his shoulders, his waist where the scar tissue strains when he moves. You begin massaging rose oil onto his arms, starting at his wrists. He is lucky the flames did not claim his hands; from what you have learned from books and maesters, keeping fingers nimble and stopping them from fusing together as they heal is nearly impossible.

“You’re always undressing me,” Aegon muses, gazing at you with hazy, murky blue eyes and a playful smile. “Maybe one day I’ll have the opportunity to return the favor.”

You won’t. But Cregan Stark will. And for the first time you are vividly aware that the thought of Aegon touching you—anywhere, everywhere—does not fill you with fear or dread but rather a sort of curiosity, maybe even willingness, maybe even the first pangs of a craving like hunger.

Aegon’s smile dies as you knead rose oil into his right forearm. He will require the use of it if he is to ever wield a sword properly again. “I did not mean to offend you. Allow me to apologize. I am thoroughly medicated, my judgment is impaired. And I confess that it was not so good to begin with.”

“I’m not offended. I’m…distracted.”

Distracted by the promise-prison of your betrothal, Aegon knows. “Angel,” he says firmly, and waits until you meet his eyes. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, Aegon. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. You have enough worries already.”

“You’ve helped me,” Aegon insists. “Now let me help you. I may be weak and hideous now, but I’m still the king. Whoever he is, I can have him married off to someone else. I can have him sent to the Night’s Watch. I can fix this.”

Your words spill out in a mournful whisper. “You can’t touch him.”

Aegon shakes his head, stretches out his hand, skims his thumbprint across your cheekbone like shadows dance over walls. “Who the hell is he?”

There is a noise outside, a shrill reverberating shriek that grows louder as it nears the Red Keep. You and Aegon share a startled, knowing glance. It is the cry of a dragon, and not one already housed here in the Dragonpit. You do not recognize this voice: a high whistling, a tinny quality like a small bell being rung. Not Vhagar or Dreamfyre, not the reptilian infants Shrykos or Morghul…

Then Aegon begins to laugh. “Oh, Aemond is going to murder him.”

You jolt up off the bed and race to the open window. Down on the beach, it is landing: a shining lapis-colored beast about the same size as Sunfyre, lean, regal, sprightly, swanlike. A white-haired boy, perhaps fifteen, is climbing down out of the saddle as waves bubble up around his mount’s claws. “Tessarion,” you breathe, awed despite yourself. You have no fondness for dragons—you are too closely acquainted with their singular capacity for destruction—but her beauty is striking. You understand now why she is called the Blue Queen.

“And Daeron too, I assume,” Aegon quips. “Or has she eaten him?”

“No, he is presently uneaten. His hair is already longer than yours.”

“Yes, everyone’s is.”

You turn back to Aegon, sitting up in bed and wearing only his loose cotton trousers. “Why is yours so short and…” What is a polite way to put it? Haphazard? Irregular? Uneven? “Choppy?”

“Do not bully me, angel. I may perish and you will regret your harsh words.” He smiles drowsily. “I used to cut it myself. I have since I was eight or nine years old.”

He has servants for that. “Why?”

“I didn’t want to look like a Targaryen. I didn’t want to be one at all. But this inheritance cannot be refused, it seems. It’s written into parts of me that can’t be burned away. The whites of the bones, the chambers of the heart.”

It occurs to you as you say it: “Had you not been born a Targaryen, I never would have met you.”

He studies you thoughtfully. “Then perhaps it was not all a curse.”

There are robust, hurried footsteps, and then Aegon’s bedchamber door is thrown open. Daeron stands there. He is already as tall as Aegon. He is athletic, fussily dressed in seafoam green, more conventionally handsome than either of his brothers. He lacks something…an edge, a cynicism. He has a cape that flutters around him as ocean wind pours in through the open windows.

“Seven hells,” Daeron gasps as he approaches Aegon’s bedside, large blue eyes—a clear, shallow blue like Aemond’s—sweeping over Aegon’s wounds: gnarled thickets of angry red scar tissue, raw spots that are still weeping, a scorched landscape like the ruins of Valyria. “You look awful.”

Aegon chuckles. “I know. I’m a roasted pig.”

“A burnt-to-a-crisp pig, rather. A dragon might eat you, but no human would.”

Aemond and Sir Criston stampede into the room, blinking at Daeron as if he is a mirage that may vanish at any moment. Aegon tells Daeron: “Now we must stop discussing pigs.”

Aemond ignores this and addresses Daeron. “You’re supposed to be with Lord Ormund Hightower’s army.”

“That’s where I was. Until the Battle of the Honeywine.”

Aemond exchanges a puzzled glance with Criston. “The what?”

“Well I won it, you see.” Daeron grins, and you suddenly glimpse so much of Aegon in him it hurts, it feels like someone is digging around in the marrow of your bones with a rusty blade. “The nobles of the Reach who have sworn loyalty to Rhaenyra descended upon Lord Ormund’s forces and all hope was lost. Until Tessarion and I arrived. Our enemies look worse than Aegon now, if you can believe it. They are puffs of ash and memory.”

“We haven’t heard anything,” Aemond says.

“News never travels faster than by dragon.”

“But you’re too young to fight,” Criston says dully, his mind struggling to catch up.

“Am I?” Daeron replies with mock scandal. “Thank you for making me aware. I will free Tessarion immediately and take myself back to the nursery. Is there a wetnurse available for suckling? I’ve flown a long way, and I’m very hungry.”

“I’ll tell Mother that you’re here,” Aemond says flatly. “She’ll want to have a feast.” Then he strides out of the bedchamber, long hair streaming and aisles of daylight cutting stripes across his back. After a moment, Criston trots after him.

Daeron says to Aegon: “I heard he stole your crown.”

“No,” Aegon replies, as if he can’t quite believe it himself. “For some reason, he’s only borrowing it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A banquet in the Great Hall would be ostentatious during wartime when others are expected to ration their bread and send their sons to slaughter. Instead, Alicent settles for a private early supper with the royal family and only their most essential guests, of which there are three: Hand of the King Sir Criston Cole, Master of Whisperers Larys Strong, and you.

Daeron is regaling the table with the dramatic tale of his victory at the Battle of the Honeywine. He is using the chunks of carrots and squash on his plate to demonstrate military formations. Otto is beaming at Daeron with bright, probing eyes, suddenly aware of his worth. Alicent touches her youngest son constantly, his hands and his hair and his face. He allows this; perhaps he even enjoys it. He is the only child who does not make her feel like a failure of a mother; he is the only one she can love in a way that is uncomplicated. Helaena stares down at a tiny figurine in her hands, a bear carved out of wood. Aegon made that for her years ago. Aemond says little and frowns often.

Aegon was determined to attend. He wears an emerald green tunic over his bandages, his burns hidden except for the scarlet plume on his right cheek. He sits beside you taking frequent gulps from his wine cup, dripping sweat from his temples, glazed-eyed and exhausted by even the smallest motions: the tearing of a hunk of bread, the slicing of a slab of beef wet with gravy. As he saws with his knife, his movements grow slow and feeble and labored.

“Aegon, please, let me cut that for you.” You reach for his plate; he slides it away.

“I can do it,” he pants.

“Aegon—”

“Dignity,” he says. He wants to keep what little of it he has left. “But if your fingers are too idle, I have another task for you.”

You do not need to ask what he means. Smiling, you begin weaving a fresh braid into his hair; his most recent one was washed out last night. Criston observes this with awkward fascination. Aemond twists off the ring—Aegon’s ring, the golden dragon with jade eyes—and tosses it over. It lands on the tabletop, bounces twice, and comes to rest by Aegon’s wine cup. He picks the ring up and examines it.

“I was wondering where that went.” He slips it onto a finger and grins at Aemond crookedly, mischieviously. “You’re always developing attachments to things that are mine.”

Aemond tells you as you braid Aegon’s hair: “He can do that himself, you know. I’ve seen him. He just pretends he can’t when you’re around.”

“Do we know who the new riders are yet?” Otto asks Larys, and now the conversation has been monopolized by the machinations of war. Everyone—with the exception of Helaena, who is walking her wooden bear across the table like a child would—is listening to Larys.

“Vermithor is ridden by a Dragonstone bastard, the son of a blacksmith,” Larys says. He is eating red grapes with his pink, rodent-like hands; he peels each one completely with his fingernails before popping it into his mouth. “He calls himself Hugh Hammer. Seasmoke was claimed by a boy rumored to be the bastard of Corlys Velaryon.”

Daeron mutters to Aegon: “Goddamn, it’s bastards all the way down over on their side.”

“Silverwing is ridden by a man known as Ulf the White,” Larys continues. “He has the Targaryen coloring. And is supposedly a drunk and an unreliable character all-around.”

Otto casts a glance at Aegon, long and unsubtle. Aegon pretends not to see it.

“And the last one?” Aemond says. “Sheepstealer? Ridden by yet another undesirable dredged up from the slums of Dragonstone, I assume.”

“Interestingly, no,” Larys replies. “She is a girl from Driftmark called Nettles. Fierce, rugged.” He pauses meaningfully, reeling his audience in like fish on hooks. “She is now at Harrenhal with Daemon.”

“With Daemon?” Alicent echoes. “As an…understudy? Strategist? Accomplice?”

“As far more than that, if the rumors are to be believed.”

“Oh, may the Mother have mercy,” Alicent murmurs, gripping her gold necklace in the shape of the seven-pointed star.

“Daemon? With a teenager?!” Criston says. “He’s repulsive. He’s ancient.”

Otto laughs, a wicked low rumble. “Rhaenyra must be mortified! She must think of little else.”

Larys nods, smirking, conniving. “My point is, my lords…and ladies…these lowborn new riders—Dragonseeds, as they are being called—possess unsound loyalties. They risked their lives to claim the beasts for the promise of land and riches, not to help any particular faction win the Iron Throne. They do not love Rhaenyra or her cause. Already they are causing discord within the Blacks’ ranks. In time, they may prove to be liabilities more than assets, and if we could win even only Vermithor or Silverwing to our side…”

You peer over at Aegon as plots sail across the table. He is swaying in his seat, hands trembling, agonized and empty like a dry well. His eyes are dark and glassy; he gazes inanely straight ahead. He needs to leave soon, and you will go with him. But you have one question to ask first.

You say to Larys: “Do you think the Pact of Ice and Fire might be dissolved? Now that Jace is dead?”

Everyone looks at you; everyone, that is, except Aegon and Helaena. They are well-matched for once, equally present in body but not in soul. Too late, you realize that perhaps this was an unwise inquiry. You should not be attracting attention to yourself. You should not be expressing anxiety about Cregan Stark’s allegiances.

Fortunately, Larys does not seem to be wary. He titters, peeling a grape with those rat-like little fingers. “I don’t think we’ll get that lucky, Lady Thorne. Cregan fancies himself to be an honorable man, and he believes Rhaenyra—as Viserys’ allegedly chosen heir—to be the honorable choice. And I’m sure she will offer him some redress for his lost future daughter-in-law, perhaps a daughter of Joffrey.”

“Or Daemon and Nettles,” Daeron adds, snickering.

“In any case, there is another matter keeping Cregan on the Blacks’ side,” Larys says. “I heard months ago that he is apparently smitten with some Celtigar girl, and she’s been promised to him—”

Aegon groans and nearly tumbles out of his chair; you leap up to steady him. “The king must be taken back to bed immediately.”

Alicent stands and throws down her green cloth napkin onto the table. She’s wrung it with nervous hands into a tight little twist. “I’ll go with you.”

You and Alicent trail after the guards as they carry Aegon to his bedchamber. Grand Maester Orwyle meets you there and helps you undress Aegon, drug him, clean him, inspect his wounds for any new abrasions or signs of festering, apply honey to raw patches, work warm rose oil into the scar tissue around his joints, rebandage him with fresh strips of linen. Alicent watches all of this with tears brimming in her eyes, those vast shadowy pools of memories, so few of them good.

When Orwyle is gone and Aegon drifts in bottomless psychic darkness that he will likely not surface from for days, you ask Alicent: “Would you like to touch him? You can. On his hands, his face. It’s alright. You won’t harm him.”

Her own hands are clasped together so tightly her knuckles are a bloodless shade of white. “I won’t?”

“No. Come and see.”

She steps closer tentatively. She ghosts her fingertips across his limp left hand, where his dragon ring glints and his flesh is unscarred. Then she threads his braid through her hand. Her voice is so soft you can barely hear her, though she stands right beside you. “If he died, it would kill me.”

I understand. I’m afraid that’s becoming true for me too. It’s spreading like infection, like plague. “He’s not going to die. He is mending.”

Alicent nods, sniffling, swiping tears from her flushed, puffy face. “What can I do? Anything?”

“Tell him you love him. And that you’re proud of him. That he is a true Targaryen and a worthy king.”

“Yes,” she agrees; but she looks as if you have given her instructions in a language she does not speak. She flees from the room in a daze, in a nightmare she cannot wake up from.

An hour later, you are sitting on Aegon’s floor in an corridor of late-afternoon sunlight and reading a book on herbology when Aemond comes to collect you. He never tells you where you’re going, and now is no exception. You follow him down hallways and staircases, through throngs of courtiers who wear green and toast to the deaths of Jace Velaryon and those traitors at the Battle of the Honeywine. Contrary to your best guesses, Aemond does not lead you to the council chamber or the rookery or the library.

“I have a surprise for you,” he says as he beckons you out into the gardens. There are a group of nobles clustered by a trickling fountain and chatting merrily. One of them is Sir Rickard Thorne. “Your family is here.”

Cold blood in your veins, a terror like a prey animal’s, legs that threaten to buckle. Your shoes halt mid-step. “Family…?”

“Some of Sir Rickard’s relatives came to visit him before we march north. I thought you might appreciate the opportunity to see your aunt and cousins—”

A woman screams, a sound like glass breaking. She drops the cup she was holding and wine floods across the cobblestones like blood. Her hands fly up to her face. You know her: Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother, a name like Clara or Cora or Camila. Her daughters yelp and gape alongside her. Aemond is baffled but not alarmed. The truth is too unthinkable for him to consider.

“Why is she here?!” Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother hisses through bared teeth.

Aemond looks at you, then to the woman. “She is not your kin…?”

“She’s not ours.” Sir Rickard Thorne’s mother points at you, a finger like a knife, stabbing, lethal. “She’s one of Bartimos Celtigar’s daughters!”

Someone is yelling, not you, but someone. People are making accusations and demands. Aemond is not listening to any of them. He is staring at you with his remaining eye wide and filling up with blade-sharp realization, shock, betrayal, hatred. You have no good options. You choose a not-good one. You bolt away from him and through the gardens, trampling flowers and ricocheting off marble statues. You can hear Aemond behind you, swift and deft like a falcon. You crash through a wall of scrubs and tumble blindly into a fishpond. You gasp for air as you burst up out of the water, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on rocks slick with algae. Panicked fish zoom by you, their fins leaving paper-thin gashes in your skin. Aemond is at the water’s edge, his hand closing around your wrist to drag you from the pond. And now there is nothing funny about it; now Aemond isn’t smiling.

You’re on the cobblestones and coughing water from your lungs, you’re being yanked upright, you’re being hauled through the gardens. You claw and shove, you fight him viciously. It’s just like when you first met. Except that now Aemond knows exactly who you are.

“Aemond, stop, stop, please listen to me—”

“You fucking liar,” he seethes. He is towing you out into the streets of King’s Landing. Where? Where? “In our bedrooms. In our council meetings. While your father bankrolls Rhaenyra’s treason.”

“I meant no harm to you—”

“House Thorne!” Aemond roars into your face. “I asked you which family was yours and you said House Thorne, you masqueraded as a Green, you deceived us, you lied to me—”

“So you would let me help him!” you shout back. “You asked me to save Aegon’s life and I did, I did and I was the only one who could, and you never would have let me near him if you knew who my family was!”

“A Celtigar.” He snarls it like a curse that can kill. “You never cared about any of us.”

“That’s not true.”

“A traitor, a spy.”

“I never spied—”

“Sending letters home to your avaricious demon of a father.”

You strike at Aemond’s chest as hard as you can, hard enough to try to get him to listen. “I never wrote letters! Not one! They don’t know I’m here, they don’t know anything, all I’ve done since the second I met you was serve your house, your king!”

“Keep moving,” Aemond snaps. Smallfolk and mule carts jostle by you. Street venders and shopkeepers bellow out the attributes of their merchandise. You are accustomed to the aftermath of battles, but not filthy and bustling city streets. You are overwhelmed by foreign sights, sounds, scents. People gawk and bow when they spot Aemond, perhaps genuinely, perhaps because they know he commands the largest dragon in the world and does not shy away from murder. Where is he taking me? Where?

There are women wandering in the streets now, their faces smeared with sweated-through makeup, their sleeves hanging off their shoulders. They simper at the prince regent, they reach out to comb their long painted fingernails through his hair. They are prostitutes.

No, you think. No no no.

“Aemond, where are we going?”

“Exactly where you belong. You sell lies. There are lots of women who make a living that way.”

“You can’t do this,” you say with horror.

“I assure you, I can do just about anything.”

“You found me!” you scream at Aemond. “You dragged me off the battlefield at Rook’s Rest and into that tent, you brought me to King’s Landing, every step I made was orchestrated by you, you found me, so don’t you act like I gained anything from this except the satisfaction of saving your brother’s life when you were incapable of it!”

“Your father funds Rhaenyra’s war effort,” Aemond says with chilling matter-of-factness. “Now you can help fund ours.”

“No!” You struggle against his grip, scratch at his face. Your fingers catch on the strap of his eyepatch and tear it away. Beneath is a sapphire that glitters cruelly in a nest of the frayed remnants of his eyelids. You shriek, but there is no one to help you, nowhere to run.

“Are you finished now?” Aemond demands, glaring ferociously: one eye of flesh, the other of cold earth-mined fire. He draws his dagger from his belt and lays the blade against your jugular. “Yes, you are. You’d better be.”

He brings you to a doorway. There is a woman standing in it: voluptuous, beautiful, middle-aged, hair long and braided and the warm brown color of a stag’s coat. She summons a practiced, enticing smile. She knows about things you do not want to imagine. “Hello again, my prince.”

They are already acquainted. Aemond does not seem pleased that she is being so forthright about it. “She will stay here,” he says, meaning you, this terrified woman with a dagger to the pulsing arteries of her throat.

“Yes,” the brothel madam agrees immediately.

“She will be put to work. Each week, someone will come to collect her wages.”

“Very good, my prince.”

“She must be watched closely.”

“All the girls are.”

“Especially closely. If she tries to escape, kill her.”

“Yes, my prince,” the madam says as you breathe in the sweat, salt, cries, moans, feigned pleasure, real pain of this place.

“Aemond, please don’t do this, please don’t leave me here, not here, anywhere but here—”

He flings you into the arms of the madam, tucking his dagger away. He gives you one last glance—dismissive, hateful, soulless—and then disappears into the swarming, anonymous streets.

Who will save me?

“You poor thing, you’ve had the fright of your life, haven’t you?” the brothel madam says, stroking your hair tenderly.

Clement? Father? Alicent? Aegon?

“Don’t worry, love. You can help in the kitchen tonight. We’ll get you situated tomorrow. I can’t have you running off clients with this hysteria anyway.”

No one knows I’m here.

“It isn’t so bad. You’ll see. We’ll take good care of you.”

How will they save me if no one knows I’m here?

[throughtrialbyfire]

𝑾𝑰𝑷 𝑾𝒆𝒅𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒅𝒂𝒚 ♥

oh man, it's that time of the week again!! i've been busy irl with the semester coming to an end, but i always look forward to wednesday around here!

tagged by the lovely @thequeenofthewinter , thank you so much!! <33

tagging @dirty-bosmer @totally-not-deacon @viss-and-pinegar @v1ctory-or-sovngarde @orfeoarte @thana-topsy @archangelsunited @rainpebble3 @boethiahspillowbook @gilgamish @umbracirrus and you!! and there's no pressure to participate, no worries!!

this week i'm sharing some long snippets from 2 different wips - "Kill the Creature, Shed the Blood", my fic centering Dragonborn!Frothar and taking place 10-ish years after the dragon crisis began, and a snippet from the rough draft of chaper 28 of "Cycle of the Serpent" in which athenath is going into meridia's temple to get rid of the necromancer, malkoran! hope you enjoy <3

Kill the Creature, Shed the Blood

He'd heard of dragon lairs distantly, and in every story, he hoped they were exaggerating. The grass crunched under his feet as he approached the stone outcropping among the mountains. This dragon must breathe fire, he surmised. The ground, once rich with soil and plant life, cracked beneath his boots. The plants, as he'd gotten closer to the beast, appeared so sullen and dead that he'd wondered if this spot in Whiterun got any rain at all. His gaze darted around at the once-thriving soil, the dirt, the clay, all of it splitting and dusty and strange under his feet. Then, he finally allowed his gaze to land on the dragon. Sleeping atop a wall inscribed with strange markings, he could see the scales, the glinting of red, the horrible shape of it. The beast laid atop the stone like a cat on a fence, it's scaley figure breathing in slow noises. Each breath puffed out small embers and trails of smoke, rising to the sky and dissipating into the air above. Frothar tightened his armor, securing himself as well as he could. He unsheathed his blade. What was his plan, exactly?

He wanted to kill it. The thing had been terrorizing locals. This was his duty. As the oldest son of Jarl Balgruuf, he should be keeping his people safe, right? Surely this was how things went. This was his duty. But how to approach, how to take it down? Did he even have a real plan, or was this all folly? Frothar swallowed the ball of anxiety lodged firmly in his throat. He watched as the creature slumbered. He wondered if it would have been smarter to grab a bow and some arrows rather than risk it with a sword, but-

He didn't have time to think. The eyes of the creature, hearing a twig snap from a far-off deer - damned deer - thrilled open. The pupils, like slits, widened at the sight and then shrank into long, black lines. Frothar's own gaze went wide as he dashed behind a large stone, missing his death by mere inches as the beast spat fire in a way that sounded like screaming. He covered his ears, the heat searing through the rock, hotter than any summer's sun he'd ever known. He waited. The moment the dragon rose to the skies, he sprinted to another rock, watching as it flung another breath of fire at him, and ducked down low. Gods, what had he been thinking? He'd really been this stupid to march up the side of a mountain to fight a dragon wholly unprepared! He'd done this all for what? And now he was going to die here, he would die on this hill and it wouldn't be for anything or for anyone, just his own selfish fucking- The dragon landed, the ground shivering with the impact. The whole earth repulsed at the feeling of it's existence, the land quaking as the dragon tread one foot in front of the other, wings lightly rising, then lowering, sending waves of dry-sucking heat out around it. "You seek your death, little one?"

The words thrummed through Frothar's chest. Like hearing the sun speak, like feeling every lick of flames against his face. It burned from the inside out, the sound, the way they rattled through him. The words themselves burrowed into his lungs, and he clutched his sword tighter, his own throat closed in fear. Sweat poured out of him, drenching the back of his tunic, his blood racing in his ears so loud he could hardly hear, but the words… He could understand them. It was in no language he'd ever known, a language he would never be able to fully articulate, but it was not with his ears or mind he understood, but something far older. His heart raced, slamming against his sternum, breaths barely having enough time to lodge in his lungs before being pushed out of him again. "Do you come to die? Perhaps your bones will nourish me, child." Frothar knit his brow. His father. He thought of him. He thought of Jarl Balgruuf and how, no matter how many times Frothar proved himself again and again, his father would not let him out of his grasp. Whiterun needed a leader when Balgruuf was gone. It fell on the eldest's shoulders. It fell on his shoulders. It was his duty. Whiterun needed a capable leader, a good leader, a brave leader. He would not die a coward. At the least, he'd go down and he'd do it swinging.

Cycle of the Serpent, Chapter 28

A foul air pitched low through the corridors, thick in the winding depths of the temple. Moss overpowered the stones, shrouded in its blinding dark. The stench of decay wafted through the Altmer's senses. Athenath pressed their sleeve to his nose, forcing himself not to gag at the odor. Meaty and slithering, sweet like overripe fruit trampled under the foot of a count's horses. He stepped forward, flinching as the noises of battle shredded the once-quiet air above them, using their sword to break apart spiderwebs that threaded through the temple's corners and crevices. The hair on the back of their neck prickled, skin bumping, spine aching with the all-too-familiar dread that sent a shiver down the column. The lit braziers up ahead offered both peace and terror. A presence had been here. The dark, then, seemed safer than the figure they knew lurked deeper in the temple. Still, he pushed one foot ahead of the other along the well-worn stones, creeping low as to not draw the attention of whoever - or whatever - had contaminated the temple of Meridia. A burning ache at the back of his throat caught them as they continued forward, caution in every shallow breath they nearly feared to breathe. Guilt should be for later, he told himself, but it threatened them now in here, the guilt of aiding a Daedric Prince. Was what the Vigilants said true? Was this doing the bidding of something that would merely toss them aside when through? It's not like he had a choice. They hadn't seen the light, the Lady of Infinite Energies, the way she hovered as a bright and shining beacon in the skies above Solitude. And Athenath, unfortunately, had. Still, it did little to stop his hand from clutching the amulet of Mara beneath his clothes.

[....] He lowered himself once again, creeping towards it, and picked the lock with ease. For a moment, they were glad that Emeros and Wyndrelis were above, fighting off the Vigilants. It saved him the embarrassment of the other two pointing out the door to the half-distracted Altmer. Then, shame filled his face with red, as he wrapped a hand around the lever. He shouldn't rejoice their absence right now. They were up there, fighting off the Vigilants so that Athenath had a chance to investigate the temple, as they all wanted to. Who knew how the battle above was going? Who could say if his friends were dead or alive? Athenath stifled the thought, smothered it deep until it choked out. There was nothing saying that his friends weren't alive and waiting for him. They had to have hope.

[....]

The further Athenath went, the more they clung to this idea. Sometimes, a moment of idle collection of breath and thought, they clutched the amulet hanging out of the collar of his shirt. They wondered if Mara had sent them to Skyrim for a reason. Surely, her devotee would find a place to spread her compassion and her love in all its forms, in this land claimed by war and its aftermath? Maybe it was no mistake Athenath would be attending the Bard's College, after all. Training with them, then going off into the world, maybe this was exactly where they were meant to be. Even though pain soared through their body from various injuries, even when hope dimmed when he drank the last of his healing potions, they pushed onward into the temple. Meridia had asked it of them. Mara was commanding them. Mother Mara, lady of compassion, of love, of family, the lady Athenath looked to when the world crumbled and the stars burned out and the sun breathed its last. The lady who forgave him, who gave them a new life, unwasted here. This was an extension of Mara's compassion. It had to be.

[montys-mortuary]

so i had a little bit of a mental break yesterday as my depression really got to me, so I'm taking my big slasher boyfriend and self-indulging in some pampering.

enjoy <3

CONTENT WARNING: insinuated suicidal ideation, major depression, upsetting feelings

(Found in my Drafts from about 8 months ago because I hate my writing lel)

You laid yourself within the confines of the stained blankets on Jason's old bed, the smell of days of sleep reeking from them. You heard the door to the old cabin be pushed aside and the floorboards whine under the weight of another approaching the side of the place you called home for 4 days.

You had refused to bathe, eat, or even emerge from your small base. The heavy footsteps fall short and stop just beside you, and before you could react with more than a hoarse hiss from your throat, your nest was torn off from over you, and the harsh sunlight assaulted your eyes.

Standing over you was Jason, peering down at you, shoulders heaving.

"Leave me alone." You grumbled, rolling over to face your back towards him.

a small huff escaped behind the mask as he grabbed you, slugging you over his shoulder. you didn't put up much of a fight, letting your weight drape over his built form. Jason walked out of the cabin with you, making his way towards the lake. you let tears streak your face, unable to muster the energy to stand. he placed you down gently, and you looked around at the small campfire he had made. a pot hung over the flames, an intoxicating smell arising from it. you hadn't eaten in days, frankly, unable to keep anything down.

he grabbed a cracked bowl and wooden spoon from beside the fire. You watched with lazy eyes as he prepared you a bowl of food, the steam from the meal rising gently into the air. He turned to you, practically forcing you to take it. You took the warm bowl in your hands, the smell of the meal causing The hair on your arms to stand at attention, caused by the wonderful smell.

The lumbering man sat beside you, stoking the hot embers of the fire with a long stick. You silently thanked him, and used what little energy you had left to eat the entire contents of the bowl. You shivered slightly when you were finished, feeling a lot better afterwards.

“…thank you, Jason. I appreciate—“

But before you could finish your sentence, the hulking monster picks you up once more, tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes with ease. You tried to protest, exclaiming that you felt well enough to walk now, but he wasn’t having it. He marched towards the camps showers with you in tow, and you surrendered to him.

Inside the showers, your shivering form hasn’t gotten quite used to the coldness of the water spraying from the clanking, rusted pipes. Jason, holding himself as best he could, proceeded to wash out the dirt and oil from your hair, his slightly trembling hands soaping down your body to clean you or days of depression.

You knew Jason feared water, and when you protested to him that you could do this bit yourself to save him the trouble of interacting with the liquid, he merely shook his head, his glazed over steel blue eye gazing into your eyes for just a moment before finishing.

Wrapped up neatly in a sheet, he carried you, this time Bridal Style as opposed to a deer carcass on his shoulder, back to the cabin.

Now clean, fed, and properly dressed, the two of you made your way to the shore of the lake. You both sat there, Jason staring out into the clear waters while you picked at stray stones beside you.

You took a shaker breath, and exhaled.

“Thank you.”

Jason merely turned to you slightly, patted your head, and pulled you closer to rest your head on his bicep.

[env0writes]

Umber Embers Vol.3, 9.13.24 “__Pression”

Stuffing down those cotton-mouthed thoughts Of wanting to die Why? With a sigh and a lie and I’ll say “Just look at everything” Pretending that I am not in love with blue skies Overcast, downcast, updraft, rough draft days The fog and morning gaze The dew glaze On the grass in the early sunrise I want to die but I don’t want to die But I want a payout of my attempts as I try Cotton-mouthed, cherry-picked words as I swear Pluck just one from my lips and I’ll share You don’t like these darker days Missing the sun Missing your son Missing the one, right in front of you

The plants out my window grow this and that way Cut down and into line Bound and restrained Retrained with twine Held in place and told to wait Grow this way Are they not prepared for the wildness Nature might grow docile but not tame And me, I guess I’m hunting the same Gathering skills for, what community? WHen the sky is blue I want to die Burnt up beneath the blazing fires Ripping light across the stratosphere No strategy let me get near Back to those summer after-school hours Playing past the park Walked barefoot without a care Still wishing to die You spoke to me thinking nothing of it And like a knife across my mind Wrenched electrical wiring Fixing personalities into place Like those taut twine-taught plants Blowing over in the evening wind

I never knew the choices I’d make Would end up like this, I’d take It all back, Redact it with black Blur out the background Let me leave an impression Of an impressionist painting Out of focus and in the distance I will remain in this instance For an instant you believed That the light you saw coming off of me Was those party-cloudy midday beams of sun Is this not what you wanted? When you mashed me into molds When I ran headfirst into walls Flattening, resetting, refusing to rest Lest I fall behind Stowed all the things that I did best Do I need to rhyme for you to listen I’d say sorry that you have to deal with this When I gesture at all of me When I try to do what is expected Tripping on pre-tied shoelaces Breaking something glass within me Why are hearts made of something so soft Meat and sweet-sickly thick blood Pumps through me like a city-sludged river Struggling to pump happy thoughts That refuse to fly up to my brain Refuse to applaud for a fairy I would tell you sorry If I was But I can never be sure If you tell me I am I might even believe

I know that If I explain it enough It will start to make life less tough Make sense of it all So that when you call I raise my hand confident I rise My eyes fixed on the moment Instead of tomorrow Of yesterday's moments I’ll borrow My heart and my soul are on loan I’ll pay it all back when I’m old and I’m grown With a groan and moan Fading like the west coast cloud cover Starry eyed skies And I never thought I’d make it It never got better But I did

@env0writes C.Buck   Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artists!

[pheita]

28. SEVEN OF CUPS: OVERWHELMED BY CHOICE (How do you decide which story idea to pursue? How many do you have?)

*laughs in too many WIPS* Hi cwritesfiction, I actually go with the story I am passionate about for whatever reasons. There is usually always a certain character, or parts of worldbuilding, or aspects of the plot I am passionate about that make me decided to write this WIP or go back and continue it/edit it/write a sequel. Sometimes it can happen in the weirdest ways like how I went back to "Flowers of Fire" which I had been put to rest years ago after the third attempt of writing it failed and a conversation with other writers brought some kind of epiphany and I pulled it back from the depths of my PC, made a lot of changes and here we are 4 months later. About how many do I have: 1. aforementioned Flowers of Fire, modern fantasy/erotica 2. Blood Night fantasy, bordering on dark fantasy 3. No Rest for the Wicked, supernatural romance 4. Always Prepared, modern fantasy/alternative world 5. Deyani fantasy (belonging in the world of Blood Night) 6. The Adventures of Deidre and Maddie fantasy 7. Guiding Star , urban fantasy/magical girl 8. Demon of the Sea historical fantasy/ pirates 9. Ember the War Mage fantasy /short story anthology 10. Rebellion post-apocalytic 11. Harem dystopia 12. Unnamed erotic rom-com idea 13. Serpent thriller 14. Tricky Love forbidden love/dystopia 15. "Female Loki" modern fantasy 16. Rise of the Gods fantasy 17. Welcome to New Hanshwig cyberpunk/harem 18. Dragon Princess fantasy 19. Secrets supernatural romance 20. New World sci-fi/fantasy hybrid 21. Assassin's Dragon fantasy 22. Goner alternative word/dystopia 23. Drugs of Love dark romance 24. Maureen the Succubus modern fantasy/ short story anthology 25. "Modern Amazons" thriller Plus various short story ideas I started and need to finish one day. A lot of these stories are over a decade old now and would need a major redo before I finish them, other's never get out of the plotting and write the first scenes stage. So, in the last four years I worked on the top 8 stories to some degree. I have a finished 1st draft of No Rest for the Wicked and Blood Night, a somewhat polished 3rd draft of Demon of the Seas, a 2nd draft of Always Prepared and started the planned sequels for everything (except Demon of the Seas which is a standalone). The short stories just got thrown in whenever they happened because of FlashFicFriday or I wrote them for short story competition Thanks for asking, feel free to bug me for more.

[liesmyteachertoldme]

Definitions of basic fire concepts.

1). Combustion: rapid chemical combination of a substance with oxygen, involving the production of heat and light.

2). Rate of Combustion: the burn rate (or burning rate) is a measure of the linear combustion rate of a compound or substance such as a candle or a solid propellant.

3). Fire Triangle: Oxygen, Heat, and Fuel.

4). Blacksmith Bellows: A device for blowing extra air onto a fire, making more oxygen available to burn. This makes the fire burn hotter than it would normally. These hotter temperatures make it possible to make metal soft enough to shape with a hammer and is critical for the entire blacksmithing profession.

5). Melting point of aluminum: 1,221°F

6). Average temperature of severe forest fire: 1,472° F

7). Temperature of gasoline fire : 1,878.8 °F

8). Temperature of propane fire: 3,596°F.

9). Temperature of large building fire: 2,000° F.

10). Fuel moisture: Amount of water in a fuel such as grass or wood. High moisture fuels such as green grass and green trees are significantly less flammable than low moisture fuels such as dry grass and dry wood.

Wind-driven extreme fire events are the scariest in terms of rapidly spreading fires that catch people off guard.

During the Lahaina Fire, winds were steadily blowing between 40-50, and apparently gusting up to 80 mph.

The combustion of the large wooden structures appears to have ultimately created a FIRE STORM, with rising hot air creating a low pressure that caused a violently destructive in-draft of air from the surrounding area.

Dry grass and wood will easily catch fire, and the fire will quickly spread it if is fanned by high winds.

Houses made of seasoned wood will catch fire and their box structure will draw air and burn much faster than living trees. This is why houses in wooded areas may be totally destroyed by a wildfire, while surrounding trees are left standing. Wind driven embers and other burning debris may easily set fire to buildings made of dry wood.

The gas station on the south side of Lahaina caught fire and apparently exploded (further investigation needed). Lahaina was packed with cars, and as the fire swept into town, their fuel tanks caught fire and incinerated the cars. Likewise, the town was full of propane fuel tanks that caught fire and exploded. The west side of Lahaina contained metal fabricator shops with welding fuels and oxygen tanks.

The idea that Directed Energy Weapons were imployed is baseless fear mongering. This was/is a case of liberal government incompetence. This incompentence continues and maybe the citizens of Hawaii will relized it is time for real leadership, not liberal incompetence.

[cochimneycaps]

Why is Chimney Cap Repair Can Make a Huge Difference to Your Chimney?

Having a Chimney Cap is not always required, but so many individuals get it mounted for several reasons. A chimney cap is installed on the top and hides the chimney’s top opening. Various materials are employed for the fabrication of chimney caps, but one of the most famous and efficient ones are the stainless-steel chimney cap. They are highly effective against corrosion and remain in an ideal shape for years to come.

Let’s discover some relevant reasons that show why your chimney should have a cap.

#1 Thwart Sparks and Embers from Fleeing

Whenever you ignite fire inside your fireplace by using wood, you would notice some cinders or sparks. These sparks are natural and surface in every wood-based fire. When it comes to the chimney, then these sparks can climb up through your chimney and exit from the top. These sparks can encounter trees or power lines in the neighbourhood and cause catastrophic fires. The installation of chimney cap guarantees that none of the sparks depart from the top and remain inside the chimney which means no unwanted fire.

It is not advisable to neglect your chimney’s health because doing so can give rise to serious issues. If your chimney is not in a good state, hire a professional company to accomplish Chimney Repairs.

#2 Evade Draft Entrance

Many people complain that draft come into their chimney when the weather is windy. It reduces chimney’s efficiency and can also give birth to a significant danger to the user as it blocks the exit passage of smoke. The chimney cap ensures that the draft remains outside the chimney and averts it from blocking the smoke passage.

If your chimney crown isn’t in a good condition, hire professionals for the service of Chimney Crown Replacement. Its presence will operate as a barrier between the chimney opening and elements such as snow, water, and animals that can harm the efficiency of your chimney.

#3 Impede Water Damage

Most of the chimneys struggle with damage because the presence of moisture or water. During the monsoon or winter season, water can seep through the top exit and cause significant damage to the interior and chimney bricks. Installation of a chimney cap will assist in the inhibition of water. It will not let water enter inside your chimney and eventually sustains your chimney health.

It’s a nature’s rule that everything in this world entails an expiry date. But if the walls of your chimney are splitting at a faster pace than usual, it generally indicates that the liner is not operating as it should be. Excess heat and condensation negatively impact the health of brick and mortar. If your chimney’s cap is damaged, you can employ professionals for Chimney Cap repair.

[magic-is-something-we-create]

The Millennium Saga Book One: Firebreathers - a (second) formal WIP intro

Intros for books 2 and 3 can be found here -> [Echoseers], [Goddess-Touched]

Goddesses, I’m tired. It hits me like one of the trains that rumble through the industrial quarter, roars into view just long enough to warn me before I'm crushed beneath the weight of steel and momentum. Before I'm smudged away, stuck to the heels of the Fire mages that never get to go home like a pitch stain on the bottom of a shoe.

It hits me, and the weight that settles into my soul is almost unbearable when it does.

With slumping shoulders and exhaustion weighing my steps, I tug my cloak tighter to stave off the remnant chill in the air, and begin my trek down the root towards the harbor. Towards home.

Genre: High Fantasy, Steampunk

Target Audience: New Adult/Adult

POV: First Person Present, Multi-POV

Blend Pitch: Avatar: the Last Airbender x Red Rising x The Search for WondLa

Themes: Anti-Imperialism, trauma and recovery, the pitfall of idolization, identity, stigma surrounding mental illness, and the differences between vengeance, atonement, and justice.

Ember Timber has grown up with one disaster after another painting the backdrop of their life, and it’s left them and the remainder of their family struggling to keep their grip on the frayed edges of Ehlven society they call home—the poverty-stricken and over-policed streets of Aree, to be exact.

They’re not the only one struggling, and they are certainly not the only one on the verge of teaching the negligent Citylord that his power is tenuous at best.

The rebels call themselves the Firebreathers, decorated in the holy triangles of the Goddess of Change. They are numerous, and kind, and lead in part by the banished descendant of one of the Eternal Three.

When Ember picks from the wrong–or rather, perfect–pocket more than once, they find an in to this rebellion. An in to stability, help, kindness. An in to safety.

And just when they think they’ve found their footing, the world calls their bluff, whisking them into involvement of a much grander scale than they ever wanted.

Being the descendant of an Eternal, after all, is not protection in itself. Being friendly with one, even less so.

And none of that matters when the woman who would slaughter her own grandchildren if it was deemed a fitting punishment holds the title of General, and is sent to deal with rebellion.

Edits are complete at 158k words, and I have begun the process of querying as of November, 2022! The first edits of book two, Echoseers, are complete at 146k words, and drafting for book three, Goddess-Touched, is underway.

Character overviews are behind the cut!

THE TAGLIST FOR THIS WIP SPECIFICALLY HAS BEEN RETIRED; IF YOU WANT TO KEEP UP WITH THE STORY, I WILL PUT YOU ON THE MILLENNIUM SAGA TAGLIST, WHICH INCLUDES CONTENT AND SPOILERS FOR BOOKS 2+.

Characters:

Ember Timber - The archer-turned-pickpocket who has had to fight for everything in their life. Their impulsive decision to pick from the same person twice–and the subsequent, worse decision to put some of it back–is what kicks off the plot. Our main POV.

Gabbro Meywin - Ember’s long-term boyfriend. He’s one of the most sought-after acrobats in the city, and just as popular in his self-proclaimed whoring season. Melodramatic, vain, and touch-averse, but he’s working on the first part. Frequent side-POV.

Iceberg K’Ron - The one whose pocket was picked twice in a row, and who finally caught Ember trying to give some back. One of the latest in the family tree that stems from the Eternal Rillmother, and banished from the court of the Chosen One. Another frequent side-POV.

Side characters:

Nimbus Timber - He who thrives among copper wires and on the edge of sleepless insanity.

Andesite “Andy” Meywin - She who tinkers with magical metal and knows a little bit about everything.

Granite “Annie” Meywin - She who fears her own silence and stitches beauty with restless hands.

Emerald K’Ron - He who would risk the world for his children, though his own mother is their worst threat.

Dusk Timber - He who is more than he seems to even those who have known him all his life.

Beta Altiana - He who has an endless taste for adrenaline.

Lakia K’Ron - She who dances with blades on the battlefield.

Dawn Ai’La - She who burns from the inside out with magic.

Typha Lu’Syr - He who stewards the bayou on dragon-back.

[emberravenwrites]

(Re-)Intro

Hi all! I’ve been pretty inactive for a while thanks to having a hard time at uni, so I thought I’d make a new intro post, especially since there have been a lot of changes since the last one!

I’m Ember, they/them or xe/xyr, and I’m in my early 20s. I’ve been writing on-and-off for years, but until recently it was pretty much exclusively oc-insert fanfiction.

I have five main WIPs, all in varying stages of development, and I’m hoping having somewhere to talk about them will motivate me to work on them more!

Any ask games I reblog are all free game, regardless of how long it’s been since I’ve reblogged them.

Always open to chat, whether that be via asks, through reblogs, or in dms - especially if you want to ask about any of my WIPs, or talk about books, or your own WIPs, or anything else!

Also always accepting book recs, though I can’t guarantee I’ll get round to them quickly.

If you want on (or off) a taglist for any of my wips, please let me know!

Very brief premises & statuses of all 5 WIPs under the cut:

Legacy Series - ‘epic quest’ sort of fantasy adventure, with an original magic system set in an original world. status: book 1, draft 1, chapter 5/12.

Call Series - ‘crime drama’ into ‘cops’ v vigilantes into ‘the gang overthrows the government. completely different original magic system (involving pacts with eldritch beings) and in a different original world based heavily on our own. status: book 1, draft 1, chapter 3/17.

Hidden War Series - secret organisation versus demons from another world. plots, reluctant immortality, reincarnation, another magic system. set in an alternate version of our world. status: book 1, draft 2, prologue.

Ivy Academy Series - magic school on a hidden island. three eras, three sets of main protagonists, three stories of varying lengths and genres. 1 - late 1800s, murder-mystery/horror. 2 - ww2, spy/thriller. 3 - 2010s, slice-of-life/adventure. Status: planning.

Rise of Heroes - not your typical superhero story. set in 2014, an odd group have to come together to stop nemeses they didn’t even know they had from ruining their lives and doing untold damage to the world. Status: (one book) draft 1, chapter 13/20

Fun fact: [Heroes was my Camp Nano (July) project this year! Despite being insanely busy for the first few days of the month, I’ve managed to hit my 50,000 word target!]

Updated: 02/08/22

[its-sixxers]

Swan Song

Ulfric Stormcloak is dead. The civil war is halted - for now. Alduin awaits. Idunn and Tandreth are all too aware of the fate of heroes.

(borderline wip but a snippet in apology for my absence <3)

Despite centuries living, Tandreth had at last discovered something he’d never witnessed before.

What it felt like to be a hero.

Amidst the ruin Whiterun rose from the ashes like a phoenix to celebrate - the dead were buried, injuries nursed, grudges put to bed. Tandreth still felt the sting of where the Ulfric’s blade had bit into his ribs, but the mead of Jarl Balgruuf had quelled his pain. Throughout the night toasts had been made even when the scent of burned flesh still lingered even in Dragonsreach - the Companions often the source of uproarious laughter, the local bard testing out a few new verses in his attempt to give the event justice.

Tandreth had been fawned over, and if it were only a few years ago he’d have been happy to take to bed a train of admirers. As he sat at the feast table, however, he was only all too aware that his fame was based solely on his proximity to others - and for the first time, he was content in that knowledge.

Azuraansi sat near the Jarl himself, nursing her single goblet of wine and leaning in conspiratorially between Balgruuf and Irileth, discussing matters he couldn’t imagine. Whatever they were, it brought a smile to her usually icy features - though colored with a hearty dose of exhaustion.  Tandreth smiled in turn to see his twin sister flattered and content, to be recognized for her ability and to, for once, not have her victory turn to ashes in her hands.

Most of his attention was diverted to the guest of honor, however.

Idunn - Dragonborn, who’d come to Whiterun’s aid on a dragon with he and his sister in tow, who’d engaged Ulfric Stormcloak in single combat, whose Shouts had caused lighting to crack across the sky and who sang with every sweep of her warhammer. She’d been like Ysgramor himself, like Talos, like any other figure of legend - auburn hair blazing, so young, and yet she could not mirror the smiles and cheers offered her. Instead she let Raansi engage with the Jarl and the excited elite of Whiterun, preferring to stare into her goblet of mead. 

Ulfric Stormcloak was dead. It was cause for celebration for many - it should have been cause for celebration for her.

Yet despite the man’s many sins, Idunn was no executioner.

By the time Tandreth finally managed to gain an opportunity to politely excuse himself from the feast table, she was absent. Unmissed - Talos was charismatic, Ysgramor larger than life. Idunn always seemed to try her best to fade into the background, to bore any who tried to engage with her. 

Slipping into the shadows was second nature, and all the easier with most of the Great Hall too inebriated to perceive anything but their own joy. Tandreth slipped away from the celebratory feast and into Dragonsreach’s state quarters, all revelry muffled by the thick oak doors closing behind him.

Moonlight trickled in through the windows of the back hall high above. The place was unguarded - whether those assigned to their posts were dead or excused was beyond Tandreth’s knowledge, but the thought of the keep’s inhabitants unguarded as they slept unsettled him. Quickly he made haste to the quarters that had been granted to Idunn - those that used to belong to the Jarl’s wife, at the pinnacle of Dragonsreach’s many steps. His own were at a lower level, and were it not for Irileth’s own status he’d wonder if it was a slight.

The carved door to Idunn’s chambers was unlocked, not that it’d be a concern for him if it wasn’t - and quietly he cracked it open to peer inside.

Idunn wasn’t in her bed. He knew it the moment the sound of snoring didn’t meet his ears, and quietly he slipped inside. The curtains shifted from an incoming draft, and he knew where to go.

Beyond the solar was the bedroom, whose north wall possessed a great stone arch framed by woven linen curtains that led to a stone balcony beyond. Multicolored lights spilled through the windows onto the four poster bed.

A familiar figure stood on the balcony, backlit by the aurora.

Whiterun’s tundra stretched for miles below, the night sky above splashed with the watercolor of numerous shifting lights. Idunn leaned against the banister wearing nothing but a man’s undershirt, hem laying across the middle of her powerful thighs. Tandreth could see numerous bruises blooming upon her pale skin, as varied in color as the night sky above.

“It’s your night, you know. You should enjoy it.” Tandreth said gently, announcing his presence. Idunn only turned her head a fraction to acknowledge him, her cheeks shining with what he knew were shed tears. Slowly he approached, coming to her side by the banister. 

“There’s nothing to celebrate.” she answered, voice thin. Yes, she’d been crying. “The Plains District is ashes. Good people are dead.”

“Yes.” Tandreth agreed, watching her white-knuckle grip on the banister. “But more would have perished if it wasn’t for you. The day’s won. Now’s for drinking, to forget the bloodshed, to relish being alive.”

Idunn dropped her gaze to him, looking more afraid than he’d ever seen her. It made something in his chest clench to see it - the whites of her eyes in the dark. “For how long?”

He offered his best smile in an effort to reassure her. “For eternity, if we’re lucky. Maybe Nine will become Ten. Say hello to Dibella for me if that’s the case, she’s always sounded like a fun time.”

The effort fell flat, for Idunn made a choked noise in her throat and looked back to the tundra below - to the embers that yet burned, further evidence of battle hidden by the dark. “There’s only one thing left, now.”

Alduin. A fear marked by the panic in her face whenever a shadow crossed the sky. A god. How could anyone kill a god?

Unbidden Tandreth’s hand settled upon her own, his dark skin a stark contrast to hers. The action stilled her ragged breathing, granting him some relief. “You’ve succeeded in everything. You can do this. I’m with you, for what little it helps. I believe in you.” The expected words. The words he was supposed to say.

Again she shook her head. “That’s not what I’m worried about.” she whispered. “It’s what happens after.”

“After?” Tandreth looked up at her quizzically, his traitorous hand gently stroking her knuckles with his thumb. “Whatever you want. No one can stop you. I’m certain the Empire will give you enough coin to buy anything you please for Ulfric’s head-”

“No.” Idunn said emphatically, suddenly pulling her hand away from his. Tandreth’s palm burned from the absence. “All of the stories. All the heroes die. Ulfric was a hero, to the Stormcloaks. They never… They never…”

“Happily ever afters are boring.” Tandreth replied, anxiety building in his chest from this line of conversation. Ulfric’s death had rattled her, and he knew it was for more reasons than the man’s status as hero. This battle was beyond him, something scum like him had no hope of fighting. “And those are just stories, Idunn, they aren’t-”

“You said so yourself.” she interrupted. “Heroes don’t get happy endings. It’s a lie.”

It caused his cheeks to flush, bile to rise in his throat. Yes, he’d told her as much - told her in as few words as he could manage what happened to his mother, the Nerevarine. How he and his sister had as good as grown up on their own, never to have closure until he saw his mother’s ghost. How the last Dragonborn emperor had martyred himself, how the hero who’d brought him to the Imperial City scorned all glory and disappeared from history soon after. How all of Idunn’s efforts to do right were fruitless, how none would appreciate her and her name would disappear after she died trying to protect people who didn’t care for her - and now Tandreth saw the effects of his poisonous words. Self hatred flooded his system. Vile, venomous coward, who’d tried to drag her down with him.

“Idunn.” he whispered, and she winced at the sound of her own name from his lips. “I was saying whatever I could to dissuade you, then. It was cruel.”

“Was it false?” she questioned, words piercing something else in his chest. She looked him in the eye, her own, wide and green and so guileless, beseeching him for the truth.

Tandreth’s shoulders fell, staring up at her - at the aurora reflected in her eyes, unable to bring light to them. Honesty burned his tongue, but he offered it nonetheless. “No.”

Idunn took a deep breath and turned away from him. “I always knew it.” she murmured. “At the heart of it, all along. I’m going to succeed. Destiny, fate, the Divines - they’ll carry me that far. But after…” He watched her throat ripple as she swallowed. “... I’m not coming back from this.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I feel it.” Idunn shook her head. “In my bones. My heart. The air. It makes sense. This was my purpose, all along. I have no -” A pause and another wince, as she dared a glance back at him. Correcting herself, to a flutter in his lungs. “ - few friends. No family. I was destined to die before fate called on me. It was just a stay of execution. This is my purpose, what I’ve been chosen for, what I’ve been born for. There’s nothing after.”

A cold feeling pooled in his gut, and Tandreth felt the overwhelming urge to run at her words. To save himself. Idunn was convinced, and it was enough to convince him in turn. In his travels with her he’d seen things he’d never believe, proof of divinity, every odd defied. It was only a matter of time before her luck ran out. He’d seen it all happen before.

Yet beneath the cold an ember burned, fanned into a flame. No. He’d seen it before, but he wouldn’t let it happen again. He’d tried to persuade her out of destiny, thrashed and raged against it. He’d tried to run from it already. The conclusion he’d come to was one constant as the rising sun.

Whatever would come, he couldn’t leave her. Even if he had to watch her die.

No.

Could he change fate? Change a certain path?

Of course not. He was a child, tantruming against the inevitable. Instinctively wanting to smash what he could before running away, furious at his own powerlessness.

Yet if there was one thing he could change - one thing in his blighted life he could do again, it was to say something. He’d left his mother with bitter words.

Idunn stared out at the tundra in silence. Could he leave her with the same?

Tandreth’s tongue suddenly felt thick, a wave of heat flowing over his body as if a fever. Nausea twisted his stomach. Suddenly all words failed him - he’d never had trouble with them before, always had a quick remark, but now this was important, now this was perhaps the last calm they’d ever have.

“Maybe.” he admitted, forcing himself to face the truth of it all. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe these are the last weeks.” His body was betraying him, vision clouding with blasted tears, his voice wavering. He could still run - Azura, how he longed to - but Tandreth clutched the stone banister as if it could keep him from being ripped away from it. He’d lived centuries, but a couple dozen months had given him a light he’d long thought lost and the idea that it was going to be snuffed out again was too much to comprehend.

Idunn managed to look at him again, pain diffused with confusion on her part. She wasn’t used to seeing him like this, he was well aware - knew that the little wrinkle between her brow was one of concern. Knew everything, and tried not to think of how every scrap of knowledge of her might come to haunt him. “You don’t have to stay.” Her voice was tender as a kiss. “It’ll be safer.”

It was his turn to make a choked noise, and he tore his hands from the banister to settle on her biceps, so firm beneath his touch he nearly took comfort in it. Tandreth forced her to face him, to look him in the face. “No. Listen to me, Idunn. I’ve spent my life running. From everything. From living. Were this a few years ago I’d be happy to throw myself into the void alongside you - but I’ve met you now. In you I’ve seen that maybe this cursed plane is worth something after all, that I could be worth something. I want to live. I want to see what the future holds.” In spite of himself, he let his hands drift down her bicep, stroking her skin - took a step forward. “With you. Whatever time you have left. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Her lips fell open, and he almost cried at how it took her a few moments to process it all - dear, sweet, simple Idunn - and he knew she had when she couldn’t keep the water from spilling from her eyes, collecting on her lower lashes like dew. “But you - you hate it. Hate this.”

Tandreth laughed bitterly. “Yes. I hate fate, I hate the work of Divines and Daedra. I hate to be helpless. But not you. Not…” His right hand moved up to her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Not this. Never this.”

Uncertainty now overrode all of Idunn’s fear, calming the maelstrom in his own mind. “I won’t let you die on my account.”

“You’re not listening. I want to live.” Tandreth repeated. “And if… if you’re right, I’m going to try my damndest to make sure meeting you meant something. To make sure the world doesn’t forget. Not just the hero, but the woman.”

“The woman isn’t anything.” Idunn said with a watery smile. “You’ll bore them all to pieces.”

“I’ll fight Akatosh himself if I can keep the woman on this world with me for one moment longer.” Tandreth nearly shook her, desperate for her to understand him, choking on the words he needed to say, before the end, before she was another one of his ghosts.

The fear in her returned, but it was a different fear - one he knew in himself. The caution, the hesitance, the disbelief - she was worried she’d misheard him, that she’d read too much into things. She started to pull away from him - she’d decided what he was trying to tell her was all in her head, and in response he pulled her closer.

“I love you.” he whispered - feeling as if he’d doomed them both.

[phoenixfeatherquill]

Midwinter (3/5)

AN:  More smut!

In Pelle’s dreams, he saw her dancing. 

It was the first time she smiled. No, that wasn’t right. She had smiled when he had given her the birthday sketch, touched that someone remembered her. That someone saw her. But while the smile had been sincere, it was tinged with Christian disappointing her. Christian hurting her. Even his art could not overcome that. 

But when she danced with her future handmaids, she forgot her pain. She was caught up in the embrace of his family, the exhilaration of the dance, and became…joyous. She laughed like a child, threw her hair back as she held the hands of her handmaids. Her laughter touched something deep inside Pelle and he knew in that singular moment that he wanted to make her laugh, make her smile, bring her joy…forever. And when her excitement disappeared, when she caught Christian’s disapproving gaze and her face fell…Pelle knew he wanted Christian to suffer. And suffer he did. 

But in this dream, it was not the violent music of the villagers that he saw Dani listen to. Instead, it was a woman’s voice, someone who sounded like his mother, singing a lullaby or a folk song from long ago. He realized with a jolt that it was the same song, but darker, slower, more melodic. And as Dani danced, a shadowy figure appeared and danced with her. The figure had hoofed feet and played the fiddle for her. He looked familiar to Pelle, like a younger version of his father, perhaps, but his eyes gleamed in the darkness. No, that wasn’t right…the eyes were burning like hot embers. The way the temple burned to the ground in front of them all last summer. But Dani was entranced and jubilant. 

The song was a popular folk song played all over Sweden, covered by everyone from metal bands to choirs. It told the tale of the devil disguising himself as a fiddler and leading a group of young women away from the comforts of their village into an eternal orgasmic dance until they fell to their feet. 

The Christian implications were clear. The Devil seducing wayward women who forgot their new God too easily. But for the Hårga, the meaning was obscured. The dark one, too easily defined by the Christians as the Devil, led the women in a willing sacrificial dance. They gave up their lives for the sake of the village, as was their way. And the dark one was not one half of a simplistic theological binary. He—or she, depending on the tale—was far more complex. The dark one represented the bloody darkness of sacrifice, of sexual desire, the pain of birth, the rot of and stink of decay, everything that was accepted and part of the life of the Hårga. Not as something to be feared or a punishment, but all part of a glorious dance. 

In his dream, he saw the fiddler dance with Dani. But instead of her falling to her death, the fiddler stopped his mysterious melody. He knelt before her and Pelle recognized the fiddler as himself—but shrouded in darkness with cloven feet. Dani touched the crown of his head. For she was the goddess. His goddess. 

Pelle’s eyes flicked open. Dani was nestled against his chest and his heartbeat sped as he looked at her. He dreamed of her as his May Queen, yes, but there was something more to the dream. The gods had sent it, surely. Dani was something more than their May Queen, their future leader. But what? 

He could not interpret dreams on an empty stomach. He wanted hot coffee and a large breakfast ready for Dani when she awoke. So he gently kissed her forehead and rolled away from her. She frowned in her sleep at the absence of his warmth and he stroked her head gently before heading downstairs. 

**** 

When Dani awoke, she was alone. 

She sleepily stretched out her arm, searching for Pelle’s warmth. She felt nothing but cold sheets and her eyes shot open. 

Winter sunlight flooded the master bedroom. She blinked blearily at her surroundings. Memories from last night flooded her mind, the black dress, the Hårga’s harmonies, Pelle’s tongue…heat filled her cheeks. 

She sat up a little and moved towards the left-hand window next to her bed. Snow blanketed the ground and frosted the trees. It looked like something out of a fairytale, out of Narnia. It was beautifully inviting and she felt the intense urge to walk around in it. She swallowed. Her family had died the night of a terrible snowstorm. Snow always seemed ominous and cruel. But here… 

She wrapped her blankets around her and she wondered again where Pelle went off to. Was he mad at her? Sometimes when she didn’t want to have sex but still wanted to cuddle with Christian, he’d get angry and leave in the middle of the night. She’d be too embarrassed to bring it up in the morning, and Christian would refuse to speak to her, icily drinking his coffee. This didn’t seem like something Pelle would do, but surely he’d heard Christian’s complaints… 

Dani hugged her knees and listened. She thought she could hear movement downstairs. “Pelle?” She called out tentatively. 

There was no response. She hugged her knees a little tighter and let the dread rise in her chest. 

Before panic could completely consume her, her door popped open and Pelle peered inside. 

“Did you call me?” He looked at her in concern, huddled in her blankets. “I was making you coffee. And some breakfast.” 

“I thought you might have left.” 

She winced—the words sounded pathetic out loud. But Pelle cocked his head, a little like a spaniel. 

“Go? Where would I go?” He teased. 

“I—I don’t know,” Dani mumbled. He went to her and sat on the corner of the bed. He touched squeezed her knee. 

“Sorry,” She rested her head on her knees. “I’m being paranoid. Christian would get mad at me if I didn’t—mornings would be awkward.”

Pelle frowned at that. “Why on earth would I be mad at you?” 

Dani combed her fingers through her hair. “I just don’t like waking up alone.” 

His eyes widened. She looked away from him in embarrassment. He came fully on the bed and wrapped his arms around her. She leaned into his warmth and the two of them fell softly onto the bed. 

“I will never let you wake up alone again,” He murmured in her ear. “I promise. Forgive me?” 

There was nothing to forgive. She rested her head on his chest and listened to the sound of his heartbeat. 

“Did you sleep all right?” He asked. “Would you like me to bring you your breakfast?” 

She nodded, still embarrassed. He held her warmly and stood, making his way out of the bedroom to retrieve it. 

He returned with a tea tray with a large silver coffeepot and thick white mugs. She noticed thin, dark slices of toasted bread on the tray and an assortment of spreads. She had been in Sweden long enough to recognize the fare, which included butter, cheese, thin slices of ham, pickles, cucumber, and tomatoes. 

“And something else,” Pelle said with a smile. He brought another plate that was stacked with waffles and Dani beamed. 

“I love waffles,” She took the plate and happily started eating. “My favorite food.” 

“I know.” 

Dani snorted. “Did Christian tell you that?” 

Pelle shook his head. “Do you remember when we first met?” 

She thought for a moment. Meeting Pelle? Honestly, meeting Christian’s friends had blurred together. She had seen them sporadically, the nights she spent at Christian’s apartment, the parties she accompanied him at. She didn’t remember the first time she met Pelle. 

“I know Christian introduced us,” She offered hesitantly. “But I don’t remember exactly when. Sorry.” 

Pelle shrugged. “I don’t expect you to. But I remember. It was after a…late night. Mark had dragged us all to a party across town. We stayed there till about 7AM. All I wanted to do was go back to my bedroom and sleep for the rest of time, but Christian wanted coffee and he didn’t want to go to the cafeteria by himself. He knew you’d be there and he didn’t want you to know where he’d been.” 

Dani frowned. Christian often told her that he’d had late night study sessions with the guys…it shouldn’t surprise her that this was less than accurate. 

“I hadn’t met you yet. I’d only been in the States for about a week—I arrived a little later in the semester…visa issues. I was heavily jetlagged, exhausted from the parties Mark dragged us to, and the last thing I wanted to do was cover for Christian.” Pelle grimaced at the memory. 

“But he insisted,” He stretched out onto the bed and took a piece of toast. “And we went into the cafeteria. All I wanted was coffee and the coffee machine was broken. I was muttering to myself in Swedish, so they wouldn’t know how irritated I was…and you came up to our table to say hi to Christian. You were wearing pajama pants, ones with little black bears on them. I thought you looked so cute.” 

“I was in my pajamas?!” Dani groaned a little. It was silly to be embarrassed by this reminiscence. But she was a college student after all, and no college student went anywhere before 10:00AM in anything but pajamas. 

“You were beautiful,” Pelle smiled at her and tugged a lock of her hair. “And you waxed poetic about how much you loved waffles, though your mother’s were better. I looked at you and Christian and thought about all the things Christian had said about you…and I felt angry. And jealous. For the first time, I was…envious of something he had. And I hated him for it.” 

Pelle had been…jealous? Of her? 

A draft made her shiver. “Was that—was that the reason you chose him? To come here?” 

He shook his head. “I chose him before I met you. But…the truth is, Dani, he made me so furious with him for how he treated you. I confess…I encouraged him to break up with you, along with Mark and Josh. But my reasons were entirely selfish.” 

A smile crept onto her face. “What, were you planning on asking me out if Christian had broken up with me?” 

“Certainly not,” Pelle stroked her back affectionately. “How could I ask the gods for such an honor? It would be like demanding the moon and stars come down and dance for me. No, I only wanted him to stop hurting you and treating you cruelly. But after you lost your family…well, I knew the only way to separate you both permanently would be our trip to Sweden. I never imagined he’d bring you as well.” 

Dani never imagined it either. She never intended on forcing Christian’s hand. She hadn’t particularly wanted to go to Sweden. But the way Christian had thrown it at her like a dagger, “if you’re so upset about it, you can come, I just didn’t want to invite you because you were going through so much!” He had expected her to turn him down. It felt good to take him up on the offer, to force him to tell the rest of his band that Yoko Ono was coming too. Even if she felt the rest of his friends’ displeasure acutely. 

Pelle ran his fingers through his hair and gazed up at the ceiling. “He nearly spoiled everything. I was…terrified that you were coming too.” 

She cocked her head towards him. Pelle’s admission was interesting. Like Josh and Mark, he hadn’t wanted her to come—but it seemed to out of a worry for her life, not because she was breaking up the band. 

“I can’t really say I’m sorry for it,” She admitted and Pelle laughed. 

“I’m a believer in a higher power, Dani,” He smiled at her in a tender way that made her heart ache. “When I learned that your birthday was over Midsommar…and the way you shone like the sun among my family…I knew you were sent here for a reason. I didn’t know what reason. I just knew I was the gods’ courier. And now…you are our May Queen. Nothing was coincidence.” 

Dani stared at him seriously. “What would have happened? If I were chosen to be sacrificed for Midsommar?” 

Pelle shook his head briskly. “Oh no. That would not have happened. Of this I am sure.” 

“But what if it had?” She persisted. “What would you have done?” 

He hesitated. It was because of Pelle that Mark, Josh, and Christian were all dead. The night Josh disappeared, Dani had woken up and seen both Josh and Pelle’s empty beds. She suspected Josh’s desperation to create a stronger thesis would lead him to do something reckless and she had no doubt that Pelle had distributed the consequences. She was no friend of Josh’s; he had considered her an annoyance and distraction of Christian’s. But when Christian had declared to him that the Hårga would now be his thesis…even Dani thought it was a scummy thing to do. 

“I would not have let it happen.” 

Pelle’s voice, so low and barely above a whisper jerked Dani out of her reminisces. She looked at him somewhat astonished. Pelle’s loyalty to his village was one of his distinguishing characteristics. It was an almost rebellious thing to say. And it seemed that he considered the statement selfish; pink tinged his cheeks and he averted his gaze in shame. 

He cleared his throat. “But it never would have happened. The moment Siv saw you…she sensed something about you. Everything aligned together. The day of your birth, Midsommar, your coronation…all of it was fated. You were fated to be our queen.” 

His eyes met hers. “My queen.” 

Heat coursed through Dani’s body. Pelle was looking at her that way, that heart-wrenching and tender way that made her feel short of breath. She felt the strong desire to kiss him again. 

 Well, why not? I am the May Queen, aren’t I? 

She brought her lips to his and she felt him gasp at her boldness. Last night it was Pelle who took control, who kissed her and apologized for taking the liberty. But she didn’t have to apologize. He was here to serve her, to adore her, to please her, and he seemed only to happy to oblige. She so loved how he tasted in the morning…a heady combination of dark coffee and sugar from the glazed rolls. 

Dani could feel him hardening against her and to her delight, it no longer made her anxious. It didn’t matter how much she turned him on, Pelle would never guilt her or get angry with her; whatever boundaries or limits she set for herself. The wild comfort of this made her kiss him even harder and run her fingers down his chest. 

She paused in her ministrations to observe him. He opened his heavy-lidded eyes and murmured, “Now I shall make you breakfast every morning.” 

She laughed and kissed him again. She wanted to taste him everywhere, the flavor of his cheekbones, the smooth curve of his neck, his lovely, golden chest. She pushed him down onto the bed and pinned his arms. He watched her in utter rapture. 

“I want you,” Dani admitted. “I haven’t…I haven’t wanted someone like this in a long time. Or I guess…I haven’t felt comfortable wanting someone like this in a long time.” 

His gaze was tender. “This is how it should be, Dani. This is how you should be loved. It…infuriates me that you’ve known anything else.”

She swallowed. “There’s something else.” 

Pelle raised an eyebrow. 

“When I have sex…sometimes it hurts. Most of the time it hurts, actually. My gyno called it ‘vaginismus’. I tense up and I can’t handle penetration. I was working with someone on it before—before my parents died, but…I just…” She looked away from him. “I’m embarrassed about it.” 

She released his arms and he immediately cupped her face. His finger stroked down her cheek, but she could not meet his gaze. 

“Did Christian know?” Pelle asked. 

“I told him,” Dani kept her eyes fixed on the bedspread. “I don’t think he believed me. He just said I was frigid and needed to relax. And then accused me of blaming him for our sex life being bad and I—it was just a mess.” 

She twisted a lock of her hair in anxiety. “But I wanted to tell you because—because I feel like you’re doing all the giving and I’m not—I’m not giving back.” 

“Oh, Dani,” Pelle sat up and wrapped his arms around her. “You’re thinking about this all wrong. This isn’t a transaction. You are not a vending machine; I do not give you affection in exchange for sex. This is an expression of my feelings for you and yours for me. I told you truthfully last night; if you never wanted to have penetrative sex, that would be all right. You are my May Queen, my summer goddess, and I will worship you however you want.” 

She gazed at him levelly. “But what if I want to give back to you?” 

He smiled at her. “Then I will gladly receive. But on your terms. Within your boundaries. With the knowledge that you can stop if ever you should feel uncomfortable.” 

Dani stared at him as he ran his fingers through her hair. He tilted his head in a silent question. 

“I was just wondering how I got so caught up in Christian when you were right there.” She murmured and it made him laugh. 

“I didn’t exactly make my presence known,” He chuckled and gently flipped her over on her back. “But now, my queen…with your permission…” 

Pelle’s lips traced down her skin and lingered at her breasts. She was rather small-chested; another source of insecurity in her previous relationship (Christian had made no secret of his preference for women with bigger tits) but Pelle worshiped them reverently with his tongue. She cried out when his tongue flicked over her nipple and sucked gently. His teeth grazed over the sensitive buds and Dani curled her fingers into the sheets. How was his mouth so good? 

His fingers stroked down the length of her sides until she felt them approach her inner thighs. She took a deep breath and tried to force herself to relax—always a lost cause, relaxation could not be forced. But she so badly wanted to just let go and enjoy herself with Pelle… 

“Dani,” Pelle murmured in her ear. His fingers lazily circled her thighs, nowhere near her core. She looked up at him. 

“Do you remember when we went bowling?” 

She thought. “I think so?” 

“It was in the fall,” Pelle told her and she felt the tension leave her shoulders as he continued to massage her thighs. “But a hot fall day. There was a large group of us. Boys against the girls. You and a few friends, Mark’s girlfriend at the time, a girl I invited for an even number…you beat us soundly.” 

“I…do remember that,” She reached up to touch Pelle’s beard. “And the girl you brought. She was pretty.” 

He grinned at her. “Vivian. She was dating a girl named Andrea. But a very fun girl. She told me not to invite her to things with Mark and Christian again. But she knew how I felt about you. She teased me mercilessly, especially when you came in that little sundress…” 

Dani buried her head in his shoulder. “You remember what I was wearing?” 

“Of course. A little white sundress with sunflowers on it. It was very…distracting.” 

His voice became husky and his fingers traveled up her thighs, barely grazing her. Electricity swam through Dani’s veins as she tried to remember why she wore a sundress to a bowling alley. 

“Oh,” She whispered. “That was it. It was—it was my mother’s birthday. We took her out for Sunday brunch. I didn’t have time to change…I was really worried about the dress smelling like cigarette smoke…” 

“You sat next to me at one of the little tables,” Pelle’s fingers teased her inner folds, stroking in and out—not enough for her to tense. He was as gentle as butterfly wings and Dani began to feel heat travel up her core. 

“I was trying so hard not to stare at you,” Pelle bit her earlobe and she squeaked. “I could not believe Christian barely looked at you.” 

Dani remembered. “He was talking to the girl you brought. Vivian. She was wearing a crop top. She had all these tattoos…” 

“Vivian thought he was ridiculous,” Pelle sucked on her earlobe gently. “But she thought it was funny to keep him distracted while I talked to you. You were swinging your legs back and forth. You smelled like strawberries and mint and I was losing my mind.” 

His fingers delved deeper inside her and to Dani’s surprise, she did not experience that familiar twinge of pain. His voice had relaxed her; she was becoming flushed and heated at the memory of her sitting in a bowling alley, innocently driving Pelle crazy. 

“What did—what did you want to do to me?” She half-panted and Pelle groaned at the question. His fingers probed deeper but still so gently, backing off at any sort of resistance, circling her clit with each penetration. 

“I wanted to take you, right there on that sticky table. I wanted to knock off all the beers and kiss you until you were breathless.” To show her his point, he captured her lips and Dani moaned at the vivid image. 

“I wanted to make love to you in front of Christian. Have him see you screaming and wet; lick every inch of you until you were trembling. I wanted you to feel every inch of me and I wanted to see Christian’s face as I did it.” 

Dani’s back arched as Pelle’s fingers entered her more deeply. It didn’t hurt. She didn’t know if it was because she felt so relaxed and sated in Pelle’s arms or if it was his husky voice velveting every single word he spoke, but for the first time, it did not feel like violation. She ached for him. 

But not yet. While his fingers thrust within her, his thumb rubbed against her soaking clit and just as in his fantasy, Dani cried out hoarsely, waves of pleasure rocketing her forward. 

“It’s almost a shame he is dead,” Pelle whispered in her ear, thrusting his fingers inside and out, over and over. “I wish he could see you like this. I wish I could’ve done this to him before he died. But I’ll not lie to you my Queen, when you sentenced him to death, I smiled and praised the old gods for you.” 

Dani was gasping. She watched dazedly as Pelle pulled his fingers out of her sopping core and, looking her straight in the eye, tasted her off his fingers. She tried to say something but it only came out in a sated moan. He then kissed her again and she could taste her own salty-sweetness on her tongue. 

She leaned back on her pillows and tried to return to sanity, Pelle’s fingers lazily carding her hair.

[anomaly00-archive]

Happy storyteller saturday!! What are three scenes/bits of your story you’re really proud of and three that you have planned and are excited to write? - maybeillwriteit

Happy STS!

Three Scenes I am super proud of are:

Titania’s funeral - Chapter 1 | Don’t ask why, but whenever I was figuring out how to start this story, my mind was always telling me to start it with a funeral. Either way, I am so proud of it because I got to shove in my favorite side character (Titania) and worldbuilding all in one!

In a flurry of crimson, of the red Fenice so adored, they released her mother’s soul from the mortal plane. The small embers grew into raging infernos, consuming the pyre in its hunger. Wisps of smoke thickened as time went on, black plumes rising and escaping out of the large hole in the temple’s ceiling. 

Sola’s introduction - Chapter 3 | I adore Sola. I love him and his dynamic with another side character, Hani, and I felt like that I did really well writing their dialogue considering it’s one of my weak points. Also, more worldbuilding.

Sola turned away, the conversation sour on his tongue like a bit of that haelbin he had back in Sforadun some years ago that were far from ripe and scrunched his up in a way that--as the matron of the inn had said— “made him look like a displease cat.” 

Pre-Ascension - Chapter ? | My absolute favorite scene since it’s the most well written and sparkly scene in the first draft, but it’s also the one that helped me kickstart my passion for these characters again. @inky-duchess I think you’d know which scene I’m talking about ;)

The stars themselves should seem like dim torches when compared to the dazzling rods of light seeming to drip down from the ceiling and the glittering jewels adorning fine ladies floating across the hall. She retreats into the shadows, standing in the wings as awe-inspiring and forgettable as the marble statues in the Garden of the Ancients.

Three scenes I’m Super Excited to write:

This is a bit hard since I’m a plantser, so a lot of these scenes are gonna be main events of the story that I’m (slowly but surely) trying to write to.

Ascension | While nobility have debuts, royalty have Ascensions as their coming of age celebration, where they are recognized as old enough to get involved in politics as a representative of the royal family. Fenice’s safety net from potential political enemies is ripped right under her with all the pomp and ceremony afforded to a member of the royal family.

The Wedding Day | Self explanatory. Someone gets married. Hopefully. Maybe. There may or may not be death.

Whodunit | Fenice finally figures out the cause of her mother’s death, and the truth has the potential to shatter her very world.

[solobonfiretips-blog]

8 Bonfire Tips

Tip 1: Air!

The wood is best used when the draft valve is partially open, so that the fire burns intensively. Then pollution is also reduced, as particles and gases simply burn up - and become pleasant heat in the home instead. When the house is warm, the room temperature is regulated by the amount of wood, not by the air valve. 

Tip 2: A little smoke is good

There should be minimal smoke from the chimney. Smoke is unburned gases that are rich in energy. Therefore, it is smart to go out and look at the smoke coming from the chimney. Dense, black smoke means that the combustion is not optimal, as a rule it is because the fire in the bonfire is not intense enough. At complete combustion, only a little steam and light, odorless smoke comes from the chimney.  

Tip 3: Clean bonfire provides heat

Clean the inside of the bonfire and chimney once a year , then you get a much warmer bonfire. A soot layer of only a few millimeters reduces the effect so that the heat is not spread out through the cast iron, but directly out of the chimney. Clean more often if you burn a lot of pine, which gives more soot than other types of wood.  

Tip 4: Different types of wood provide different heat

Hard woods provide more heat than light woods of the same amount. But kilo by kilo, the woods give the same heat, and often the light woods have a cheaper price per kilo. Especially on cold days at the beginning and end of the heating season, light woods are perfect to fire with. They provide clean combustion without the house getting very hot. The wood burns out faster, but the embers can be used and burn together with a wooden block of a harder type of wood. 

Tip 5: Heat overnight

In very few bonfires, it can burn for longer than 2-3 hours on a batch of wood. The old method of restricting the air supply, so that the bonfire is kept running during the night, creates large pollution and danger of chimney fire. And the overall heat exchange is also bad because the energy is not used. The last post of wood for the night should be coarse logs of hardwood that burn normally. When the fire then dies out, there is still a lot of heat left in the house. In the morning it is still warm from the night fire and it is easy to start the fire again if you want a fire for the morning coffee. 

 Tip 6: Drag helps!

Traction is important during ignition, because when the temperature is low, the oxygen is reluctant to mix with the molecules in the fuel. The air causes flue gases to be bombarded with oxygen and catch fire more easily. This is the reason why firewood catches fire more easily and better when the door to the bonfire is ajar. Some houses are so well sealed that it can be good to open a window when lighting a fire. You can also supply air with various tools to get the fire started properly. 

Tip 7: Ignition from the top is best

Many modern bonfires are designed to burn from the top down. Look in the user manual or download one from the Internet if you need to see tips for your bonfire. Fire from the top by first stacking logs quite tightly. Then you light the wood from above so that the fire burns downwards by the fire "falling" down and spreading. The bonfire quickly rises to operating temperature, the gases burn better and the fire you have started burns longer. 

Tip 8: Always more than one log

Add two to three logs at a time - if you just take one, it will go out more easily. The reason is that the combustion of a log comes in three stages, and a log does not manage to keep its process going by itself. Several logs provide more space, create more air and keep all the processes running at the same time. 

[windyfiend]

<< Chapter 1 

------

Chapter 3: A View of the Sea

“It’s haunted, you know,” declared Briony, her chin raised high with authority on such matters.

Runa rubbed a smudge of yellow paint from her nose and examined the windmill’s new colors: a sweep of violet, a spatter of green, a sparkle of red and gold, illuminated by the swirling shine of stars above. The turning sails cast slow shadows in the starlight.

"The real reason the vigil isn't at the memorial," Briony went on, pointing across the field at the long edge of the cliffs, "is because the empress is scared of it."

“The empress isn't scared of a statue,” Runa laughed while she chose another spray can from the box.

“There are noises,” hissed Briony. Her voice dropped to a chilling quiver, her fingers curled like claws. “At night you can hear it whispering demonic mantras. Some say the statue can hypnotize you! Control your mind! Make you commit murder!”

Runa sprayed long swaths of blue paint over the whitewashed stone, focused on the lines of color.

Briony shuffled like a crab into Runa’s peripheral and stretched a hideous grin.

“Legend goes that if the moon’s just right and you look in the statue’s eyes, the ghost will come out and grab you!” Briony lunged at Runa with bared teeth, but Runa was distracted by the sputtering noise that was coming out of her spray can.

Runa shook the can and tried again. A bubbly froth fizzed at the nozzle.

They both stared at it.

“Did you just use up all the blue paint?!” Briony howled, scraping her curled fingers through her hair.

Runa held out the empty can with a hollow wiggle. “Guess so.”

Briony snatched it away.

“We’ve got to cover another half the wall in blue!” she barked, flinging the can with a crash into the box. “Why’d you have to put it on so thick in just that one spot?!”

“It needed to be bright…”

“UGH!” Briony dropped her head in her hands.

Runa scratched at a red splotch of paint on her sweater. “We could make it green instead--”

“IT HAS TO BE BLUE!” Briony roared. She sucked in a deep breath and hunched her shoulders like a lion on the hunt. “We need more paint.”

Runa murmured, “The shops are all closed--”

“I know.”

“So is there more at your grandma’s--?”

“Just don’t worry about it.” Briony flashed a savage smirk and put on her blaring yellow headphones like a soldier donning her helmet. “I’ll bring us back some cans. Don’t run out of anything else while I’m gone, okay?”

“Uh, okay…”

While Runa watched, Briony took off at a sprint through the tall grass, down the hill under the glimmering night sky, and disappeared among the trees and headstones of the graveyard.

 --

Runa waited.

She wrapped herself in her sweater and breathed the salty billows of wind. She listened to the rattle and creak of the windmill. She looked out over the lamplit streets of Woondaly, where the candles had all gone out and the last embers of the bonfire glowed smoldering orange in the clock tower square.

Everything was still and empty. Like a forgotten time, stuck in a single hollow moment.

The only movement was the breeze, the windmill sails, the flutter of moths in distant streetlamps.

Runa rubbed her eyes with a sleeve, and she picked up a can of yellow paint. The wind went quiet. She faced the mural, and she continued her work.

 --

Eventually the first glint of moonrise slivered over the ocean. The city sparkled and hummed like an electric current.

The towering spires began to brighten, like needles held in the fire. They rippled red, then orange, then yellow, smoldering then shining, pins of hot light stretched for the sky.

Then the suns began to rise.

At first they were bright blobs that oozed out of the ground, wicking up the metal spires like lava up a string. As they climbed higher they took shape, molded themselves into spheres of radiating light that slurped slowly up the spires.

One by one the little suns reached the top and settled, precisely balanced, on the pinpoints high above the city.

While the real stars glittered in the eternal night sky, Woondaly warmed beneath their forged constellations: a hundred little suns poised atop a forest of needles.

Briony still hadn’t come back.

 --

Runa heaved a deep sigh and knelt in the dirt to collect the paint cans in their box.

The lampcatcher would return any minute.

Briony was probably hiding in the graveyard, watching and waiting for Runa to get caught, as payback for her crime. While the lampcatcher’s shrieks and monkeylike stomps were always funny from a distance, Runa wasn’t in the mood to be shouted at.

She picked up the box under an arm and took the long route home, away from the graveyard and along the cliff that overlooked the distant ocean. With the city’s daylight on her right and the cliff's edge on her left, Runa waded through the soft grass and listened to the waves on the beach far below, and she thought of all the ways she would get back at Briony for abandoning her. Maybe a spider down the back of her shirt, or a switched cassette in her player…

The memorial for the Lost Ones stood just ahead.

As Runa drew closer, starlight revealed the familiar statue of six children huddled together in fear. Their small copper hands clutched each other’s coats, their bare feet bruised and wounded, their necks craned for a desperate look out over the edge of the rocks to catch a glimpse of the ocean horizon.

Runa walked slower. Her usual route gave the creepy children a wide berth, but she was still within view of the graveyard where she knew Briony was hiding and waiting with a grin of teeth, eager to witness proof of Runa's cowardice.

Runa set the box of paints down in the grass. With a puff of her chest and chin held high she marched right up to the copper children, who seemed ancient and haunted by the glow of the moon, and stood before them to face their empty eyes.

The statue seemed hollow and dark inside; the children gazed out of that deep abyss, desperate for the sun that would never rise, watching the horizon for eternity while the city dawned at their backs.

Runa hated it.

She took a firm, brave step to the edge of the statue. Leaned close to a sorrowful copper face.

Through empty holes where the eyes should have been, she peered inside the hollow sculpture.

 Green eyes stared back.

 Runa choked on a breath, shocked backward and stumbled at the crumbling edge of the cliff.

Her balance shifted over open air, then

 she was gone.

  ----

Thank you so much for reading! Constructive criticism is welcome! This is the first draft, I’ll probably be rewriting a bit in the next few days.

[uneryx]

The Bridge Between - Ch 1

As promised - some fanfic Fandom: The Dragon Prince Summary: Callum, Rayla and Zym make their way through Xadia. As they continue their quest, they learn more about themselves and each other. Basically a fan season 3, picking up right where season 2 left off and probably diverging from canon.  Tags: No warnings, Gen-ish, Rayla, Callum, Azymondias, Sol Regem, Original Characters, Fan Season 3, 2 Nerds and a Baby, Worldbuilding based on speculation, very slow burn

Read on AO3 here

Dawn rose over the precipice of the canyon, illuminating a long, golden form ahead of them, and Rayla’s heart sank. They had made it, hadn’t they? After all the hardship and fighting and heartbreak, finally she had brought Callum and Zym into Xadia, only for their hopes to be dashed.

“Oh no,” she breathed, holding out an arm to stop Callum from plunging ahead without caution. The archdragon before them lifted his massive crowned head, and turned to face them. His eyes were scarred, singed closed by the blast of dark fire he’d endured at his downfall all those years ago. A fallen king, but not one easily forgotten. She named him, reverent and fearful all at once.

“Sol Regem.”

The former Dragon King was, in fact, blind, but Rayla didn’t doubt that his nose or hearing were as keen as ever, if not more. She had mere seconds to act. “Follow my lead!” she hissed to Callum, urgently ushering Zym back into the backpack (which he was quickly outgrowing). The wyrmling whimpered, but with a stern ‘don’t even think about questioning me right now’ glare from Rayla, he curled up and tucked his nose under the feathers of his tail with a sad expression in his eyes.

“I smell humans.” Sol Regem was standing now, his massive form blocking out the sunlight and casting him in silhouette. Callum swallowed hard behind Rayla, and clutched the backpack with Zym inside tighter. For her part, Rayla steeled herself, squared her shoulders, and stepped forward.

“Th-that would be us, your grace,” she replied. Her voice quavered more than she would have liked, so she cleared her throat. “We’ve returned from the human kingdoms and probably reek from our journey.”

Sol Regem’s lip curled as he snarled, a deep rumble that shook the canyon and stirred something animal within them all, urging them to run and hide. “I am aware of what an elf returning from human lands smells like,” the archdragon retorted, voice low and menacing. “And what you have with you is a human.”

“Oh y-yeah?” Callum cleared his throat as his attempt to sound brave came out as a squeak. “Could a human do this?” He drew a glowing blue rune in the air, three concave strokes within each other, and inhaled. “Aspiro.”

Sol Regem sniffed the air as it blew around him. “Interesting,” he rumbled. “That is indeed competent Sky magic, and yet I cannot smell the petrichor and ozone of a primal stone.” He paused, thinking, tail tapping the rock below him idly. And after a brief moment, he bade Callum “Come forward, boy.” The tone of his command left no room for dissent.

At Callum’s panicked glance, Rayla shooed him forward, taking the backpack from him. Don’t keep him waiting, she urged with her eyes. Zym peeked out from the backpack and quietly whimpered, until Rayla shushed him and pushed him back inside.

On shaking legs, Callum stepped forward, slowly closing the distance between him and Sol Regem, the infamous solar archdragon that had razed a human city before the division. He didn’t remember all of that particular history lesson, but Callum DID remember that it had been a human mage – the first dark mage - who had blinded him thus… and who had also drawn his ire. All in all, not someone he was terribly keen on meeting in person.

He swallowed hard as he stood before the fallen king now, praying to whoever might be listening that Sol Regem would believe the lie that, due to having a primal arcanum, Callum couldn’t possibly be human.

The dragon lowered his massive head to Callum, and sniffed. The heat of his breath, the heat of him, instantly put to mind being burnt to a crisp by dragon fire. It was like standing beside a blast furnace. Callum could feel the sweat dripping down his face and sides and he tried to remember to breathe. In, two three, four. Hold. Out, two, three, four, five, six.  Repeat.

One final snuff out, with an extra bit of heat to ensure the boy fully understood his place, and Sol Regem lifted his head to regard what stood before him.

“Interesting, indeed.” This close to the dragon, and it was as though the bass timbre of his voice shook Callum’s bones themselves. “You smellthoroughly human. I even catch a faint whiff of dark magic.” He spat out the words like they were rotten meat. “And yet I cannot ignore that you have forged a connection to the Sky Primal, nor can I ignore that you have been caring for a dragon whelp. His scent is all over you, and I smell only happiness and trust, not fear.” Sol Regem then laughed, a cold, mocking chuckle, as he laid back down on the stones and drummed his claws against them. “Your fear almost masked it, but no. How indeed could a human connect to Primal magic and earn the trust of a young dragon? What are you? And do not waste my time with this ‘elf in human clothing’ nonsense.”

Callum glanced back at Rayla for assistance, but she seemed at a loss. This hadn’t exactly gone as planned, after all. Sol Regem wasn’t in her plans, and in the little time she’d had to formulate around that spanner in the works, she hadn’t accounted for the archdragon’s nose being so good he could smell out all their secrets with just a few whiffs. She returned an incredibly unhelpful and panicked shrug.

Zym, for his part, wriggled out of the backpack and toddled his way over to Callum and Sol Regem. He’d been indicated, so there was no sense in hiding in the backpack, right? Especially since Callum and Rayla seemed scared. He nudged his friend in the hip with a reassuring chirp.

“Ah, the little one reveals himself,” Sol Regem said with a chuckle, a bit warmer this time. “What ever was a tiny fellow like you doing in—” He stopped abruptly, leaned closer, and inhaled, sharply, drawing all of Zym’s fluff upwards in the draft.  Zym darted behind Callum’s legs with a whine. Then, with an angry snort, the former king drew up to his full height and towered above them, blocking out the light of the rising sun.

“That is Avizandum’s child,” he accused, menace in his voice and the ember of dragon fire brewing in his throat. “There is no storm dragon of that age anywhere in the world, save for the egg that was destroyed. And yet, here is a recently-hatched storm dragon.” He whirled on Callum, his every word a promise of destruction. “You will explain.”

“We found him!” Callum blurted, too afraid to lie. “Rayla came with the other Moonshadow assassins to avenge the Dragon King and the egg, but we found the egg in the dungeons, and we’re bringing him home.”

Sol Regem’s expression narrowed, dubious and critical. “Why?”

“Why… are we bringing him back, or why was he in the dungeon?”

Backlit though he was, Sol Regem’s scowl could be heard and felt in his reply. “Answer both.”

“Uh, well… we think that our- the high mage, Viren, was keeping it for um, dark magic reasons.” Callum twisted the end of his scarf in his hands, thoughts racing as he tried to summarize their adventure without giving too much away. “And since that’s wrong, and the war is wrong, we uh. Want to do what we can to fix things.”

Sol Regem snorted derisively. “Now you decide that dark magic, war, and death are wrong? What makes you think that the Dragon Queen will listen to some petty human apprentice mage, holding her son and reeking of dark magic? Even if you have, for some unfathomable reason, stumbled onto the secret of primal magic,  what could you possibly do to persuade the Dragon Queen not to unleash her armies on humankind for their countless atrocities?”

Callum swallowed, and steeled himself, as Rayla quietly panicked behind him. It terrified him to the core, but in that moment Callum realized that if he was going to get past Sol Regem, he was going to have to do so as himself, without secrets. “Because I’m not some petty human apprentice mage.” He drew himself up, standing tall before the Great Solar King. “I’m Prince Callum of Katolis. Prince -- King Ezran is my brother. I destroyed the primal stone I was learning magic from in order to hatch the egg of the Dragon Prince.” Zym chirped in affirmation, standing tall as well in a mimicry of Callum's posture.

For a split second, Sol Regem was stunned by the honest admission. Then, he laughed, the kind of laugh that comes from being completely caught off guard by something absurd. Despite himself, Sol Regem believed the boy, too. Although the mustiness of clothes that had been worn for weeks masked it somewhat, the boy did smell like he came from privilege. And he knew something of the inner machinations of the human kingdoms, knowledge that the average commoner wouldn't know. Granted, in Sol Regem’s  cynical view, humans were selfish and deceitful, but there was no way anyone would be foolish enough to tell a lie that ludicrous, that outlandish, and expect to be believed.  

So that was it, then. A prince of the human kingdoms had hatched the dragon prince and decided to waltz right into Xadia, hand-in-hand with one who had been sent to murder his family, with the naïve hope that the Dragon Queen would give two figs about their bid for peace.

Pathetic. Adorable.

His laughter died down, and he looked down his nose at Callum. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t just eat you now and take young Ayzmondias straight to his mother, without your meddling or the disgusting taint of dark magic you bear.”

“Look, the dark magic was a one-time thing and I almost died, so I’m never doing that again.” Callum took a step backwards, thinking. “I… I just want there to be peace. My brother wants peace. And I want to show other human mages that they don’t have to use dark magic as a crutch. Iconnected to a primal source, and I barely know any magic. I want to show them how, so no one ever even thinks about using dark magic again.”

“Not to mention, he only did it to save me and a dragon that human soldiers had captured anyway,”Rayla interjected. “I’ll kill him myself if he ever tries it again, but I don’t think he would. It was pretty bad.”

“Uh, yeah!” Callum replied, giving Rayla a dirty look at the suggestion that she would personally murder him. “Anyway, can’t work on diplomacy and eradicating dark magic if I’m dead so… Please don’t eat me.”

Sol Regem inhaled once more, considering their words and breathing in the three of them. They were so earnest, so eager, the scent of their sincerity rolling off of them like a cloying perfume. All three of them were only children, with the brash sort of hope only children who haven’t witnessed the world’s cruelty carry within them. They certainly believed in their mission, fruitless and futile as it sounded to Sol Regem’s ancient ears. And the human thinking he could teach other humans Primal Magic was pitiful. It would never work, of course, for Sol Regem knew of the centuries where humans had tried and failed, their inferior natures cutting them off from the sources of magic. But somehow, some way, this particular human had figured it out.

Unless….

The sun king brushed that disgusting notion aside. It was impossible, and if it were true, he’d smell it.

Sol Regem then decided he was more interested in seeing what the world would be like if these children tried to accomplish their goals and failed, rather than their adventure ending in his belly. Someone else would crush their hopes, inevitably. In the meantime, watching them try would be more fun than anything else he’d seen of the increasingly tiresome war between humans and Xadia. And should they succeed, well. It might actually give Sol Regem something to do.

“Very well,” he said, after a pause that was long enough to make the children squirm with discomfort. “I shall not eat you.” The human boy’s sigh of relief was audible, and carried a faint puff of wind with it. How very interesting. “And I shall not inform anyone else that a human trespasses in Xadia. Find some way to keep him more incognito, young Moonshadow. It would do to keep Prince Azymondias's return a secret as well.”

“Oh man, thank you, your, uh, grace,” exuded Callum. “I promise we’ll do our best.”

“Do not give me cause to regret this decision, boy.”

“I won’t.”

Rayla bowed to the archdragon. “We truly are grateful, honorable Sol Regem.”

“See that the prince remains safe,” he rumbled back, and turned away from them, laying back down on his rocky bed. Zym yipped his own thanks, and Rayla gathered the two princes up.

“Come along, you two. Time to find some shade and some sleep.”

The trio strode down the canyon, and around the bend out of sight.

Sol Regem waited until they were out of his range of hearing, and then let a piercing cry echo towards the south. He waited only a few moments before a figure emerged from the rocky precipice above him.

“You called, my lord?” asked the figure.

“Yes. Further along the canyon you will see three children – a Moonshadow girl, a human boy – though he will likely be disguised, and a baby dragon.”

“Uh, forgive me, but did you say 'human'?!”

“Do not question me. He is no ordinary human. Follow them, be my eyes, and send me regular reports on their movements.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Ah, and one more thing. The wyrmling is... important. Ensure nothing ill befalls him.”

The figure bowed. “I will ensure the his safety, and keep an eye on the others.”

The figure flapped its wings, and ascended to the sky.

Satisfied, Sol Regem gazed westward, the rays of the sun warming his old bones. What funny, irritating creatures. Inferior as they may be, humans were, after all this time, still capable of surprising him.