#for Age. Rune loved him but he didn’t love her back

[smilesrobotlover]

correct me if I’m miss remembering but I recall you saying Ages Zelda had a crush on him but since he married mipha instead was there any resentment that Zelda internationally or otherwise towards mipha or link

I’m gonna go with no, that incarnation of Zelda doesn’t feel like the type to get overly jealous. I think she’ll be upset, and yeah she’ll have some form of jealousy since we all get jealous at times, but it’s more sad than angry. She understands that some people love each other and some things will not work out, but it was hard for a bit. She didn’t talk to Age as often as normal cuz of it, but it’s mostly cuz it hurt to see them. But things are much better now between her and Age.

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (5)

Rune of Endurance

Though Arianwyn wants nothing more than to devour the book Aemond gifted her, she finds herself tear her mind from Aegon’s taunting words. But as she recalls a difficult conversation with her cousin and lady’s maid from the night before, she decides that perhaps she does not want to be married – ever.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)

Warnings: none

Author's Note: Oh lawd he comin'

Series Masterlist - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

`Aemond and Aria spent whole days hidden away in her room, devouring the book of runes. Small booklets of parchment containing their scribbled notes were bound in green ribbon and tied to nearly every artifact of House Royce within her apartment. It was quickly revealed that Aria seemed to have a preternatural sense of which theories in the book held true and which did not.

“Look at this one,” she said one evening in her sitting room. She pointed to one of the markings on the breastplate before them. It was larger than those surrounding it and depicted two lines, converging in parallel before each end split and angled back, reaching for the others but not quite touching. “According to the book, this is a star and grants endurance.”

“Well, yes,” Aemond said, tracing a finger over the Rune, connecting the ends. “See? Four points.”

Aria turned away, rifling through yet another stack of papers lying lopsided on the couch. “But in all the tapestries and artwork from the First Men, stars have five points. Why would this one have only four?”

“To make it easier to etch into metal?” Aemond was rewarded for his joke with a pillow to the face. He quickly fell into a chair, laughing. “Well, obviously, you have an idea.” He had a few of his own, but would rather listen to her talk. She was so passionate about the Runes, far more so than anything else, except perhaps Emrys. When she had a theory, she spoke with an elegance, energy, and confidence far beyond her age. Aemond could listen to her for hours.

“I don’t think it’s a star at all.” Aemond almost didn’t hear her, for he was struck with the thought that her eyes looked like stars in the firelight. “Though I do think it grants endurance.”

“Then what is it?”

A great smile broke out on Aria’s face. “I think it’s more abstract. This mark only ever appears on armor in one place – over the heart.” She retrieved a list from the bottom of a tall stack of parchment next to his chair. “The only other places we’ve found it are on vases, necklaces, crowns, and rings. Why would those need a blessing of endurance?”

She spoke as if he should know the answer, but he didn’t. So Aemond just shrugged.

“Vases and jewelry are traditional wedding gifts!” she exclaimed, launching herself on the couch next to Aemond, showing him the full accounting she had made of all the artifacts with this particular Rune, along with her own rendition of the mark. “It’s not a star. It’s on the heart because it is the symbol of something even more enduring: love.”

Though he did not know why, Aemond blushed.

Three months passed, and after much hard work, Arianwyn and Aemond had nearly completed their translations for the Runes, though their progress had slowed as their other endeavors began to pull their attention away.

Arianwyn spent much of her time training in the Dragonpit. For her nameday, King Viserys had ordered a new saddle made for Emrys, one that would be able to accommodate him as he continued to grow. It took several weeks of careful coaxing from both the Dragonkeepers and Arianwyn herself for him to not only allow it on but to leave it there.

Once he grew accustomed to the new weight, it was hard to keep him and his rider from flight. The sight of the smoky black dragon emerging from the Dragonpit each dawn soon became a fixture of the day for the people of King’s Landing, as did his reappearance each afternoon. Due to his coloration and already impressive size, some of the small folk took to calling him “Balerion, Second of his Name,” a moniker which greatly amused the King, the final rider of the true Black Dread.

Arianwyn would have gladly taken Aemond to the skies with her had Emrys been large enough for the both of them or if he had a dragon of his own. Alas, no new eggs hatched, and the Dragonkeepers had no confidence in his ability to claim one of the riderless dragons after his repeated failed attempts at doing so. He remained as he had been for years, a bystander in his lessons with the Dragonkeepers.

She tried to comfort him by praising his martial prowess in the boys’ lessons with Ser Criston Cole. There, at least, the others could find nothing to mock.

It was on a warm afternoon, less than a week after the birth of Prince Joffrey Velaryon, that Arianwyn landed Emrys in the courtyard of the Dragonpit to find Brynna anxiously waiting for her by her carriage.

“My lady,” Brynna said, stepping warily toward the dragon, far closer than usual. She worried her hands together, and her cheeks were flushed.

“Is something the matter?” Brynna only ever looked like that when she was truly worried.

Brynna sighed, glancing toward the Dragonkeepers. “While you were… away, there was an incident with Prince Aemond, my lady. After his lessons, he, well, he tried again. He was in quite a state when he left.”

Arianwyn did not need to hear anything more. Her breath quickened, her cloak falling to the ground. She ran, not to the carriage, but to one of the horses next to it, mounted by her guard, Ser Sterlan.

“Help me up!” She demanded, arms in the air for him to grab.

Sterlan sighed, briefly looking at Brynna, who gave him her sternest look. “You’re really that desperate to get to him, my lady?”

“Yes!”

He immediately reached down, lifting her onto the saddle. She didn’t care about the aching pulling in her shoulders. Once she was settled before him, he wrapped an arm around her waist and whispered, “You’re going to get quite the scolding when she gets back.”

Arianwyn knew immediately who he meant – she could hear Brynna raising her voice already as she ran for them. She looked over her shoulder at Sterlan. “You are, too.”

“I’m sure I can find somewhere for us to hide before she catches us.” He snapped the reins, and they were away.

By the time she reached the queen’s chambers, Arianwyn was thoroughly out of breath from her frantic flight up hundreds of the Red Keep’s steps. But her heart beat easier when she saw Aemond sitting on the steps with his sister.

He was not injured, though his hair looked like he had sailed through a hurricane. Even with his back facing her, his posture told her all she needed to know about how he felt. His spine was straight as a board, his shoulders slumped forward, and he moved not a single muscle as Helaena held out her insect for him to see. To someone who did not know him, he would look like a man unmoved by the world around him. Arianwyn knew better. He was too moved, but stubborn enough that he would not let anyone see how wounded he truly was.

“What did they do to him?” Arianwyn asked Alicent as she approached. Like her son, she stood rigidly, clearly overwhelmed by anger herself. Still, she knelt and swept her niece into her arms.

“A cruel prank,” the queen said, keeping her voice low to be heard only by her niece. “At the end of their lessons in the Dragonpit, they told him they had found a dragon for him to claim. Foolish of him to believe it, honestly.”

Arianwyn shook her head. “Not foolish. Desperate, maybe.”

“Yes, you’re right, dear.” Alicent released her and looked at her children. “It was not a dragon, obviously. But a pig they had borrowed from the stables and fitted with straw wings. He said they called it the ‘Pink Dread.’”

“How horrible of them.” Arianwyn had half a mind to find Aegon, Jace, and Luke and beat them with those straw wings. Perhaps she would later, but Aemond came first.

“Yes,” her aunt agreed. “I shall take it up with the king, ask him to try and stop them from tormenting him this way. The Gods know Aegon will no longer listen to me.” She took a deep breath, placing her hand on Arianwyn’s shoulders. “I have done my best to console him. Thankfully, he has not been hurt, but he is shaken. Badly.”

Arianwyn faced her cousin. “He will never give up. Not until he has his dragon.”

“We can only pray that day comes sooner than late.” Alicent rubbed small circles into Arianwyn’s back before making for the door. “Stay with him until I return. Try to help him feel better.”

“I will do what I can, Aunt.”

“Helaena, darling,” Alicent called, her hand extended to her daughter. “It is time for your lessons. Come with me.” The princess sighed and gathered her collection of insects before following her mother out of the room, notably not taking her hand.

Aemond remained as still as a statue.

Soft steps echoed throughout the room as Arianwyn came to sit next to him on the stone step. Suddenly, she was all too aware that she was still in her riding leathers, the smell of dragon wafting off her. She should have known to change rather than remind him with her very presence that she had just been with her dragon. But there was nothing she could do about it now.

She said nothing, knowing from experience that it would not help. Scooting close enough that their legs pressed together, she merely sat on the step, staring at her feet.

After many long minutes, it was Aemond who broke the silence.

“How is Emrys?”

“He is well,” Arianwyn answered, smiling with relief to hear his voice at last. “Perhaps you could come with me to see him tomorrow?”

“I think I would like that.” He reached for her hand. She gave it. “It was Matagon this time.” The dragon that had hatched to Daella Targaryen, their twice great aunt. She had been too scared to ever bond with him, leaving the great beast riderless and volatile.

Arianwyn chuckled. “He’s even worse than Terrax! Of all the dragons in the world, why would you pick him?”

Aemond smiled back at her, a flush coloring his cheeks. “I thought that if I could tame him, Aegon and the others would never dare mock me again.”

“I think you would be right about that. No one could mock you once they’d been burnt to a crisp.” She released his hand to reach up, wiping a smudge of soot from his cheek.

Rather than be cheered by her joke, Aemond’s smile faded. “Do you think I will ever claim a dragon?”

It was a question he had asked her many times before. Years had passed since she first gave it, but her answer stayed the same. “I do not doubt that you will, Aemond. And you will be the fiercest rider our house has seen since Aegon the Conqueror himself.”

He gave her a watery smile before falling into her arms, burying his face in her wind-swept white curls that still smelled of dragon.

Aemond was, at last, granted a reprieve only days later when Rhaenyra and Laenor took their children and left for Dragonstone. Rumors swirled that it was a strategic retreat – that it was no coincidence that the Heir left the Red Keep at the same time as Harwin Strong, which itself was no coincidence after the birth of another dark-haired babe.

Arianwyn paid no mind to the rumors, even if she knew as well as the rest of the court – save the king – that they were true. She was in no place to gossip about someone else’s father.

With no one to laugh with him – and after Arianwyn had indeed smacked him with the straw wings he’d made – Aegon quickly abandoned his torment of his younger brother. To everyone’s shock, their relationship began to mend.

The lightened mood in the castle was quickly dimmed, however, when word arrived that a fire had broken out at Harrenhal. Both the Hand and Harwin Strong were dead. After what could only be described as a heated debate between the king and queen, Otto Hightower was summoned back to the capital to reclaim his former position.

It darkened further still when Arianwyn and all the king’s children were summoned to the Council Chambers one stormy morning.

Aemond held her hand from the moment the great, dark doors came into sight. To them, it was a near-mythical place. It was where great decisions were made, and they were far too young to make such decisions.

Each member of the Small Council stared at them as they entered. Aemond’s grandfather looked stern as always, something about his eyes reminding Arianwyn of an owl she had once seen perched on her window. The Grand Maester nodded to them, just barely smiling, but it did not reach his eyes. And Lord Corlys seemed to be missing.

Arianwyn let Aemond take a half-step in front of her, shielding her from the eyes of the king. He had always smiled at her on the few occasions he now saw her, but now his face was drawn and tired.

“What’s going on?” Aegon asked, pushing Aemond aside to stand at the front of their little group. He seemed to have sobered in the few moments they’d been in here, his eyes suddenly sharp and suspicious.

“I’m afraid…” the king slumped, covering his mouth with a spindly, pockmarked hand. He always looked so tired, now. “Otto, would you?”

The new – and also old – Hand cleared his throat as he turned to the children. Only Aegon held his stare. “We have received a raven bearing news from Prince Daemon.”

Arianwyn’s heart stopped. Was her father finally acknowledging her? Had he finally deigned to inquire about her? Would he apologize for ignoring her for ten years?

It was doubtful, and none of the Small Council looked particularly happy, so it couldn’t be that. It had to be something bad. Oh gods, was Daemon writing to inform them that she’d been betrothed to some man from Essos?

Otto continued, “He and his daughters are returning to Westeros. For the funeral of his wife, the Lady Laena.”

Her stepmother.

A stepmother she had never met, true, but she had hoped to. Even with the sting of her father’s indifference, the stories Arianwyn heard from Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys suggested that Lady Laena was a good and kind woman, someone whom Arianwyn would be immensely glad to call ‘mother.’

But now, she was dead. At only ten years old, Ariwnyn had lost two mothers, neither of whom she had ever been given the chance to know. It seemed rather cruel of the gods.

She did her best to hide her tears as Otto spoke. “In two weeks' time, we will travel to Driftmark to attend her funeral. Tailors will attend to each of you to prepare appropriate mourning attire, and Septa Matrice will review your etiquette.” His face became even sterner, if such a thing were possible. “We shall be nothing but respectful and cordial at the funeral, understood?”

Both Aegon and Aemond tensed slightly but nodded. Helaena and Arianwyn did, too, before they were escorted out of the rooms. Aemond never even lessened his hold on Arianwyn’s hand.

When they were back in their wing of the castle, Aegon huffed a humorless laugh. “Well, I guess we’re all going to Driftmark, then.” He looked over his shoulder with a smirk. “Best prepare yourself, Aria – there’s very little to eat there other than fish.”

Aemond growled something back, but she didn’t hear it. She didn’t give a shit about eating fish, even though she hated it. Her mind was racing with thoughts of what else she would find on Driftmark.

She would not meet her stepmother, but she would meet her half-sisters—Baela and Rhaena—the twins. Would they ignore her as their father did? Or would they immediately feel the connection of their shared blood?

The blood of Prince Daemon Targaryen, whom Arianwyn would soon meet for the first time.

[argisthebulwark]

Severed Ties Part Two: Why You Came Back

summary: Time heals all wounds and somehow, you will find your way back to each other. gn reader, no pronouns or y/n used. Part One: Why You Left feat: Brynjolf, Miraak, Erandur, Teldryn, Vilkas, Farkas, Rune, Arnbjorn warnings: none, bit longer than usual.

Between all your duties and missing Brynjolf, it took time to find a comfortable rhythm. There was no escaping each other even after you put an end to your romantic involvement, only breaks coming in the form of jobs halfway across Skyrim. Through everything you worked together to get the Guild back on its feet. You entrusted Brynjolf solely with its care when Nocturnal came calling, reminding you that the Skeleton Key’s rightful place was in her temple.  The Twilight Sepulcher drained your body and soul. Exhaustion sapped at your strength when you shuffled out, unsure how you were going to get back to the inn. Riften was another beast entirely. Chilly fingers shook at the prospect of your bed being so far away, ready to risk it all for a short nap in the forest.  Brynjolf was planted a few paces away, hood thrown back and worry in his eyes. Your heart stopped at the sight. You’d never seen him so far from Riften. He took one cautious step as if you were a wounded animal, like you'd bolt if he came too close.  Collapsing into his arms felt like home. Strong arms carried you when your muscles failed, tears springing into your eyes when he tucked you safely into his chest. You gulped back the words you hadn’t said in ages when he buried his nose in his hair, turning to carry you home. He'd left all duties behind to be there for you when you needed him most. “I promise, love. Nothing’s gettin’ in the way of you and I again. Sorry it took me so long.”

Tales of Miraak’s reign of terror over Solstheim slowed, the island calming and hesitantly returning to its normal life. It had been years since you’d left Apocrypha and you could only hope that he’d found the answers he’d wanted so badly or at least some form of peace. The last memory of him still pained you but you’d never forget it - robes wrinkled where he crouched over the ancient desk, eyes wild and fingers stained with dark ink.  Being back on Nirn was a blessing and a curse. You had settled quite easily into your life but there was a constant nagging need to hear every rumor about him, to keep up to date on what he was doing. Your home was comfortable but quiet, interrupted by a harsh knock on your door.  Seeing him again stopped your heart. His eyes were wide, blessedly free from the mania you’d come to know. The mask and gloves were gone, robes traded for simple armor. There he stood, the man who had forgotten you suddenly standing on your doorstep, that lovely voice saying words you’d craved to hear.  “I gave it all up. I gave up everything to stand here and ask you for another chance and I’d do it again in a heartbeat, My Dragon.” 

You didn’t recognize him in such normal, simple clothes. Erandur, who lived in robes befitting a priest and Mara’s regalia, took the empty seat across from you in the tavern. His fingers quivered when he offered you a hand, hope bright in his eyes when he introduced himself.  “I had to come over here, I couldn’t stop staring. You’re stunning.” His attempt to sound nonchalant sent a nervous giggle bubbling out of you. “Can we put the past behind us and start over?” “Start over?” You didn’t release his hand and he didn't pull away, heart swelling when you saw his smile. All else was forgotten when you felt Erandur’s tattooed fingers climbing up your wrist.  “I am just a man who very badly wants to kiss someone he saw across the crowded tavern. Nothing more.” 

A compromise. That’s what he’d proposed. Teldryn sat at your table, eyes sparkling when he took in the house you’d built. It was far from the bustling cities, trees insulating you from the noise of nearby farms. After parting from Teldryn it had become a safe haven from the rest of the world. You’d never admit that building it with your own hands was fueled mostly by spite.  He’d come with apologies and offers mingled together in a practiced speech. Some time at home, some on the road, all of it spent together. It was unsettling how easily you trusted him again after all the time spent apart. His helmet rested on the table when Teldryn met your eyes and for the first time he looked unsure of what to say. His mouth opened, closing again and you caught a glimpse of that annoyed furrow between his brows you’d missed. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to settle down in one place, but I could get used to this slow life with you. For a while.”

Loving Vilkas was easy, you’d never truly stopped. Learning to be gentle with one another was difficult. You struggled to learn how to look past your relationship and see Vilkas as more than your partner, acknowledging his role in the Companions. He worked on seeing you as more than his Harbinger, viewing you as his partner once again. It was a slow process - taking breaks and setting boundaries, but he was worth it.  During the day you worked, creating healthier avenues for conversation. At night you were partners, nothing more. No work talk was allowed between dinner and breakfast. In those evenings you found one another again, softening and loving each other as you had so long ago.  “Remind me, Harbinger. Am I permitted to kiss you during working hours? Are we allowed to sit this close, or are you worried I’ll distract you?”

Breezehome had been yours before Farkas entered your life. It was your refuge during the evenings when you couldn’t bear Jorrvaskr’s halls or the memories they held. A cool breeze whipped through your hair when you walked home, masking his footsteps until he appeared at your side. Neither one of you said a word when he took your hand, falling in step with you and allowing you to guide him to your doorstep.  It didn’t happen all at once. Rather, it was small changes that slowly altered your life. It took work for Farkas to summon the confidence to live for himself, extracting his sense of self worth from the Companions. You reminded him that it was a balance, leaving wasn’t permanent. Dinners were often spent in Jorrvaskr before retreating to the peace of your home.  “I didn’t think I was anything more than a fighter. Didn’t think anyone would want me to be more.”

Each day felt like a new opportunity for growth. You watched Rune from a distance hoping that he would make peace with his past. You didn’t want him to give up but it was too painful to love someone who lived entirely in the mysteries of what could have been, as if you were only allowed to love part of him.  Luckily, Delvin and Vex had an endless catalogue of tasks that no one else wanted to complete. Jobs in other holds, jewelry to be stolen in Whiterun and planted on some poor sap in Solitude, the occasional trip to confer with the Dark Brotherhood. All the travel was good for your mind, allowing you time to think through everything far from him. Falling into your cot you stared up at the Cistern’s ceiling. Watery light from the early morning sun reminded you that you’d stayed up all night again. It had been difficult to sleep with Rune cramped into your tiny bed but without him the space felt too empty. His footsteps were silent when he knelt beside your bed, his warm hand on your shoulder the only warning that he was there.  “I’ll never give up, not entirely. But it isn’t worth losing you over. Just give me some time, please don’t forget about me.”

Arnbjorn consumed your every thought. Despite your best efforts to appear cool and indifferent you couldn’t take another moment. It was fairly easy to avoid him during the day, but every evening you struggled to not look at him through dinner. After all the others had left in search of bed or prepping for their assignment you found yourself alone with him, a few drinks deep and blood heating under the weight of his gaze. Too drunk to be embarrassed by the stumbling way you explained how badly you wanted to be loved by him again, how deeply you wanted him to love you. You didn’t want to be a replacement for the love he’d lost. Cheeks burning and tears spilling you gasped out the least graceful declaration of love and how much you missed him.  Your name on his lips had never sounded better. Soothing kisses and careful hands sufficed when words failed. You knew he wasn’t comfortable vocalizing softer emotions. Arnbjorn’s lips were on your forehead, fists balled into his armor when you dragged him closer.  “Just need you to trust me, okay? It’s only you. My past is my past, no changin’ it. I just need some time but I promise it’s only you.”

[rubydubydoo122]

Jason gets de-aged because I've seen fics of Tim or Dick being de-aged, and Bruce losing his memory, but no one has realized the potential for angst if you de-age Jason.

Zatanna had something come up. So of all people she could have sent to replace her, she sent Constantine. Bruce really didn’t know if his luck could get any worse. At least 15 year old Jason liked his accent. 

Constantine was a really capable sorcerer, he was just really hard to work with. Worse than Hal Jordan. Though, if they wanted to get Jason back to normal, they would have to accept Constantine. 

“Hey, Batman! Go back down into the cave, and send Bruce up. I want him instead of Brood and Gloom.”

Bruce was suddenly brought back to the breakfast table. In all of his 41 years of living, he had never seen Alfred smile this big, “That’s my boy.”

Jason beamed at that.

Bruce’s phone pinged. He didn’t even have to look to know it was Dick sending him a ‘Rule #2’ . That’s all his messages with Dick consisted of. Mostly rule #2’s, some rule #3’s, and the occasional rule #1. All in all, Bruce was doing relatively good. He was definitely avoiding Jason more, but if he was around him too much, the only thought that started to fill his brain was his cooling body in his arms. So he toed the line. And he doesn’t think Jason noticed all that much, because whenever Bruce wasn’t with him, one of his children was.

“Constantine’s coming instead of Zatanna.” Bruce finally said, “I think I should be allowed to brood a little bit.”

“ Don’t get your knickers in a twist , old man.” Jason actually had a really good Liverpool British accent, “Mr. Constantine’s not that bad.”

“I just hate magic.” Bruce didn’t grumble. He was too old to grumble like a toddler.

Jason looked himself over and then put a hand to his chest in fake offense.

Bruce’s phone pinged again, “Dick, will you stop that!” 

But it wasn’t Dick, because Dick was holding a fork and knife in his hands and mid-bite.

Bruce dug out his phone.

“ Is the bloke with the sparkly fingas here? ”

That earned a snicker from Duke, Dick and Tim.

Bruce stood up at the same time Tim said, “I’ll give you five dollars if you say that to his face.”

“Oh! Abso–”

“..Lutely not, Jason. To the cave. Let's go.”

Jason slid out of his chair without noise and followed.

Constantine was already in the cave, and smoking a cigarette. 

“Hi, Mr. Constantine!” Jason practically glided down the stairs, as Bruce strode down at a normal pace.

“Hello there, Jason. I reckon you were a bit taller the last time I saw you. Bruce.”

“Constantine. I’m assuming Zatanna filled you in?”

“Yeah yeah yeah. I’m offended you didn’t call me first. I thought we were mates.”

Bruce just raised an eyebrow. Constantine squirmed a bit, and Jason shot Bruce a grin. A grin that was so reminiscent of the way Jason used to look at him after he cuffed a bad guy. Before Fellipe Garzona had fallen off that roof. Before Gloria Stanson had hung herself.

“Alrighty! Let's check out what kinda curse you’ve got going on. Brucie, would you mind taking a couple steps back, love?”

He did, and as soon as Bruce was out of range, Jason was surrounded in a dome of golden runes. Bruce didn’t miss the way Constantine frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

“The little birdie here has a lot of magic knotted all up together.” Constantine started searching through the runes, “Was it you or the Demon child that– Aha, knew it was you. Your soul’s got dimensional ripples.”

Jason frowned, “Heh?”

Bruce blinked, Dimensional ripples? Clark, Lois, and Jonathan had somehow been transported to this dimension before their souls had merged with their counterparts… who had died. Was that what happened with Jason? Maybe he should talk to Barry when all of this is over.

“And you’ve got some leftover Lazaru– Blimey! You have access to the All-Blade?”

Jason shrugged, “I don’t really like beyblades.”

“That’s not what the All-Blade is. It’s–” A set of runes began to glow, and the borderline fangirl look on Constantine’s face immediately dropped. “Jesus...”

“I have access to Jesus?” Jason touched his forehead, then his left shoulder and then his right, “Thank you, father, son, and the holy spirit. Amen.”

Bruce ignored Jason’s prayer, “What’s wrong?”

The dome of runes disappeared, “...I’ve got good news and bad news?”

He gave Constantine a look.

“Um, good news is, the spell looks like it’ll wear off on its own…” Constantine tried for a sheepish smile, but immediately dropped it, “bad news is, it isn’t supposed to? The magic is interacting with the dimensional ripples, and I can’t touch any of it because it’d be like…”

“Disarming a bomb?” Jason supplied. And Bruce had to suppress the urge to flinch at that analogy.

“Yes. Yes exactly, but one wrong move–”

“Boom.” He mimicked an explosion with his hands. ”But you said it’ll wear off on its own, so it’s fine. Right?”

Constantine winced and a ringing was starting to form in Bruce’s ears as he grabbed Constantine by the tie and started dragging him up the stairs.

“Stay here, Jason.”

“Bruce–”

“I said stay !” Jason flinched at his tone, but Bruce and Constantine were already in the study. “Explain.”

Constantine fixed his tie, “Whatever magic he got hit with didn’t just affect him physically, it also affected his soul. I think, if we’re going off of what happened to Clark and Lois, his soul merged together with his soul from an alternate dimension, causing it to be all… rippley. I can’t fully tell what it’s going to do, but in a couple of days, it looks like it’ll in about two or three days? There’s a 50/50 chance– or I guess, a 25/25/50 chance– that he’s going to either go back to normal, stay this way or…”

It was the 25th. two days from today would make it…

The 27th of April.

It suddenly felt like the ground underneath them was turning or tilting, or hell, both.

Bruce had gotten him back. He’d gotten him back, he can’t leave again. He can’t lose him again, he can’t die again.

Jason found it very rude that Bruce and Constantine were obviously leaving him out of the conversation about him. It completely baffles him how Bruce was raised by Alfred, yet had no manners. He wasn’t even subtle about it. 

Constantine said the spell would wear off. So why did he look like he was about to say something was wrong. Like really wrong. Sure, trying to tamper with whatever was going on would be… bad, but they weren’t gonna mess with it. They would just wait for it to wear off.

Would he physically go back to normal, but he would never remember the past five years? Or was he slowly going to become younger and younger until he was just a literal fetus flopping around on a table? 

Why won’t anyone tell him anything? It would be so much easier if they did. 

Jason eyed the Batcomputer and then the stairs. There was no one else here, no one to stop him from learning by himself.

He opened up the batcomputer, and the first thing he noticed was that everything was filed differently. Instead of being alphabetical, the missions were sorted into who had the mission and the date. For some reason, Jason’s folder had the least amount of missions under it, even though the folder itself was older than Duke’s. 

Still, he clicked on it, only to find that the oldest mission was less than a year ago. Not helpful.

Maybe if these were sorted recently, some of the older mission reports that he did with Bruce would be in Bruce’s folder.

Bruce’s most recent mission was called “Fun Sized Jason”. Guess that would be him. Jason clicked on it and… Bruce is a much sadder man than Jason had given him credit for. And Jason was currently upset at Bruce for snapping at him, and Bruce had obviously snapped because he was being broody. This man. Couldn’t even follow his own rules.

Rule #3 Don’t let Jason know something’s up between your relationship with him 

What was ‘up’ between him and Bruce? If anything, Bruce has been a lot more patient with him.

Unless Bruce was acting. And Bruce could act, Jason had seen him at Galas.

No. He couldn’t have been. Bruce had said he’d give him the world. And he said it in the way that made Jason know he was telling nothing but the truth. 

But that first night Bruce wouldn’t even look at him.

No. Bruce had to have been telling the truth.

But the longing and the guilt and regret… Maybe Jason had done something to Bruce, the same way he did something to Tim and Damian. Jason still didn’t know what exactly that was, just that he felt bad about it.

Jason exited out of that mission statement and started scrolling down to April of 2018. And there were a lot of cases. A part of Jason was glad they were re-organised by date because it would’ve taken a lot more work to try to figure out the name of the file, and then find the file.

Ethiopia: Sheila Haywood, the Joker, and Jason Todd – 4/24/2018- 4/27/2018

Bingo. The first date lined up with the last date in his notebook. He double clicked on it, when a locked symbol came up followed by a space for a password.

Great. Just perfect. 

He tried the password Bruce used on most things.

Wrong.

Bruce’s birthday?

Wrong again.

Jason’s Birthday. Since the file seemed to be about him.

Oh yeah! Who has the best guessing skills? Jason does. He did a little victory spin in the chair, but when he went to look back at the computer, there was a Tim shaped wall blocking his view.

He tried to look around him, but Tim shifted to block him again.

“Timmy, Timbooo, my favorite brother-o. You’re blocking my view, Hermano.”

Tim gave him a look that was scarily similar to Bruce’s bat-glare. 

Jason tried to look around him again, but suddenly, he was being tossed over Tim’s shoulder, and they were moving farther and farther from the computer.

“Hey! I was obviously in the middle of something!”

Tim snorted, as he started up the stairs. “I could bring up a spreadsheet of all the times you’ve done this to me. We’d be here for hours.”

Jason licked his finger and twisted so that he could stick it in his ear. Good news was, it made Tim let Jason go. Bad news was, it made Tim let Jason go, and sent Jason tumbling down the cave’s stairs.

“Jason!”

Lucky for Jason, he was a fast recoverer, and made an immediate beeline to the computer. 

After escaping Arkham Asylum, The Joker had made his way to Ethiopia. Jason had come across the information that Sheila Haywood was his birth mother. Haywood had been a doctor who was working at a refugee camp, also located in Ethiopia. Without my knowledge or Alfred’s, Jason traveled to meet up with his mother. 

Jason and I had managed to cross paths in Ethiopia, when we soon learned that Haywood was being held ‘hostage’ by the Joker. I went to go check on some other thing that had come up, and I had told Jason to stay put, but instead he had gone to attempt to save Haywood. Which led to Jason getting hurt by the Joker.

Jason started to scroll down more, the screen went black.

Tim was standing next to the outlet with the power cord in his hand.

Suddenly all the scars on his hand looked interesting, “Is.. Are most of my scars from the Joker?”

Jason heard Tim’s feet shuffle across the flood of the batcave, “I don’t think I’m the person you should be having this conversation with.”

“But it was bad enough to the point where I needed a Lazarus pit to get better. It was bad enough to the point where I had to stop being Robin.” Because why else would Tim start hanging around the manor when he was 13? Why else would Bruce adopt him? “And you were Robin after me?”

A beat, “Yes.”

He thought back to the conversation he had in the bathroom with Tim, “So, I didn’t grow out of being Robin. I was… forced into retirement. By the Joker.”

“That’s… the easy way of putting it.” Tim took one of Jason’s hands, “I want to show you something.”

They both went over to the locker area and Tim opened his locker and pulled out a shoe box from the top. “I guess since you knew I was a little stalker back in the day, there should be no reason for me to feel embarrassed for showing you these.” He moved to the bench and opened the lid. 

Inside the box were a bunch of photos of Batman and Robin. Of Bruce and Jason. Tim handed him a couple. The first one was of Jason when he had just become Robin. He was talking animatedly while walking with a teenage girl. He remembers that night.  Her name was Angela, and she had been followed for a couple of blocks by a bunch of older guys, and Jason couldn’t let her go home alone. Not with how cruel the streets could be. 

The next one was of Jason cradling a baby. The mom had been separated from the baby during an Ivy attack. 

The last one Tim had handed to him was of Batman and Robin in an Alley. They had just taken down a bunch of thugs, and Jason was talking with the two kids, Gavin and Evan, while Batman was farther off, with a fond smile on his face, looking at Jason. 

“Robin is the light to Batman’s darkness. Hope to his fear. Every Robin gave light, but out of all of us, you shined the brightest. You were the people’s Robin, you cared about them so much, like each and every one of them are your brothers and sisters.” Tim pointed at the picture in Jason’s hand, “Your light was so bright, you made Batman smile. And that isn’t the only picture I have like that.” He put his hand on Jason’s elbow, “I could never come close to the Robin you were, but I always tried. You were like the Sun. And I could never take your place. Not really, but I tried my best to do what I thought you would. To make you proud. Even though… you didn’t really like me when you found out.”

“No. I like you. It’s just…” Jason could feel his eyes burn, “If I got hurt, really bad, bad enough to the point where I couldn’t be Robin anymore, why would Bruce let there be another one? When- When it could happen again? Or even worse. ”

Tim closed his eyes, “When the Joker did what he did to you, it sent him down a dark path. He was barely holding back his punches and he was barely dodging them either. Batman needed a Robin and—“

“I wasn’t there.”

“No! Jason, it wasn’t your fault. You were going through some of the worst moments of your life, it wasn’t your job at that time to be Robin, or emotionally babysit Bruce while he fought crime to deal with his trauma.”

“But you were, what? 13 at the time with no legal obligations to him. It shouldn’t have been your job either.”

Tim blinked, “ah, fuck.” He sat criss cross on the bench and turned so he was fully facing Jason, “point is, it was just a bad time. Bruce kicked Dick out of the Manor, The Joker had diplomatic immunity, which still does not make sense to me, but then he was sent back to Arkham. Bane broke Bruce’s back, some psycho took over being Batman and would not let Dick and I in the cave, but then Bruce got better and became Batman again. Superman died, but then he came back. Then Bruce got framed for murder, and then the riddler and clayface teamed up with this whole convoluted plot which involved Clayface showing up as you and trying to kill us and Bruce probably needed therapy, but he was too much of a stubborn ass to ever actually go.” Tim finally took a breath. 

Jason blinked, “That’s a really rough five years.”

Tim groaned and leaned his head on Jason’s shoulder, “That was only two.” 

“Then it was probably a… shittier five years.” Jason patted his head, “Thanks, Tim.”

Tim glanced at Jason, “For what? I literally just trauma dumped on you.”

Jason shrugged, “Yeah, but you also gave me more information about what the hell is going on around here than anyone has in the past two days. Maybe a lot of the things that happened sound horrible, but it’s better than not knowing. Ya know?”

Jason felt Tim nod, “I’m sorry we’ve been keeping it all from you. It’s not something Bruce likes to talk about, and for Dick being the next adult who isn’t emotionally constipated, he evades certain topics like the plague.”

Jason snorted, “Wanna know something I’ve been completely baffled by?”

Tim sat up, “What?”

“Dick isn’t… wallowed up in angst. Him and Bruce haven’t had a single argument, and Dick…he’s a lot different. So is Bruce.” Jason thought about it for a moment, “Am I different too?”

Tim smirked and dug out his phone, “Mentally, Emotionally, or Physically?” Tim angled the phone so Jason could see, and it was a picture of a man, kneeling and talking to a little girl. There was a red helmet on the floor, but the man had a domino that covered his eyes. Tim swiped to the next one, of older Jason helping an old lady across the street. He swiped again to a photo of him holding Damian in a firefighter’s hold. “You might be a lot rougher around the edges, but everyone changes with time, especially with the things you’ve gone through. Yeah, you might be different, but I think you’re still the same in the ways that it counts.”

Jason looked at the photo. Without the domino, or the helmet he could really see how he had grown into his features, “I look a lot like my papi,” He looked back at Tim, and then pointed upwards to where Bruce had gone, “But I think I learned how to help from my dad.”

[gaysindistress]

When Night Comes - Fourteen

Summary: Who would win in a staring contest? New York’s resident mob boss and master of the side eye Bucky Barnes or the daycare teacher who really wants to go home and smoke?

pairing: Mob!Vampire!Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: cursing, I think that’s it

Word count: 2.3k

Thirteen | masterlist

A/n: Chi of @vonalyn helped me out so much when I was writing this chapter. Shoutout to them 💕💕 also I forgot my computer at home when I went out of town this weekend so I apologize for any errors or anything like that

tag list: @cakesandtom @elizacusi-blog @unaxv @hidden-treasures21 @buckybarnessimpp @vonalyn @thebuckybarnesvault

“You what?”

Willing to brave any storm that might arise, Y/N repeats her demand of wanting to see Celeste. Bucky, while shocked, doesn’t move from his position pinning her hips against the wooden table. He stares her down, his dark gaze making her even more confident in her question.

“If you want to know what Ana Cristina said, I want to see her.”

“Okay.”

Disbelief leads her to grip the fabric of his shirt and pull him closer unconsciously, “seriously?”

He nods his head, “if I said no, you’d go find a picture anyways.”

She tries to argue against him but given how she’s never been one to delay gratification, she agrees with him.

“You gonna let me go?” He asks, the change of subject confusing her until he drops his gaze to her hands fisted in his shirt.

“Oh sorry,” she says with a sheepish smile and relaxes her hands to rest on his chest again, “are you gonna back up?”

“Tell me what else Ana Cristina said first.”

“Um no show me the picture and then I’ll talk.”

He holds up one finger, “one piece of information.”

“I’ll bite you if you point that at me.”

Bucky inspects his finger for a moment, “bold of you to assume I wouldn’t enjoy that.”

She rolls her eyes before giving him what he wants, “She said your mom didn’t agree with your father wanting to raise you in the church so she took you and ran.”

He takes a deep breath and analyzes her face before taking a step back to let her pass. She waits a moment before pushing off the table and grabbing his hand as she walks out of the kitchen. Bucky resists the urge to pull her back to kiss her, hug her, anything to be selfish and feel her touch.

He takes the lead and pulls her along to the staircase where the estate’s bedrooms are at. They pass by hers as well as the other guests before he brings them to a stop at his door. Situated at the end of the hallway, sunlight streams in from open bedroom doors to illuminate the deep cravings that litter his door. Similar runes to his tattoos cover the frame as well as the actual door in addition to others Y/N doesn’t recognize.

Bucky pushes it open to reveal a room unlike anything she would’ve expected. Rather than being bare aside from a coffin, his room is filled with books and supplies for every hobby one could think of. Tall narrow windows allow light in to cover the room in a warm afterglow, fending off the dark stereotypes that surround Strigoi. Much to her surprise, there is a bed tucked against the window and it appears to be used. Handmade blankets and quilts lay neatly on it but the wrinkle in the white pillows indicates that someone has slept there recently.

“Wait, do you need sleep?” She asks as concludes her initial look around his room.

He chuckles before explaining that they don’t need sleep like humans, but instead will rest if they feed too much. Beginning his search for his only remaining picture of Celeste, he makes a joke about how naps are enjoyable, human or not. Y/N watches as he pulls out a small box from a book shelf and tries not to gasp when he takes out the even smaller photo of a woman who looks undoubtedly familiar.

The frayed and worn edges of the photo give away its age; however the woman is alarmingly modern. A simple sheer white veil with embroidered flowers covers most of her hair and upper body but the unruly curls that Bucky loved are barely being held back. Only the woman’s side profile can be seen as she has had her head turned away from the camera. Even without a clear view, it’s abundantly clear that this woman and Y/N are the closest thing to doppelgängers this world will see. There are a few differences but not anything that a stranger could use to truly distinguish between the two women.

Bucky, on the other hand, has them memorized by heart because it’s the only way to not fall completely victim to his own agony. “Y/N is not Celeste,” is the mantra he has to repeat to himself every moment that he’s in Y/N’s presence. In the meantime, he waits for her to say something, anything at all but she’s lost in awe and wonderment.

“She’s… she’s beautiful,” she starts and looks at him, “I don’t even know what to say.”

Clearing his throat but not saying a word, he puts the photo away and returns the box to its home among his books. With his back to her, Y/N says what she’s been terrified to say, “I see it. The resemblance, I can see it.”

“It's there but there are differences,” he shoots back.

“Are you sure because all I see is a version of me from 150 years ago.”

He turns back to her with a great weighing pain in his stare, “No two people can be the same. Similar, sure but never exactly the same.”

Albeit simple words but they cut like a hot knife through her. She’s taken aback and instinctively takes a small step back.

“I wasn’t saying that, Bucky,” she quickly says, “I was just acknowledging the resemblance is all.”

He sighs at her defensiveness, “Imagine being in my place for just a minute. 80 years after the love of your life is murdered, someone who looks identical to her shows up except she hates me. Everything she does is in spite of me and she makes it very clear she wants nothing to do with me. Months go by and nothing changes until she’s forced to seek safety with me. Finally I think I’ve made some progress but a part of me knows that she will never be the woman she looks like. I don’t want you to be Celeste, Y/N nor do I expect you to but you have to understand that this,” he gestures between them, “kills me. Having you right here but never with me.”

“You can understand where I’m coming from too. Shit, you saw just how fucking crazy Alix is and what she’s willing to do to get me back and for what? The only thing I can think of is that she’s pissed I was finally happy and making a new life without her,” she retakes her step towards him, “I was terrified, I still am but I’ve found some form of fucked up safety with you. I’m not trying to be Celeste and I would never even think to do that.”

Bucky is hesitant to let her come closer now that he’s bared what he has left of a heart but nonetheless he stays put. The weight of the necklace he wears day in and out grows heavy as its new owner comes closer. It calls out to her, yearning her to be its wearer and burns against his chest in protest.

“I know this is all new territory but we could make it our own?”

Deep breaths in and out.

In and out.

“Are you… are you asking if…” he trails off uncharacteristically but Y/N fills in quickly.

“I’ll take you up on that dinner… if the offer still stands.”

He lets out a disbelieving chuckle and shakes his head, “dragging you to Romania finally convinced you to go to dinner with me? My good looks and charming words didn’t do it for you?”

She shrugs, “Maybe, maybe not. Could’ve been the bite, who knows?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow and reaches out to her, partly due to calling from his necklace. It calms down as soon as she’s in his arms and against his chest.

For now, it’s satisfied with this but soon it’ll grow more and more unhappy until she wears it.

————————————————————————

Five years.

She had planned and planned for this moment.

She waited for five fucking years for this moment.

Five years.

Alix had hunted and killed numerous people to get to Y/N. Nothing could get in her way now, not even some of the strongest Strigois on the East Coast.

Peggy helping her was a welcomed advantage but not needed. Alix had known every movement where Y/N was and never needed Peggy to overstep her bounds to help her because she had her own personal vendetta to accomplish.

No, Alix could do this on her own. She was the one who tracked that stupid girl across the country. She was the one who planted Jessica in her life. She was the one who got Juliette close to those Strigoi. She was the one who figured out who ratted her gang out to the police. It had all been Alix and now? Now was her chance to claim her prize, that prize being Y/N.

Landing in Bucharest wasn’t pleasant. The city seemed to sense that the group didn’t belong and her men nearly got into a fight trying to get their luggage. At every turn, the buildings changed and morphed into something anew so that they had no idea of where they were. No one would help them and Isabel tried to chalk it up to their lack of Romanian but they all knew what it was.

When they did finally get someone to stop, the elderly man spit at Alix’s feet and walked away. Enraged, it took everything in her to not rip him to shreds. Brock had been the one to stop her, gripping her arm to help her back.

“Do you want the Strigoi to know we’re here before we even have the chance to find them?”

“He has this whole city on lockdown, it doesn’t fucking matter.”

John steps in, “let’s find our place and then we can devise ways to rip old men to pieces. Come on.”

The old man in question had been Luca, the housekeeper and within minutes of his encounter, he’d found Ana Cristina in a nearby store.

“They’re here,” he frantically says, eyes darting back and forth as he rings his hands together.

“What? Who are you talking about?”

“The Lycan! The ones Mr. Barnes warned us about, they’re here in Bucharest.”

Ana Cristina curses under her breath and drops the fabric she’s holding. She links her arm with Luca’s and ushers him out of the shop.

“Which way did they go?”

He points to the left where the group is still arguing over whether the city itself has it out for them.

“In, in,” she nearly shoves him into their car and quickly rushes over to the driver’s side. She fishs out her phone and hands it to Luca, asking him to call Bucky.

“Hello? Is everything okay, Ana?” His sincere and concerned voice comes through the phone.

“Luca saw the Lycan. In the city.”

There's a short pause.

“How many?”

“5 I think. Bucky this isn’t good. They shouldn’t have even been able to get off the plane.”

“I know, I know. Just get home and we’ll figure out what’s going on. Make sure they don’t follow you, please.”

With that the call ends and Ana Cristina looks over with worry to Luca.

“That can’t be possible, can it? The seal is only…. Oh no,” he trails off and returns her look of horror, “it’s 75 years since she… died.”

“Don’t, don’t go there yet. It hasn’t been exactly 75 years. We still have,” she checks the date on her phone, “one week.”

Luca drops his head into his hands, “One week isn’t enough time to recreate the spell. It took the original coven months. The two of us can’t do it in one week, Ana Cristina. Even with Thor and Loki, we won’t have enough.”

She puts her hand on his shoulder, “the four of us can figure out something. Even if it’s temporary, we can do it.”

The hope doesn’t reach her heart as she drives past the Lycan group and towards the Bucharest estate. Luca had been right; the original coven had spent months after Celeste started getting death threats. Moving her from New York back to Romania only slowed them but they came nonetheless. She begged her coven to come up with anything at all and after almost 10 months, they had managed to keep her protected while on her birth soil. Tying her soul to her homeland meant that as long as she remained on Romanian soil, she couldn’t be harmed. Of course that only applied to Romania and she would be left unprotected if she decided to leave. The added but unanticipated benefits of the spell was that Lycan couldn’t set foot in the country for a century; however when she died, it had already been 25 years. The remaining 75 years were slowly coming to an end and without proper preparation, the two witches had no idea what to do next.

The only thing they could think of was the ring her coven gave her in addition to the land curse as a talisman; when she wore it and was home, no harm could come to her. It may be the only thing that could protect Y/N. Only problem was getting Bucky to take it off the chain he wore constantly since Celeste died.

[greenerteacups]

hi GT! 🩷 just finished devouring the last update, i'm living for this marriage of impending doom brought by the unspeakable dolores umbridge, and the lovelae reminder of how i cannot ever miss high school, brought about by that lovely scene in the great hall! god forbid hermione stay near draco's kneecaps again 😭

anyway, i wanted to share an excerpt from book three, that remains–to this day –my favorite passage from your masterpiece. at the risk of oversharing, i lost my mum a few years ago. these lines reminded me of our complicated, but still very much full-of-love relationship. i also think, if i may, this is the last interaction between narcissa and draco before the themes grow darker. and you did follow this up with the loveliest tribute to narcissa malfoy i have ever read, with your opening swan song that came as the first chapter of book four. anyway, thanks for helping me deal with my grief, GT 🩷 from the bottom of my heart, you are a blessing to your readers and i hope you know that 🥹

– from the final chapter of book three –

“Mother, I really would prefer you cut to the quick and gouge my ears off. This is cruelty.”

“But you understand, darling, don’t you? And you will be careful?”

“I’m always careful,” he said, stung, “and — anyway, I’m a Malfoy. I can do as I like.”

“I’m sure you can,” she said quietly.

This had the effect of a bludger to the back of the head, when he had been expecting one to come from the front.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you’re tall,” she said. “I forgot how tall boys get, at your age. We have to get you new robes, your ankles are showing, it’s an affront to the family. I’m sure the tailor is still open. What do you think? A quick run to Diagon Alley, and then dinner in London? We can even catch a show, afterward, if you’d like.”

“I’m flattered that you bother to ask me, as if you didn’t buy out a box last week.”

“Aha! You caught me. I wanted an evening with my special boy. You must escort me to Azkaban, for my terrible crimes.”

He sighed and let her take his arm. “Just the first act.”

She patted his wrist. “Oh, the first two, darling. The first two, surely. Everyone knows the first act is only setting the stage for Act Two.”

“Just two, then, and no more. I’m dead tired from the train, and I haven’t the patience for yodeling men in tights.”

“Yes, two, of course. Goodness gracious, will any of these bellhops deign to take your trolley, or shall I have to Summon one from the States? I hardly recognize this place, it’s so overrun. Hello? Yes, you, there — do you imagine my son ought to carry this himself?”

They would be there through the very last note, for certain, but his mother would manage it slowly, in increments — “Oh, darling, just ten more minutes, until this progression resolves” — and he would be dead on his feet by the time the last one finished. Narcissa could be neither outwitted nor outlasted in a contest of wills. That was alright, though. The intermission would give him time to catch up on Runes. And if he finished that, he could get started on his first letter: Dear Granger. It’s a lovely evening, here at the Royal Wizarding Opera, and I regret to inform you of your impending defeat. I will accept tribute by way of praise, tears, and long-form odes to my brilliance, which you may submit by owl post with your next letter…

It was a mild, soft blue evening, and Wizarding London lay under a silver film of smoke and industrial blear. The streetlamps blazed like the flare of Lumos on the rows of a hundred black wand-tips. Somewhere out in that long dark forest of chimneys, there was a girl with her Runes textbook balanced open on her lap, reading furiously. And somewhere in the Scottish highlands, there was a castle waiting for him to come home.

–

Your comment really spoke to me. I hope that in your grieving process you receive all the compassion, time, and patience you need to move forward and be well. It's an incredible compliment to have provided a resource for such a loss. There's so much I want to say about Narcissa and Draco, but I'm going to hold myself back and let the rest of Book 5 play out, and hopefully that will speak for me better than I can here. Anyway, my kindest wishes to you, and thank you for reaching out. It means more than you know.

[draconic-ichor]

Tarnished Threads, Golden Stitches

Morgott/tarnished fic

Slow burn

Warming: strong language, sexual themes

Summary: Hester is a seamstress living in the capital, life is fairly mundane until one fateful night at a festival…

Feedback appreciated, 18+

This is an entirely new Au! Not abandoning my other ones, was just inspired :3

The mending began months ago, the world was falling back into place. Everything was different now: their King was revealed to be an omen, their ‘god’ a glorified statue, the Golden Order reformed, and the Elden Lord galavanting around the Lands Between. It was a lot to swallow for Leyndell’s people.

But they had the chance to swallow now.

Not every tarnished met a true end on their journey; some survived to see their brother take up the mantle of Elden Lord, and in this new age, grace returned to their darkened eyes. Unlike their brother, however, they were still quite lowly.

Hester was one of these tarnished.

Awoken after the Erdtree already burned overhead, she was scrambling far behind in a world crumbling away… never to receive a rune of her own or see the fabled Round Table. It was not till after the mending that her eyes fell upon the tree in all its golden splendor; and like hundreds of others, she flocked to the capital towards it.

It was all for the best. Even though she was descended from those first few tarnished that followed Godfrey into the mists, fighting didn’t suit her. She knew a little magic, mostly reserved for healing, and couldn’t hold a blade to save her life. Her late awakening was a blessing.

What she did know, however, was mending. Hester was very good with her hands and could not only mend fabrics but had the creativity to create whole new clothing. She could also sew and spin thread. All things the capital had need of now that repairs were in order.

~

Hester sighed, deep in thought as she worked. She leaned forward, elbows on the worn workbench, staring wistfully out into the capital.

It was a busy morning, the townsfolk preparing for the festival that night, birdsong and fragrant smells filling her senses.

She loved the brightness, gaze drifting higher to the castle, alabaster stone and gilded tiles like a dream high above.

She sighed again.

“Sigh any louder and you’ll attract attention,” came a voice.

Hester jumped, pricking her finger as she did so. She yelped, quickly putting it in her mouth to soothe the sting. She gave a sharp look to the culprit, a man standing on the street below her open window.

“Looks like I already have.” She huffed.

He pulled himself up to the windowsill, a smile plastered over his face. The armor of a guard made him look a size bigger than he truly was, clinking together as he made himself comfortable.

“Don’t you have work to do?” She couldn’t help her lips crack into a smile.

“Doing my rounds now, when I happened upon a maiden. And don’t you have work to do? You have a stall in the market square tonight.” He reminded.

“I know!” Hester flushed, she’d saved for weeks for the fees, such a prime location had its prices.

“Mhm.” He nodded.

“I’m almost finished with my last few, just adding the final touches!” She gestured to the doll before her.

“Ghastly.” He shuttered, looking over her current batch.

“He is our King!” She snapped.

“And he can stay inside his castle.” The guard chuckled, leaning in a bit more to ask, “Do you truly think they will sell?”

“Not everyone holds so little love for their monarch.” Hes informed, “Some of us are loyalists.”

The man snorted, leaning in further still, attempting to steal a kiss. Hester rolled her eyes, hand covering his mouth as she pushed him back out the window.

He chuckled, feet hitting the cobblestones once more, “I’ll catch you one day, Hes.”

“Keep hoping.” She smiled, waving him off as he went back to his duties. She sat back heavily in her seat, eyes falling to the current doll she worked on. She sighed, slowly scanning the rest; all were endearing renditions of their king: with button eyes, little plush horns, and a fluffy tail made from scraps of real fur.

She held the current one closer, thumb softly tracing its small fabric face.

She couldn’t be the only one…

~

Lanterns filled the streets overhead, each one a different shape or hue, sending the night into a kaleidoscope of swirling color. The smell of spices and sweets filled the air, and the sound of mirth almost drowned out the far off beat of music.

Hester couldn’t get enough.

She put on her best dress and put flowers in her hair for the occasion. Part of her wanted to mingle about the crowd and see every stall for herself, but she had her own stall to run.

Her table was covered in bright bolts of fabric and batches of dolls all lovingly made. Children would scamper up and squeal out at seeing their hero in doll form, or the Elden Lords trusty spectral steed, while their parents pulled runes from their pockets. It was a special occasion after all. A few young maidens would sneakily buy a doll of their dashing Elden Lord, his absence in the capital adding to his mystique.

As the night was marching onwards, she was doing quite well! The glow of success dimmed a bit about her, as her amber eyes fell on a corner of the stall that lay untouched: the dolls of the King. Hester’s stomach twisted a bit.

She moved them to the center of the stall, in a place of easy sight, adjusting their little cloaks and tails to sit just right.

She couldn’t be the only one,

She kept telling herself.

The only one to see the allure of the King.

Her cheeks blushed at the thought, mind drifting back to the infatuated maidens and their excitement with the Elden Lord, or how she kept back a King doll for herself…

She was so ate up with thought she didn’t notice the sounds of revelry died down around her. It was not until the glow of the lanterns were obstructed by a great shadow that her eyes were ripped from the table. Hester looked up, freezing.

A great shape darkened her stall, silhouette monstrous and jagged, with a crown of twisting horns. Hester swallowed, the only movement she could manage, heartbeat in her throat.

It was King Morgott.

An eon seemed to stretch before them, the King like a pillar of stone as he looked over her wares. All the times Hester had caught sight of him, far away on the castle balcony or before a large crowd for an announcement, did him little justice. He was massive, at least thirty-six hands high, not counting the heavy tail that absolutely cleared the street behind him. The bulky cloak he wore about his shoulders exaggerated their broadness. Hers the critical eye of a seamstress, caught all the places the fabric was stressed, holes bore through it completely here or there.

Not fit for a King, surely.

She didn’t have long to wonder, the King’s hand moving forward. Hester gulped, suddenly realizing his single eye was fixed on the little dolls made in his likeness. A hand, bigger than her waist, carefully picked up the closest one, bringing it to his face for inspection. It was clear they were made with the utmost care, and very oddly they were constructed without overemphasis on his more beastial features. They were….flattering even?

His brow knotted, gaze flicking away from the little doll to its maker.

Was she flushed??

Even more curious…

She trembled a bit as his gaze bore into her, staring back into that single orb of brilliant shifting gold. She grew lost in it, yet never shying away. Morgott’s gaze tore away from her, back to the doll in his hand.

Just as silently as he approached, he retreated, straightening to full standing before moving along the street once more. Hester’s heart hammered about her chest as she watched his form drift away, never wavering until the tip of his horned tail disappeared among the recrowding street.

As the music and merriment swelled once more she realized she’d been holding her breath. An almost pained huff rattled from her lungs, eyes still saucers. She blinked, looking down at her table.

A hand clapped over her mouth in shock: there was a doll missing.

Oh gods, did he take it with him??

She thought, worriedly.

She couldn’t keep her mind on the festival, or on bartering her wares any longer. Sweat wet her lower back as she hastily packed up her remaining items, hands shaking as she did so.

Her mind was a storm, a swirling mess of worry and fear.

Did the King think she was mocking him? Oh gods would she be taken away?

As she made her way slowly through the crowded streets, back overburdened, her thoughts darkened.

Was he angry with her? Would…would he throw her in the dungeon?

She stumbled into her room, a glorified closet off the main shop. Dumping the items on the floor haphazardly, Hester began to pull the flowers from her hair, wincing as they yanked at her copper curls. Tears stained her eyes, the small bit of pain just adding to the chorus of negativity that loomed over her.

She fell into her meager bed, curling in on herself protectively. Blinking, her eyes fell on the little doll near her pillow. It regarded her with unblinking button eyes, no malice on its fabric visage.

Scooping it to her chest, the tears finally fell freely, crying freshly into her pillow. Sleep found her fitfully, coming in waves interlaced with stretches of agonizing wakefulness.

She kept chanting that everything would be fine, she was just overreacting….he wouldn’t act against her…would he? He was the king. No care for a lowly woman like her.

He was the King….

She blinked into the dawn light. Hair a nest of knots from her tossing and turning, a darkness circling her large eyes. She sat up groggily, the sound of birdsong being dampened by a commotion outside her room.

Hester wasn’t the only woman to rent a little space in the shop, the other women making quite the racket in the main area currently.

She sighed, steeling herself to see what excited them so. As soon as she pushed the door open she was met with everyone calling out her name.

“Hes! Hes! There’s a letter for you!”

“A letter?” She blinked, still half asleep.

“It has the royal seal!” They squealed.

She froze, stomach dropping to the floor. The other’s chatter dulled around her as she paced forward, trembling hands taking the letter.

It was made of fine parchment, the golden seal of the King keeping it prominently sealed.

Hester felt like the ground was swallowing her as she broke it open, unfolding the letter to read. Deaf to the other crowding around to read over her shoulder, she focused on the beautiful handwriting.

Her fear was slowly replaced with confusion, bewilderment. Her brows knotted as she read and reread the letter, no…the offer?

“Come on, what does it say!?” A young girl bounced.

“It’s…It’s an offer from the King.” Hester whispered, drowned out by the other’s raising excitement. She swallowed, “They want me to be the King’s personal seamstress…”

She didn’t hear the screams of excitement around her, wandering through them towards the shop window. Her gaze fell on the castle, far away nestled near the base of the great tree.

She couldn’t be the only one…..

Could she?

[evolvingchaoswitch]

Rocketober: Day 5 Meeting

Rocket didn’t seek out for his first pet a few months ago but he had one now, he had gotten it from Spiderman impulsively agreeing to take in the young creature after listening to the kid worry about what to do with the little fluff ball. Spidey had explained that black cats had a superstition associated with them that often led to them not being adopted. Rocket thought humies were pretty stupid but this took the cake. How could anyone hate the tiny ball of the darkness, with a star shaped burst of white fur underneath her neck, and looking into the bright yellow eyes well he’d never tell anyone that he fell in love with the kitten in that moment.

He called her Mira.

No one dared make fun of how much the kitten made Rocket smile, they didn’t want to risk the mood he’d be in after, and the Guardians loved the softness in which Rocket cared for Mira. Rocket found himself waking up to Mira snuggled on his chest when he woke up each morning, the weight getting a little heavy each month as the kitten grew though Rocket did start to get concerned when Mira stayed as a kitten instead of growing to full size. He grabbed every Terran resource book he could find about cats to do his research, refusing help from the others Rocket immersed himself in Terran Veterinary textbooks. To Rocket's surprise after setting the scanner to max sensitivity did it pick up an anomaly at the base of Mira’s neck that he was unable to identify, so Rocket made the decision begrudgingly to put his girl under and find out what the anomaly was.

It was a small mass that looked like a jeweled piece of bone covered in a mysteriously flowing script, it was pretty in a sense but why was it there? The mass couldn’t be removed using surgical instruments; it was almost too slippery, and in a fit of frustration Rocket touched his claws to the object before the room filled with a brilliant golden light as he felt himself be pushed as Mira transformed from kitten to adult woman.

One one hand a beautiful naked woman in front of Rocket was always a welcome change to the day but on the other hand where the fuck was his Mira?

“Thank you so much I’ve been trapped in the form forever” The woman was holding onto him tightly and Rocket found himself nestled in between a pair of warm breasts. He pushed the woman back trying to get answers as to where Mira had gone, he just noticed the pair of cat ears that rested on top of her head. 

“Where is Mira?” He bit out angrily though he was taken aback at the wounded expression that took over the woman’s face.

Her shoulders dropped but she did her best to keep eye contact with Rocket “ I am Mira, I was cursed by a witch ages ago to stay forever stay trapped in such a vulnerable form until someone could locate and remove the rune”

Rocket flarkin hated magic.

He was so upset over the loss of his pet that he didn’t notice the humanoid Mira had gotten to the ground to crawl over to him resting her head underneath his paw as she always did when he was upset. To his surprise he could hear purring coming from her throat as she rubbed against him, attempting to soothe him. It didn’t seem like Mira had changed her attitude towards him.

“What are your plans?” He rubbed the top of her head making sure to pay attention to the ears in a way to verify they were really there.

A smile spread out over Mira’s face “Can I still be your pet?”

Rocket choked on stale air as Mira said something so unintentionally filthy “That means something different than your thinking darlin”

Rocket watched as the smile vanished instead replaced by a smirk as Mira batted her eyes at him coquettishly as she licked her lips revealing the tiny fangs from under her rosy pink lips  “Does it?”

Oh.

Well at the end of the day Rocket was happy to get to keep his dear pet in whatever capacity he could. @raccoonfallsharder @funkydancingdinosaur @glow-autumz

@rebel-21 @honeypleasesugar

[shannaraisles]

The Warden's Witch, Part 3 - @euryalex

For the indomitable @euryalex, who requested a look at what the dark ritual from Dragon Age: Origins might look like with her transplanted OC Tara and Wyll Ravengard from Baldur's Gate 3. It was fun to write! Came out longer than expected, but it was a joy - thank you so much for your faith in me, lovely!

The Warden’s Witch, Part 3

“That idiot boy will not even speak to me without Cecilia present. One would think he would have developed more sense after our long journey, but, alas.”

Morrigan’s sigh was more genuine than anything Tara believed she had ever heard from her sister before. She frowned, looking over at the other woman, slumped in a chair by the leaping fire. The Grimoire - their mother’s legacy, stolen from her by their friends - lay in her own lap, the open pages mocking her with the ritual they had only one night to complete if their friends were to survive. 

If Wyll was to survive.

She knew he would be the first among the Wardens to snatch up the sword and sacrifice his own life for the sake of the land. He was so irritatingly noble, so utterly unaware of his worth beyond the service he could perform for his land, his king, his people. So oblivious to the fact that more than his heart would stop in those terrible moments when he obeyed his Warden’s Oath to perfection. 

“Perhaps you should have spent more time befriending him, and less time taunting him,” she suggested to her sister, her tone perhaps a little more arch than she really should have allowed it to be.

“I refuse to change myself for the sake of anyone, much less a man whose seed is all I require,” Morrigan retorted with a scowl. “But all hope is not yet lost. You have a pet Warden who may yet be more amenable to our desire.”

“Wyll is not a pet.” Tara’s eyes narrowed at the other woman, mildly disgusted by Morrigan’s insistence on not seeing anyone around her as deserving of basic respect unless they had earned it through personal connection with herself. “And I will not trick him, if that is what you are thinking.”

“All you have to do is seduce him,” Morrigan pointed out. “We can prime you in here, and then you can go and finally have your romantic evening with your doe-eyed prince. He need never know the reason, and they can all live out their lives believing themselves to be the precious golden unicorns that all Wardens secretly wish to be.”

“I won’t lie to him, Morrigan.”

The older woman’s brow rose above an unamused smirk. 

“Then you will have to be very convincing, little sister,” she said, “or this night may well be his last.”

Tara’s scowl matched her sister’s for a long moment, her dark eyes drifting back to the open grimoire on her lap. Could she do this? Flemeth’s magic seemed costly; someone would have to pay a hefty price for this to be a success, but ... what if that price was simply the burden of motherhood? It wasn’t the child she particularly wanted; it was Wyll’s continued existence beyond the battle tomorrow. It was a price worth paying. 

She murmured the words, slender fingers drawing the runes in the air, gathering her mana to her to prime her womb. No matter the strength of the taint that affected his seed, she would conceive tonight. If Wyll allowed it.

Would he understand how important it was to her that he survive? That he stay by her side?

Of course he wouldn’t. She had never told him.

With a snap of leather and parchment, she rose, tossing the now-closed grimoire onto the bed behind her. She didn’t bother acknowledging Morrigan’s knowing stare on her back as she left the room, letting the heavy door bang closed behind her. Her decision was made. All that mattered how was his. 

Arl Eamon’s keep here at Redcliffe was strangely silent in these few hours before the forced march they would soon undertake. Outside the thick walls, an army was encamped, restless men and women trying to snatch a few hours of sleep before they would have to be up and moving, to chase down the darkspawn army and deliver Denerim from certain destruction. Yet here, along the carpeted stone hallways, Tara could have sworn she was the only living being in the entire castle. There was not even any sound of Cecilia and Leliana as she passed their door, though the two of them were incapable of sharing a space without filling it with chatter and warmth. But not tonight. Not when they all knew that death was waiting for them to the north. 

She raised her hand to Wyll’s door, and hesitated, seeing the dirt under her fingernails, the grime of their own forced march that had culminated today in a vicious fight still coating her skin with gritty unpleasantness. Was there time to bathe? Or ... no.

It was only a matter of minutes to seek out a servant, and barely a half hour more when Wyll received a knock on his door, along with a request to admit Tara, a pair of servants with a finely-carved wooden bath tub, and a swift parade of other servants, human and elf alike, bearing great steaming kettles of hot water to fill it with.

“What is this?” He offered up a half-laugh, one hand gesturing to the sudden bustle filling his room.

Tara levelled a particular look on him, one she knew had a tendency to make him just a little bit nervous. 

“Wyll. We both know you are not going to sleep tonight,” she pointed out. “The least you can do is relax in a tub and be clean.”

“And what about you?” he countered, gesturing now to the grimy fingers that had prompted this little act of kindness in the first place.

“I’m not the Grey Warden facing a fight with an Archdemon,” she said, and in her tone was all the gravity of the situation without ever needing to state it outright.

Wyll’s forced smile dropped, the weight of expectation and sacrifice showing plainly on his face as he rubbed a hand over his brow, half-turning away from the quiet exodus of servants and the secure thump of the door being closed firmly in their wake. 

“You knew about it?” he asked, a trace of bitterness in his voice she had never heard aimed at herself before. “Did everyone know but us?”

She bit her lip, glancing toward the closed door as though momentarily contemplating the coward’s way out of this conversation. But no. She had come to him, here and now, for a specific reason. She refused to avoid that outcome just because talking about how to get there was awkward. 

“Morrigan and I know,” she admitted, her voice low enough to complement the crackle and pop of the logs on the fire. “But only because it is detailed in Mo- Flemeth’s grimoire. I highly doubt the others know anything of it. Well, apart from Leliana - those two share everything.”

This had the desired effect - though his face betrayed the stress of the unexpected revelation, he still managed to conjure a brief smile at the reference to just how inseparable their indomitable leader and the bard had become over the past months. A thought that lead to another thought made her own lips twitch into a soft smile; the thought of how close she and Wyll had become since their first unplanned meeting by the demon’s cairn in the Korcari Wilds. She had been curious enough to stop her escape from the Wilds to investigate; he, desperate enough to join forces with an apostate witch. Who would have thought that, all these months later, this Warden and his witch would be instrumental to the defence of not only Ferelden, but the whole world? A hefty burden for even the widest of shoulders. Heftier still, to be placed on the shoulders of such young people who had all found each other by happenstance and luck. 

“Tara, I ...” Wyll hesitated, letting out a low huff of breath as he, too, looked away from her. “This burden belongs to the Wardens. I would not blame you if you chose to leave tonight. You have more to live for than a battle we may not win.”

For the briefest moment, she was shocked. No, she was hurt. It shone in her dark eyes, piercing him with rebuke for even suggesting that she might take this opportunity to abandon him. 

“How dare you say that to me?” she said, each word sharp with retort. “I have stood at your side since Ostagar, and not once have I strayed. Not even in that pestilential Gauntlet. I let you - all of you - see my deepest fears and regrets, and I still stayed. You have no right to ask me to leave you now.”

“But you do not have to fight this fight,” he protested. “You can leave, escape - you can live.”

“I can live, knowing that I turned my back on you when you most needed me?” Tara’s laugh was harsh in the face of his nobility. “How magnanimous of you, my dear Warden.”

“No, you don’t understand, I -” 

He sighed, passing a hand over his handsome face once again, his knee bumping the steaming tub as he flailed for the words he wanted to say. She gave him the time to find those words. They had always had a comfortable silence between them, even when heated words had been spoken. If he needed that silence now, then she would happily give it to him. 

“I made a vow,” he said quietly. “When I Joined the Grey Wardens, I made a solemn oath. True, I did not know what that last line truly meant until Riordan explained it to us tonight, but ... don’t you see? It changes nothing. If I must die so that Alistair and Cecilia may live, then so be it.”

“I know.”

Her own words dropped into the silence like a stone into a pool, leaving ripples of the words that were unspoken to spill from them in the stillness as Warden and witch gazed into each other’s eyes. Those unspoken words crackled between them, arching like lightning across the space between man and woman, linking them and yet not once had either one ever moved to complete that bond they both felt. 

“What if none of you had to die with the Archdemon?”

The shock in his eyes was almost a palpable blow to her gut; his surprise, his ... Hope. She had given him hope, and suddenly she could see exactly how close to accepting his own death Wyll Ravengard was. He had given up all claim to his own life the moment that damned Orlesian Warden had told the Ferelden group the truth of their vow. In death, sacrifice ... But the sacrifice was not that of the archdemon whose death it spoke of. No, that sacrifice was the death of the Warden who struck the blow. Riordan should not have told them, Tara mused unexpectedly. All he had done was ensure an argument at the critical moment as the three young Wardens tried to be the one to die for their friends. At least she could offer them all hope.

“What?”

The word fell from his lips like a startled bird from a branch, falling part way only to be lifted up again on his breath as he leaned forward, eagerly. 

“Tara ... what do you mean?” His hands reached for hers, eyes boring into her own. Needing to see the truth as she explained herself. “Tell me. If you know a way to save us, please ... tell me.”

She gazed up at him, feeling the tingle of the magic cast upon herself still within her womb, ready to guarantee a life planted in her this night and in so doing, save four others in the moment of their sacrifice.

“Do you trust me?” she asked softly. “Not the magic, not Flemeth, not the Wilds ... do you trust me?”

For what felt like a small age, there was silence. Nothing but the sound of the logs in the hearth and the ebb and flow of their breath to break the stillness that had fallen around them. Nothing but the press of his fingers twining with hers, the piercing certainty of his eyes holding her own captive, unable to look away. Nothing but him, even as he considered her.

“Tara.” Her name was barely a ghost on his breath, but oh, how it ached. “Trust is not the word for what I feel for you.”

“Then what word is it?” she asked, unwilling to be left in the dark. Even if he chose to die, even if he went out there tomorrow and gave up everything ... she had to know. She would never be able to live without knowing. 

His answer came without words. A sudden surge of motion, his hands leaving hers to plunger fingertips into her hair, cradle her jaw in his palms, and his lips were brushing her own in a breathless, tender query ... asking to be allowed to go further, to share with her the kiss on the very tip of his tongue that could say so much more than words ever would. She heard herself sob - in relief or in demand, she could not have said - and pressed herself closer to him, closing the last distance, stealing away the question and answering it with passion and sweetness and all the unspoken longing in her heart. 

He growled as her nails scraped over his scalp, the sound reverberating through her, sending a spiralling spear of unadulterated desire trembling through every limb. Her lips parted, asking him inside, demanding something deeper, closer, something more than the kiss that had already stolen her breath and set her heart pounding. As his hands shifted, one falling to her waist to pull her hard against him, she squeaked; a girlish, innocent sound that made him grin into their kiss and draw her ever tighter to him, consuming her even as she sought to match his eagerness with her own. 

Wait ... hadn’t they been talking about something? Wasn’t it important? Whatever it was flew from her mind as his lips tore from hers to trace a possessive line of slick heat from her mouth to her jaw to the sensitive curve of her neck, a tug of his fingers in her hair guiding her head back to allow him more access even as she arched against him. Her voice, unmuffled now, seemed loud in the quiet of the room, unable to quiet herself in this sudden onslaught of all desires fulfilled. She gasped, almost shocked when his fingers found their way inside her scanty robe, only just keeping herself from crying out at the blissful wonder of his bare skin against her own ... yet that very shock was enough to remind her that not all of this tingle was wholly because of him.

She couldn’t do this, not without his full and knowing consent. 

“Wyll ...” 

His lips caught hers, stilling her words. 

“Mmm ... no, Wyll, wait, I ... I need to ...” 

With an effort she felt sure she should be commended for when she looked back on it in future days, Tara laid her hands on his chest and pushed hard, forcing him back from her pliant form, insisting that the intoxicating kisses stop, if only for a few moments more. Hands falling to rest at her hips, he stared at her, torn between hurt and confusion.

“Wh-what?” he asked, breathless himself as they both fought for control of themselves. “Did I do something ... something wrong?”

“N-no!”

She rushed to reassure him, fingers soft on his cheeks even as she sought to keep just a little distance. He was too good, too handsome, too wonderful ... too much to hold at bay if she did not get this out before they fell upon one another again. 

“No,” she said again, gentler this time, swaying into him, seeking to comfort that heat with the warmth of herself. “You did nothing wrong. But I need to talk to you. I need you to know something, before we can do this.”

“So tell me.”

He drew her back with him, settling them both on the bed, hip to hip and hand to hand, reluctant to release her from his grasp as though afraid she might disappear the moment he no longer had her beneath his touch. He was so warm, so trusting. Would he still be so, when he knew what she had come to tell him?

“Wyll ...” She sighed his name, leaning into him for a long moment before gathering together the remnants of her wits to try and form some palatable presentation of what she had to say. “There’s a way - Morrigan and I, we found a way to save you. All four of you. From the ... the sacrifice when the Archdemon dies tomorrow.”

His hands tightened on hers, the only betrayal of the sudden tumult of his emotions. He did not want to die, she knew that for a fact. But he could not see how it could be avoided without resorting to some forbidden magic. And perhaps Flemeth’s spell would be considered forbidden, but Tara felt sure it was not blood magic. It was older than any declaration against blood magic, from a time when magic was just magic, with nothing laid against the act itself. From a time when the intention of the caster made the magic evil, not the magic itself. It did not make her maleficarum, and it would not make him an accomplice to a crime against the Chantry. Yet it would make him, and Cecilia, and Alistair, the focus of a good deal of scrutiny from their fellow Wardens, should their reinforcements ever arrive in full. 

“How can that be?” Wyll’s question was justified. The point of a Warden’s Joining was to make them fit for this absorption of a dark soul, to the point of their own destruction. The circumventing of it was ... unorthodox.

“Your Joining masks your soul from the very essence of the old god corrupted by the taint,” she said, hoping she could explain better than Morrigan’s pitiful attempt to explain to her earlier in the day. “When the Archdemon dies, that soul seeks a new vessel. If ... if an unborn babe was to be close enough at that moment, a babe no more than a few days old in the womb, then that soulless vessel would draw the old god’s soul to it, and the mere act of being absorbed into a truly soulless vessel would cleanse the taint from it.”

He stared at her. She could see his mind struggling to grasp what she was telling him, what she was suggesting. It was unthinkable, yes ... but it was also plausible, understandable. It made sense. She saw the second thought flicker through his mind, too, already smiling even as he opened his mouth to address it.

“So ... are you ...”

“No,” she said, cutting him off before he could hurt both of them by voicing that uncertain suspicion aloud. “And neither is Morrigan. But ...” Tara drew in a slow breath, steeling herself for what she was about to say. “Wyll, if you are willing, we could lie together tonight and plant that seed. And you and your fellows would not be tied to the fate of the Archdemon tomorrow.”

“And you would bear an old god?” he asked, horror now in his tone. “That could kill you!”

She shook her head swiftly.

“Only the soul of the old god,” she clarified. “I don’t know how powerful a mage that may make the child, but they will be a child, a mortal life created from the death of something truly immortal. And- and who better to raise that child than a witch and Warden?”

She had surprised him again, she could tell. His throat worked as he swallowed, and not for the first time, she wondered how often in his life he had been used and discarded with no thought for the future. 

“You would allow me to be a part of the child’s life?” he asked, his voice low, the hope hidden so deeply within that she only heard it because she knew it was there.

“I would slap you silly if you chose not to be,” she informed him smartly. “Wyll, I don’t ... I don’t really care about becoming a mother. I want to save you.”

He let out a mirthless laugh.

“But in doing that,” he said, “you are giving up your freedom, to be a mother to a very precious child.”

It was her turn to fall silent, to hold his gaze and hope beyond hope that he knew her well enough to read truth in her eyes as she stared at him. Her hands softened in his grasp, her whole body softened toward him. Did he truly not know how very previous he was to her?

“For you, I would give up everything,” she said, her voice quiet yet firm. “And I would thank whoever took it that you are kept safe and whole.”

“But why?” He truly did not seem to be able to grasp what could possibly motivate her to make such a sacrifice for him.

Tara’s smile was bittersweet as she shook her head. Was it really so hard to believe that she could feel this way about him?

“Because I love you, you oblivious heap of horse droppings.”

The childish insult did its work, breaking the tension of the moment, delivering first Wyll, and then her, into fits of irrepressible giggles that only grew out of control, urged on by the tension and fear and impossibility of the situation they found themselves in. They dropped back onto the bed together, still laughing, still clinging to one another, until finally the laughter faded away, leaving only the words between them. 

“As charming as that declaration was,” Wyll said, the smile still playing about his lips as he rolled to face her, “this oblivious heap of horse droppings loves you in return. Not because you can save me, though I am deeply grateful for that ... I love you for your strength, your stubbornness, the kindness you think I don’t see, the softness you only show when you think no one is looking. I love you for your eyes, your mouth, your hair. I love you, Tara.” His hand dropped to her belly, to the womb awaiting a seed to save not one, but four lives. “And I will love our child, no matter what soul they bear.”

Her mouth fell open, her turn to be shocked by his acceptance of her offer so casually and meaningfully given. 

“You-you don’t think it’s a sin?” she asked, knowing the Chantry would condemn this if they knew of it. “You don’t think it makes me evil, even to have suggested it?”

Wyll sighed, shuffling closer to her, tucking her into his chest as his fingers rose to stroke her hair.

“I learned today that the great heroic order I Joined of my own free will was created to send men like me to our deaths without our full knowledge until the moment it becomes necessary to know,” he said, and now she realised what that edge to his tension was. He was angry with the deception that had brought him to this point in time. “That my noble sacrifice is expected of me. That it would not be my choice to die for others if I were the one to strike the blow.”

He leaned down, lips touching a soft kiss to her mouth as he stroked a tender touch from her hair to her jaw to her shoulder. 

“Tara,” he breathed, “I don’t want to die. I want to live ... with you, for you. Forget the Wardens. I will do my duty tomorrow, and then we can disappear. No one need ever find us, unless we wish it.”

“We can escape, just the two of us,” she whispered, almost laughing when he tapped on her belly once again. “The three of us.”

His mouth quirked into a half-grin as he leaned down to her once more, hands sure, lips hungry, eyes filled with love. 

“Let’s just make sure that there is a three of us first,” he murmured, muffling himself against her lips as he drew her to him, tender love mingling with lustful desire finally given a voice. “I intend to be very thorough.”

Her giggle was swallowed by his kiss as she melted into him, forgetting the impending battle, the doom cloud hanging over the castle, the army encamped in the valley beyond, the darkspawn spreading their corruption across the land. In a matter of days, it would be over.

And they would be free.

[sailtomarina]

10-minute Surprise

“Professor, if I may have a moment of your time?” 

Hermione swept past his Potions students where they leaned over cauldrons and diligently chopped ingredients in the no-nonsense manner she’d perfected from a young age. Like him, she wore her teaching robes, having recently finished with her Ancient Runes class of 6th years.

Draco raised a curious eyebrow at her request but said nothing. He merely stood with a very Severus-like sweep of cloth to follow her into his office. The students paid them no attention, having become accustomed to the two professors taking private meetings during class.

The instant the door clicked shut, Hermione cast a quick succession of locking and silencing spells. She grasped the front of his robes and shoved him back against the large oak desk.

“Merlin, that’s hot,” he muttered, before any further comments were inhaled by her lips on his. As if on command, his hands landed on the plush hips hidden from view. Her wandless, non-verbal magic turned him on almost as much as when she took charge like this, like she couldn’t get enough of him.

Draco grunted in surprise when she pulled away with a stinging bite to his lower lip. Whatever she was up to couldn’t be anything harmless with the way her lips curled up, mischief sparkling in her normally warm gaze.

Any questions he might have asked were silenced when Hermione dropped to her knees in front of him, hands already working to part his robes and access the prize beneath.

“Granger, love, are you sure—”

He groaned as she gave him a warning squeeze. “That’s Professor Granger-Malfoy to you.”

He was one lucky wizard.

“Professor Granger-Malfoy, are you sure we have time for this?” His hand hovered over her curls.

“Do you doubt my abilities? We have, what, 10 minutes left until the end of class?”

“That’s right—oh, fuck!”

She’d continued her quest uninterrupted while they’d talked, and engulfed him in one luxurious glide of her lips at just that moment. This time, he didn’t stop his hand from fisting her curls. She moaned at the tightening of his fingers, eyes lifting up to meet his own in appreciation.

“You’re so pretty wrapped around me like this.” Praises fell from his lips as she bobbed her head along his length, agile tongue swirling around him and sucking as if she could drain his life force straight out of him.

Normally, they only engaged in a bit of snogging, or on a particularly desperate day, he’d get her off on his fingers or along his thigh as he ground against her. Anything more seemed too risky. Draco wasn’t opposed to acts of debauchery, but he knew Hermione held herself back out of respect for their professional roles.

What changed?

Hermione chose that moment to press down onto him until he hit the back of her throat and then she moaned.

The universe converged onto that point of union, Draco releasing an uncontrolled whine he might have otherwise considered embarrassing. He didn’t care what he sounded like now. Both hands grasped her head, keeping her in place as he proceeded to fuck her throat. She pressed the tips of her nails into his thighs, signaling her approval despite the gagging sounds she emitted. Tears ran down from her clenched eyes.

“Just like that, baby, you take me so well.” 

She was a dream come true, gagging on his cock with spit and tears running across her face detracting absolutely nothing from the sight. Here they were, completely clothed, his indecency concealed deep in her mouth for only her to see and taste. He was hers, and hers only.

The telltale tightening in his balls warned him of just how close he was to coming. As appetizing as the idea of letting go and sending ropes of spend down her throat, there was somewhere else he’d rather be.

Her eyes opened as he released his grip on her, and he wiped thumbs across the tear tracks on her cheeks. A quick glance at the clock on the wall showed he only had five more minutes.

“Come up here, love.”

She obeyed at once, and he spun them around so now she was the one pinned against the table.

“I have a little surprise for you.” Her voice came out low and hoarse. The sound of her, still sore from his length, was like music to his ears.

“Yeah? And what’s that?” He quickly parted her robes and reached down to yank up the length of her skirt. His palm slid up the smooth skin of her thigh, marveling at the softness, before he realized she wore nothing else underneath.

His forehead dropped to rest in the crook of her shoulder. “Merlin. Have you been naked like this all day?”

Her chuckle shook them both. “Yes, but that’s not the surprise I’m talking about.” She stuttered at the end as he rubbed circles around her with his thumb and threaded one digit into her slick channel.

“Mmm, it isn’t?” He concentrated on her bundle of nerves while he stretched her with a second finger. She was already soaked from her earlier excitement, but he wanted to make sure she received equal satisfaction.

Deeming her more than ready, he lined up at her entrance and, with one smooth thrust, buried himself deeply in her cunt.

“Uhhhhhnnnnnnnn.”

“Fuckkkkkkkkkkkk.”

They might not be eloquent, but they sure as hell shared their appreciation.

Keeping one hand at her clit, he used his other hand to maneuver one leg over his shoulder, bending her nearly in half as he rutted into her. He’d thought himself close before, but now it took everything he had to prevent himself from spilling into her maddening heat. Draco concentrated on her pleasure all while his own heartbeat and her mewling pants filled his ears and made it impossible to think of anything else.

“I—I—” She couldn’t get the words out, instead throwing her head back as the encroaching wave lapped at the edges of her consciousness. She was surrounded by Draco, drowning in his scent and touch, tasting him still on her tongue—

“I’m pregnant!”

Her cry came with a releasing flood that swept over them both, the crashing waves dragging Draco along with her. His euphoric shout preceded both of his hands coming up to wrap around and cradle the back of her head as he pressed her into the hard surface of his table and consumed her in a kiss.

They didn’t part until they were nearly breathless, and the smile that stretched across her face nearly took away what little air he had left.

She was pregnant.

The clock on the wall dinged as their break came to an end, and they stared at one another for one more second—silver and gold, coolness and warmth. They completed one another in every way, and now they’d created something, someone, new.

“We’re going to be parents.”

She nodded at his whisper, before winking and giving him a wicked grin. “Hopefully we’ll be better at parenting than teaching.”

They shared a giggle, foreheads pressed together in delight of what the future promised.

After they cleaned themselves up and Professors Malfoy and Granger-Malfoy put on twin expressions of solemnity before re-entering the classroom, not a single student was fooled by their act. Their professors thought themselves so sneaky with their show of cool professionalism, their attempts at maintaining separation during school hours.

There was no hiding the affection in their eyes, or the not-so-subtle touches when they thought no one was looking.

Hermione and Draco were as oblivious to the ineffectiveness of their acting as any student sneaking about after-hours. The walls of Hogwarts had eyes, every footstep that passed through its halls accounted for, professors included. The castle didn’t begrudge them their secrets, choosing instead to welcome them in an embrace that had gone on for generations before and would continue to do so for many more to come.

WC 1329

DHRMonth Week 1 - Hogwarts, September 3 - Professors

You didn't think I'd skip out on smut this fest, did you?

Cross posted on AO3

[edwinspaynes]

across our great divide, there is a glorious sunrise: a matthew fairchild character study

Read it on Ao3

The Stage: A king-sized feather bed. It sat in the middle of a large bedchamber, covered in dark green silk sheets and pillows plumped to perfection with careful rune-scarred hands. If one were to look closely at the quilt on the end, the one that the golden retriever was comfortably curled up on, they may notice that some of the patches were fading from vibrant patterns to the gray of a cloudy London afternoon. But, of course, no one ever would look too closely, no one besides that dog and the living ghost of a human who lay underneath the large fleece that it sat upon.

The Scene: 12 AM, on the dot. The golden clock in the adjacent sitting room rang out its final cry of the night. The living ghost hardly even heard it. His eyes were shining as they looked up at the unadorned ceiling, shimmering brighter than the halo of blond hair that framed his head messily on the pillow. The dog moved up toward him and curled his large body around his owner’s, and the man scratched him behind the ears. But his hands felt far away, as far away from existence as he was.

Because he was in Hell.

He didn’t say that lightly- he had been to hell and back, sat on its dead plains as he retched and rolled in the dirt. The taste of hard apples and vomit and an odd mixture of alcohol and herbs still haunted his nightmares, sometimes, and the hellscape of his own mind could be no better on nights like these. Because he was…

The Character: Matthew Fairchild, who only got through the worst of grim midnights by pretending that he was the leading act in a multi-part play. It’s intermission, he would tell himself, and sometimes that would help him fall back asleep. It’s intermission, and you’re simply between acts presently. You’re between the secret that defined an age, the passion that brightened up an era, and the untouchable future. If he managed to soothe himself, perhaps Matthew would wake up the next morning, smile brightly, and make the world shimmer and come alive wherever he stepped. If he was inconsolable, he would need to deter this façade until the afternoon because he had stayed up too late. Stayed up at the ceiling, ticking away the seconds and thinking about her.

Cordelia Katayoun Carstairs.

When he closed his eyes, her blazing red hair was always the first thing that he saw. Its wavy volume billowed around her warm body; Matthew knew it was warm because he had kissed her once, tasted her apple-red lips even though he knew in his heart of hearts that such was forbidden to him.

Passion. How he had loved her, and he had loved her. Loved her so. She was more than just absolution; she was Cordelia, his Cordelia for a fleeting moment, and then not his ever again. He would have loved her for a lifetime, if she had allowed it, would have made each day a whimsical adventure. Would have showed her all of his hiding spots if that love had been more than ephemeral.

And yet, she did not wish for that life of laughter and madness.

Am I so hard to love?

Of course, she had not said as much; she had refuted Matthew’s inarguable claim. He was so hard to love. He was a drunk, would always be one, even though he had not so much as gone near the bottle in months.

She did not wish to make her life a wild whirlwind of chaos and joy and grief and laughter and tears and beauty with him. Because he would never give her peace. He would never give her the stability, the security, that she was more than correct to crave.

So he would leave London. Leave Cordelia behind, her beautiful smile and the laugh that sounded so much like ringing bells coming from her lips. He would abandon all that he knew and embrace the mad, ineffable things that lay ahead alone.

He wished he could choose differently. He did not want to leave it all behind. In Paris, there was happiness. In Paris, he could have been someone new, reflected in Cordelia’s eyes. He was sure that he would have become that man anywhere that she was.

Now he never would.

Matthew buried his face in Oscar’s fur, his arms tightly wound around his closest companion.

He thought about that for a long while.

If he were a Wilde character, he was sure that his mercurial nature and disordered moods would be his comedic character flaw. He was openly communicative, but closed off enough to still be likeable; he was honest, yet upbeat even when his heart was sobbing pathetically like some dying, wilting thing.

Thomas had once told him that emotions spilled from him like blood from a cut.

It must be jolly good fun to watch. He certainly would cloak himself in silks and tow his friends to the theatre in hopes of laughing at such a spectacle.

Pity that Matthew’s life was not a comedy under the golden enamel leaves of his faerie costume.

He wished desperately that it were.

Because anyone who knew his heart would understand:

Matthew Fairchild himself was nothing short of a cheap melodramatic tragedy.

-

And yet.

-

The next day, Matthew would wake beside his beloved dog. The sun would be streaming through the ornately-carved windowpane onto his face, illuminating his olive eyes emerald. He would push the sheet off of himself and pet Oscar’s snout, and he would brush his hair to its enviable perfection and fasten his green carnation perfectly into his buttonhole.

He would walk over to the window and look out over a London shining brightly beneath golden sunlight. The trees would be so small, their branches so detailed so far beneath him. It would be odd, to look down upon something so magnificent from such height outside the pink walls of Whitby Mansions.

And the back of Matthew’s mind would whisper to him:

All is not lost, you daft drip.

He would walk over to his desk, a strong cup of black coffee in one hand and a set of tacks in the other. He would assess the atlas lain out before him and plot his charts with carefully-laced string around firmly-fastened pins.

He would remember Cordelia’s words on that fateful day in the games room.

We cannot always be traveling, Matthew. We cannot always be running away.

He had been frustrated by that comment, was still frustrated at the recollection of those words in her gentle voice. Why couldn’t Cordelia see that Matthew was not running away? That he was running toward the rest of his life, the happiness and wonder that could lie ahead if only she would join him?

Matthew would realize, looking down at his atlas, that he had been desperately trying to fit Cordelia into a life that she was not meant for. A road that Matthew had to go down alone. He would need to explore its twists and turns on his own two feet, stand steady and strong even when he did not have a hand to hold. He would need to trust that his friends would remain close at hand enough to hear about his worldly adventures with no guarantee that he would ever experience more than friendship again.

With this epiphany would come others: that Matthew needed to be the one that he most exalted in his own life, that Matthew needed to dapple his own self with the flickers of light that he had thus far only seen in Cordelia’s spinning gold dress.

That Matthew had, for the first time in his life, made the best choice for himself if no one else.

And that that choice hurt worse than any other decision he had ever made, cleaved his heart in two.

It was not Matthew’s first choice, but it was his only choice. Especially when he looked at Cordelia and James happy, Cordelia and James married, Cordelia and James in love.

It was time to go. He had to go. Had to leave it all behind.

For his own sake.

It felt something like freedom. And, as Oscar Wilde himself once said: with books, freedom, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?

Yes, there was happiness.

-

Nights would still be hard for a while, but perhaps one evening in Rome or Mumbai or Shanghai he would sleep soundly without the image of Cordelia’s soft black irises behind his eyelids. Perhaps one night in the future he would lay beside someone who was ready for a lifetime of adventure, for mercurial moods and wild high spirits and constant movement and all-consuming feeling.

That night would not come for a while, but it would come for him, one day.

He just hadn’t met the new Matthew yet.

I was debating whether or not to post this because it's deeply personal to me. In the end, I decided to put it up so that anyone else who needed this story could have it. It definitely was a labor of love and incorporates quite a bit of projection on my part, but I think I did Matthew's character and his thoughts and feelings justice, too. The title from this fic is taken from Happiness by Taylor Swift, which is near and dear to me as my favourite song. You also will see other references to it in here as well. I hope it resonates with some of you. You are enough.

taglist (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @staywildefairchild @sourlemons262 @belle-keys @coriia @drunkonimagination @alastaircarstairsismybff @vwritesaus @claritywithclary @luciehercndale @what-ho-christopher-put-in @life-through-the-eyes-of @alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer @bluewrite @lulusofis @oursoulstheyplay @tessherongraystairs

[x-theolivia]

Please may I have a Fairy tail scenario of when Natsu read another one of those sketchy requests that seemed rather suspicious and Wendy and you (Gray's little brother who is the same age as Wendy and you know the rest about him including that he is rather cold figuratively like Ciel Phantomhive from Black Butler but Wendy brought out the best in him- it is Platonic because Wendy Marvell and Gray's little brother are children and young love between the two) swapped bodies because of that magic he read from a request paper that swapped bodies..and you were not impressed by Natsu's poor lack of tact at his awareness of what part of "do not read that request paper" does he not understand..seeing a rather angry "Wendy" and a confused, baffled you *Wendy kinda freaked out once realising she was in your body*

How would the others help you and Wendy deal with the situation considering the problem..

That should be funny! Of course I write this!

▪▫▪▫♡´･ᴗ･`♡▪▫▪▫

You’re me and I‘m you

Fairy Tail Masterlist - Navigation

Summary: after finding an old parchment you want to ask Levi to help you translate but Natsu is faster. He reads it out loud and before you can stop him… you find yourself in the body of Wendy and Wendy is inside your body

Pairing: platonic Wendy Marvell x male!Reader

Warnings: body swap, cursing… tell me if I forget something

Authors note: Fairy Tail doesn’t belong to me, neither does this gif. It’s pretty short because I don’t know what else to write🤷‍♀️ Sorry

—

An anonymous letter arrives at Fairy Tail and everyone gathers around it… he’s addressed to you!

Carefully you open the letter and find an old sheet of parchment with runes…

„Who would send you something like this?“ Wendy asks, she sits besides you

„I don’t know but I have to translate this!“ you admit and before Levi can offer you her help, Natsu grabs the sheet

„Oh come on! This should be easy enough!“ he laughs and starts to read it out loud

„Don’t read it!“ you demand but of course Natsu wouldn’t listen

A weird feeling spreads inside of your whole body and honestly… it scares you somehow

So you rip the parchment out of Natsu's hands and snark at him

„Stop it you idiot!“ you bark but he looks at you like he saw a ghost

„Wendy? What’s gotten in to you?!“ he asks and this confused you

„Wendy? I‘m not Wendy, dumbass!“ you hiss

You hear a loud scream from beside you and when you look at the cause you look at yourself

It took you a minute to understand your situation right now

„You fucking idiot!“ you scream at Natsu

„What didn’t you understand at: „don’t read it“?“ you ask

Then everyone else seem to understand what’s going on and some of them chuckle, some of them are shocked

„So (Y/N) and Wendy swap bodies… how is this possible and how can we swap them back?“ Lucy asks

Gray’s still wheezing on the floor

When you look at Wendy you see her panic

You take her hand and when she looks at you… she looks at herself you promise: „it will be alright. We will find a way back“

At the end of the day, everyone helped you to find a way in your own body

Lucy and Levi started to read in the library to find a way back

Natsu and Gray started to talk around in town

[incorrectjane-andthedragon]

The Mysterious Message: A Fic

I imagine this one taking place when Jane and Gunther are Dragonblade-age. 

Summary: When a large amount of unusual runes are discovered, Jane and Gunther must work together to try to understand the message. 

When Gunther pulled her aside and asked her to speak to him in an empty closet without warning, it took all of Jane’s self control not to respond with a retort, and laugh in his face.The grave look on Gunther’s face gave her pause. This was very out of character and very serious. 

“First, you have to promise that you will keep this secret. My father cannot find out about this under any circumstances, and he may hear of it if you share this information too freely.” 

Jane nodded. “I promise.” 

Gunther reached into his pocket and pulled out a neatly folded piece of musty paper. 

“My father recently had a meeting with another merchant, who has a young child. Due to the adults being busy, the child was handed off to me to watch during the meeting. She was playing with a ball, and the ball rolled into a room my father accidentally left open and hit a bookshelf. This fell out.” 

He looked at her expectantly. She took the paper from him and unfolded it. 

She gasped. 

“Well?” Gunther asked after a pause. “What do you think?” 

She stared at him, and then the paper again, shock rendering her speechless.

The paper was covered in dragon runes. 

Several minutes later, in Jane’s room, she poured over the runes, copying them as best she could on a separate sheet of paper so Gunther could return the original before his father suspected anything was amiss. She mentally sorted the runes into categories as she copied, ranging from I already have this rune memorized to I couldn’t translate this if you held a blade to my throat. 

Tragically, the majority of the runes fell closer to the latter category. She’d have to discuss that with Dragon when she saw him soon. 

She finished copying, exhaling sharply and standing up, brushing her hair out of her face and pumping her hands up and down to alleviate the cramping that had begun from all her fervent writing. 

“So, what do you think?” Gunther asked slowly. He was twitching slightly, like all his pent-up questions and anxiety were writhing beneath his skin. She felt the same way. 

“Well, the good news is I have already identified some of them.” She started pointing out the known symbols. “This one means love. This one means happiness (or some variation of  happy). This one means mountain.” 

“That’s it?” 

“Do you want to try? Let me know how far you get.” 

“Fine, fine. Are you going to speak to Dragon about this?” 

“He will most likely be our greatest help.” 

Gunther grimaced. “Can he keep a secret?” 

“If I make him promise, then yes. I hope.” 

Gunther’s grimace deepened, but he nodded and picked up the original paper, seeing as he had no other options. 

“I have to put this back, my father will be home soon. Let me know what you find.” 

“Shortlives and their tiny hands are unsuited for writing runes.” Dragon announced after squinting at the paper in torchlight for a long time. “Whoever wrote this botched centuries of language so badly it’s offensive to dragons!” 

“Calm down, I copied them as best as I could, and I’m certain they didn’t mean to ruin centuries of-centuries.” Her eyes widened as she finally saw the reason the runes were so hard to decipher. 

“What? Did the two headed snake that sometimes comes around slither by you?” 

“Look at the runes on the walls around us, Dragon.” Jane lifted up her torch, illuminating the ancient symbols that surrounded them. “They were carved by your father before your hatching, three hundred years ago.” 

“Languages do not stay the same for three hundred years. If there’s someone out there, still using runes, then the language has adapted in some ways for the modern world.”  

Dragon was stunned into a very brief silence. “Are you saying all of this, everything we’ve decoded, over all these years…is obsolete?!” 

“Of course not! Some of these runes remain unchanged, look! It says mountain, and love and happy-Dragon?” 

Dragon had an unfamiliar, almost frightening look in his eyes. He looked like he wanted to set someone on fire and then sob over their remains. 

She knew she wouldn’t be harmed by any potential outburst, but she couldn’t guarantee anyone else’s safety. The thought chilled her. 

“Dragon? Dragon, what’s wrong?” Use your words instead of your flames. 

“It’s hopeless.” He spoke slowly, gathering his thoughts, sounding miserable in a way she’d almost never heard. “For all this time, these runes were my connection to the world of dragons. I thought if I ever met another dragon, maybe they would help me communicate. But if they’re outdated…it’s hopeless. I’ll never befriend another dragon. I’ll never join them. I’ll never understand.” 

He dragged his claws against the stone out of anger, then lowered his head until it was practically touching the cave floor. 

She rushed to his side, hugging his head. “Oh, Dragon, no.”

“I’m so sorry,” she continued. “I know it’s hard, but there will always be someone out there who will want to be your friend. When we find more dragons, I’m certain there will be plenty of them who will want to hear your stories, and listen to your jokes. Maybe, if there are dragon scholars, they will love to hear your insights on older runes. They’ll care about you, I promise.” 

She affectionately scratched the scales on his cheek a little. He sighed and closed his eyes. 

“There’s still so much more to learn.” He said quietly. 

“And we can do it together.”

“Did you learn anything else about the runes?” Gunther panted between blows as they sparred. 

“Not now,” Jane grunted. It was difficult to focus on sparring on someone while trying to have an intellectual conversation with them. “After this.” 

He smirked a little. “Not letting anything get in the way of victory, I see.” 

“Focus!” Sir Theodore shouted from nearby. 

They both fell silent, and back into the familiar rhythm. 

Jane explained her theory about modern runes to Gunther as they took a break between spars. (For the record, he had won that round. She tried not to be overly bitter and decided that giving him more information would serve as a good show of peace and cooperation.) 

“That makes a lot of sense,” He said with a nod. “But have you deciphered any more of it?” 

“Dragon and I have come to a standstill when it comes to translations, but he’s scouting out more runes in his caves now. Hopefully that will give us more possible reference points.”

He nodded again. “I have a theory of my own to propose.” 

“Please share.” 

“The way the paper is written…the format reminds me of a letter. There’s very few runes at the very top, then paragraphs-do runes come in paragraphs, normally?-beneath that, then a sentence at the end. Like a send off.” 

“I had noticed that too, but I got distracted with the translations themselves.” She lowered her voice. “Do you think it was a letter addressed to your father?” 

“Believe me, if he could read dragon runes, I would know it. He would secretly brag to me about it, and  would have me- nevermind. 

“If not to your father, then who? Who wrote it? Who received it?” Jane’s eyes widened. “What if we tried to find evidence of who sent it, an address? Then we could send our own message to them!” 

Gunther snorted. “I’m certain that would go well. ‘Greetings, Jane and I are two Kippernian knights you’ve never met who found your encrypted message hidden away. Would you be so kind and tell us what that’s all about? Best regards, Gunther, Jane, and Jane’s Dragon.’” 

“Yes, I see your point.” Jane said, feeling like she was pulling out a thorn stuck in her skin. She sighed. “We should focus on the translation for now.” 

Gunther nodded, but he looked a little disappointed that he himself couldn’t do more. 

Come on Gunther, think! He told himself as he walked through the courtyard. Clearly your father has to have some kind of connection-or interest, at the very least- in the contents of the message. And it had to get in his house somehow. Was it interesting enough to steal? Or was it sent to him? 

It was stolen, most likely. Why would he receive something he couldn’t read? 

I wish I could write messages my father couldn’t read. I could have dozens of pen pals, and he could never know what we say. He smiled a little despite himself, thinking of how red his father’s face would get at the sight of his son conversing in code, creating something he couldn’t touch or own. 

That’s when it hit him. 

There’s only one other person I know of who my father tried to own, tried to hide away everything about her. 

My mother. 

There was a sudden, powerful gust of frigid wind. It blew his hair in his face, forcing him to brush it out of the way, to turn his head upward slightly as he cleaned himself up. 

Up in the sky, clearly visible, was a cloud in the shape of a dragon, soaring north. 

A strange feeling rose inside him. He smelled something in the air now. 

Mother? He asked silently. 

As I watch my own children play around me, I think about her. She would most likely be a mother now, bearing that Kippernian man’s offspring. I try to picture her with her babies, but it’s surprisingly difficult. The child’s face is shrouded by fog. In my head, she has not aged a day, even though it has been quite some time since I last saw her.

She stopped responding to my messages. That was the first sign something was amiss. Even though we wrote them in the runes everyone in the family knew, I sense her husband had somehow decoded them, or at least made a substantial effort to stop them. 

It makes me feel strange, not knowing what became of her. I was not as close to her as some of her other family members, but I love her and wrote to her regardless. 

She’s…perseverant, from what I remember of her. No matter what life threw at her, she would find a way through it. I genuinely believe she is out there somewhere, maybe even trying to find her way back to us. 

One of my children calls me over. I go to him. A strong, frigid wind gusts through, blowing my hair in my face and forcing me to move my head around a little. Then I see it. 

A cloud, in the shape of a sword. 

A strange feeling rises in me. Some say our dragon-riding ancestors learned to divine bits of prophecies in the shapes of clouds as they flew in the skies. Even fewer still believe that we descendants still have this ability. 

Being cynical, I hardly believed. 

But now? 

I understand, as clearly as if she herself had written the words in the sky. 

She had a child. A sword-wielding one, or one who possesses traits associated with the symbol of swords. I shall have to ask someone for advice at once. I should go to her father. He would move heaven and earth to find even the smallest trace of her again. Especially if that trace exists in a grandchild. 

We spoke fervently for hours. Even the most superstitious of my relatives were hesitant about my idea, but eventually I won them over. “It’s the only way,” I told them. 

They relented. 

We’re going to Kippernia.

Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 Read on AO3 if you prefer

[bloodredx]

Day 30: Halloween

Bones puffed on his cigarette as he leaned against a wall. Old town Reedsdale was busy tonight, kids running around the festival grounds in bright colors and garish clothes, adults were in masks and long robes. Teenagers were chatting amongst themselves as they quickly shoved various materials into a sacks. Probably setting up for a hell of a prank. At least, Bones knew that’s what he would’ve done at their age. Bones adjusted the black cloak over his shoulders. His own face was painted lightly with old marks. Runes. Those that would otherwise raise eyebrows in the light of day would be fine tonight. The festivities would allow for it. For even if Reedsdale was one of the last standing places that hadn’t struck their mages with the yokes and collars of serving “schools” or “towers,” it was still quite taboo to roll around as one openly. At least, all nights except for tonight.

Tonight, the city was Esc’lyr’s Ballroom, and all the citizens were mages, monsters, and fairies, for at least one evening. The goddess of wind, time, and most importantly magic decreed her celebrations be made in full spirit of those things forbidden on most other nights. No one would look twice at a casual sparkle or odd twitch of the finger. No one would second guess a drink with a light shimmer and the warmth of a good feeling in their throat. It gave Bones a much needed sense of ease. Truth be told, most residents figured out who to turn to for a potion or a charm on this night. It was one of the last ways that information could be passed freely.

Blowing out a puff of smoke, Bones smiled gently. He felt like himself again, like he didn’t need to hide away so much. Each kid that ran by him, he slipped a piece of candy into their pocket with a wave of his finger and a soft glimmer of purple sparkles. Each one giggled with delight upon finding their treat a few steps away. Content, and now finished with his smoke, Bones stepped away from the wall and returned to his little stand. A few bottles with elegantly tied bows around their necks lined the single wooden counter. Each a different color, each with a label that described directions in his scratchy handwriting. Most were just libations for tonight. Something to make you feel good or get in good with a lover. But a few were intended as salves or quick repairs to problems. Things his momma used to make.

A large stack of money slapping against the counter woke him from his thoughts. “I’ll take one of each.”

Bones snorted, recognizing the voice. “Ain’t gonna work on ya, love.” His reflective, silver eyes bouncing moonlight back onto Serena’s cheek. “You’d need to be alive for that.”

She looked lovely, dressed in a scarlet gown, one perfect to go dancing in later that evening. Makeup around her eyes gave the impression of a mask, without the disdainful need to wear one. She looked gorgeous with one of her deep red roses pinned to the side of her hair. But her red painted lips frowned slightly at his words. “What makes you believe I would drink them?”

He shook his head chuckling more. “Now there’s a thought. You, drinkin’ that.” He leaned on the counter with a grin. “I ain’t takin’ your money, doll. I got too much pride for that.”

“Hmm.” She considered that a moment. “You’ve mentioned that before. I don’t doubt the earnestness. Though something in your heartbeat tells me you don’t want me poring over this to find your secrets.”

Now he broke out into a roar of laughter, startling a woman at the booth next to him who nearly dropped a tray of candied apples. “C’mon darlin’!” He raised a brow playfully. “You think you can pull out all the mysteries of this world? All the secrets outta lil old me?”

She crossed her arms, looking at him with a mix of disgust and amusement. Words didn’t need to cut her intentions to his ear. A cheeky grin crossed his face, as his voice whispered in her ear without him moving his lips. “I’d like to see ya try.”

“Is that a challenge?” The Lady responded darkly, though the sparkle hadn’t yet left her eye.

His voice floated to her other ear, a light breeze coursing through the plaza that shuffled the ribbons and banners on all the other stalls. “A request even. If you’d dare.”

Bones declared victory internally as she turned her head away, the faintest linger of blush coating her cheeks. Her deflection echoed like music in the night. “Let me buy the rest of them, we have to leave soon, lest we be late for our venue.”

Standing quickly and a little too fluidly to be natural, Bones took his proper place at her side and his voice returning to the confines of his throat. “Hm, I could part with them for the rest of the crowd. Can’t have you late now, can we?”

“Very well.” She conceded softly, wrapping a hand around his arm.

Turning to the apple stall owner, Bones smiled gently as they passed. “Ma’am, the rest of them bottles are free to take. They’ve been paid for. Y’all make sure they get passed ‘round tonight.”

The woman looked confused, but only nodded in agreement. Content with that as an answer, Bones led his love down the crowded alleyway, making sure to take efforts to enjoy the city’s mood. This air was only so thick once a year. He needed every moment to savor it.

(OC-tober prompts by @oc-tober2023 can be found here.)

[dreaming-in-alicante]

The last chapter - this fic is finally done!

Chapter 6: Eureka

It was lucky that Christopher was so endearingly clueless to some social cues, Grace reflected. She was trying to behave as normally as possible, but since noticing Christopher in a romantic sense, she could not stop. It was ridiculous! He had noticed her acting strangely, but thankfully he had attributed it to worry over her brother. He had been so sweet about it, really, taking time to speak about his own experience when Anna had first moved out. His sincere concern for Grace’s emotional well-being made her fall a little more in love with him. She feared she’d never be able to share that thought with him, though.

Grace had always made the first move in her previous relationships. Well, rather, she had always used her powers to nudge gentlemen into making the first actual move. A comment about the crowd in a room with a mental push that prompted a dance partner to escort her outside alone for air; a fake mournful expression as she bid a man goodnight after a dance and a shove with her powers which persuaded the man to ask about calling on her the next day. Grace couldn’t follow this old pattern any longer without her powers. Yet she realized that even if she still possessed her abilities, she would never use them anyway. If her relationship with Christopher was turn romantic, it would either come from him, or not at all. She would not risk ruining their partnership. Christopher was the first person besides Jesse who had ever taken her just as she was without suspicion, and even the possibility of romance was not worth losing her first true friendship.

___________________________________________

Grace carefully traced the last flourish of the rune onto the scrap of parchment and then quickly stepped back. The paper went whizzing through the lab and, to her delight, it halted a few inches in front of Christopher’s face. “What is...? Grace?” he asked in confusion as set down the beaker he was holding and plucked the paper from the air.

 “It worked!” she exclaimed. “The rune sent the paper directly to you and halted! Now if we can just combine it properly with the other portion, we might finally have a working fire-message!” she said, grinning.

Christopher examined the rune inscribed on the page. “I see, you made the flourish more perpendicular; it seems to tell the message to halt in front of the recipient – simple but ingenious!” he declared. “Brilliant job, Grace!” He rushed over to stand beside her, grabbing a fresh piece of parchment. “The demon-repelling ointment can wait – I’m eager to try combining the runes. I can’t believe you solved this piece of the project so quickly, it took me ages to find a rune that simply burned the paper and didn’t cause an explosion.” His violet eyes, now fixed on hers, shone with admiration as well as excitement. Grace found herself suddenly aware of how close they stood.

A beat passed, each just looking at the other, before Christopher tore his eyes away, focusing on the paper in front of them. “Let’s see,” he said, “perhaps if I add this line to this swirl here to connect them…” he scribbled ‘Grace’ to set a recipient for the message, then traced the combined rune. They watched in anticipation as the paper caught fire – then lurched quickly backwards as the still-burning page flew at Grace’s face. Christopher swiftly grabbed a cloth off the nearby bench and batted the paper to the ground, stomping out the flames.

“Hm, not quite right,” Grace said, recovering from the fiery near-miss. “It seems that positioning the second rune portion at that line disrupts the reforming of the page. What if the rune has an upper and lower line, like starting place and destination?“ she theorized.

“And we could connect the two with the swirl!” Christopher said excitedly. “That just might work! I’ll write – no, actually you send it to me. The transport seems unaffected so this time if it doesn’t work there will be fire coming at my face, not yours.” He moved several paces away and held the cloth up in preparation to block any projectiles.

“Alright then – here we go,” Grace said. She held her breath as she finished drawing the combined rune. After a beat, the paper began to burn up. Several long seconds passed, both of them watching the air in front of Christopher intently. Then, incredibly, the paper reappeared, hovering there in front of him. “It worked,” Grace breathed in amazement. “Kit, it worked!” She might have bounced a bit in happiness.

“Yes, it did!” he shouted, face alight with excitement. “Wait, I’ll go to the far side of the lab, try it again!”

Grace swiftly scribbled his name and again drew the new rune. Christopher waited in the far corner, practically vibrating with anticipation. Once the note appeared in front of him, he yelled in triumph and ran back to her. “You did it Grace, you solved it!” he exclaimed as he grabbed her about the waist and spun her briefly through the air, grinning widely.

“We did it,” she corrected him, laughing as he set her down. They locked gazes, eyes shining, still pressed close together. And then suddenly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he leaned down and pressed his lips against hers. She had just registered what was happening when he sharply jerked his head away.

She froze, as did he, pulled back from her but with hands still resting on her waist. His face flushed pink, eyes wide in shock. “I – I’m sorry Grace,” he stammered. “You – I – excited –” Grace cut him off by leaning forward to kiss him again. Their noses bumped awkwardly for a second before she shifted to a better angle. After a second she realized Kit was still frozen and she prepared to pull away, afraid that it had been some huge mistake. What if he had just been caught up in excitement, and he didn’t have feelings for her and now she was forcing affection on him, manipulating him as she had done to so many other men – when she felt him kiss her back. His lips were so soft, gentle as they moved against her own. It felt like beautiful, sweet eternity as they stood there kissing, pressed closer as she put her arms around his neck.

When they finally pulled apart, breathing hard, they stared at each other in wonder. “You…you didn’t mind that I kissed you, then?” Kit whispered. He focused on her face with an intense concentration she had never seen him direct at anything except his experiments.

“I didn’t mind at all,” Grace said quietly, still in amazement. “I… no one has ever kissed me because they wanted to,” she told him. Her throat tightened and tears pricked at her eyes. “I have forced men to kiss me, but they never cared for me – I simply made them think that they did. You…” A tear slipped out as she gazed at him adoringly.

“I – oh dear, are you crying because the kiss was that bad?” he asked worriedly. “Or, no, you said you didn’t mind the kiss but – do you not feel for me in a romantic way?”

Grace reached up a hand to cup his cheek. “You are kind, and brilliant, Christopher Lightwood,” she told him adamantly, “and I feel – you make me feel like myself when we are together. Working and training and learning with you has made the past few months the happiest of my life.” His lovely eyes widened. “Yes, I really like you,” she stated, smiling gently, “in a decidedly romantic way.”

“Oh, good,” Christopher replied with evident relief, “I really like you too. I did mean to tell you at some point, but it’s not very clear how one should go about doing that.” He smiled a bit sheepishly. “I was meaning to ask Henry how he and Charlotte began a romantic relationship – oh, Henry!” Christopher abruptly pulled away, turning back towards the benchtop. “We must send Henry a fire-message straightaway to share the good news!” he said, grabbing a fresh sheet of paper and searching for the pen, then pausing. “Er, the good news about the fire message I mean, not about us,” he clarified.

Grace swallowed a laugh and said, “Yes, I know he will be thrilled that it finally works. Just think how much easier it will be to trade ideas with him now!”

Christopher grabbed at a new sheet of paper and a pen, and scrawled a quick message to Henry. Grace pressed against him as he signed off the note. She was amused to observe him mess up a few letters in his own name at this action. Then he recovered and added the newly-made rune to the paper, and they both watched as the message vanished.

“I wonder if it will take longer to get all the way to Idris, or if it happens spontaneously?” Christopher asked. “It may take some time for a response.”

“If you have reached a stopping point with your other experiment, I may have an idea of how to spend our time while we wait,” Grace said coyly.

“What’s your idea?” Christopher queried.

“This,” Grace replied with a smile as she grabbed his shirt and pulled him in for another kiss.

___________________________________________

“Christopher? Christopher? Kit?” Matthew called with growing concern as he made his way down to the lab, overcoat in hand. They were supposed to be on their way to James and Cordelia’s by now. He had called down five minutes ago, which usually was enough of a heads-up for Christopher to finish his work and come upstairs. Matthew hoped he was simply absorbed in an experiment, and not injured from some accident.

“Grace?” he tried calling, and still got no response. Grace was helping in the lab all the time now, surely she had prevented any accidents? As much as Matthew still distrusted her, she honestly seemed fond of Christopher and, surprisingly, matched his enthusiasm for science. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Matthew turned to survey the lab – and promptly dropped his coat in shock. Christopher –  Kit, his friend Kit – was busily involved in making out with Grace. She sat in his lap, her hands in his hair, their clothing somewhat rumpled.

Well…that would at least explain why he had received no response when he called down earlier. Belatedly, Matthew recalled the many times Christopher had rambled about how nice it was to have Grace’s help in the lab, how Grace had come up with some clever idea. It had been obvious that he was fond of her but, by the Angel, Matthew had thought he liked her platonically, as a lab partner, not romantically.

Matthew turned, swiftly and silently retreating up the stairs. It seemed Christopher had other plans for the evening, so Matthew made his way over to James and Cordelia’s house alone in a bit of a daze. Christopher had finally noticed a girl. Who could have predicted that? Or that he and Grace of all people would take such a fancy to each other? He knocked on the door to James and Daisy’s house.

“Matthew!” James greeted him brightly as he opened the door. Then he frowned, brows furrowed in worry. “Are you all right Math? You’re even later than normal and you look…disoriented.” He glanced around. “And where’s Christopher, didn’t he come with you?” he asked.

 Matthew snapped back to his senses, giving his parabatai a crooked grin. “Well, Jamie, you shall understand my bewilderment in a moment. Everyone,” he announced, striding into the drawing room, “you will not believe what I found our dear Kit doing this evening…”

A/N: Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed and I hope we get to see this ship become canon in a few days!

[kdval]

Let’s talk about APTR artbook.

Part 1: Amicia and Hugo

Preface

Recently I found a video with APTR artbook overview (here’s the link for those who haven’t seen it yet: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=adaT9jD1BQY). I dunno how I missed it, but… yeah.

There’s a lot of new interesting stuff here! I mean texts ofc, some of you probably have seen all concepts already.

So, here’s some information about characters. (Take into account that a quality of the video is not perfect + the artbook is in French, there can be some misinterpretations.) Including general info, devs’ comments and my bla-bla-bla ofc.

There’s a lot of text here, and I made several parts, so you won’t die from text overdose (probably).

Orange is for artbook texts, green – for my thoughts.

Spoilers ahead!

Amicia

Amicia is a main character of the game, Hugo’s older sister and daughter of Beatrice and Robert De Rune. She was raised in privilege, separated from her little brother, whom their mother tried to cure from a mysterious illness – Macula. In this chapter Amicia becomes a Protector for Hugo and starts questioning her mother’s authority – though they reunited later, not without some difficulties. Hugo displeased with Amicia’s guardianship, even thought siblings are bound by the sacred bond of family love.

In Requiem Amicia becomes fully adult. The devs wanted to show her as a warrior and question her responsibility and bound with Hugo, considering all that violence she endured in the previous game. She must live with these consequences. So gameplay evolved in this direction – to make Amicia more dynamic and combative.

Observations

Alright, nothing really new here, but there are some curious details I found while was thinking about these comments.

Even though we have a lot of bright moments in this chapter, and our siblings don’t confront each other (well, most of the time), you still can notice how Hugo sometimes becomes really displeased. During their journey to the tomb, he was frightened, he tried to resist, but still obeyed his sister. But when they bumped into that slavery episode, he gets angry. Why you, Amicia, can kill people just like this, and I can’t? Or when he eventually woke up from Macula and told Amicia they must help Arnaud? What a face he had, ooof… You will help Arnaud. No objections accepted.

Amicia isn’t just a Protector for Hugo. We should take into account that Hugo is 6yo, he’s still a child, and Amicia’s behavior is actually a role model for him. So she must not just control herself to keep herself and her family out of trouble, but to be his anchor, a good example for him how he can and cannot act.

Given the fact she made a lot of mistakes (my «favorite» is «this is why you can’t trust people» and how she immediately falls for this trap herself), and how a sum of all events affected the ending… She evolved since Innocence, and we now have an option of very aggressive playstyle.

At the same time you can tell Amicia’s still a teenager. She splashes out all her emotions without holding back. She can’t keep her head cold and clean which sometimes causes harm to her. Looks like Lucas is the only one who haven’t the luxury of express his emotions, poor boy.

Hugo

The devs didn’t want a two- or three-years gap between Requiem and Innocence. Hugo's aging meant the risk of losing his authenticity and that three grams of purity he had left after the events of the first game. As a child, Hugo had the ability to see what adults don't, and they had to maintain that balance between the tragedy that surrounds him and his ever-present innocence.

Hugo’s face has changed though. His new hair, for example, should’ve make him more mature. At the same time, he looks like a little boy, even a baby in some ways, and his features have become more refined. It was an unpredictable result, but it became something interesting to play with. He softens us as players much more easily. And by playing with the lighting, the devs were able to give him darker expressions.

Observations

I immediately remembered the episode when Sofia, Amicia and Hugo go up to the windmills, and Hugo imagines them as giants with turning shield-swords, and Amicia and Sofia are like: it’s just windmills. There is a great contrast between Hugo, who, despite the horrors he has experienced, still retains his childlike enthusiasm, the desire to learn, and his irrepressible imagination, and adults. This is especially true for Amicia, because she was a child herself – just four-five years ago. After all, this is Sophia who’s already 26, and Amicia is still 15. But she had to grow up. Amicia even says to Hugo: sometimes you have to grow up earlier.

I think the game would have been perceived completely differently if Hugo was older (Lucas at his 12 is already a bookworm and a nerd, lol). We go to this journey with Hugo, wandering around with an open mouth, admire everything we see, it all seems like a game sometimes, and only when we leave the headquarters of the Order, Hugo falls into a disappointment (and so do we, players). Events, as it were, push us to the fact that happiness cannot last forever.

As for the changed design ­– of course, after three playthroughs I'm already used to Hugo's new appearance. He's very sweet anyway. A little cinnamon roll. But still I love Hugo from Innocence a bit more, do whatever you want with me.